Of High Heels and Pink Nail Polish: Considering Athena
Of High Heels and Pink Nail Polish: Considering Athena
For: celbalrai in the CJ round of tww_minis
Pairing: CJ/Leo
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 998
Spoilers: Not really. Pre-administration, so ...
Disclaimer: As much as I wish these characters were mine, they aren’t. The thoughts laid out in this story however, are. Don’t sue me. I don’t make a lick of money doing this. I do it because I write.
A/N (1): This is for celbalrai, who requested CJ paired with Leo, Jed, or Amy. I decided to just take the route of one of them, and I hope that this fits into what you were thinking. Leo took over my head and started talking. I had to let him write.
A/N (2): This actually fits in perfectly to my Sirens series, as one of the shorts that I like to write as asides to the chapters. I have to thank you, celbalrai, for getting my Sirens muse started again. It has been stalled for almost a year now.
A/N (3): This will be up at my fic site by Sunday night.
Summary: I know only that the campaign is almost broke, that you have legs up to your neck, and that you will be the next Press Secretary for the White House.
don't make me come to Vegas
don't make me pull him out
of your head
Athena will attest
that it could be done
and it has been done
~Tori Amos, Don’t Make Me Come to Vegas (from Scarlet’s Walk)
I wonder if, in this moment, you know that I am gawking.
You are a Goddess.
You have legs that stretch to your neck and you accentuate them with four-inch heels. I feel short and inadequate and completely turned on. You accent the leg-heel kick with an above the knee gray silk skirt with a professional, yet sexual, two inch slit. Your legs are encased in sheer nylons and I see what I think are the ghosts of long faded scars now accented pink by the chill of New England’s climate. There is no belt to your suit and because of that your hips are outlined perfectly by the small pleats in the skirt and the flare of the matching jacket. I wonder if you know that the cream of your blouse is the perfect color for your skin and the jewel on the chain around your neck brings out the dusky blue in your hazel eyes.
Of course you know these things. You are far too put together to not know that the sleek sliver bracelet on your wrist will catch the attention of any man with a heartbeat. You have a gap in your teeth that makes my heart ache when you smile and somehow I know that when you are thinking deeply your tongue worries that gap up and down and when you are nervous, you tap at that gap and you wind your fingers through your coiled hair.
You know the perm was a bad idea. You did it because all the other women in California were doing it and you had to look like everyone else because while the liberals with money are the good things in Hollywood, the cold truth is that to survive there you have to eat only the coolest foods, drink the trendiest of wines, and wear your hair just as every one else is - all so you can be individual.
You lived in Beverly Hills. You had a pool.
I wish I knew these things just by watching you. Some of them I do; I do not know how I know them, but I know them and I know that tonight when I climb under the covers, I will not admit that it is your mouth I am fantasizing about. Other things I know because when Toby introduced you to the rest of the staff last night, the two of you told the story of how you fell into the pool. I pretended not to listen from my hiding place in my office. I couldn’t stand to greet you yet.
He put his hand on your back. He claimed ownership - and he is married to someone else. You have known him for years and known his wife longer. Some things I know because of your résumé, others because of what Toby told me in order to get me to agree to bring you on board. But he claimed ownership of you as if he knew I was watching.
You’re as emotional and passionate as I am. You will scream and cry when things go wrong and I will be the one to push back, to make you submit to the realities of the political world on the Washington level. I already know that I want you to be Press Secretary when we make it to the White House. I would make you my Deputy, but Josh trips over his mouth and doesn’t look nearly as beautiful on camera. I will groom you. I know this. The Governor will love you like a daughter and come to trust only you. In his darkest moments, it will be you we all turn to. You will lead us, even when you fail.
You wear pink nail polish. It glistens against the perfect California tan that will soon fade as we spend Spring and Summer hidden away against the glare of the sun, trapped inside broken down busses. You will make a comment one night after the bus breaks down, while Toby is throwing a fit, that only women were meant to be mechanics. In that moment you will reveal to all of us that you drive a 1965 baby blue Mustang convertible. You will play mechanic while we wait for AAA. While you fix the bus, you will get oil under your nails, but the pink polish you wear will not chip.
I do not know how I know this, but I do. I am not psychic. I know only that the campaign is almost broke, that you have legs up to your neck, and that you will be the next Press Secretary for the White House. I know this with even more clarity than I know that Jed Bartlet will be President.
I know that I need to speak because I do not know how much time has passed since you walked into my office but your head has tilted and your mouth is curved into a quirk that I am sure I could fall in love with if I were one to let my thoughts roam that way. If I were one to think outside the relentless addiction of my work and the drive to get my brother elected President, I would think of leaving my wife for you. But I am not one to think that way and you are starting to look confused.
I force myself to speak, not recognizing my own voice as I tear my eyes away from yours and search for the three ring binder that will now be removed from my desk and placed into your capable hands. We will do introductions while we speak. It is after you give me your name that I remember Margaret has the binder.
It is when I shake your hand that I forget, for the briefest moment, who I am.
It is when you smile and defer to me as we walk out to Margaret’s desk that I understand something.
You know that I was gawking.
For: celbalrai in the CJ round of tww_minis
Pairing: CJ/Leo
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 998
Spoilers: Not really. Pre-administration, so ...
Disclaimer: As much as I wish these characters were mine, they aren’t. The thoughts laid out in this story however, are. Don’t sue me. I don’t make a lick of money doing this. I do it because I write.
A/N (1): This is for celbalrai, who requested CJ paired with Leo, Jed, or Amy. I decided to just take the route of one of them, and I hope that this fits into what you were thinking. Leo took over my head and started talking. I had to let him write.
A/N (2): This actually fits in perfectly to my Sirens series, as one of the shorts that I like to write as asides to the chapters. I have to thank you, celbalrai, for getting my Sirens muse started again. It has been stalled for almost a year now.
A/N (3): This will be up at my fic site by Sunday night.
Summary: I know only that the campaign is almost broke, that you have legs up to your neck, and that you will be the next Press Secretary for the White House.
don't make me come to Vegas
don't make me pull him out
of your head
Athena will attest
that it could be done
and it has been done
~Tori Amos, Don’t Make Me Come to Vegas (from Scarlet’s Walk)
I wonder if, in this moment, you know that I am gawking.
You are a Goddess.
You have legs that stretch to your neck and you accentuate them with four-inch heels. I feel short and inadequate and completely turned on. You accent the leg-heel kick with an above the knee gray silk skirt with a professional, yet sexual, two inch slit. Your legs are encased in sheer nylons and I see what I think are the ghosts of long faded scars now accented pink by the chill of New England’s climate. There is no belt to your suit and because of that your hips are outlined perfectly by the small pleats in the skirt and the flare of the matching jacket. I wonder if you know that the cream of your blouse is the perfect color for your skin and the jewel on the chain around your neck brings out the dusky blue in your hazel eyes.
Of course you know these things. You are far too put together to not know that the sleek sliver bracelet on your wrist will catch the attention of any man with a heartbeat. You have a gap in your teeth that makes my heart ache when you smile and somehow I know that when you are thinking deeply your tongue worries that gap up and down and when you are nervous, you tap at that gap and you wind your fingers through your coiled hair.
You know the perm was a bad idea. You did it because all the other women in California were doing it and you had to look like everyone else because while the liberals with money are the good things in Hollywood, the cold truth is that to survive there you have to eat only the coolest foods, drink the trendiest of wines, and wear your hair just as every one else is - all so you can be individual.
You lived in Beverly Hills. You had a pool.
I wish I knew these things just by watching you. Some of them I do; I do not know how I know them, but I know them and I know that tonight when I climb under the covers, I will not admit that it is your mouth I am fantasizing about. Other things I know because when Toby introduced you to the rest of the staff last night, the two of you told the story of how you fell into the pool. I pretended not to listen from my hiding place in my office. I couldn’t stand to greet you yet.
He put his hand on your back. He claimed ownership - and he is married to someone else. You have known him for years and known his wife longer. Some things I know because of your résumé, others because of what Toby told me in order to get me to agree to bring you on board. But he claimed ownership of you as if he knew I was watching.
You’re as emotional and passionate as I am. You will scream and cry when things go wrong and I will be the one to push back, to make you submit to the realities of the political world on the Washington level. I already know that I want you to be Press Secretary when we make it to the White House. I would make you my Deputy, but Josh trips over his mouth and doesn’t look nearly as beautiful on camera. I will groom you. I know this. The Governor will love you like a daughter and come to trust only you. In his darkest moments, it will be you we all turn to. You will lead us, even when you fail.
You wear pink nail polish. It glistens against the perfect California tan that will soon fade as we spend Spring and Summer hidden away against the glare of the sun, trapped inside broken down busses. You will make a comment one night after the bus breaks down, while Toby is throwing a fit, that only women were meant to be mechanics. In that moment you will reveal to all of us that you drive a 1965 baby blue Mustang convertible. You will play mechanic while we wait for AAA. While you fix the bus, you will get oil under your nails, but the pink polish you wear will not chip.
I do not know how I know this, but I do. I am not psychic. I know only that the campaign is almost broke, that you have legs up to your neck, and that you will be the next Press Secretary for the White House. I know this with even more clarity than I know that Jed Bartlet will be President.
I know that I need to speak because I do not know how much time has passed since you walked into my office but your head has tilted and your mouth is curved into a quirk that I am sure I could fall in love with if I were one to let my thoughts roam that way. If I were one to think outside the relentless addiction of my work and the drive to get my brother elected President, I would think of leaving my wife for you. But I am not one to think that way and you are starting to look confused.
I force myself to speak, not recognizing my own voice as I tear my eyes away from yours and search for the three ring binder that will now be removed from my desk and placed into your capable hands. We will do introductions while we speak. It is after you give me your name that I remember Margaret has the binder.
It is when I shake your hand that I forget, for the briefest moment, who I am.
It is when you smile and defer to me as we walk out to Margaret’s desk that I understand something.
You know that I was gawking.