Whales & Weird Hair .1.
Title: Whales & Weird Hair .1.
Characters: CJ Cregg, Danny Concannon
Rating: It's up there. Mature? Sure.
Notes: Very AU, response to an anonymous prompt discussed in the post below.
Disclaimer: All credit goes to Sorkin, Wells, & NBC/Warner Bros.
Time travel was a scientific impossibility. Josh had told CJ as much back when he was on his Physics kick, back when he’d exercised his punctured-then-patched lung by inhaling all that there was to string theory. Vibrating strands of energy and the parallel universes they supposedly begat meant that time, while horizontal, wasn’t linear, which, to sum it up, meant that you couldn’t slingshot a Klingon warbird around the sun a time and a half and expect to land back in an era of whales and weird hair. Not that it stopped Josh from quoting, oftimes verbatim, the shooting script of that or any other Star Trek spinoff that’d been dubbed fit to air.
And yet.
She wanted to be a bit more coy about this. To say something witty, something that’d really stick it to the likes of Stephen Hawking and his cronies. It’s her thing, after all. The whiplash comeback accompanied by the ‘I’ve been on my feet all day, trapped behind a podium for longer than you’ve been alive’ eyebrow raise -all her, all Claudia Jean Cregg, patent pending.
And yet.
Well. She’s busy. Busy molesting Danny Concannon.
But -and this is the kicker, the part she wishes she could morph into a wisecrack that’d rival all others she’d ever told -this isn’t Danny Concannon, ace reporter. It’s not even Danny Concannon, resident pain in her ass. Nope. This is clean-shaven, varsity-jacket-wearing, can’t-be-a-day-over-twenty-three Danny.
Which would bring her back to the use of the word ‘molesting.’
Cause, yeah, she’s got her hands in his pants. And she’s not proud to admit it, what with him being so young and her being -not old, but older, as old as she’d been that morning, in whenever or wherever that had been. But, well, she knows an opportunity when she sees one, is all. And it’s not like he’s against the groping aspect of their interaction. In the time it took her to get past his button fly, he’d already gotten his hands up far enough under her shirt to pop the clasp of her bra, something she hadn’t been sure he’d know how to do. Then again, he did have that varsity jacket on earlier, so perhaps her concern was unwarranted.
Just then he trails his hands around her ribcage, spreading his fingers so that his thumbs brush right up against he undersides of her breasts and -yeah, there really wasn’t a reason for her to feel bad. He was fine. This was fine. In fact, this timewarp thing, whether it was caused by strings or by Scottie or by a freak lighting strike kind of accident, was shaping up to be the best goddamned thing that’d happened to her in way, way too long.
See, it’d started like this:
Off to a super rough start -turns out, I haven't got power. But, I'm forging on (bravely) at the local library. Worst case I'll run myself ragged trying to make up ground tomorrow. Onward!
Characters: CJ Cregg, Danny Concannon
Rating: It's up there. Mature? Sure.
Notes: Very AU, response to an anonymous prompt discussed in the post below.
Disclaimer: All credit goes to Sorkin, Wells, & NBC/Warner Bros.
Time travel was a scientific impossibility. Josh had told CJ as much back when he was on his Physics kick, back when he’d exercised his punctured-then-patched lung by inhaling all that there was to string theory. Vibrating strands of energy and the parallel universes they supposedly begat meant that time, while horizontal, wasn’t linear, which, to sum it up, meant that you couldn’t slingshot a Klingon warbird around the sun a time and a half and expect to land back in an era of whales and weird hair. Not that it stopped Josh from quoting, oftimes verbatim, the shooting script of that or any other Star Trek spinoff that’d been dubbed fit to air.
And yet.
She wanted to be a bit more coy about this. To say something witty, something that’d really stick it to the likes of Stephen Hawking and his cronies. It’s her thing, after all. The whiplash comeback accompanied by the ‘I’ve been on my feet all day, trapped behind a podium for longer than you’ve been alive’ eyebrow raise -all her, all Claudia Jean Cregg, patent pending.
And yet.
Well. She’s busy. Busy molesting Danny Concannon.
But -and this is the kicker, the part she wishes she could morph into a wisecrack that’d rival all others she’d ever told -this isn’t Danny Concannon, ace reporter. It’s not even Danny Concannon, resident pain in her ass. Nope. This is clean-shaven, varsity-jacket-wearing, can’t-be-a-day-over-twenty-three Danny.
Which would bring her back to the use of the word ‘molesting.’
Cause, yeah, she’s got her hands in his pants. And she’s not proud to admit it, what with him being so young and her being -not old, but older, as old as she’d been that morning, in whenever or wherever that had been. But, well, she knows an opportunity when she sees one, is all. And it’s not like he’s against the groping aspect of their interaction. In the time it took her to get past his button fly, he’d already gotten his hands up far enough under her shirt to pop the clasp of her bra, something she hadn’t been sure he’d know how to do. Then again, he did have that varsity jacket on earlier, so perhaps her concern was unwarranted.
Just then he trails his hands around her ribcage, spreading his fingers so that his thumbs brush right up against he undersides of her breasts and -yeah, there really wasn’t a reason for her to feel bad. He was fine. This was fine. In fact, this timewarp thing, whether it was caused by strings or by Scottie or by a freak lighting strike kind of accident, was shaping up to be the best goddamned thing that’d happened to her in way, way too long.
See, it’d started like this:
Off to a super rough start -turns out, I haven't got power. But, I'm forging on (bravely) at the local library. Worst case I'll run myself ragged trying to make up ground tomorrow. Onward!