Title: "High"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: AC for language, drug use, slash, Lamb/Weevil (with Lamb/V/Weevil implied).
Disclaimer: I still don't own the characters.
Summary: 9th in The Loserverse. 575 words. And now here they are.
"The fuck're we doin', Man?"
"Hell if I know."
They're not exactly stellar conversationalists on the average day, but as the sun rises over Dog Beach and they pass the joint back and forth, Weevil and the Sheriff are reduced to the bare basics of male communication. And Weevil has to stop and think, for a minute, how fucking weird it is that he still thinks of him as "Sheriff" Lamb. He's had the guy's cock in his mouth. He shares a girl with him. And, still, in his head, it's "Sheriff." Maybe it's some bizarre authority kink he's got.
Chalk it up as another thing he can talk to a shrink about whenever he scrapes up the dough to afford it. Which is never, right? He inhales, sharply, breathing out a cloud of sweet smoke. It's pure. The good shit. From the evidence locker, no less.
"I care enough to appropriate the very best," Lamb had said, knocking on the screen door at 4 a.m. with a couple forties and a sneer. "You up for it, my little amigo?"
"Who you callin' 'little', Tiny?" he'd snarled, tugging on his jeans and half-stumbling onto the porch.
And now here they are. Getting high courtesy of Balboa County and talking -- if it can be called that -- about one Veronica Mars.
"She blow you off tonight, too?" he chuckles, quietly, handing the pot over with two fingers.
"Cramps," Lamb says, quietly, staring out at the water. Like he doesn't quite believe the excuse. Or maybe…maybe like he does. Like he knows things that Eli doesn't want to know. "You know she doesn't like to fuck when she's bleeding."
"We do some kinky shit, Sheriff. Gotta draw the line somewhere."
He stretches out his foot, illustrates by etching one in the wet sand.
"Do we?" Lamb's faded Nikes extend the line, drawing it out to his right. "Seems to me we've got our own little yellow brick road, Navarro, and we just have no idea where it leads. Why bother, huh? Why bother stopping?"
Man, he'd forgotten that weed makes you all philosophical and stuff. The man actually sounds *smart* to him. And his bones feel loose so he sinks back, folding his arms behind his head. "One day, she's gonna quit coming back over the rainbow. This can't last forever, Hombre. You know that."
"Can you imagine if it could?" Lamb's laugh is strangled, wrapped up in smoke and, just seconds later, Weevil feels a not-so gentle pressure against his mouth. He breathes in Mary Jane and Don Lamb and Corona.
He curls his fingers into the sheriff's hair, kisses him back and, no, he can't fucking imagine this lasting forever. Not this, not her, not any of it.
As much as he wants to.
He pulls Don's T-shirt out of his jeans, undoes his fly with jerky motions. And then they're rubbing against each other like two dumbass kids at sleepaway camp, taking hits off the last of the weed and gasping "oh" and "fuck" and "ahora" and "now."
Weevil feels teeth against his throat and he retaliates by dragging his blunt nails down older, barely healed scratches between Lamb's shoulder blades. He draws a line. More than one. Somewhere. Everywhere.
He chokes on thick, acrid, fumes that are nothing but burnt paper.
The fuck are they doing?
Getting through each day.
Surviving every night.
And loving someone the only way they know how.
--end--
August 29, 2006