Title: "Five People Don Lamb Never Fucked (Over)"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: AC for adult language, sexual situations, Lamb/various, het, slash, angst.
Word Count: 1000.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and intend no malicious infringement.
Summary: Just what the title sounds like. Five connected 200 word scenes. General series spoilers. You're good if you've seen season one.
He gets a perverse thrill from pulling Navarro over even though he doesn't do the traffic beat anymore. Hell, consider it his civic duty, his free gift to the citizens of Neptune, the cherry on his "whoopty-fucking-doo" sundae.
He tugs the kid off his bike, shoves him roughly against the side of the cruiser. He pats him down, making sure to linger on inseams and zippers and waistbands. On neck and wrist and calf.
"I'm touched, Sheriff…really…honest…" Navarro laughs over the clinking of chains and undone belts, planting his feet firmly on the melting asphalt and his hands flat against the roof of the car.
"Not yet you're not," he hisses in the punk's ear, the crystal stud in his earlobe sharp and metallic against his tongue.
"Ain't this, like, police brutality?"
"What's your point?"
It's always like this. Hard and fast and hot against the door, with the handle digging into Navarro's belly, a brand to go with all his tattoos.
He writes him up for speeding, going 25 miles over the limit, even though the Harley had been moving at a crawl by the time he'd started shadowing it down the PCH.
Weevil never pays.
Lamb never cares.
***
When the departmental network gets hacked, Sacks calls in the daughter of some poker buddy of his… a Neptune student who'll get them fixed up without charging an arm and a leg. Don curls his lip in distaste and wonders how a "Cindy" can have more than one brain cell, much less get the network back on-line. But, hey, it leaves more money in the departmental slush fund, so he's game.
The girl he finds bent over his PC has brown hair, with a blue streak in it, and she tells him, without blinking, that she's password-protected his downloads folder so nobody will know he likes porn featuring tiny blond girls.
"Thanks," he tells her, lip still curled.
Her face is perfectly round and her eyes are perfectly innocent. When he leans over her shoulder to try and follow her rapid-fire explanations of firewalls and paths and keychains, he breathes in the scent of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and fear.
"I'm Mac," she tells him, softly, nervously.
He pushes the long sweep of her hair aside and his fingers sink into the soft skin of her throat. Her pulse isn't password-protected…so he's game.
"No…no, you're Cindy," he laughs, hacking in.
***
Vanlowe gives him a handjob after their eighth consecutive shot of something or other. When the girl has crawled out from between them on the couch, tugging at her thong as she stumbles toward the bathroom. Shelly or Sally or Trixie. She sucks cock like a Hoover…extra enthusiastic at the promise of getting a glove compartment full of unpaid parking tickets expunged off her record.
"What do *you* want?" he slurs, watching the fingers snake into his open fly and down his shorts. He spreads his knees, making the process easier for both of them.
"Tickets to the Policeman's Ball?" Vinnie chortles, sounding like an asthmatic hyena as his fist pumps up and down. "World peace? To keep all my hair?"
"Good…luck…with…that…*jesusfuck*!"
Their definition of "two guys helping each other out" stopped being accurate a long time ago. After they met at summer camp between eighth and ninth grade. There is no help here. Just his hips jerking and more whiskey being sloshed into cheap shot glasses from the Sac-n-Pac. The tourist-y kind with names printed on them: Alex and Natalie.
When Shelly or Sally or Trixie returns, cigarette clamped between her whore-red lips, there is no room for her.
***
Celeste Kane likes to fuck him while she's almost fully dressed. She always pulls off her dress, just the dress, to avoid any Lewinsky-esque stains and then her Jimmy Choos dig into his ass as she stares up at the ceiling. She probably plots her next manicure appointment and chemical peel in time with his thrusts. The points of her stilettos leave little scratches that he has to disinfect after she's gone.
She fakes orgasm even when he does make her come. She thrashes around for exactly a minute and a half but her eyes never move. She's probably afraid to smear her goddamned mascara.
She slumps limply beneath him in silk that's more expensive than his entire wardrobe, offering him her cheek for a perfunctory kiss. The kind she'll never exchange with the lowly sheriff when they meet at a reception or a Kiwanis banquet or something.
When he rolls aside so she can get up, she's only slightly mussed. Just mussed enough.
Jake will wonder. Jake will ask. He won't get an answer.
And Celeste will contribute generously to Don's re-election fund.
So he can fuck Neptune while he's fully dressed.
It's hardly an even trade.
But it'll do.
***
D'Amato rounds up the last of the kegs. Sacks snags the most fucked-up kids for underage consumption knowing they'll be sprung in hours.
He goes on a walk-through, just to look badass, as girls scatter and guys hide their plastic cups. One of the bedrooms has a half-closed door and he pushes it open with his foot.
He's surprised to find Veronica Mars, dressed in white, passed out on top of the covers. A fractured fairytale. Sleeping Beauty and Goldilocks twisted. He's no prince, no Baby Bear, but he's drawn to her anyway. The bed sinks with his weight and he shoves at her shoulder but she still doesn't move.
He brushes her hair off her face, touches her swollen lips with the pad of his thumb. The skin beneath her eyes is smudged and blue. She looks defenseless and like Hell. Free for the taking. He could confiscate her, like the kegs…pop in the tap and drink his fill. No one would know.
Then he sees her panties, half-tucked under the pillow, and registers the stale smell of sex.
All spells are broken when she awakens whispering, "Lamb" and "Help." He holds her until it arrives.
Until it's him.
--end--
April 9, 2006.