The West Wing | Important Words That Begin With P | PG-13 | Leo/Marbury
Title: Important Words That Begin With P
Fandom: The West Wing
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Leo McGarry/Lord John Marbury. For real this time.
Summary: Leo and Lord John Marbury finally acknowledge what’s been building.
Word Count: 1,040
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: This also happens sometime soon after The Drop-In, though I’m not totally sure when. Thanks for the beta, Abigail. Eventually, I will write a less random-ass pairing. Probably. Maybe.
“Little Lord Fauntleroy was an innocent, pure child of character, who taught the Earl of Dorincourt virtues such as compassion and empathy, opened his eyes to the idea of social justice, and in the end, made him a better man.” Lord John Marbury made his grand entrance as he said this-it was always a grand entrance with him, Leo noted, and it didn’t matter where he was entering-smirking widely when he laid his eyes on Leo. “Were you aware of that, Gerald? He wasn’t a pompous, prissy, spoiled brat at all-in fact, quite the opposite. I think I shall take the term as a compliment.” He shut the door behind him and locked it. Leo didn’t comment.
“You do that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If it helps ease the pain of remembering we kicked your asses, who am I to take it from you?”
“Such crass language from a man of your stature,” Marbury tsked, relaxing on Leo’s couch with a grace that Leo might describe as feline-like. Given the expression on Marbury’s face and his body language right now, if he were a cat, he’d probably be purring.
“Of course you think it’s crass. You also think being called Lord Fauntleroy is a compliment.”
“I choose to ignore the modern connotations of the name,” he said, then apparently reconsidered it. “Well, most of them. Pomposity, I will concede. Perhaps even a certain degree of pampered living. I hardly take it for granted, however. Then there are the other three Ps which I am afraid I cannot claim no matter how you stretch their definitions.”
“And those are?”
“Prissiness, propriety, and prudishness. I do hope, even with your long list of complaints against me, those are not among them.”
Leo snorted, because Marbury said that while leaning back suggestively against his couch, looking like the very embodiment of sin and debauchery. He had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other; his suit was rumpled, his tie loosened, and his lips were pink and swollen by kisses from God only knew who.
“Of your many, many colorful traits, Ambassador, I can honestly say I never thought of those as being any of them.”
“Excellent,” Marbury replied, grin almost feral. “I’ve heard tell of Americans’ dreadfully puritanical outlook on sex, and I would not want to be mistakenly categorized as empathetic in that regard.”
“Americans are puritanical?” Leo said, raising an eyebrow. “Repression is almost a national pastime in England.”
“Only over silly things, like genuine emotional expression. Sex we talk about quite frequently.”
“You’d almost have to. There must not be that much to do, what with not being an empire anymore, huh?”
Marbury smirked, taking a final drag on his cigarette before he extinguished it in his nearly empty glass. He set it on the table and stood, ambling around Leo’s office with that strange way he had, an almost purposeful idleness. “The point, Gerald, that I was trying not to belabor, yet still make abundantly clear,” he started to say, while studying the collection of books Leo had on his shelves, “is that I am anything but repressed.” Marbury looked up then, eyes meeting his, gaze piercing. Leo hated that gaze, because it meant Marbury was about to say something smart, insightful, and inarguable, shifting seamlessly, almost ruthlessly, from his eccentric Englishman persona into the sharp expert who had earned the respect of many, including himself. “The question that remains, however, would be: are you?” Marbury ran a long finger across the spine of a particular book, adding, “I ask only because I fear if we continue this ignominious American tradition of ignoring the burgeoning tension between us, we may be quite likely to implode. Of course, if my breaking the first sacred rule masculinity by actually lending my voice to the matter compels you either to hit me or embark upon a soul-searching quest in order to quell a crisis of sexuality, then I would much rather we simply behave as though I am drunk and my words are meaningless, and let the status quo reign.”
Leo didn’t say anything for a minute. He thought about protesting that he was straight, that Marbury had misread the situation, but they were both too damn old and too damn smart for that kind of bull. “Is it your life’s goal to be my undoing?” he demanded instead. “I can just read the headlines now. ‘White House Ch-” He was interrupted when Marbury kissed him abruptly, and at first Leo swore to God he barely even registered that the man had moved-feline-like wasn’t far off, apparently-but then he realized that of Marbury’s many talents, kissing was definitely one of them. “Christ,” he groaned as he parted his lips, gripping the man’s upper arm and pulling him closer, because he’d be damned if Lord John Marbury would out-kiss him. He kissed back roughly, backing him up against his desk and sliding a knee between his legs as they fought for control of the kiss, feeling triumphant when he heard him moan. “You are,” he accused as they broke apart, both of them breathless. “You’re trying to bring me to my knees.”
Marbury’s grin was a shining example of lust and lasciviousness. “Should that be a possibility, Gerald, I’ll certainly see to it that the favor is reciprocated.” Leo narrowed his eyes, yanking Marbury forward roughly with his tie and kissing him forcefully, and was rewarded by the way he gasped and his hand clutched tightly at Leo’s left bicep. “You Americans,” he said, but his voice was too ragged to pull off his usual arch indifference, “always feel that brute force is the way to get things done, don’t you?”
“We did kick your asses, remember,” Leo returned. “That was a big can of whoop-ass we opened at Yorktown.”
“I’m sure you shall never allow me to forget,” said Marbury, pressing a kiss to Leo’s Adam’s apple, sucking, biting, making him groan, “even if you did require France’s considerable aid in order to accomplish that feat.”
The words were murmured against his skin, and it took a second for them to register. Once they did, Leo thought, Oh, this means war.
Fandom: The West Wing
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Leo McGarry/Lord John Marbury. For real this time.
Summary: Leo and Lord John Marbury finally acknowledge what’s been building.
Word Count: 1,040
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: This also happens sometime soon after The Drop-In, though I’m not totally sure when. Thanks for the beta, Abigail. Eventually, I will write a less random-ass pairing. Probably. Maybe.
“Little Lord Fauntleroy was an innocent, pure child of character, who taught the Earl of Dorincourt virtues such as compassion and empathy, opened his eyes to the idea of social justice, and in the end, made him a better man.” Lord John Marbury made his grand entrance as he said this-it was always a grand entrance with him, Leo noted, and it didn’t matter where he was entering-smirking widely when he laid his eyes on Leo. “Were you aware of that, Gerald? He wasn’t a pompous, prissy, spoiled brat at all-in fact, quite the opposite. I think I shall take the term as a compliment.” He shut the door behind him and locked it. Leo didn’t comment.
“You do that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If it helps ease the pain of remembering we kicked your asses, who am I to take it from you?”
“Such crass language from a man of your stature,” Marbury tsked, relaxing on Leo’s couch with a grace that Leo might describe as feline-like. Given the expression on Marbury’s face and his body language right now, if he were a cat, he’d probably be purring.
“Of course you think it’s crass. You also think being called Lord Fauntleroy is a compliment.”
“I choose to ignore the modern connotations of the name,” he said, then apparently reconsidered it. “Well, most of them. Pomposity, I will concede. Perhaps even a certain degree of pampered living. I hardly take it for granted, however. Then there are the other three Ps which I am afraid I cannot claim no matter how you stretch their definitions.”
“And those are?”
“Prissiness, propriety, and prudishness. I do hope, even with your long list of complaints against me, those are not among them.”
Leo snorted, because Marbury said that while leaning back suggestively against his couch, looking like the very embodiment of sin and debauchery. He had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other; his suit was rumpled, his tie loosened, and his lips were pink and swollen by kisses from God only knew who.
“Of your many, many colorful traits, Ambassador, I can honestly say I never thought of those as being any of them.”
“Excellent,” Marbury replied, grin almost feral. “I’ve heard tell of Americans’ dreadfully puritanical outlook on sex, and I would not want to be mistakenly categorized as empathetic in that regard.”
“Americans are puritanical?” Leo said, raising an eyebrow. “Repression is almost a national pastime in England.”
“Only over silly things, like genuine emotional expression. Sex we talk about quite frequently.”
“You’d almost have to. There must not be that much to do, what with not being an empire anymore, huh?”
Marbury smirked, taking a final drag on his cigarette before he extinguished it in his nearly empty glass. He set it on the table and stood, ambling around Leo’s office with that strange way he had, an almost purposeful idleness. “The point, Gerald, that I was trying not to belabor, yet still make abundantly clear,” he started to say, while studying the collection of books Leo had on his shelves, “is that I am anything but repressed.” Marbury looked up then, eyes meeting his, gaze piercing. Leo hated that gaze, because it meant Marbury was about to say something smart, insightful, and inarguable, shifting seamlessly, almost ruthlessly, from his eccentric Englishman persona into the sharp expert who had earned the respect of many, including himself. “The question that remains, however, would be: are you?” Marbury ran a long finger across the spine of a particular book, adding, “I ask only because I fear if we continue this ignominious American tradition of ignoring the burgeoning tension between us, we may be quite likely to implode. Of course, if my breaking the first sacred rule masculinity by actually lending my voice to the matter compels you either to hit me or embark upon a soul-searching quest in order to quell a crisis of sexuality, then I would much rather we simply behave as though I am drunk and my words are meaningless, and let the status quo reign.”
Leo didn’t say anything for a minute. He thought about protesting that he was straight, that Marbury had misread the situation, but they were both too damn old and too damn smart for that kind of bull. “Is it your life’s goal to be my undoing?” he demanded instead. “I can just read the headlines now. ‘White House Ch-” He was interrupted when Marbury kissed him abruptly, and at first Leo swore to God he barely even registered that the man had moved-feline-like wasn’t far off, apparently-but then he realized that of Marbury’s many talents, kissing was definitely one of them. “Christ,” he groaned as he parted his lips, gripping the man’s upper arm and pulling him closer, because he’d be damned if Lord John Marbury would out-kiss him. He kissed back roughly, backing him up against his desk and sliding a knee between his legs as they fought for control of the kiss, feeling triumphant when he heard him moan. “You are,” he accused as they broke apart, both of them breathless. “You’re trying to bring me to my knees.”
Marbury’s grin was a shining example of lust and lasciviousness. “Should that be a possibility, Gerald, I’ll certainly see to it that the favor is reciprocated.” Leo narrowed his eyes, yanking Marbury forward roughly with his tie and kissing him forcefully, and was rewarded by the way he gasped and his hand clutched tightly at Leo’s left bicep. “You Americans,” he said, but his voice was too ragged to pull off his usual arch indifference, “always feel that brute force is the way to get things done, don’t you?”
“We did kick your asses, remember,” Leo returned. “That was a big can of whoop-ass we opened at Yorktown.”
“I’m sure you shall never allow me to forget,” said Marbury, pressing a kiss to Leo’s Adam’s apple, sucking, biting, making him groan, “even if you did require France’s considerable aid in order to accomplish that feat.”
The words were murmured against his skin, and it took a second for them to register. Once they did, Leo thought, Oh, this means war.