Title: "You Can't Have One Without the Other"
Author: monimala
Character/Pairing: Vinnie, Veronica; Vinnie/various, ViVe
Word count: 3870.
Rating: AC
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary: Written for VM Library's January "Losin' It" challenge. "Why else would a guy get married?"
Spoilers/Warnings: General show spoilers, through S3 to be safe. Adult language, sexual situations, humor and a bit of OOC foofiness.
He had no use for water, for beaches. Not unless it was some kind of kinky sex fantasy halfway between Beach Blanket Bingo and an episode of Lost with the hot Korean babe strutting around in a bikini.
But here he was, washed up on some dinky stretch of land with Veronica Mars as the yacht they'd been dumped from got farther and farther away. It was practically a fucking speck on the horizon and they were probably on fucking Alcatraz.
Vinnie had run through his entire repertoire of swear words -- English, Dutch, Italian, and a smattering of Farsi -- and was now just plain ranting as much as his strained lungs would allow. "J-jesus fucking Christ, Veronica. I do not swim. You ever taken a good look at the East River? It's disgusting. And now you go and drown and --"
"I didn't drown…b-blame your buddy Liam." Her lips were blue, her teeth knocking together like hockey sticks on the ice. And he wasn't enough of an asshole to let her just sit like that so he draped an arm around her, pulling her against his side while she fished around in a pocket for her cell phone.
Yeah. Good luck getting that thing to work. He'd already tried his. All those genius tech people could invent iPod phones and camera phones and Cuisinart phones and still couldn't make a waterproof one to save their goddamn lives.
"Liam is *not* my buddy," he snorted, as the wind settled into his bones and his t-shirt stuck to his skin. Daytime in SoCal was fine and dandy, but the temperature still dropped at night during the winter and it was far from comfortable. In fact, his own teeth were starting to chatter. "Liam is *definitely* not my buddy."
"Coulda fooled me." Veronica shook out her fancy Sidekick in disgust and lowered it to the sand beside them. "Actually, considering the circumstances…I'd say you did fool me…and then he fooled you."
The stretch of beach was only faintly lit by the moon. Everything else was dark and Vinnie wasn't exactly feeling an urge to go exploring. Odds were, he wouldn't find a case of rum *or* a mysterious hatch, so they were better off sticking close to the water in case another boat passed by. He'd watched enough disaster movies to pick up that much.
Veronica drew her knees up to her chin, huddling even closer to him and he instinctively pushed some of her wet hair off her forehead, as if he could help dry her off that way. Of course, they were really just making each other wetter. And sandier. And not so much in the Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon kind of way. More in the "oh god, we're gonna die, let's hold on for dear life" kind of way. They could, conceivably, be stuck here for a while. Wherever 'here' was.
"Can't you make a fire or something, Veronica? Weren't you a Girl Scout?"
"I only did it for the Thin Mints. And my matches are wet, too, Vincent."
He'd been afraid of that. "How's your head?" he asked her, his hand settling at the base of her neck, just below what was probably a nasty bump.
"Concussed. So don't let me fall asleep. I don't want the last thing I see before I die to be you."
He shuddered, trying not to think about Veronica dying. She was a nice girl. A *very* nice girl. It still made him a little nauseous inside, remembering how Danny had clocked her with her taser after finding her below deck. He'd wanted to throttle the guy, play hero and save the girl, but had figured saving his own hide first would be better for all parties concerned.
That had worked out swimmingly.
"Relax, Veronica. We're not dying," he scoffed, hoping he sounded convincing. "We're probably on Catalina or something and, in the morning, we'll see there's some luxury resort over the hill and we've been five feet from paradise this whole time."
"Wasn't that a plot on As the World Turns last summer?"
"My wife used to watch it," he admitted before he could self-edit. "Lost the ball and chain, kept the soaps."
And Ma liked them. It gave them something to talk about besides the fact that she had no grandchildren to show for all of his marital mistakes.
"Which wife?" Veronica had turned her face against his shoulder and she spoke into his shirt. Her mouth was warm, like a miniature hand dryer, and it tickled. "Tell me a story, Vincent. Keep me awake."
"You're a morbid little girl, aren't you?"
Since it was a rhetorical question, she didn't answer. Which was good. He hated when people answered questions he didn't expect them to. Debra had done it all the time. Great legs (being an ice skater and all), but not so great in the brain department.
And coincidentally, she was the wife who'd watched all the soaps. Not that he was judging…seeing as how he still had a couple weeks' worth of Guiding Light on his TiVo.
He launched into a vivid description of Debra's assets -- dark hair, flat chest (being an ice skater and all), great in bed -- and explained how she'd had stacks and stacks of tapes in the closet, going back years.
"I swear to God, there was this one time she was suck-- um, giving me a certain amount of pleasure on the couch and she had the TV on. She didn't wanna miss Rose and Paul's wedding."
Veronica giggled, which hopefully meant she was warming up. "Clearly your fault for wanting sex in the afternoon."
"Why else would a guy get married?"
"You tell me. You're the expert."
Okay, that was a question he *wished* she hadn't answered, but since it could go either way in the rhetorical vs. torical debate, he couldn't exactly blame her.
He gritted his teeth, re-positioning his arm somewhere in Veronica's waist vicinity since she was getting all nice and cozy and he didn't want to choke her to death. Under any other circumstance, he would totally pull the soap cliche and suggest they get naked to conserve body heat, but he was pretty damn sure this was one girl who wouldn't buy it.
As for a reply...
"Well, there's always the old green card excuse."
"You married someone to stay in the country? When did New York become a sovereign nation?"
"No, Masako married *me* to stay in the country. And then she took me to the cleaners. The bitch."
Veronica's eyebrows quirked. She pulled back a little, so she could look him in the eye. And it gave him the willies. That searching stare that made him feel like she knew all his secrets…or was at least imminently capable of digging them up. "Nice language there, Vinnie."
"No, trust me, the girl was a stone cold bitch. I walked in on her having sex with some blond personal trainer from the Equinox in Chelsea and somehow *I* was the one who got cited for adultery in the divorce." He shook his head, snorting in disgust. "She told me the guy was gay. She was so damn beautiful that she could've told me the sky was purple and I would've believed her. And the things she could do with her tongue...oh, Man. Hell, if she'd let me at her one last time, I probably wouldn't have minded her emptying out the joint checking account."
She laughed, sounding like she was trying to hold it in and failing miserably. "Why do all your stories have sex in them?"
He waggled his eyebrows, suggestively. "How do you think I *got* three wives?"
"I was thinking more about how you incurred the 'ex'-es."
Veronica was still shivering and he couldn't say he was particularly warm and toasty himself. He brushed his mouth over her forehead, checking for fever like his ma still did sometimes -- but without the noticeable orange lipstick marks. It was one of those unconscious gestures. Like putting his arm around her. Not a move. And when her shoulders tightened, he said as much out loud.
"Trust me, Veronica, *this* ain't how I incurred the exes."
"Vinnie…"
She bit her lip. And, okay, he was human, so when those perfect white teeth touched that pouty flesh, he did kind of groan. But he took a deep breath to drown out the sound, shifted in the sand, and gave her his best Vinnie Vanlowe scam artist extraordinaire grin. "Let me tell you about Brenda, okay? She's my favorite ex-wife."
"Well, you have so many, how does one keep track?"
"You can, apparently. But we'll revisit that tidbit later." She snorted, which meant she wasn't worrying about her virtue anymore. Good. That left just him worrying. Vinnie gently pulled her head against his shoulder, staring out at the dark water and trying to think of the best way to tell this one.
Probably starting with the truth, right?
"Me and Brenda…we were each other's firsts."
"Shut up!" Veronica almost bolted upright, but he patted her back down.
"Hey, who's the New Yorker here? Can't you say 'dude!' or something?"
Veronica weakly socked him in the arm. He attributed the weakness up to the near drowning, hoping that she normally threw better punches. "You're telling me a virginity story *and* correcting my regional dialect? There's only so much a gal can take."
"You can tell me your virginity story if you want," he offered. He didn't think she could get paler or bluer. But she did. He watched her swallow and choke out a "no thanks," and he felt like a giant tool. Yeah, okay, so it was probably something he had no business hearing. He slapped her companionably on the back, laughing with forced cheer. "Never mind. Let's get back to me and the first Mrs. Vanlowe."
She smiled at him, gratefully, and he tried not to think about how good something that simple, a smile from Veronica Mars on a deserted beach, made him feel. She said, "Tell me a story, Vincent," and so he did.
"See, me and Bren', we grew up down the block from each other. We were best friends, shared the PB&J at P.S. 238 and played ball in the street. Everything you'd see in A Bronx Tale or something. Except it wasn't the Bronx…'cause who the fuck wants to live in the Bronx?"
Veronica, wisely, didn't answer this question -- chalk one more point in her favor -- and he kept talking. "She saw me through my highly unfortunate Whitesnake and Warrant period. If a lady loves you in your mullet, you know you got something special. And we did. We really had it. So, when I was seventeen, I asked her to marry me. I don't think we'd even kissed more than once. School trip. Empire State building. All the kids were doing it up there to piss off Miz Haney."
"And she said yes?"
"Hey, it's me. Of course she did."
**
The hotel room was great. Bren's dad had helped fund the place, covering what Vinnie's poker winnings didn't, and it was decked out all nice and perfect. Just like in the movies. Heart-shaped bed. Mirrors. No champagne on ice…just some cans of Tab for Brenda and Coke for him.
"If you two kids wanna do this, you do it right," Mr. O'Neill had said. And Ma had pretty much echoed that sentiment…signing them up for counseling at church right away and sending postcards to his great-aunt in Holland.
So, now here they were. All properly married in the eyes of God and the state of New York with Old Blue Eyes crooning on a mix tape his friend had made to "help with the bada bing-bada boom, you know what I'm saying?"
Only there was decidedly less binging and booming then he'd hoped for. It was nothing like Tony had said it would be. It took him three tries to get inside her and they laughed the whole time because they felt so silly -- even while she went "Ow! That hurts!" And then he bent his dick kinda wrong and it hurt him, too. So they were both sore and cracking up and kissing way more awkwardly than they had at the top of Empire.
"Y-you're not going to fit all the way," she whispered into his neck.
But eventually he did and it wasn't so bad once he figured out where everything went and that she liked it when he kissed her boobs. Sinatra was singing "I've Got You Under My Skin" when he got off, but she wasn't even close. Not by a mile. And she looked up at him with those big green eyes, practically on the verge of tears because he was obviously a total loser in the sack.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, hefting off her and burying his face in his pillow. "I'm so sorry, Bren'. I'm such a fucking idiot. I'm the worst husband ever."
"It's not your fault," she said, immediately, reaching over and mussing his hair. "Come on. We both agreed to wait and go into this totally blind. Seriously, you should've taken up Becky Schuldt's offer to go behind the bleachers at Homecoming."
Vinnie shuddered. "Becky Schuldt has done the entire senior class and some of the juniors, too. I swear to God, she hasn't closed her legs since her Bat Mitzvah. Even the girls' basketball team has been in there."
"That would explain why she asked me behind the bleachers, too." Brenda laughed, the sound tinged with shyness. "Maybe *I* should've taken her up on it."
He rose up just a few inches from his pillow to look at her. It was now or never to get this out in the open. Otherwise, he was just going to accept that sex wasn't his gig, join the priesthood and hope he didn't start having weird feelings for altar boys. "Hey, whatever floats your boat and lights your tights," he shrugged, wryly. "It sure ain't me. If it's Becky, just remember to wash off in Lysol after you're done."
She was silent for a long time, playing with the sheets, drying them both off with a handful of them. And then she rolled away and covered her eyes with her arm. "Vinnie, I think I'm a lesbian."
He squeezed her shoulder, sighing as he stared up at the paint spatters on the ceiling. Okay, so no altar boys for him. Whew. "Yeah, I kinda figured that out a while ago."
"Y-you did? What gave it away?"
He hoped this embarrassment would fade in, like, a week instead of the lifetime he was scared it would take. "The Martina Navritalova poster in your locker and the fact that you listen to that dyke-y k.d. lang chick."
She very slowly uncovered her eyes, risking a peek at him. "Do you hate me?"
"Not so much, no," he admitted. Because it was true. And she looked beautiful there in the bed next to him. The most beautiful girl ever. Except for maybe Elle Macpherson. And she'd probably agree with the Elle part. "I still kinda love you. Is that okay?"
"No, I love you, too," she said, curving back into his arms. "I'll always love you."
He kissed her on the forehead like a brother or an uncle and they watched cable TV all night, ate junk food and talked about all the girls they could scope out together that summer.
When they got divorced two weeks after graduation (obviously an annulment was out of the question), Ma and Mr. O'Neill were totally disappointed, but the cute twins from Connecticut, Tami and Tania, that they picked up at Jones Beach were more than happy to help them celebrate.
**
"…and now she and her wife Libby run a B&B in the Berkshires. I go see 'em every year. Play Uncle Vinnie to their son, Drew. And I keep offering to give the sex the ol' college try since we're older and wiser…with Lib' there for moral support…but Bren doesn't take me up on it. I wonder why?"
Veronica was quiet after he finished talking. Quiet, but awake, which boded well for her bumped head. And maybe he was imagining it, but there was a shine to her eyes, a little bit of dampness on her cheeks. Maybe it was just the glare off the ocean. The bits of light from the beginnings of sunrise. There was no way she could be crying over his dumb coming-of-age story, right?
"Hey…" He nudged her with his shoulder. "Am I putting you to sleep here? That wasn't supposed to be the end result, remember?"
She made a sound that was suspiciously sniffle-like. "H-how does a boy that sweet turn into a sleaze who gets in bed with the Fitzpatricks?"
"How does a gal like you end up on the six o'clock news 'cause somebody locked you in a freezer or trapped you on a roof?" Vinnie shrugged. "Them's the breaks. You make choices. You ain't always gonna make the right one."
She nudged him back. "You chose to dive in after me. You didn't have to."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm lining you up to be wife #4."
"In that case, I hate to break it to you, Vinnie, but I don't need a green card, I'm not a lesbian, and I won't get you off at 2 in the afternoon."
He chuckled. "Sheesh, Veronica. You drive one hard bargain. I guess that means we'll just have to get married for love."
Veronica laughed, abrupt and full of disbelief, but then she was looking up at him and he could practically count the green and gold flecks in her eyes. If he did that kind of stuff. Which he didn't.
Just like he didn't kiss gorgeous girls who were practically sitting on top of him. He didn't do stuff like that either. Nope. Not him.
Her lips were soft, a little chapped from their mutual dip in the ocean, and she held herself still as he stroked her hair and smoothed his thumb over the back of her neck. She cried "ow!" softly when he accidentally ran his fingers over the sore spots but didn't pull away. "Sorry," he murmured, apologetically nipping at her bottom lip.
"I'm cold," she whispered in response, curving in closer, climbing full into his lap and settling her knees on either side of him.
Encouraged, Vinnie took his time exploring her mouth. If she was freezing, she sure didn't taste like it. She made whimpering, hungry noises against his tongue and he slid his hands up the back of her shirt. Okay, there, under the damp cotton, her skin was cool and he rubbed long, slow circles against her spine to help warm her up.
But what surprised him was when Veronica helped him push first her hoodie and then her shirt off all the way. She pulled back just enough so she could raise her arms, taking the precious seconds to breathe, too. "Isn't it better to get out of wet clothes?" she asked, completely un-innocently, as she tossed the layers next to them.
His brain shorted out. Pretty much the appropriate response to lace-covered tits. Even if they were small, like hers. "Babe," he mumbled while she slid against the rise in his jeans. "Babe, you're amazing."
"'Babe?'" She unhooked her bra and it joined what was, no doubt, going to be a growing pile of discarded clothes. "You watch All My Children, too?"
"Uh uh. I'm feelin' a little Young and Restless, though. And hypothermic."
"Then I guess we should share body heat. Conserve our energy." She curled her fingers in his shirt, started inching it upward. And he had to wonder if she knew what she was going to find. Definitely not some pretty boy's sculpted abs. No, just a hairy guy whose idea of exercise was seeing how many of Ma's gnocchi he could eat before his buttons popped.
He quit kissing her long enough to ask. "Not that I'm complaining, but what brought this on? How hard did Boyd hit you?"
"Not that hard." Veronica pressed her cheek and her chest against his. He couldn't remember the last girl he hadn't paid to get this close. Debra, probably.
"Veronica…" He tried again. Both kissing and asking.
"I don't have any fun stories, Vinnie. You know how it ended with Duncan. You were there. Logan? Reads like a Shakespearean tragedy. And believe me when I tell you that no one wants to hear about my first time." He opened his mouth to speak but she covered his mouth with her fingers. "All I want is one good anecdote. One crazy tale to tell the next time I'm stranded on a beach with a wet cell phone."
He was not in the business of denying women. Not with three marriages and divorces under his belt. Give him a Fitzpatrick brother and he didn't flinch. He rolled with the punches. But give him a lovely lady and it was an Achilles fucking heel. And this particular lovely lady was grinding around in his lap, across an erection that would put Ron Jeremy's to shame. Yeah. He was going to give her at *least* one good anecdote.
Her fingertips slid across his lip and he flicked his tongue out, licking them. When she shivered with pleasure, he gently sucked both of her fingers in. She tasted like sand and saltwater and he was never again going to think about Beach Blanket Bingo or the chick from Lost without thinking about her, too.
They got out of their jeans surprisingly fast given all the water logging and stubborn buttons. And if she had any complaints about him not measuring up to her 09-er boys, they probably died when her hand closed around his cock and there was still about four inches left to spare.
"Oh my God," she breathed. "Trust me, Vinnie…it wasn't just the green card."
He chuckled, and then he rolled with her onto their scattered clothes (makeshift sheets…how MacGyverly of them). "So, Girl Scout, you come prepared? 'Cause I ain't exactly rollin' in Trojans."
"I told you I only did it for the cookies." Veronica rose up, locking her legs around his hips. "We're fine as long as you don't have The Syph."
"I do *not* have The Syph. Or anything else." He laughed into the curve of her neck, feathering her pulse point with kisses. "But Ma raised me right. I get you pregnant, I'm gonna have to marry you," he warned.
"You caught me. That was my evil plan all along. I knew there had to be at least one suitable bachelor in the Fitzpatrick organization."
"Who…said…anything…about…being…suitable?" He rocked into her, inch by inch, going deep on the last syllable…until he was buried completely inside her tight heat and she gasped out another, hoarser, "Oh my *God*, Vinnie."
Holy fuck, but there was no chance of either of them freezing to death now.
Vinnie ran through his entire repertoire of swear words -- English, Dutch, Italian, and a smattering of Farsi -- and then he made love to Veronica Mars…his future ex-wife.
--end--
January 21, 2007.