Title: "From the Inside"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, sexual situations, V/Lamb, filler ficlet. 800 words.
Disclaimer: I still don't own the characters.
Summary: Falling in front of Sheriff Don Lamb was six thousand times worse than holding on to him. A filler scene for 2.20, "Look Who's Stalking." Can be considered a sequel to "Notch" and "Double Exposure" but can also stand alone.
Note: For Shealynn88. "My way's not very sportsmanlike!"
Her hands were shaking as she twirled the dial on her combination lock three separate times and still got the numbers wrong. You'd think knives would be cake after freezers and fire, after madmen who masqueraded as movie stars. But, lo and behold, Veronica was still capable of having the shit scared out of her. And still capable of gasping for breath and swearing and leaning against the locker door while her knees wobbled.
In a few hours, she was going to be a nice, normal, high school girl and go to Logan's Prom bash with her friends. She was going to look cute and pretend it didn't hurt to be in the same room with him and pretend she hadn't feared for her life today.
That was what she did. Pretend. And she did it spectacularly.
But right now, alone in an empty hallway, with the last of the police sirens growing distant, all she had was the truth, the panic, the sense of being suffocated. "Damn," she whispered, fist pounding against the metal and leaving a dent. "Damn. Damn. Damn."
"What did that locker ever do to you?"
On her A game, the comment would've done nothing. On her B game, maybe she'd jump six feet in the air. Caught somewhere between C and E, her knees went straight from wobbling to buckling.
And Lamb caught her before she fell, one arm going around her waist as he hauled her back against him.
"Let me go," she hissed, still shaking. All over. Like an abused shelter puppy or something. "D-don't you have to be at the station?"
"I need to take your statement, Veronica," he reminded, ignoring her. His chest was solid, the pointy edges of his badge catching on her shirt. She wanted him to let go and she didn't…because falling in front of Sheriff Don Lamb was six thousand times worse than holding on to him.
"You want my statement…? It's simple: You're an asshole. Now let me go…"
"Veronica, did Lucky hurt you?" The question was fierce, firm, and when she didn't answer fast enough, he spun her around in his arms, pinning her against the lockers. "Damn it, are you hurt?" He brushed his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, impersonal and personal all at the same time. Because that was how they were. Because that was how they lived.
"Don't you frisk *suspects*, Deputy? When did locker punching become a crime?" Fear was still pricking at her eyelids and vibrating beneath her skin and she hated that. *Hated* that.
And what she hated worse was that he found it. No cuts, no open wounds, just the cowardice of her heart pounding under the flat of his palm.
"Veronica…" His thumb skimmed over her nipple and he leaned his forehead against hers and murmured two more syllables…two that sounded alien and way too kind on his tongue. "Baby."
He brushed the underside of her breasts with his knuckles…and when she cried out, a strangled protest somewhere between "no!" and "please!", he swallowed the sound. He cupped her neck, checked her throat for bruises, and slanted his mouth across hers. Punishing her for having that blade so close to her. For courting death and danger again. For scaring the shit out of *him*.
She tugged at his shirt, working it out of the waistband of his slacks. She stroked his flat stomach and the length of his cock in his boxers, fingers closing around him as he told her, "you could've *died*," and "what the fuck were you thinking?" and "don't ever…*ever* fucking do that to me again."
He yanked her pants down over her hips, past her knees, where they tangled and caught, but it didn't matter because he could still hold her up, and nudge between her thighs, and sink inside her. One stroke and he was all the way in, before she could tell him "wait," and "Don," and "we need a condom."
And then she couldn't tell him anything at all because she had combination locks digging into her back and insistent angry man plastered to her front and the complete absence of any fear at all.
"Damn," she whispered, fist pounding against him and leaving no dents. "Damn. Damn. Damn."
In a few hours, she was going to be a nice, normal, high school girl and go to Logan's Prom bash with her friends. She was going to look cute and pretend it didn't hurt to be in the same room with him and pretend she hadn't feared for her life today.
And pretend she hadn't just given a primo dose of chlamydia right back to the blackmailing son-of-a-bitch who liked to make her scream as she came.
That was what she did. Pretend. And she did it spectacularly.
--end--
May 7, 2006.