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Sep. 2nd, 2007 02:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helsinkibabyTitle: Closing Time
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairing: Weevil/Veronica
Rating: R, for situations and one word.
Spoilers: None, future fic
Word Count: 800
Summary: An FBI agent walks into a bar...
You know you’re in trouble when she walks into the bar near closing time wearing a skirt as short as your temper and boots high enough to meet the hemline. Her top is an equal style of barely there, and you’d think she looks hot if she didn’t have a look on her face that says she’d break your fingers if you laid a hand on her.
She turns heads – she always does – but the look she shoots the poor bastard who wolf-whistles at her assures that they just as quickly turn back to the dregs of their beers, and no-one sees her slide onto a bar stool, catch your eye behind the bar. She tilts her head, half order, half come-on, and your feet are making their way towards her before your brain is fully in gear.
“What can I get you, pretty FBI lady?” you ask, keeping your voice its most low and seductive, and you’re mildly surprised when you get a watered down version of the look directed to Wolf-Whistle-Boy over there.
She slides a twenty across the bar. “Jack D, straight up. And whatever you’re having.” Her tone adds “Now” to the request and you head off to find the bottle, pretending to ignore Gabriel’s soft laughter, his even softer, “You’re in for one hell of a night there my friend.”
He has no idea.
You pour her a shot, and one for yourself. Hers disappears in one gulp, the glass slammed back on the counter so hard that you’re surprised it doesn’t chip. You only take a sip of yours – one of you should be clear headed – and when you put it back down, she reaches for it, matching your sip.
You leave it with her, finish clearing up, banish the rest of the customers when it’s long past closing, tell Gabriel that you’ll lock up. He gives you another one of those knowing laughs and looks, but once again you ignore it. Truth be told, you’re hoping he’s right on the money.
Only when the bar is all double locked and dead-bolted do you sit down beside her. “Rough night?” you ask, but you don’t touch, not yet.
“I hate undercover work,” she tells you, and you chuckles, because you know it’s not true.
“You hate dressing up like a streetwalker, maybe,” you allow. “But you love the life V… you know it.”
A tilt of the head, a wrinkle of the nose, and she’s almost your Veronica again. Almost. “Do you know how many hands I’ve dodged tonight?”
You don’t need to look her up and down; one look at her when she came into the bar has her appearance seared into your brain. You take the excuse and do it anyway though. “Too many” is your immediate and only guess, and you’re pretty accurate if her sigh is anything to go by. “So,” you hear your voice saying, at the same time as your hand finds the sliver of flesh between skirt and boot, “I guess I shouldn’t be doing this.”
She looks at you, right into your eyes, and the look you see there is wild, hungry. “Guess again Eli,” she says, pulling you into a kiss, and if you didn’t already know where this is heading, her hands on your belt buckle give you a real good idea.
You don’t resist in the slightest.
Neither of you are gentle, and it’s over almost too quickly, but she gives you a slow satisfied smile afterwards, wraps her arms around your neck and kisses you slowly, thoroughly. “Take me home?” she murmurs, and you smile, trailing small kisses down her neck.
“I’ll take you anywhere,” you tell her, and this time when she looks at you, she’s your Veronica, body and soul. One of her hands slides from the back of your neck, hooking a finger under the chain around your neck, pulling it free from under your t-shirt. Two rings wink the dim bar light, one a small diamond solitaire, the other the twin of the one that’s on your left hand. She teases them with the top of her ring finger, stopping just short of sliding them onto her hand.
“I hate undercover work,” she says again before letting the rings drop heavy against your chest.
“I know baby… me too,” you tell her, because funnily enough, you can handle the costumes, but not the absence of a ring on her finger. Still, you know it’s only temporary, and you’ll keep those rings safe for her, just like she’ll keep herself safe so she can take them back from you. “Let’s go home,” you tell her, kissing the top of her head, and her arms tighten around you for just a moment before you walk out into the night together.
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairing: Weevil/Veronica
Rating: R, for situations and one word.
Spoilers: None, future fic
Word Count: 800
Summary: An FBI agent walks into a bar...
You know you’re in trouble when she walks into the bar near closing time wearing a skirt as short as your temper and boots high enough to meet the hemline. Her top is an equal style of barely there, and you’d think she looks hot if she didn’t have a look on her face that says she’d break your fingers if you laid a hand on her.
She turns heads – she always does – but the look she shoots the poor bastard who wolf-whistles at her assures that they just as quickly turn back to the dregs of their beers, and no-one sees her slide onto a bar stool, catch your eye behind the bar. She tilts her head, half order, half come-on, and your feet are making their way towards her before your brain is fully in gear.
“What can I get you, pretty FBI lady?” you ask, keeping your voice its most low and seductive, and you’re mildly surprised when you get a watered down version of the look directed to Wolf-Whistle-Boy over there.
She slides a twenty across the bar. “Jack D, straight up. And whatever you’re having.” Her tone adds “Now” to the request and you head off to find the bottle, pretending to ignore Gabriel’s soft laughter, his even softer, “You’re in for one hell of a night there my friend.”
He has no idea.
You pour her a shot, and one for yourself. Hers disappears in one gulp, the glass slammed back on the counter so hard that you’re surprised it doesn’t chip. You only take a sip of yours – one of you should be clear headed – and when you put it back down, she reaches for it, matching your sip.
You leave it with her, finish clearing up, banish the rest of the customers when it’s long past closing, tell Gabriel that you’ll lock up. He gives you another one of those knowing laughs and looks, but once again you ignore it. Truth be told, you’re hoping he’s right on the money.
Only when the bar is all double locked and dead-bolted do you sit down beside her. “Rough night?” you ask, but you don’t touch, not yet.
“I hate undercover work,” she tells you, and you chuckles, because you know it’s not true.
“You hate dressing up like a streetwalker, maybe,” you allow. “But you love the life V… you know it.”
A tilt of the head, a wrinkle of the nose, and she’s almost your Veronica again. Almost. “Do you know how many hands I’ve dodged tonight?”
You don’t need to look her up and down; one look at her when she came into the bar has her appearance seared into your brain. You take the excuse and do it anyway though. “Too many” is your immediate and only guess, and you’re pretty accurate if her sigh is anything to go by. “So,” you hear your voice saying, at the same time as your hand finds the sliver of flesh between skirt and boot, “I guess I shouldn’t be doing this.”
She looks at you, right into your eyes, and the look you see there is wild, hungry. “Guess again Eli,” she says, pulling you into a kiss, and if you didn’t already know where this is heading, her hands on your belt buckle give you a real good idea.
You don’t resist in the slightest.
Neither of you are gentle, and it’s over almost too quickly, but she gives you a slow satisfied smile afterwards, wraps her arms around your neck and kisses you slowly, thoroughly. “Take me home?” she murmurs, and you smile, trailing small kisses down her neck.
“I’ll take you anywhere,” you tell her, and this time when she looks at you, she’s your Veronica, body and soul. One of her hands slides from the back of your neck, hooking a finger under the chain around your neck, pulling it free from under your t-shirt. Two rings wink the dim bar light, one a small diamond solitaire, the other the twin of the one that’s on your left hand. She teases them with the top of her ring finger, stopping just short of sliding them onto her hand.
“I hate undercover work,” she says again before letting the rings drop heavy against your chest.
“I know baby… me too,” you tell her, because funnily enough, you can handle the costumes, but not the absence of a ring on her finger. Still, you know it’s only temporary, and you’ll keep those rings safe for her, just like she’ll keep herself safe so she can take them back from you. “Let’s go home,” you tell her, kissing the top of her head, and her arms tighten around you for just a moment before you walk out into the night together.
