Archive: Anywhere, just ask me first.
Disclaimer: Veronica, Weevil, and all other characters mentioned here are the property of UPN, Rob Thomas, Stu Segall, and Silver Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue, because I have no money.
Author's Notes: I'm sorry that my titles suck so much. I've never been good at coming up with creative titles, so using the prompts from the fanfic100 table has just made me even lazier about it.
In his most ridiculously romantic moments, Weevil likes to imagine that the sunrise was created solely for highlighting this moment.
Veronica whines day-to-day about being so pale, but when the early-morning sun hits her skin it's the color of butter and cream and he can't imagine anything more beautiful. Unsurprisingly, she's not even still when she's sleeping, and as she tosses restlessly from side to side, the sun shifts over her flesh, creating delicate shadows under her chin and her collarbone and in the valley between her breasts.
He doubts that he will ever get tired of this sight - of her golden hair spilling across her shoulders and shimmering in the light every time she moves; of the her small body almost getting lost in the sea of maroon sheets. These days, she likes to sleep late - after all, she has no office to be at. Who would have ever guessed that tough-chick Veronica Mars would end up being an artist?
It's almost surreal how life has turned out for them, but after all that they've been through, he likes to think of it as karma finally catching up with them. They own two art galleries in the city, one in Yorkville and one in SoHo, and are in negotiations to buy a third. Two years ago, they were taking odd jobs left and right just to make ends meet, but now they're able to live solely off of the profits from the galleries. This means little day-to-day work and flexible hours, leaving plenty of time for lazy weekday mornings such as this one.
Weevil and Veronica are very much alike - they're passionate, they're family-oriented...and they have an obsessive need to keep busy. It doesn't matter what, as long as they're being productive. In their youth, it had made them restless - even a bit reckless. But time has been good to them, and they've learned to channel it - it's probably why between the two of them they have managed to fill an entire gallery. Even now, his fingers itch to capture the sight before him.
He's perched in an armchair next to the window, drinking his requisite morning coffee, and while most people would be watching the magnificent autumn sunrise, he can't take his eyes off of the tiny female body in his bed. Just as he sets down the coffee mug and picks up a charcoal pencil from the bedside table, she stretches again. It's the perfect angle - the sheets slide even farther down so that they're resting on her stomach. And on her right hand, the small diamond catches the light and glimmers joyfully.
He smiles and reaches for his sketchpad.
As he flips through to find a clean page, he passes a dozen drawings nearly identical to the one he's about to make. Veronica, in various forms of repose - here in the bed, on the couch, in the bathtub, eyes closed and blissfully unaware of his presence. She thinks that he should put them together and sell them as a collection, but he refuses; the only person besides himself that is going to see these pictures is her. They're too personal to share with the rest of the world; too intimate.
The sun is sitting high in the sky as Weevil is putting the finishing touches on his new drawing - the softness of her lips, the little dimple in her left thigh that she hates but he loves. The pencil scratching across the paper is the only sound in the room until Veronica lets out a breathy sigh. Weevil looks up to see her eyelids flutter before one finally pries itself open.
"Hi," she says sleepily.
"Mornin' querida," he replies. She stretches again, watches as his eyes follow her movements, and then she does that damn head-tilt. If Weevil thought it was effective from across the Neptune High courtyard, it's nothing compared to the effect it has on him when she's sprawled out naked on his bed.
"Whatcha doin'?" she asks. Her hands glide along the sheets, pushing them out of the way, until her entire body is bared to him. Weevil sucks in a breath.
"Just doodling." Her fingers trail from her navel to her breasts, circling the nipples one after the other.
"Why don't you come over here and do something more productive with those fingers?" she suggests, and he immediately throws down the sketchpad. He can think of nothing in the world he'd rather be doing.