[Ficlet] After the State Dinner
"Resin," Martha says, staring at Lionel with an expression that is hovering somewhere between puzzlement and admiration (tinted, by this point in the evening, by judicious amounts of alcohol). "You talked to the Trade Secretary about resin for forty-five minutes."
Lionel unknots his bowtie, and smiles. "I had to do something while my beautiful date was busy being photographed with dignitaries by every press organization in the world." He sighs extravagantly. "It's hard being the Senator's wife."
Martha nudges him with her elbow. "Perhaps you should have discussed haircare products with the First Lady."
"Oh dear," Lionel says, his arm going around her. "I'm afraid that may be a lost cause."
The dinner is long over, many courses with puzzling ingredients eaten, many beverages spilled over priceless artwork, and hopefully few international visitors grievously insulted by the manners of the Americans. Although Martha, as a sitting senator, is hardly at the bottom of the pecking order for this particular event, they do find themselves waiting a while for a car to take them home.
Martha pulls Lionel's jacket tighter around her shoulders. Somehow, at a time that must be approaching midnight, her gown has become less dazzling and more impractical. "We should just settle down in one of these offices and find a way out tomorrow."
"I'd rather not be classified as a national security risk at this point in my life."
"Oh, you'd love it. I know you're bored sitting on the couch every day, waiting for me to come home."
"There is a slight but significant difference between a reasonable amount of excitement and being waterboarded by the CIA."
Martha pouts. "You used to be a lot more fun."
Perhaps unlike many of the "plus ones" invited to the dinner, Lionel had found many people that he knew, at least by reputation - friends from Homeland Security, as well as more traditional business contacts. Not all of them had been particularly willing to talk to him, as much as for his recent and well-publicized "death" as for his old tyrannical qualities. Still, he'd done his best to pass the time, to charm everyone he met while keeping one eye on wherever Martha had been led off to, ready to rescue her with a drink whenever she looked particularly desperate.
"I was going to update my assistant," she is saying, fiddling with her blackberry. "Can't get this thing to work…"
Lionel deftly relieves her of the device. "Firstly, it's mine, and secondly it's not switched on. Besides, I doubt your assistant will be checking her messages at this time of night."
"Well, she's supposed to be a patriot."
"I think the United States will survive the night without knowing what you thought of the foie gras. Martha, just how much did you drink?"
Martha is looking faintly green. "There was foie gras?"
"Be thankful I didn't say monkey brains."
"Lionel!"
The car that finally does take them home is less of a limousine and more of a taxi, but by that point they're too tired to care, Martha leaning and dozing against Lionel's shoulder as the car winds through dark and mostly quiet streets.
If being able to tolerate huge amounts of alcohol was a precondition for being elected to public office - and who is to say it isn't? - Lionel himself might seem to be the better bet as the senator, with his business experience, his contacts, his apparently endless knowledge of cultural artifacts from around the world. But he watches her, gorgeous in a dress that, while expensive, is nowhere near as decadent as it could be. He watches how effortless she seems, how sincere her smile always is. And, most of all, he watches the reactions of others: they believe her, they believe in her, and he's never been able to generate that sort of response. Even with all of his books, all of his opera, he's much, much better at leaving people feeling, at best, mildly disconcerted.
"I hope you don't have any meetings tomorrow," he says, tipping the driver and nodding to their doorman.
Martha blinks. "My assistant knows me better than that. I think."
"I'll put out the aspirin."
Out of her dress, lying in his arms on the couch, she's more tired than drunk, still slightly buzzed with the adrenaline and excitement of it all as she makes him check the headlines on CNN before turning in for the night.
"Thank you for coming with me tonight," she says softly, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt with intent.
On screen, a bored-looking anchor is discussing the possible implications of a new healthcare bill. "Well, my bowling league canceled…"
"I'm serious. I've been single at these things before… Taking my assistant just looks awful, Perry would start an argument with everyone in the room, and poor Clark… all those abilities, and he'd look like a deer caught in the headlights." His shirt open, she lightly scratches his chest. "You're good at this. And you're simply dashing in a tuxedo."
He hugs her to him, a hand stroking her hair. "Perhaps you should rent me out."
"Mm, no. I need to make sure you stay in pristine condition, mister." She props herself up on an elbow so that she can kiss him. "You know what these politicians are like. They'd return you all black and blue… I'm going to take good care of you."
Lionel kisses her back, glancing at the CNN ticker. "Bed? I'm reasonably sure that if the world was ending we would have heard about it by now." He doesn't wait for an answer, reaching for the remote and switching off the TV before she can be diverted into an impassioned tirade against the Republicans' latest talking point.
Even naked, the scent of a very good, very expensive wine is still on her, and he tastes it on her lips in the darkness, his body easing into hers. They're tired, and might well be sore in the morning, but the flow and comfort of their lovemaking is a constant, taking them both into sleep and the night.
Lionel unknots his bowtie, and smiles. "I had to do something while my beautiful date was busy being photographed with dignitaries by every press organization in the world." He sighs extravagantly. "It's hard being the Senator's wife."
Martha nudges him with her elbow. "Perhaps you should have discussed haircare products with the First Lady."
"Oh dear," Lionel says, his arm going around her. "I'm afraid that may be a lost cause."
The dinner is long over, many courses with puzzling ingredients eaten, many beverages spilled over priceless artwork, and hopefully few international visitors grievously insulted by the manners of the Americans. Although Martha, as a sitting senator, is hardly at the bottom of the pecking order for this particular event, they do find themselves waiting a while for a car to take them home.
Martha pulls Lionel's jacket tighter around her shoulders. Somehow, at a time that must be approaching midnight, her gown has become less dazzling and more impractical. "We should just settle down in one of these offices and find a way out tomorrow."
"I'd rather not be classified as a national security risk at this point in my life."
"Oh, you'd love it. I know you're bored sitting on the couch every day, waiting for me to come home."
"There is a slight but significant difference between a reasonable amount of excitement and being waterboarded by the CIA."
Martha pouts. "You used to be a lot more fun."
Perhaps unlike many of the "plus ones" invited to the dinner, Lionel had found many people that he knew, at least by reputation - friends from Homeland Security, as well as more traditional business contacts. Not all of them had been particularly willing to talk to him, as much as for his recent and well-publicized "death" as for his old tyrannical qualities. Still, he'd done his best to pass the time, to charm everyone he met while keeping one eye on wherever Martha had been led off to, ready to rescue her with a drink whenever she looked particularly desperate.
"I was going to update my assistant," she is saying, fiddling with her blackberry. "Can't get this thing to work…"
Lionel deftly relieves her of the device. "Firstly, it's mine, and secondly it's not switched on. Besides, I doubt your assistant will be checking her messages at this time of night."
"Well, she's supposed to be a patriot."
"I think the United States will survive the night without knowing what you thought of the foie gras. Martha, just how much did you drink?"
Martha is looking faintly green. "There was foie gras?"
"Be thankful I didn't say monkey brains."
"Lionel!"
The car that finally does take them home is less of a limousine and more of a taxi, but by that point they're too tired to care, Martha leaning and dozing against Lionel's shoulder as the car winds through dark and mostly quiet streets.
If being able to tolerate huge amounts of alcohol was a precondition for being elected to public office - and who is to say it isn't? - Lionel himself might seem to be the better bet as the senator, with his business experience, his contacts, his apparently endless knowledge of cultural artifacts from around the world. But he watches her, gorgeous in a dress that, while expensive, is nowhere near as decadent as it could be. He watches how effortless she seems, how sincere her smile always is. And, most of all, he watches the reactions of others: they believe her, they believe in her, and he's never been able to generate that sort of response. Even with all of his books, all of his opera, he's much, much better at leaving people feeling, at best, mildly disconcerted.
"I hope you don't have any meetings tomorrow," he says, tipping the driver and nodding to their doorman.
Martha blinks. "My assistant knows me better than that. I think."
"I'll put out the aspirin."
Out of her dress, lying in his arms on the couch, she's more tired than drunk, still slightly buzzed with the adrenaline and excitement of it all as she makes him check the headlines on CNN before turning in for the night.
"Thank you for coming with me tonight," she says softly, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt with intent.
On screen, a bored-looking anchor is discussing the possible implications of a new healthcare bill. "Well, my bowling league canceled…"
"I'm serious. I've been single at these things before… Taking my assistant just looks awful, Perry would start an argument with everyone in the room, and poor Clark… all those abilities, and he'd look like a deer caught in the headlights." His shirt open, she lightly scratches his chest. "You're good at this. And you're simply dashing in a tuxedo."
He hugs her to him, a hand stroking her hair. "Perhaps you should rent me out."
"Mm, no. I need to make sure you stay in pristine condition, mister." She props herself up on an elbow so that she can kiss him. "You know what these politicians are like. They'd return you all black and blue… I'm going to take good care of you."
Lionel kisses her back, glancing at the CNN ticker. "Bed? I'm reasonably sure that if the world was ending we would have heard about it by now." He doesn't wait for an answer, reaching for the remote and switching off the TV before she can be diverted into an impassioned tirade against the Republicans' latest talking point.
Even naked, the scent of a very good, very expensive wine is still on her, and he tastes it on her lips in the darkness, his body easing into hers. They're tired, and might well be sore in the morning, but the flow and comfort of their lovemaking is a constant, taking them both into sleep and the night.