Title: "How Sacks Got His Groove Back"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Character/Pairing: Sacks, Veronica
Rating: SAC
Word Count: 725
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Summary: It's all 's fault. She posted a really hot picture of Brandon Hillock (Sacks) in her LJ. We traded some comment fic (115 words of what's below are hers) and then I expanded it into a full scene.
Spoilers/Warnings: Through and after S3's "Mars, Bars."
It was all thanks to Willie Friedman, a tab of acid and an ink blotter gone wild. That's how Sacks is going to excuse it when he looks back on what he'll politely call "The Incident."
But there's no looking back just yet.
In fact, he's consciously trying to look forward --okay, more like upward-- because Veronica Mars is standing between his legs with a very sharp object and a palm full of Barbasol.
"Why, Deputy Sacks... have you been holding out on us? You're a heartbreaker," she announces, while slathering cream all over his face.
She's called him a "heartbreaker," before, but that was at the office Christmas party four years ago when he'd had too much eggnog and she wasn't touching him. This is different.
"Um..." He flushes, the red creeping up his neck... all the way to the tips of his ears. "Sheriff Lamb always... he always liked being the best looking man in the squad room."
"Well, he can't hold a candle to you, Mister. Especially now."
"Um..." He swallows nervously, reflexively, as he feels the blade rasp against his Adam's apple. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Relax." She gives a slight, dismissive shrug and all it does is make him stretch his eyes, focused on the ceiling, to the very corners so he can watch the slope of her shoulders rise and fall. "I used to do this for my dad."
His gaze flies immediately back to the ceiling as her hand taps his chin up. He's not supposed to feel her skin warm on his, he knows it; he's always known it. It doesn't really matter who the Sheriff is, she's always off limits. Although, for very different reasons.
Scrape. Scrape. For a few minutes, he just focuses on the sound. On the fact that her hand could slip and he could end up grinning ear to ear and bleeding all over the tile floor of the men's room. Anything is better than listening to her breathe, or feeling the air whisper against the short bristles she hasn't gotten to yet.
Veronica's always been sweet to him, always been kind. But what she doesn't know is that she's always been beautiful, too.
And Sacks doesn't quite know how to handle it if she starts thinking the same of him.
See, he grew the mustache when he was sixteen so the guys on the baseball team would stop calling him a "pretty boy." He hasn't been that pretty boy for years. And now... now she's finding him beneath the shaving cream. And she's not supposed to.
Sacks has been very good at keeping the pretty boy a secret. Sure, it means he spends a lot more Friday nights at home watching Stargate: Atlantis, but being able to stammer and blush and be generally unnoticed is a good thing. Especially in Neptune, where getting noticed can get you dead.
But now his mustache is half-gone, Veronica's rinsed the hairs into the sink, and she's going to see the real Sacks: the one the prisoners use to whistle at when he was just a rookie and tried going clean-shaven again.
She tilts his face to the left and he picks a spot over her shoulder to stare at and wills the bathroom door not to open. It's going to be bad enough going out there naked; he doesn't need someone to walk in on the stripping.
"Am I making you nervous, Deputy?"
"Y-es."
Veronica clicks her tongue, sounding just like his mother. If his mother were nineteen and hot. "Trust me, you did not want the ink to set beneath your kickin' 'stache. We'll get you all cleaned up and it'll be great. And you'll pull in massive amounts of money at this year's bachelor auction, too!"
He still hasn't recovered from last year's auction. "Eep." He wants to say more, but she's pushing at his nose and flashing that blade really close again. Scrape. Scrape. Who, in this day and age, still uses a straight razor? And then she's rinsing for the final time and he hears her breathing just… stop.
"Oh," she says. Just, "Oh."
"The Incident" is all thanks to Willie Friedman, a tab of acid and an ink blotter gone wild.
See, he *is* a heartbreaker.
And a damn good kisser, too.
--end--
March 7, 2007.
