Title: "Nobody Expects the Amish Inquisition"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: adult language, humor, V/Lamb.
Word Count: 1616.
Disclaimer: Much to my chagrin, I still don't own them.
Summary: 10th in the "Between The Rock and a Not-So Hard Place" series. He sounded like Jerry Maguire or something...
Notes: This is my most ridiculous title yet because I honestly couldn't think of a better one. I went blank.
The first thing he did was sweep up all the condoms and wrappers. Every last one. He dumped them, unceremoniously, into an empty popcorn tin (he had at least six sitting on the living room floor) and even checked under the furniture to make sure he hadn't missed one. The second thing he did was hide her taser. He stashed it behind a six month old box of Frosted Flakes in his top-most kitchen cabinet, knowing she would never look there. Thank God she'd confided once that she was irrationally afraid of Tony the Tiger. Then, he woke her, slowly, with kisses. Yeah, it was an indulgence, one that people probably didn't think he was capable of, but, then, most people had never met Veronica Mars. He straddled her hips, pressing his mouth to the back of her neck, to the six freckles on her left shoulder, and gently licking the line of her spine. He tasted the sweat and salt and sex on her skin and reveled in the knowledge that he'd put it there. If only he could bottle it and sell it, he'd never have to work another day in his miserable life.
She moaned and arched up against him, kickstarting his hard-on at the worst possible moment. "Is it 3 a.m. already?" she asked with a sleepy murmur.
"No, it's Hammer Time," he joked, lamely.
"Must you remind me how old you are?" She opened one eye, glaring at him like a grouchy cat.
"Actually, yeah." He waited a beat. "Because your dad's going to be here in ten minutes."
He'd come prepared, so when she tried to buck him off of her and vault off the bed, he whipped the handcuffs from his back pocket and locked her hands behind her.
"This is for your own good, Veronica," he assured, trying to twist out of the way as she lashed out with her elbows and knees.
"Maybe, Idiot...but not *yours*. He's going to kill you. And then I'm going to kill you. There will be lots of killing. Maybe with some stunning in between."
"This is why I hid your taser."
"Oh, so you're only *kind of* stupid."
"I tell myself that every single day."
"And I tell myself I'm a pretty pretty princess."
"You are one. Just in handcuffs instead of a tiara."
***
She scowled, fidgeting around on the couch -- which he'd hastily sanitized some eight and a half-minutes before. His shin still throbbed from where she'd kicked him while he tried to pull some sweatpants up her legs. Her hair was sticking up every which way because he'd tugged his much-loved Trojans T-shirt over her head. She looked like a thoroughly-fucked hostage. But at least she wasn't naked and he wasn't dead. Yet.
"We are SO over," she hissed.
Keith was perched on the edge of the chair, the .38 in his shoulder holster on prominent display as he said, surprisingly evenly, "I'm glad to hear that."
Well, that made one of them. He rubbed his face with one palm. It throbbed, too. His face, not his palm. Keith had knocked him flat on his ass two seconds after he'd answered the door. Well-deserved, he supposed.
"Keith, your daughter has been driving me crazy for months," he sighed, trying to work out the soreness in his jaw. "When she first started breaking into my place, I was sure it was some kind of scam to get your job back. Like I was going to wake up one day busted for heroin or you were going to walk in on us in some compromising position. I thought she was going to wreck me. But I didn't know what a wrecking ball she could be until I fell for her." They both made shocked noises at that but he wasn't about to stop now. This was, no doubt, the longest speech he'd ever made to a Mars that didn't involve phrases like, "I told you so," and "I'm the sheriff and you're not, ha-ha!"
"I can't function during the day unless I see her or talk to her." He sounded like Jerry Maguire or something and, Jesus, this was the worst time to think of how he'd kissed Veronica on that beach. How he'd kissed her fifteen minutes ago. Three hours ago. Yesterday. "I can't think about anything else. I can't breathe without her reminding me to do it. And if she was any other adventurous 18-year-old looking for a good time, I'd probably be happy to sneak around and get my thrills. But she's not just any 18-year-old. She's your daughter and she's an amazing, gorgeous, pain in the ass and I can't...I can't be her back door man."
Veronica's voice was still hard. "*That* musical reference? Is only marginally better than 'Hammer Time,'" she snapped. But her eyes...they softened just a tiny fraction. Maybe she was remembering the beach, too.
"What did you think would happen, Veronica?" he asked, knotting his hands between his knees so he wouldn't launch off the ottoman and try and touch her. "Seriously? That we were going to hang out, watch movies, and mess around until you left for college? No consequences, no strings?"
"That was the general idea, yes. Naturally, I'd sleep with you whenever I came home for breaks, too. And I fully intended to use the front door."
"Need I remind you that you weren't even born when I had to read A Wrinkle in Time for sixth grade English?"
"You can read?"
"That would hurt if it wasn't an insult I've heard a million times."
"Well, I'd insult your penis size, but that implies I've seen it and I don't want to set Dad off."
Keith, far from going 'off,' was watching them both like a spectator at a tennis game. Thank the Rock for small favors.
And speaking of small..."You don't want him to know you've seen my penis? Is he supposed to think we did it in the dark through a hole in a sheet?"
"Yes, because you're clearly Amish, Donald."
"Right. Why don't you just tell Keith that my idea of foreplay is 'Brace yourself, Ronnie.'?"
"No, your idea of foreplay is watching 'The Scorpion King.'"
"Amish people don't have DVD players."
This was Keith's contribution. Choked with what was either murderous rage or hysterical laughter.
Don looked at him.
Veronica looked at him, too.
He was bright red, shoulders quivering with mirth. "You know, Don," he wheezed, shaking his head, "I was seriously considering shooting you point blank and burying your body in five different locations around Neptune, but...but I'm beginning to realize that you dating my daughter has its own built-in punishment."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Insulted, Veronica transferred her lethal scowl to a new target.
"Honey, I love you, but you're what your third grade teacher used to euphemistically refer to as 'a handful.'" Keith looked at her with paternal fondness. Something Lamb was thankful he'd never had. "And Don...you really are incredibly stupid for this...but I can't fault your taste. You got one thing right: My kid *is* pretty amazing."
"So, you're not killing me?" He hoped.
Keith's expression wasn't exactly forgiving, but he nodded. "Contingent upon my daughter arriving home no more than an hour after I leave here, you'll be allowed to live."
"Thank you."
"Don?"
"Yes, Keith?"
"As far as I'm concerned, you and Veronica don't do more than hold hands through that sheet."
"Of course."
"Safely."
"Completely safely. No question about it."
"Good, because I'm not ready for grandkids. Especially not from *you*."
"Too late, Dad. I'm pregnant and we're naming him Dwayne."
"Stop lying, Veronica. It's a girl and we're naming her Rocky."
"I'm leaving now. This night never happened. One hour."
Lamb watched Keith flee with a mixture of amusement and monumental relief.
***
"Your father was right, you know. You really are a handful." He uncuffed her, rubbing her wrists vigorously to restore the circulation. "In more ways than one," he added, leering at her breasts.
She raised one of her newly freed hands and he flinched, half-expecting a slap upside the head. He was relieved when she opted to stroke his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "Well, he was wrong about *you*. And so was I. You're not stupid. Just hopelessly misguided."
"Misguided for loving you?" He shook his head. "Nah. Suicidal, maybe. Whipped, sure, but not misguided."
"Wh-what? What was that first part?"
"Pay attention, Veronica." He tugged on a strand of her hair. "I love you."
She furrowed her adorable brow. "Are you sure?"
"Reasonably."
"Oh. Well, okay, then." She grinned at him, brightly, and then grabbed her shirt off the floor.
"Veronica...?"
"Yes?"
"You've got nothing besides 'okay, then'? Nothing at all?"
"I'm really glad you still have all your hair."
"Gee, thanks."
He sighed, walking back to the bed and tugging up the sheets.
"Donald?"
"Mhmm?" He straightened the pillows.
"We've now got forty-five minutes till Dad wants me home."
"And?" He shrugged off the flirtatious grip on his arm.
"If I were caught at a vulnerable moment -- like, say, mid-orgasm -- I could, conceivably, wind up saying something significant."
He snorted. "Everybody knows that love confessions during sex don't mean anything."
"You're such a girl."
"Which makes you a raging lesbian."
"Wonderful. We love each other, I'm gay, and you're Amish. It's a Republican's worst nightmare."
"What was that first part?"
She laughed, softly, wickedly, and he didn't even mind when she wrestled him to the bed and locked one of his hands to the headboard.
"Brace yourself, Donnie."
--end--
April 3, 2006.