This poured out of me after catching a few scenes from VM on the commercials of LOST last night. Gahhh. :::flail::: I. Love. Lamb. Dip him in Vindaloo sauce and let me have him for dinner. And Veronica/Lamb is now right up there with Veronica/Weevil for me.

I'll be watching my VM tape tonight to get the whole episode, but until then...fic!

Also...? I heart Jin.

Title: "what makes the sphinx the 7th wonder?"
Author: monimala/Mala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Rating/Classification: profanity, blasphemy, ficlet, Lamb/Veronica-ish.
Disclaimer: I SO don't own these characters and I'm SO going to Hell.
Summary: She is the bane of his existence. The Dorothy to his Wicked Witch.


Jesusfuck, he thinks, pushing it together into one profane word the same way he does "VeronicaMars." And, oh, isn't that the worst way to think about it? The same way he *does* Veronica Mars? He stares across the table at her, wishing he could wrap his hands around her throat and throttle the quippy comments right out of her, until she's gasping for air and begging him for the chance to make one more joke.

She is the bane of his existence. The Dorothy to his Wicked Witch.

He flinches, hoping she doesn't notice as he hides it behind the scowl he's been perfecting in the mirror for years. It's probably not a state secret, after all the times he's told punk kids to visit the Wizard, but The Wizard of Oz is his favorite movie. Every year, he gets a six pack, scores an ounce, puts on Pink Floyd, and watches that little bitch in her blue gingham dress step into Technicolor. He knows all the words to "Courage." He wishes he had his own legion of winged monkeys.

And sometimes, he wakes up imagining fucking Veronica as she wears nothing but ruby slippers.

Right here. In the interrogation room.

He pushes back, but not far enough for her junior PI eyes to notice the tent in his suddenly-too-tight pants. "Do you think I *like* pulling you in here, Veronica? Do you think I enjoy wasting my time with you?" he asks, grinding his teeth. He's become a habitual grinder ever since he met this girl.

Her smile is lethal. Smug. And the way she looks at him is nowhere near as innocent as her voice. "Aw, shucks, Deputy Lamb...are you saying you don't love me anymore? I may just cry."

"Sheriff," he corrects as she grins. It gets a rise out of him every time and they both know it. She's hated him ever since That Day. Before that, it was just typical "mild dislike." The kind any regulation pain-in-the-ass feels for law enforcement who isn't their father. Although, given the way she keeps popping up in his fantasies, it's probably a good thing he doesn't rate on the same scale as Keith.

Veronica came to see him thinking *he* was the Wizard, thinking he could send her home. He still remembers the way she sat...so stiff, like nothing could touch her...and there was nothing smug or knowing or confident about her eyes but she fought her hardest to keep them dry.

Sometimes he wants to ask her: Did you find him? Do you know who did it?

Did she do the job that he refused to?

He doesn't doubt it.

On the days when he doesn't hate her, when he thinks about all that soft blond hair and better things to do with her smart mouth and tries to remember why he became a cop in the first place, he tells himself it was a good thing he sent her packing. It was a good thing he never investigated the rape claim. He tells himself that if he'd ever found the bastard, he would've killed him.

Of course, he's not actually that noble. So she drives him crazy and gets him hard and makes him wake up in a pile of sticky sheets every alternate Tuesday. So what? It doesn't mean he cares. It doesn't mean he's going to start sending her Hallmark cards or letting her off the hook every time she walks her skinny ass in his office. He can't. He won't.

Surrender, Dorothy.

She can't. She won't.

"You're eighteen now," he whispers, menacingly. "I can hold you for as long as I want."

She leans across the table and he breathes in the smell of her skin...sharp and blue, like the ocean. "No you can't," she replies. And there's no joke. No laugh. She's got his number on speed dial. Maybe she always has. "And that's why you hate me."

Neptune is dry, dusty, faded like the green grime on a copper penny. He's always loathed this godforsaken shithole of a town.

She walks out of the room and opens the door into Technicolor.

Jesusfuck.

"No, VeronicaMars. That's not why I hate you at all..."

--end--

October 13, 2005.