Title: "Continental Breakfast" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: AC for language, slash. Lamb/Weevil with Lamb/V/Weevil implied. 1000 words.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, nope!
Summary: County lock-up is like the Motel 6 of jails. After 2.22, "Not Pictured." The 4th in my Loserverse stories, following Notch, Double Exposure and Terms of Endearment.
County lock-up is like the Motel 6 of jails. No mints on the pillows, paper thin walls -- which is fucking bizarre considering the walls are cinderblock and shit -- and yellowish water that looks like its being filtered through pipes older than God.
But he can't complain. Much.
He gets a couple more days of free food and quality time away from his grandma's disappointment before he's sprung and put on his usual community service detail. Hell, he kept his orange coveralls from the last time. There's no proof that he did anything but grab Thumper and rough him up a little. The word of two little kids doesn't have a chance in Hell of holding up in court and his public defender is pretty much just taking his sweet-ass time for shits, giggles, and a waste of tax dollars.
Okay, actually, Weevil's pretty fucking sure that Lamb talked the guy into stalling.
Being that the sheriff enjoys his company so much and all.
Now, there's a guy who seriously needs a hobby. One that doesn't involve hassling teenagers for kicks. Like a bowling league or something. Maybe he could join abuela's Bingo games at church?
He slides his arms under his head because they make a better pillow than the pathetic piece of crap that his bunk came with, stares up at the ceiling where somebody wrote a dirty limerick in brown marker. At least he *hopes* it's marker.
Jesus, he hates jail.
But this is better than the cage they stuck him in last year. He's got actual bars here. A john in the corner. Enough light coming in from the hallway for him to enjoy bad poetry from whatever mick asshole was in here before him. And he's even got company.
"When's turndown service get here?" his oh-so charming cellie asks from the bottom bunk.
He leans over the side, eyeing Vanlowe, who's sprawled out like he's sunning himself at a nude beach. Man's got no shame. Of course, if Eli were hung like that, he'd have no shame either. "You that anxious to get your pillow fluffed, Man?" he wonders.
"It's the highlight of my day, Weevil. That and listening to you sing Celia Cruz while you piss." Vinnie adjusts himself…but, really, he's just showing off that obscenely huge dick again. Eli is beginning to doubt that he was actually arrested for busting into Goodman's place. Dude was probably lurking in somebody's bushes and waving his thing around.
"Don't be knockin' Celia Cruz," he snaps, even as the access door clangs open. "Oh, look. Here comes the little French maid now."
Lamb puts the surveillance feed on a loop every night. He brings in a deck of cards -- marked, of course -- or some dice and a bottle of whatever poison he's feeling at the moment and makes nice with his two model prisoners -- okay, right now, his *only* prisoners. The Neptune police department's been hard at work arresting nobody since his algebra tutor took that header off the top of the Grand.
"Veronica not returning your calls? Sending back your love letters?" Weevil had asked the first night…the night Beaver died and the shit was hitting the fan and the dudes in uniforms were running around taking statements from half of Neptune High upstairs.
"Fuck you, Navarro." Lamb had slammed him up against the wall for that and he'd practically choked on the guy's balls.
He's learned his lesson since then. Any mention of She Who Shall Not Be Named means an imbalance in the dick-in-throat to air-in-lungs ratio. Besides, he can't exactly keep making fun of the sheriff for striking out with their mutual lady friend when Miz Mars hasn't graced him with any conjugal visits either.
"Echolls brought her in," Lamb had told him, out of Vinnie's earshot, hands cold on his face. "You hear me? Logan Echolls brought her in and she looked right through me…and don't think for a minute that she asked about you."
"Pendejo, I'm thinkin' she had more on her mind than your pathetic ass or mine…she fuckin' thought her dad blew up."
And Lamb hadn't told her any different. He'd let her go home crying, still thinking Keith was dead. Seriously petty. All because Veronica had picked her 09-er boyfriend over a guy who'd blackmailed her into some kinky shit in his office a couple of times.
See, Weevil has no expectations. No big romantic illusions about girls like that. He can't afford them on minimum wage from Angel's shop.
He'd known the score when she jerked him off in Lamb's office that morning and walked back to her own little world still smelling like both of them. Lilly Kane trained him good. He doesn't expect pretty blond princesses to ever let him in the front door. Even when they make you believe you're their friend. *Especially* when they make you believe you're their friend.
He's got a healthy sense of which way the wind blows in Neptune. You can't grow up in the barrio and not buy that ugly little vowel.
But Lamb's fucked up. To say the least. He's got more issues than Weevil's cousin Ignacio, who has a bazillion comics stashed in Tia Rosa's basement. So, maybe he thought strong-arming her and swaggering around like he's hot shit would be the way to get Veronica to fall for him or something. The way to get her in line. The way to change his destiny and wash his hands clean.
But it wasn't, it isn't. Not by a fucking long shot.
So they don't talk about her. They don't breathe her name. They play poker for blowjobs and handjobs and do rounds of "I Never" until the bottles are empty.
And he doesn't meet Lamb's eyes when Vanlowe triumphantly hits on, "I never had a thing for Veronica Mars," and they both have to take the last shot.
He can't complain. Much.
All he can do is serve his time.
--end--
May 28, 2006.