Title: "be all my sins remember'd"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: AC for adult language, sexual situations, angst, Veronica/Lamb.
Disclaimer: No, I still don't own them. Darn!
Summary: He'd practiced non-expressions in the mirror for occasions like this.
Notes: Please excuse the totally flimsy police procedure and the fact that I mined Shakespeare for a title because I couldn't think of one on my own.
"To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd."
-Hamlet, William Shakespeare
She wakes up slowly, the stripes of sunlight from the blinds seeming to push her out of the sheets like a kid trying to get their mom up on Christmas morning. Her hair sticks up all over the place, her eyes have deep circles under them, and she fumbles for the glass of water he left on the bedside table, raising it to lips that are dry and cracked.
And he thinks she might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Veronica Mars, in his bed.
"Lamb?" she wonders, hoarsely.
"Not for breakfast." He offers her a small smile. All he can manage right now because, Jesus, anything bigger and he might just cry. "How about coffee and toast?"
"Sounds do-able. Thank you," she whispers, as he sets another glass down for her.
"No..." He wonders if she'll let him kiss her in the light of day, while they're both cognizant of just how much water is under their burning bridge. He figures there's no harm in trying. She tenses beneath his mouth as he brushes it across her forehead, so he keeps things brief, pulling back so he can look her straight in the eye. No flinching. "Thank *you*."
***
"Deputy," she mused, in that slightly dreamy voice, the Ingenue Voice that he hated and thought should be screaming his name all at the same time, "do you ever get the urge to leave Neptune? To chuck it all? To go on the--"
"Don't say it," he cut off, sharply, snapping his pencil in half a good two minutes ahead of schedule. "Don't even try it or I'll throw you in a holding cell so hard it'll knock out the battery pack that runs your mouth."
She clicked her tongue, admonishing, "Police brutality won't get you re-elected," adding, "and the battery pack runs my rabbit. I named it 'Don.' We're very happy together."
He drew in a sharp breath, tried to count to twenty, before he said something he was going to at least mildly regret. That was what she wanted: to get a rise out of him, to see just how long it took before he slapped the desk or threw something. The only problem was, he wasn't sure he could stay within those confines. One of these days...one of these days he was going to cross a line. One of these days, he was going to...
"What do you *want*, Veronica?"
He watched her read the poster behind his desk. He knew that's what she was staring at without even turning around. "Tough on crime?" She arched an eyebrow, that obnoxious little quirk that he'd never quite mastered. "But are you easy on hands?"
The urge to haul her across his desk was right on schedule. Approximately three minutes and fifty-two seconds after she parked her butt in the chair. He ground his teeth together, searching for the painfully polite 'campaign voice' he knew he had somewhere. "Do. You. Want. Something?"
She let him stew for another forty-six seconds. Practically an eternity.
Before answering..."You. I want you."
He'd practiced non-expressions in the mirror for occasions like this. Well, this and poker night with the guys. "You want me? For what?" *Please say it involves handcuffs and two friends from the pep squad.*
Veronica's own non-expression told him there was no way he'd ever get that lucky. "I need your badge...and your complete lack of a conscience."
Ouch. They'd moved right on to the insult portion of the event. "What for?" he asked, warily.
The Ingenue Voice disappeared, replaced by what he liked to call her Bitch Voice. It was coolly professional, savvy, like a receptionist...in Hell. "Are you interested in catching rapists, Deputy? Is that something you've started doing yet?"
He winced, instinctively picking up the pieces of his pencil and shifting them around in his hands. "You won't ever let me forget that, will you?" Not that he needed her help anymore. He remembered perfectly well on his own.
She pushed a manila folder at him, apparently deciding that his question was rhetorical. Or that the answer was obvious. "Two Neptune High students came to me after being drugged and assaulted. They can ID the guy, but since they woke up alone and were under the influence of a mind-altering substance, it weakens any case they could make. They don't want the police involved...but I do. I want you to catch the bastard in the act. Is that beyond your means?"
He leaned back in his chair, propping one foot on the open bottom drawer of the desk. "Why me? Why not D'Amato? He'll do anything for you -- especially if it's on my dime."
"Leo has a conscience. You don't," she reminded, crisply.
So they were back to that again, were they? "Why exactly is that the selling point?" And did he really want to know?
She shrugged, tapping the file with two French-manicured fingers. Funny, but they'd always been unpainted before. Bitten down. "Because I'm the bait."
He didn't bother counting to twenty. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
And she didn't even blink. "I will be if the perp slips me GHB...and that's why I need you."
Why...she...needed him...
He was still wrapping his head around that one as she barreled on with her plan. "I want you at the club where this guy trolls for his victims. Undercover. I'm sure you have *something* suitable for clubbing in your wardrobe, don't you? Something that's not too 1998? When the suspect sets me up...you make the arrest, and you get me out of there. If you can get him on intent, then his victims can come out of the woodwork."
"Veronica...?" He wasn't even sure what he was asking. Only sure that he was out of pencils, out of patience, and out of *his* fucking mind.
She leaned forward, her voice just...her voice. Low, level, no bullshit. "I'm trusting you, Lamb," she told him, the grey of her eyes like smoke. Enough to choke him. "I'm trusting you to get it right this time."
"What is this...some kind of test?"
"That's exactly what it is."
"What do I get if I pass?"
She shrugged. "How about a good night's sleep and job satisfaction?"
He suddenly, very much, totally, wanted to go on the lam.
***
He arrived at the Groove at their appointed time: five minutes before her. He cased it instinctively as he ordered a Heineken from the bored Goth girl working the far end of the bar. Bathrooms in the back, tables all around, dance floor packed with people. The clientele was just as unimaginative as the name of the place, chock full of college kids and high school girls with fake IDs. Drinks sat around unattended and so did purses. It was a breeding ground for creeps.
It was a little unsettling that he felt right at home.
Adam Hutzler, the accused rapist, was a medium build textbook college joe. Oxford shirt, khakis, Birks, ball cap. Veronica had taken surveillance pictures. She'd hit this place before, alone -- a revelation that had sent his blood pressure sky-rocketing -- and watched him. He hadn't left with any girls during her visits. He probably laid low for a few weeks in between rounds...until he got the sick urge again, that little voice in his head telling him to go for it.
Don had notified the local brass. A black-and-white was on stand-by a few streets down, waiting for him to place the call. Entrapment? Nah. This was justice. The county boys had sisters, daughters; they didn't tell teenage girls to go see the Wizard.
Veronica walked in and flashed her ID at the bouncer, slipping him money for cover. He wasn't surprised when she made the cut. He already knew her forging skills were top of the line, but her back-less blouse and leather mini-skirt...? Nothing could compete with the ensemble. Except maybe her face. Her perfect, barely made-up face. She looked like a fifteen-year-old in her big sister's clothes. A virgin and a whore.
She was a pro. He had to give her that. She acknowledged all the appreciative stares from the guys she passed, holding eye contact just long enough as she cased the joint, too. And he knew exactly when she spotted him. It was the slightest thing. Her lips in that smug little smirk as she shouldered her way to the center of the bar and shouted for a Coke. So, his jeans, black silk shirt, and gold chain passed muster, huh? He had approval from Malibu Slut Barbie. Nice.
He was never going to admit to her that he'd had all three things since 1998.
She nodded subtly at Ballcap & Birks, who was making a survey of his own, checking out the fresh meat of the night from a table close by.
Game on. Time to start the show. She loitered a discreet three feet from the suspect, looking vulnerable and thoroughly approachable. Don sauntered up to her, sizing her up nice and slow. He couldn't fool himself. He enjoyed it, starting at her cute and totally impractical high heels and working his way up. "Hey, there," he greeted, struggling to last time he'd tried to pick up a girl in a bar and how that worked. Jesus, probably 19fucking98. When Veronica was eleven.
"Hi," she said, tone clipped and all-too familiar.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, leering some more. Full power. The look he *wanted* to give her whenever she walked into his office with her Ice Bitch attitude and her fake flirtation.
"Um, I have one." She shook the glass at him emphatically. Her eyes were empty of recognition, even of hatred.
"Nothing wrong with double-fisting," he shot back, warming up as Ballcap tuned in. "Come on, Baby...it's just a drink."
"Look..." She half-turned, putting the glass down on the perp's table even as she asked, "Can I set this here?" and then she turned back, "I'm here to have a good time. That's all. I don't want to be bothered. Thank you."
Hutzler perked up at her polite dismissal. The bastard's eyes actually started to gleam and only someone watching him would notice that he poured something from a vial into Veronica's Coke.
"But I'm not a bother. I promise." And, for some godforsaken reason, Don was sure he meant it. "Just talk to me...for a little while. Make nice." If she made nice with him, she wouldn't be involving herself in this idiotic sting. Suddenly, that was all he wanted to say: "Please, Veronica, call this thing off. Let's go home." But he couldn't.
And he didn't have to. Hutzler stepped in, his perfect courtesy-of-the-orthodontist smile flashing as he played hero. "Is this guy bugging you, Miss?"
"He's just...enthusiastic," Veronica said, primly.
"Leave the lady alone," Hutzler said, baiting his hook. "You don't want any trouble."
"You're right. I don't." He stepped back, letting *their* hook reel the sucker in. "Have a nice time, Sweetheart. Let me know if you want that drink later."
"Mhmm. Sure." Malibu Barbie was already dismissing him. Filing him away as a Loser, capital L. Like so many women did to the good guys before somebody hurt them.
Like so many women Don couldn't save.
He went back to clear a spot by the bar, take a few cautious swallows of his now-tepid Heineken.
She drank half of her soda as if nothing was wrong, chatting gaily, but he saw her hand shaking as she set the glass down. She knew. She knew she'd been roofied when she turned her back to finish blowing him off. He wanted to yell out, tell her she was safe and it wouldn't be like that night. But he couldn't. He couldn't.
*"I'm trusting you to get it right this time."*
He shredded a napkin. Two.
And waited.
***
Twenty-eight of the longest minutes of his life ended when he yanked Hutzler out of the back of a 2004 Pathfinder. Khaki pants still zipped. Thank the fucking Lord. The windows were busted, glass all over the concrete of the empty parking lot. "You can bill me later, you motherfucker," he hissed as the local, Officer Murphy, shoved Hutzler into the back of his cruiser.
And then he turned back to the SUV. Where Veronica was trying to climb out. She almost fell, lurching against him, and he caught her against his chest. "Lamb...?" she murmured, dizzily, staring up at him through the haze of whatever... rohypnol ... GHB ... whatever she'd been slipped. "Is that you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's me." Her hair smelled like smoke...how the Hell was that possible in a smoke-free club? He ran his hand up and down her back, forgetting it was bare until he made contact. Her skin was feverishly warm, bordering on burning. Or maybe that was just him, standing at the gates of Hell. "You're alright. You're alright this time."
"Did we get him? We got him, right?" She slung an arm around his neck, her words slurring. "Got him good, before I did something bad..." She stopped, confused, and corrected herself as she furrowed her eyebrows, "Before *he*...yeah?"
"Yeah, we got him. We got him before." Aw, Hell. He swept her up into his arms, off her feet and away from the squad car and the glass and the local shouting, "Should I call 911?"
"Got it covered," he tossed over his shoulder. "Just hold the punk over night and I'll fax you her statement in the morning."
Veronica weighed practically nothing. She felt tiny and frail and helpless as she giggled, brainlessly, telling him he smelled nice...and he thought, "Oh, God." Oh, God, she didn't even remember she was supposed to hate him. As far as she was concerned, they were going steady. She curled up, her head on his shoulder, and he felt his stomach clench. Was this how she'd been two years ago? Soft and warm, like a living doll?
He didn't even realize he asked it out loud. And her answer almost made him stumble, drop her before they reached his truck.
"We did body shots," she confided. "They made me. Dick Castleblanket tastes like...dick." Another giggle. He got her into the passenger seat, belting her in, and she lolled against the seatbelt, reaching for him.
"Just hang in there. I'll get you home," he murmured, shutting the door and going around to the other side. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.
"Not home. Dad'll kill me." And then she shook her head, her hair falling forward to hide her face. "N-no...Dad'll kill *you*."
She had a point. "How about your boyfriend's hotel?" he wondered as he started up the car and peeled out of the lot.
The sharp, lucid, "No!" almost made him swerve. "Please, no..."
Alright. Cross Duncan Kane off the list.
Where could he even take her? She didn't exactly have a lot of friends. If she did, maybe she...
"It's okay," he told her. "I'll take care of you."
He could barely hear her over the roar of blood in his ears. Not a bitch, not an ingenue. Just terrified. Completely at his mercy.
"You won't send me to the Wizard?"
"No, Veronica. Not this time."
This time, he would get it right.
Or at least as close as he could manage.
***
At 2:28 a.m., she kissed him -- her aim sloppy, her tongue enthusiastic.
At 2:42, she told him she had an irrational fear of Tony the Tiger and started crying when he laughed, "That's grrr-eat."
At 3:01, she told him that Duncan Kane made love to her while he thought she was his sister and left her alone without her panties.
He made sure the sheets were tucked securely around her before he went into the bathroom and dry-heaved.
At 3:30, she kissed him again...and he kissed her back. At least until he remembered that made him a disgusting pig and no better than Hutzler. Six seconds. Maybe ten. God, maybe he kissed her for fifteen and realized that he would never need handcuffs or cheerleaders where she was concerned. And that she was right: He had no conscience.
"Veronica, I have to let you go...okay?"
"No, she whispered, "you don't," and he couldn't deny her...not until she fell asleep.
And then he pulled in a chair from the living room and watched her. He wondered if he should put her in one of his t-shirts, and thought 'no.' He didn't want her waking up without her clothes...without her dignity.
He didn't want to see her naked.
Okay, he did. He really did.
But not like this. Never like this.
"I am so sorry," he told her, dragging his hands through his hair. "I am so fucking sorry."
And he was even sorrier that he would never be able to say it while she was awake. Because it was just too much. And not nearly enough.
And he knew.
One of these days...one of these days he was going to cross a line. One of these days, he was going to...
fall in love with her.
***
He cradles the receiver against his ear, watching her dutifully drink another full glass of water. "How long can you hold him?"
"Four more hours tops," says Murphy, as the cell connection crackles, "He lawyered up and will probably be out by noon."
"Pretty standard," he nods, even though the officer can't see the motion. "We'll be in to file the statement by 11."
He hangs up, sighing and rubbing his face with his palm. He needs a shave and a shower and maybe a brain transplant. It's just a little after six and he hopes to God that Keith and Duncan haven't called each other to try and figure out where the Hell Veronica is. He doesn't think he can deal with that right now. "You holding up, Mars?"
He watches her taking note of everything...the chair, the fact that she's still dressed -- except for her fuck-me heels. "Did you get any sleep at all?" she wonders.
He doesn't count to twenty. He just tells her the truth. Low, level, no bullshit. "No. No, I don't really sleep much anymore."
She rubs her arms, shivering. And he has no idea what she's thinking and he's glad because he's already learned too much about what goes on in there. He knows all of her secrets.
And he thinks she might know his. Even if she doesn't remember them.
"Don?" Not 'Lamb.' Not 'Deputy.' Not 'Sheriff.' She reaches out for his hand and he gives it to her, unsurprised when their fingers tangle up like they've been holding hands for years. Maybe they have. Maybe it's the only way they've kept from falling.
"Yeah?"
"Don't you think it's about time you got some rest?"
Veronica Mars, in his bed.
Safe.
It's the most beautiful thing in the world.
--end--
October 24, 2005