Title: "Shave the Last Dance"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: AC for language, V/Lamb, humor, shmoop, AU, 1010 words.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just my crazy playground.
Summary: 18th in "Between The Rock and a Not-So Hard Place." Is Veronica into Women's Lib? Is Lamb going to drop the soap?
Don Lamb was a fuckhead. Veronica had informed him of this a few choice times during the cab ride to the airport, in the security line as he hopped on one leg like a stork and stuck his shoes on the conveyer and also while buying an overpriced soda from the cart next to their departure gate. So, it was no surprise to him that the flight back to the States proved to be the kind of glacial journey that could only spell "imminent extinction of the species." And his love life.
And it was all his fault.
Because while he'd been having sex with his smokin' hot, barely legal girlfriend, he proposed to her. And as she gasped and her eyes practically crossed from pleasure and shock, he'd taken it back. "Wh-what was that?"
"Um...I said...'hairy knee'. Did you shave while you were showering? Because...ew."
"Donald, I'm serious!"
"Me, too. Are you some kind of Women's Libber, not shaving your legs? Because I'm totally not into that."
"You just asked me to marry you."
"Momentary lapse of judgment."
"Your whole life is a lapse of judgment. THAT was a proposal."
"It's not like you were going to say yes."
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point!"
"You can't un-propose!"
"Watch me. I said 'hairy knee.'"
"You're such a fuckhead."
And, lo, here they were, approximately three days later, back in home sweet fucking Neptune and he was *still*, in case anyone was wondering, a fuckhead. A suspended one at that. He'd come home to find a crisp white envelope in the mailbox, with a lovely missive from the interim mayor inside. Something about how his suspension would be extended as they reviewed his record more thoroughly and "ascertained what action must be taken." He'd half expected a letter bomb from Keith, too. Maybe a steaming pile of dog shit on his Welcome mat from Madison. He just knew she was the type to hold a grudge and go bunny boiler on him.
Even though he didn't have a bunny. She'd probably buy one and have the Sinclairs' cook boil it for her.
It was just shaping up to be that kind of week. That kind of month. Possibly that kind of summer.
To top it off, he was pretty sure that he was going to have to go see Gridiron Gang by himself. He'd had a plan that involved Veronica, an obscenely large bucket of extra-buttery popcorn, and being That Couple at the theater but given their current sub zero climate, the only action he'd be getting at the multiplex would be with Rosie Palmer and her five little friends. Not that he would actually jerk off to The Rock. Even if it was his first theatrical release since Doom.
He sighed, rolling over in bed and shutting off the answering machine in the middle of Sacks' halting version of 2 weeks' worth of water cooler gossip. Thank you. Now that he knew one of the new PCH bikers had managed to piss in Inga's favorite fern, his life was complete.
He'd tried to break up with her. Right? He'd totally intended to cut the ties, write it off as some crazy fantasy, and move on. Right? But then she'd pressed her body parts up against him...and how was anybody supposed to resist that? He was surprised that Duncan hadn't gone and popped the question. That Logan Echolls hadn't hired a goddamn skywriter. Maybe they had and he'd just been blissfully ignorant. ("Isn't that your permanent state of being, Donald?")
The phone rang again and he scowled at it from under the arm he'd thrown across his eyes. Note to self: arms did not block out mid-day sunlight and scowling did not stop phones from ringing.
"Hi, Lamb...it's me."
Oh, so he was 'Lamb' now? Was that a step up or down from 'fuckhead'? He clenched his fists in a Herculean effort to resist grabbing the receiver.
"I bet you're brooding and listening to Richard Marx right now. Have I ever mentioned that you're totally the girl in this relationship?"
Frequently. But at least she was still calling it a 'relationship.' And, yes, he'd had "Right Here Waiting" on a loop all morning.
"Anyway, since I know you're lying there, staring at the answering machine, and doing your manly Fist Clench Thing, I thought I would tell you: this is not a break-up. This is some space. 'Veronica goes to Orientation, moves into a dorm room and remembers what it's like to be 18' space."
Not to mention "Veronica dates Chip Wheatley the Fourth" space. Or, worse, "Veronica gets back together with Logan thank God there's only one of him Echolls" space.
He couldn't help it. He lunged for the phone, practically falling out of bed in his rush to answer it before she hung up. "If I see you with another guy who isn't your dad, Wallace or your old, pipe-smoking, gay first-year-advisor, I will fucking kill him," he said, knowing it was probably the most asinine, chauvinistic thing he could possibly say at a time like this. "I will shoot to kill and they will cart me away and lock me up next to all the people I've put away in the last 2 years." Which amounted to, like, one person. But still. "And you will hear about me getting shanked in the prison showers. And then you'll be sorry you missed out on conjugal visits."
"Oh, really?" Jesus Christ, he already missed the sound of her breathing. Laughing. Existing. "Well, don't think I won't get my taser on if I catch you 'sublimating' with Madison again."
"Please, Mars. If I sublimate with Madison, you have my permission to taser me."
"Donald?"
"What?"
"Ask me again in about four years."
"Ask you what? To see Gridiron Gang? It'll probably be a special edition DVD by then."
"No, Deliberately Obtuse One. About my hairy knees."
He clenched his fists. And his jaw. And anything else he could possibly clench. "Veronica..."
"I know," she chuckled, softly. "I'm a fuckhead."
--end--
September 5, 2006