Title: "I Herd it Through the Grapevine"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: R for adult language and sexual situations, humor, bad fic, V/Vinnie.
Disclaimer: Oh, trust me, I don't own these characters.
Summary: The inevitable sequel to the ever-so-silly I Only Have Eyes for Ewe. More plastic, more perversity, and gratuitous abuse of Shakespeare.
"Girl, there are no words."
"For which I am glad, because if there were words, I would make you stop saying them."
"How can you look at that thing?"
"I have no idea. It's kind of cute, actually. He's growing on me. And he looks sad."
"If you spent the night with the Sheriff and Vanlowe, you'd be sad, too."
That wasn't entirely true. She had a sudden flash of the surprisingly, uh, bountiful sight that had greeted her at the Camelot. But she didn't share that out loud with Wallace. No need to traumatize the lad further. He'd already had his quota of scarring for the year. "Was spending the night with the mean old sheriff and the sleazy PI a depressing experience, Horatio? You can tell us," she cajoled her new vinyl friend.
"Oh, Hellll, no. You named it?" Wallace shuddered, keeping his eyes on the road. "That's just wrong."
"After everything I saw tonight and how you found me, you think me naming a blow-up sheep is the wrong part?"
"I got love for you, Veronica. You know I do. But as far as I'm concerned, this night never happened."
***
Her dad opened the door and automatically stumbled back a few steps, looking both repulsed and vaguely fascinated. "Veronica, is that a--?"
"Yes."
"Were any laws broken?"
"Only if this were Alabama and not by me."
"Do I even want to know…?"
"Nope!"
"Good. Let us never speak of this again." He shut the door firmly behind her.
"Don't worry," Veronica assured Horatio, "That means he likes you."
***
After two days of the mournful plastic sheep occupying an honored spot on her desk, Veronica had to put it in the closet. Given its sexual proclivities, she figured it was fitting. He was probably comfortable in there.
And then she called Vinnie.
In a perfect world, she would dig his card out of some pocket or the bottom of her messenger bag and the ink would be smudged and she'd sigh and grumble. But, no, she actually had the dishonorable Mr. Vanlowe in her address book. Not on speed dial, thankfully. Of course, he had *her* on speed dial, which brought up all kinds of disturbing questions that she didn't want answered.
"Vanlowe!" he barked, picking up on the third ring.
"I have your sheep," she said, without preamble, glad they hadn't yet entered the video phone age so he couldn't see her mortified blush and only heard her professional cool.
"What sheep? I know nothing of this sheep you speak of," he bounced back without missing a beat.
"I know playing dumb isn't a stretch for you, but three days ago…the Camelot …Tallulah?" she reminded, eying the closet door, where she was certain Horatio was staring at her like she'd betrayed him.
First she'd named it and now she was going all anthropomorphic. God, she was screwed.
"Veronica, I don't know where you get this stuff, but if you want a little private eye time with me, just say so. I'll even spring for the vibrating bed."
Ew. She shuddered. "You can row down the River Denial all you like, Vinnie, but I know where your various man parts have been, so no, please, I'll respectfully decline."
"Why are you calling me to repossess that thing and not Lamb?"
"Maybe because confronting government officials about their sexual exploits isn't one of my career goals? I'm more Nancy Drew than Jennifer Flowers."
"Does that make me your Hardy boy?"
"More like my Hardy-har-har boy. Name a drop point, Vanlowe. Horatio misses his daddy."
"Jesus, you named it? And you think *I'm* the sick fuck?"
"*Now*, Vinnie."
***
After Ladies' Night at the Camelot, you'd think she would have learned her lesson. Not so much, apparently. Which is how she found herself holding a blow up sex sheep and standing in Vinnie Vanlowe's bathroom as he lounged in a surprisingly classic clawfoot tub. Fortunately, this time, there was a substantial amount of soapy water and a yellow rubber ducky protecting her from hysterical blindness.
She made a very important mental note: When bottom-feeding PIs said "The door's unlocked, come on in!" and then "I'm in here!", they actually meant, "I'm naked again."
"Are you actively *trying* to give me ammunition for blackmail?" she wondered.
He grinned, sprawling against the tub, arms resting on the sides. "Baby, honestly, who would ever believe you?"
"Hello, camera phone!" she pointed out, adding, "And I don't know what's worse: you calling me 'baby' or you using the word 'honestly.'"
He moved aside a strategic handful of bubbles before she could look away. "Be sure to capture my best side."
Oh, wow. It was still as surprisingly big as she'd remembered. And ew. "I'm putting Horatio down now and backing away slowly."
And she did exactly that...making sure Horatio's accusing gaze was directed towards Vinnie. After all, this whole thing was Vinnie's fault, not hers. It's not like *she* was the kind of person who contributed to the delinquency of defenseless animal-inspired sex toys. She didn't even own a Rabbit, for crying out loud.
"Seriously, 'Horatio'?" Vinnie chuckled, shaking his head. "Why Horatio? You been hittin' the Bard a little hard, there." While she was still marveling that he even knew who Shakespeare was, he gestured below the water. "What's next...? Calling this Yorick?"
"Why would I name your penis?"
"I was talking about the rubber duck."
"Oh." So much for never letting 'em see you blush.
"You can name that, too, if you want, though," he offered, helpfully.
"N-no...no, thanks. Really. I think I've had enough trauma for the week. For a lifetime. In fact, I'm going to go join a convent as soon as I leave here."
"Try St. Mary's on 4th Street."
"Mary With the Cherry? That's a brothel, Vinnie." It was a converted church. Some people had no shame. No wonder Vinnie knew about it.
"The drift, she gets it!" He winked...and then started to rise from the tub, splashing water everywhere as he grabbed a fluffy towel from the nearby rack.
The movement drew her gaze back where it SO didn't need to go and she turned and fled out the bathroom door. Unfortunately, he followed her, wrapping the towel around his waist, dripping water everywhere. But, hey, she didn't have to clean his floor -- just scrub out her brain with bleach -- so what did she care?
"This is sexual harassment you know," she said, keeping her back to him...even turning every time he tried to step in front of her. "And if your boyfriend Lamb wasn't what passes for law in this town, I'd have you arrested."
"Oh, yeah?" He gave up trying to make her look at him. "Then why do you come running every time I call?" he wondered.
Good question. "Morbid curiosity? It beats watching reruns of Laguna Beach?"
"I think you kinda like me, Mars." Suddenly he was directly behind her. Close enough to get her wet. And, no, not *that* way. Thank God. He smelled like lavender bath oil, which was yet more blackmail fodder, and he pushed her hair aside so he could murmur in her ear.
"Yes, and next I'm going to ask you to go steady!" she trilled, tamping down the shivery auto-response to husky whispers and hair-touching. "I handed over your sheep so we're done here. Finished."
"Not by a long shot, Nancy." He grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around before she could make a break for the front door. Unfortunately, getting a hold of her meant he had to let go of the towel.
And, lo, she had naked Vanlowe imprinted on her eyelids once more.
Which was only marginally less scarring than having him imprinted on her lips.
And her other parts.
Because he had her naked and wet (yes, *that* way) in record time.
As Wallace would say...there were no words.
Except "fuck," and "wow," and "holy mother of God," and a couple of other things in languages she didn't even know she knew.
"I am so ashamed," she moaned, quite a while later, finding her underwear hanging off a lampshade.
"That's what they all say at first," he sighed, flopped across his couch, looking altogether too satisfied. Wait, no, scratch that, not satisfied *enough*.
Eeep.
She broke a land speed record getting dressed. Maybe even the sound barrier.
"This...this never happened," she muttered.
"Did too."
"Nope."
"Twice."
"Nu-uh."
"You really like it when I tickle your--"
"Bye, Vinnie."
***
Her phone rang before she hit the parking lot.
That damned morbid curiosity made her answer it.
"So, when are you coming back?"
"Somewhere between pigs flying and Hell freezing over," she assured, hoping against hope that what he'd been doing with his mouth during that second go didn't leave a hickey.
"But...but, Horatio misses his mommy."
"Tough."
***
She went back three days later.
Horatio, Yorick, and Gertrude were all very happy to see her.
"Gertrude? Seriously?"
"You said I could name it if I wanted to!"
"Veronica...you really *are* a sick fuck."
"That's what they all say at first," she sighed.
--end--
March 23, 2006.