Title: "Like a Jewel Buried Deep"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Character/Pairing: Veronica, Lamb
Rating: AC
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, am not making money, etc. Blah bliddy blah.
Summary: A response to the "Out Like a Lamb," challenge at picking_losers. "It's like you were never sheriff. Like you never existed at all."
Spoilers/Warnings: Through 3.14, "Mars, Bars." Adult themes and sexual content, angst.
Sometimes, she still hears him. His breath is crisp and offensively minty against her ear like the handfuls of Altoids he always used to crunch to mask the pastrami on rye he had almost every day for lunch. He sneers, "She cries," and snaps, "Not now, Veronica," and tells her to get out of his car.
Sometimes, she thinks she sees him. She does a double take when she walks into her dad's office, imagining dark hair and a younger face, and a less-than-welcoming smile. Or she'll turn the corner in the Sac-n-Pac and think he's picking up a monster-sized bag of Funyuns before he forgets Sacks' favorite kind of Krispy Kremes again.
Worst of all, she dreams about him. And she dreams about a lot of dead men --Aaron, the Dean, Cassidy-- but these are the dreams reserved for River Phoenix, Humphrey Bogart and, on one special occasion involving a merry-go-round and a can of silly string, Steve McQueen. She tosses and turns in her bed and she feels him in it with her. He pins her down and demands, "Admit it, you miss me," and makes her say, "yes," with two strokes of his fingers and one touch of the mouth she never knew could be that kind.
Of course, she doesn't miss him. "Yes," is just what you say when you want to get off… even if it means getting off with Don Lamb's ghost. And, anyway, there are worse people to say that word to. Dick comes to mind. Mercer. Chip. Lamb's practically a candidate for sainthood in comparison.
That's what she says to the headstone as she's kneeling in the dirt. There's still no grass, the grave is too fresh, and she can make out loose chips of stone clinging to the letters 'D' and 'L.' "You know, in retrospect, you were actually one of the better men I knew. I don't know what that says about the company I keep. It probably says more about this town." She brushes his name clean and her nails come away gritty. "No one misses you, you know. Dad just picked up right where he left off. It's like you were never sheriff. Like you never existed at all."
But she knows that's not necessarily true. There's a wilted arrangement of flowers at the base of the marker. Store bought carnations and baby's breath. Somebody cared enough to bring them. Maybe it was her, but she'd like to think she'd have better, more fitting, taste. "Pansies. I totally should have brought pansies."
"You know I'm no pansy, Veronica." A puff of peppermint against her cheek, a chuckle, and she can almost picture him sprawled back in his chair, throwing spitwads at the ceiling. She'd caught him doing that at the station once when she was thirteen and she snottily (rightfully!) asked him what grade he was in.
"I'd say I graduated from the School of Hard Knocks, wouldn't you?"
"Literally," she laughs.
Dad told her there was a lot of blood. That the back of his skull basically caved in from the blow. But she doesn't see him like she used to see Lilly, with the dents and the gore and the shadow of death. No, she sees him perfect, more perfect than he ever was in life. He crouches next to her in the dirt and squints at the writing and the stone and his thumb trails across her cheek as he whispers, "Look at that… she cries."
**
One morning, a month later, she wakes up with the familiar stubble burn between her thighs and the taste of onions, grease and Altoids on her tongue.
"Do you miss me yet?" he asks, standing at the foot of her bed. "Do you?"
There's grass on his grave now, but she hasn't been visiting. She's been going to the movies with Piz, holding his warm, living, hand in the dark and opening her mouth for three point shots of Raisinets.
But "yes," is what you say when you want to get off… even if it means getting off with Don Lamb's ghost.
"Yes," she lies, effortlessly, as he flows back over her. "Yeah, Lamb, I do."
--end--
March 10, 2007.
