Title: "Please, Sir, I Want Samoa"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: AC for language. V/Lamb, AU, humor, fluff with touch of angst.
Disclaimer: Still not my characters, just my crazy little universe where this is plausible.
Summary: 17th installment of "Between The Rock and a Not-So Hard Place." Don has no self-respect…and he's probably lost his damn mind. 1415 words.
It was a balmy 80 degrees, there were palm trees everywhere, and he was walking arm in arm with the petite, petulant PI of his dreams…as well as his nightmares and sordid post-adolescent fantasies. Par for the course for him these days. Which was a little strange, if you considered that this particular course was smack in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and dotted with an array of luxury hotels, lovely beaches, and little urchins offering great deals on tours of the region's volcanic hotspots.
"When you said you were going to spend two weeks consoling yourself with Samoans, I thought you meant a serious Dwayne-a-thon and a mountain of Girl Scout cookies."
"Please. As if I know any Girl Scouts?"
"Good point."
"I make them sometimes. You ought to know this by now, Mars."
"Good points *and* kickass getaway plans."
"I know." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Sacks is going to be seriously unhappy when he sees where half the Widows and Orphans Fund went."
"By the way, Donald...you were wrong."
"About something specific or just born that way?"
"The national dish of Samoa. According to the guide book." Veronica waved it, helpfully. Lonely Planet was beginning to be the bane of his existence. "Popular Samoan foods include breadfruit and taro and the cooking is characterized by the use of coconut milk and cream. No arroz, no pollo. Which makes sense given that this is not a Spanish-speaking nation."
"Oh, shut up." He scowled at her, wondering if shoving the guide where the sun didn't shine was an option (and that wasn't American Samoa since there wasn't a single damn cloud in the sky). "You haven't taken your nose out of that book since we landed. What other hits against my masculine authority does it have in there?"
"Since when do you have authority of any kind?" She flipped a few pages, adorable eyebrows quirking (he even found the backs of her knees adorable, he was so whipped). "Women are not allowed to swim or sunbathe in the nude."
"Well, fuck. We might as well have stayed in Neptune. I would've saved money and gotten to see you naked."
"Moronic, infantile, love of my life...you get to see me naked anyway."
"And it's the only reason I put up with you. That and the bragging rights at the weekly poker game with the boys."
"You can go back to the paraplegic midget stripper any time, you know."
"Quadriplegic. Which reminds me...you know the national dance of Samoa?"
"I'm afraid to ask."
"The Humpty Dance."
"You're seriously disturbed."
"Just ask Digital Underground!" He helpfully sang the lyrics for her, employing a really, really traumatic "raise the roof" and White Man's Overbite combo. "'Samoans, do the Humpty Hump, do the Humpty Hump...'"
"Oh God." She dragged him off the main path, out of the sight of horrified natives and Japanese tourists (Jesus, those people and their cameras really were everywhere, weren't they?). She had him up against a stone block wall, which was nice, but was still haranguing him...which was not so nice. "Why can't you listen to Toby Keith or Brooks & Dunn or whatever it is that any self-respecting chauvinistic Republican Texan listens to?"
"Veronica, we've established that I have no self respect."
"I know. Any other girl would've dumped you after finding Richard Marx and Bell Biv Devoe in your CD collection."
"Says the girl who listens to...what's the crap on your iPod...Death Cab for Cutie? The Perishers?" He made a face. "Bunch of fuckin' whiners. You're lucky I haven't slit my wrists. In fact, maybe *that's* why Casablancas jumped off the Grand. He was trying to get away from your play list."
"You're such a bastard." It didn't escape him that he'd crossed the line with that one. Suddenly there was real anger in her eyes. But this was him. Like she said. A bastard. He didn't shine up his language for her, treat her with kid gloves (unless she wanted him to accessorize with the silk scarves and fur-lined cuffs), or hide the worst parts of himself from her. There was no point. She was going to find them anyway. Tenacious little brat that she was.
He reached out, pushed some of her hair off her face. It was always escaping her ponytails. He frequently suggested she go back to the two pigtails look she'd sported a few years back and she always rolled her eyes, telling him, "Whoa there, Humbert Humbert." He didn't even have to Google that literary reference. They'd watched the Jeremy Irons "Lolita" movie together and he'd been so turned on that he fucked her twice on the living room floor.
She stared up at him. Jesus. Her eyes had been killing him for years. Hell, probably long before she sat across from him with her mascara running down her face. "Don?" She poked him in the chest with her index finger. She didn't like it when he stayed quiet for too long and he didn't quite blame her. "Stop brooding. It makes you look forty."
"What does Lonely Planet say about Samoans and PDA?" he asked, catching her finger and knowing that he was forgiven for the Beaver comments. She didn't poke when she was holding a grudge.
"You know...I don't think I care." The book hit the ground, bouncing a few feet and looking...lonely.
"Thank God."
She slid her arms around his neck...and took him on a quick, fierce tour of her volcanic hotspots.
***
His life was almost absolutely fucking perfect.
His eighteen-year-old girlfriend was singing "The Humpty Dance" in the shower, the locale was mindblowingly exotic, the cocktails were made with fruit juices he couldn't even name, and the sunset was so gorgeous it practically yelled, "will you marry me?" all by itself.
It was too good to be true.
Especially since he wouldn't be proposing to Veronica.
As much as he joked about it. As much as he was hooked on waking up with her almost every morning, having Inga patch her calls through twice a day, and going to bed with her every night...men like him did not marry girls like her. Because girls like her didn't marry men like him. At least, not anywhere outside of sappy romance novels and PG-13 chick flicks.
Girls like her went to Stanford. And met guys who majored in Marketing. They then broke up with those guys to date a couple of other sundry majors and eventually settle down with some poetry-spouting biker with a tattoo. Yeah. Veronica was probably going to end up marrying Eli fucking Navarro and riding across the country doing an avant garde photo diary for some hippie-dippy Generation Z online magazine.
Because going long-term with her podunk town's loser sheriff couldn't possibly be her future. He couldn't possibly be that goddamned lucky. This little vacation in Samoa was just that. An escape from reality and Freshman Orientation and "let's just be friends." And from Keith eventually snapping and grinding him up and feeding him to Backup in a 50-50 blend with Science Diet.
"Good God, Donald." She leaned on the bathroom door, noticeably without towel or bathrobe, and clicked her tongue at him. An actual "tsk, tsk." "That brood puts you up to at least 45."
"Making this relationship even *more* inappropriate."
"I don't know...I think it's plenty appropriate. It's not like I'm wearing white shoes after Labor Day or anything. In fact...I'm not wearing shoes at *all*."
"I see that, Mars." He gave himself points for simultaneously appreciating her total nudity and speaking. And for the words that came out of his mouth. "You know...maybe we should break up when we get back to Neptune. This can be our last--oof!" he gasped as she straddled him, "our last hurrah. Before you..." She closed her hand around him and he bucked upwards, trying to remember why he was down and out. Oh, right..."Before you go...to...school." There. He'd said it. He was almost proud of himself for managing it under duress.
"Idiot," she said, kissing him hard. "I'm transferring to Hearst."
Okay. So maybe it was just good enough to be slightly true. To be just a little bit more than perfect.
And when he was coming his brains out and writing his name in bruises on her hips, he lost all reason and went PG-13. Call in Kate Hudson, cue the teenybopper pop soundtrack, and crown him Supreme Dipshit of Balboa County.
"V-Veronica?"
"Y-yes...oh, God...yes?"
"Marry me."
--end--
August 21, 2006