Title: "Reefer? I Don't Even *Know* Her"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: adult language, humor, angst, V/Lamb, AU. 1150 words.
Disclaimer: No, they're still not mine and I'm still not rich.
Summary: Set around 2.21, "Happy Go Lucky" but still mostly AU, this is the 13th story in "Between The Rock and a Not-So Hard Place," after "Let Them Meet Cake." Finals Week was a bitch.
"What happened to dinner with Fred and Velma? Wasn't that supposed to be tonight?" He nudged her foot, but she didn't answer from behind the piles of notes and the Great Wall that was her Western Civ. Book. She hadn't been answering him since he came home to find the contents of her locker spread all over the living room and a copy of Police Academy sitting ejected -- and dejected -- in the open DVD tray.
"Okay, so maybe Fennel isn't really Fred. I'll give you that. Really, none of your friends fit the Scooby Doo description at all…except maybe that Casablancas kid. Pretty Shaggy. If I had a dime bag for every time I've busted that kid for dope…but you don't like him very much, do you?"
He'd pretty much been keeping up something of a one-way conversation as she scratched things out with a mechanical pencil, erased, and scratched some more. Her knuckles were white, her posture hunched…and he was infinitely thankful he'd dropped out of college freshman year. Finals Week was a bitch.
Veronica Mars *during* Finals Week was an even bigger bitch.
"Is this about the Chlamydia?" he wondered.
She finally looked up at him, blowing strands of her hair out of her eyes with a huff of irritation. "Gee. Why would you think that?"
"Honestly, I didn't even know I had it…my last girlfriend worked as a topless dancer…"
"The quadriplegic midget was a topless dancer?"
"It's a niche. You'd be surprised."
She snorted and bent over her books again. "No, this is not about the Chlamydia. I finished being ticked off about that pretty much when the antibiotics kicked in."
"But you *are* mad at me."
"I'm studying."
"You could study at home. You're studying here so you can seethe at me."
"I'm thinking of majoring in passive-aggression…you know…in college. At Stanford. Where I can only afford to go if I get the Kane Scholarship…for which I need to ace every single exam."
"I think I figured that part out when I tripped over the Calculus binder you so thoughtfully left right inside the door." He hefted off the couch, going to rescue his poor DVD and put it back in its case. And he tried not to limp. "But aside from the fact that I'm what passes for your boyfriend these days, why are you here being resentful in my general direction? Did I already miss an anniversary? Was it bad last night? Did I forget to make sure you got off? 'Cause if I'm not doing my job, you need to let me know…"
Papers slid from her lap as she buried her face in her hands, rubbed at the hollows under her eyes with her fingertips. "It's a simple problem, Don…why don't you do your *real* job? Ever?"
Actually hitting him would've been preferable. Better. Less painful. Kind of kinky.
As he felt his chest for open wounds, she knotted her fingers in her lap. "Woody, the bus crash, Felix Toombs…Lilly…and, God, I'm not trying to keep punishing you, but even the morning after Shelly's party. You never, *ever*, follow through. Don't you want justice? Don't you want the truth? Don't you ever want *more*?"
He leaned against the wall, glad it was there doing wall-type things. "What do you want me to say? You knew who I was when you started coming here every other fucking Sunday, Veronica. You've always known who I am and you're the one who keeps coming back. Who keeps coming into my office with hope and inadmissible evidence. I didn't start wanting *more* of anything until the first time I kissed you…and you know that, too."
"But you don't get anything *done*."
"No, I don't get things done the Mars way," he countered, harshly, "I don't take risks. I don't follow crazy leads. I don't point my fingers at the most powerful men in this town. I can't. I can't be like you and Keith. I have to do it by the book, the letter of the law. No coloring outside the lines."
"Then what do you call this? Us?"
"Stupidity."
He didn't even have one bit of satisfaction knowing she was the one who took the hit this time.
"Lamb…"
"You don't get it, do you, Veronica Mars? The only thing you want in the world is to get the Hell out of Neptune, to go off to your fancy dream college and never look back at this shithole. But here in this shithole…the only thing I've ever wanted in my sorry life…? Is you. And that's not going to do me one bit of good. Because you're still leaving. So, you tell me…how much effort would you put in?"
She had no answer for that. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and just sat there.
It wasn't all that often that he won an argument…or even came in second. She almost always kicked his ass in verbal sparring. Hell, she even got a decent score from the Romanian judge. He usually only got the upper hand with his…well…hand. And other various body parts.
But right now, he didn't even dare touch her. While she looked at him like that…haunted and angry and exhausted and sweating GPA points like they were life and death. So he said, "I love you." And he reminded her, "You're testifying against Echolls tomorrow…maybe you should get home, get some sleep."
She nodded almost robotically, gathering up papers and shoving them into her messenger bag. How she'd fit everything in there, he couldn't even begin to guess. It was like Mary Poppins' magic bag or something.
When she was all done, slipping into her Skechers and making for the door as he flipped on ESPN, she decided to speak to him again.
"Don?"
*Thank God*. It wasn't her annoyingly affectionate "Donald," but it would do.
He tried not to smile or look too relieved. He'd exhibited more than enough neediness and vulnerability tonight. After she left, he was going to have to make up for it by scratching his balls for at least an hour and jerking off to hardcore porn.
"Yeah?"
"If my friends and I *were* the Scooby Doo gang, who would I be?"
"All that attitude and mouth in a teeny tiny package? Scrappy. Without a doubt."
He hoped the sound she made was a chuckle.
He was pretty sure it wasn't.
"Give 'em Hell tomorrow. Puppy power."
"I love you, too," she whispered.
Or maybe, "I always do."
And then she opened the door and walked out.
And he couldn't even enjoy watching her ass.
Because, one of these days, she wasn't going to come back.
And all he was going to have was what he'd started with: a collection of B movies, a freezer full of TV dinners, and a door that was never going to be closed to Veronica Mars.
--end--
May 9, 2006.