waywardpen
in
rpfs
Fanfic - "If" - Tina Fey/Amy Poehler - PG
Title: If
Pairing: Tina/Amy
Fandom: RPFS
Rating: PG
Part 1 out of 10
POV: Amy's
A/N: This part is based on a series of 7 pics, which can be found at the bottom of this page
“Good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow!”
She’d never do anything as crass as throw her pencil at the camera, like Jimmy… or at least I think she wouldn’t; I’ve never really noticed. Tonight after we finish all I notice is how she tucks an errant strand of brown curl behind her left ear, and lays the pencil down on the desk with long, agile fingers. None of the jokes fell flat and our interaction was spot-on, as always; I can tell by the way she smoothes out her skirt as she stands up from behind the desk that she’s pleased. Tina has a way of being pleased without ever smiling or betraying anything in her eyes. It’s just in the casual movement of her body, cat-like and calculated, each step almost planned in its grace. When she’s upset or angry, she stumbles and pratfalls like a teenage boy with too much vodka. Me, I move like that all the time; I try to stand myself, and trip over the leg of the chair. I barely manage to pull back up while trying to smile like nothing happened, and I catch the corner of her lip traveling into a smirk as she watches. I grin and cup my left hand over my right to give her the finger so that no one else can see; it’s a gesture she knows well.
After the update she’s free to roam backstage at will, to talk to those of us who “wait in the wings” to go on, or, more often than not, she’ll retreat back to her office and sit momentarily in the darkness. She’ll wait for the words to come, and then she’ll switch her computer on and let the hum and light fill the room to work on next week’s show. Sometimes, it seems as if the show is what she breathes, the show is what she goes on for, the show is what anchors her. But only sometimes. There are other moments when I know what holds her up.
Years. Years I’ve known her, seen her on an almost-daily basis, worked with her, listened to her beg for me to be a part of SNL, and now I am, and suddenly the closeness can be both sweet and suffocating. But I try not to think of it, after all, “the show must go on,” and I’m always ON, always smiling, sweating under the garish lights and waiting for the minute when it all turns off, and I can just be me.
We crowd together on the stage as we always do; one big happy family celebrating yet another job well done. When did we institute this rite of passage, this big group hug of silly actors and actresses breathing in our pride like comic marijuana? I grab Rachel’s face and kiss her cheek - and when Rachel turns her head in mock surprise I notice that Tina’s come out of her office and is standing right there, looking at us. She never misses these moments, but it’s more out of a sense of duty than camaraderie, I think. Rachel disengages to the next in line and suddenly Tina’s arms are around me. She presses her cheek tight against mine, so hard that I can feel her jugular pulsing its rhythm to my jawline. I entwine my arms and let myself fall into her, into the warmth of her body, the feel of her embrace, the smell of tea tree shampoo that I take in like rain.
We separate a little but not really; she keeps her arm possessively around my waist. My hand rests on her shoulder, white against dark, our own invisible contrast, and we smile for the camera while inside I die just a little.
What would she say if she knew? Twelve years is a long time to be something a little higher above just a normal acquaintance in someone’s life, long enough to share secrets with each other that you wouldn’t share with anyone else. Still, I think she and I have shared more secrets between the two of us than normal friends would, but how would she react if I told her the one secret that she doesn’t know?
Tina knows that I smile when I see her. She knows that I can call her up for late-night conversations and her husband won’t get mad, my husband won’t get mad. She knows that sometimes I forget to brush my teeth in the morning, that if I didn’t keep my keys on the little hook beside the door I’d lose them, that I sometimes snort when I laugh.
She doesn’t know that she makes me feel okay for doing all of that. She makes me nervous, too, nervous and stuttery and afraid to look her in the eye sometimes. She makes me want to wear jewelry, to pick out the best clothes, to be beautiful so that she’ll look at me with that tiny half-smile and say “You clean up good, Ames.” She makes me want to do something powerful, something meaningful on the screen because she makes me want to win an Emmy so that I can stand up and proclaim to the world that I did it for her.
But beyond that, as Tina’s arm is still encircling my waist and we keep smiling like massive dorks who know something the rest of the world couldn’t possibly dream of, she makes me want to touch her. To have those hands above me, beneath me, around me, inside me. I want to run my fingers over those full, blood-filled lips until they flush. She makes me want to do things that scare me.
And the thing that scares me the most?
She makes me want to love her.
x-posted to tamy_love. Feedback always appreciated.
Pairing: Tina/Amy
Fandom: RPFS
Rating: PG
Part 1 out of 10
POV: Amy's
A/N: This part is based on a series of 7 pics, which can be found at the bottom of this page
“Good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow!”
She’d never do anything as crass as throw her pencil at the camera, like Jimmy… or at least I think she wouldn’t; I’ve never really noticed. Tonight after we finish all I notice is how she tucks an errant strand of brown curl behind her left ear, and lays the pencil down on the desk with long, agile fingers. None of the jokes fell flat and our interaction was spot-on, as always; I can tell by the way she smoothes out her skirt as she stands up from behind the desk that she’s pleased. Tina has a way of being pleased without ever smiling or betraying anything in her eyes. It’s just in the casual movement of her body, cat-like and calculated, each step almost planned in its grace. When she’s upset or angry, she stumbles and pratfalls like a teenage boy with too much vodka. Me, I move like that all the time; I try to stand myself, and trip over the leg of the chair. I barely manage to pull back up while trying to smile like nothing happened, and I catch the corner of her lip traveling into a smirk as she watches. I grin and cup my left hand over my right to give her the finger so that no one else can see; it’s a gesture she knows well.
After the update she’s free to roam backstage at will, to talk to those of us who “wait in the wings” to go on, or, more often than not, she’ll retreat back to her office and sit momentarily in the darkness. She’ll wait for the words to come, and then she’ll switch her computer on and let the hum and light fill the room to work on next week’s show. Sometimes, it seems as if the show is what she breathes, the show is what she goes on for, the show is what anchors her. But only sometimes. There are other moments when I know what holds her up.
Years. Years I’ve known her, seen her on an almost-daily basis, worked with her, listened to her beg for me to be a part of SNL, and now I am, and suddenly the closeness can be both sweet and suffocating. But I try not to think of it, after all, “the show must go on,” and I’m always ON, always smiling, sweating under the garish lights and waiting for the minute when it all turns off, and I can just be me.
We crowd together on the stage as we always do; one big happy family celebrating yet another job well done. When did we institute this rite of passage, this big group hug of silly actors and actresses breathing in our pride like comic marijuana? I grab Rachel’s face and kiss her cheek - and when Rachel turns her head in mock surprise I notice that Tina’s come out of her office and is standing right there, looking at us. She never misses these moments, but it’s more out of a sense of duty than camaraderie, I think. Rachel disengages to the next in line and suddenly Tina’s arms are around me. She presses her cheek tight against mine, so hard that I can feel her jugular pulsing its rhythm to my jawline. I entwine my arms and let myself fall into her, into the warmth of her body, the feel of her embrace, the smell of tea tree shampoo that I take in like rain.
We separate a little but not really; she keeps her arm possessively around my waist. My hand rests on her shoulder, white against dark, our own invisible contrast, and we smile for the camera while inside I die just a little.
What would she say if she knew? Twelve years is a long time to be something a little higher above just a normal acquaintance in someone’s life, long enough to share secrets with each other that you wouldn’t share with anyone else. Still, I think she and I have shared more secrets between the two of us than normal friends would, but how would she react if I told her the one secret that she doesn’t know?
Tina knows that I smile when I see her. She knows that I can call her up for late-night conversations and her husband won’t get mad, my husband won’t get mad. She knows that sometimes I forget to brush my teeth in the morning, that if I didn’t keep my keys on the little hook beside the door I’d lose them, that I sometimes snort when I laugh.
She doesn’t know that she makes me feel okay for doing all of that. She makes me nervous, too, nervous and stuttery and afraid to look her in the eye sometimes. She makes me want to wear jewelry, to pick out the best clothes, to be beautiful so that she’ll look at me with that tiny half-smile and say “You clean up good, Ames.” She makes me want to do something powerful, something meaningful on the screen because she makes me want to win an Emmy so that I can stand up and proclaim to the world that I did it for her.
But beyond that, as Tina’s arm is still encircling my waist and we keep smiling like massive dorks who know something the rest of the world couldn’t possibly dream of, she makes me want to touch her. To have those hands above me, beneath me, around me, inside me. I want to run my fingers over those full, blood-filled lips until they flush. She makes me want to do things that scare me.
And the thing that scares me the most?
She makes me want to love her.
x-posted to tamy_love. Feedback always appreciated.