Riding Bicycles 1.2
Preface, disclaimer etc
Riding Bicycles 1.1
Riding Bicycles
“A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle” - Gloria Steinem, feminist
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FASE ONE.two
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“This is nice,” Addison concludes after a long discussion about women’s rights, abortion and other fun stuff.
“What is?”
The redhead gestures, something, a fair amount of martini sloshing over the rim of her glass, though she doesn’t appear to notice. CJ smirks; this is fun and she’s almost drunk. “That you don’t know me, or Derek, or Mark, or Meredith, or Alex, or-“
“You don’t have any friends?” The question sobers her and CJ feels a little bad. Clearly, Addison is the kind of person who needs to verbalize things. “I’m not judging,” she amends, “my colleagues are my only friends.”
“’Cisely, so this is good.”
Claudia gives the statement some consideration and finishes her vodka. “It is.” She’s not sure when it happened, but at some point between one drink and another they actually settled into amicable, substantive conversation.
Addison’s eyes light up, but the sadness still doesn’t leave. “Yeah.” Her face turns into a scowl when the bartender puts down two more drinks and tells them it’s the last round. The surgeon is genuinely surprised. “This is not the New York I remember.”
CJ can’t help but laugh out loud, effectively covering the memory of his lips on hers. “We’re in Washington, Serge.”
Blushing, her companion takes a long draught of her new drink. “Let’s pretend I did not just say that.” The dorky smile she flashes is disarmingly cute for someone so self-possessed and poised.
“Okay.” Because, really, they both came here to forget as much as they could and it at least seems to be working for Addison.
The temperature outside has dropped significantly by the time they’re leaving and CJ actually shivers. Of course, there’s no cab in sight. She could call Ron, but the taxpayers tend to frown on such use of security personnel and material.
Next to her, Addison actually chatters her teeth. “My hotel isn’t far, we could get you a cab there. Or wait inside.”
“Aren’t you used to this kind of weather, living in the Rainy City?”
She stomps her foot and starts walking, her attitude every bit the spoilt, rich girl CJ imagines her to have been. “I’ll never get used to this weather.”
The hotel is in fact nearby and the streets are quiet for a Friday night.
“I can see the White House from my room.”
“Really.” It’s hard to muster enthusiasm, so CJ doesn’t bother. She does curse inwardly when two cabs pass her by and a third is already taken.
“I voted for him.” Strange how she’s still relieved this woman isn’t a Republican, even though her stance on abortion already said as much and would it really matter? She got along just fine with Ainsley Hayes. After breaking her office door.
“So did I.” In hindsight, it’s a little embarrassing how she’s fallen victim to the ‘us versus them’ mentality. When it comes down to it, she truly believes Republicans want what’s best for the country as much as she and her friends do. It’s just that their ideas of how to improve the country can be so backwards and oppressive and unfair and elitist and, well, stupid. She doesn’t always agree with the Democrats agenda either - feels her party’s stance on same-sex marriage, the right to choose and separation of Church and State is too safe. And she hates, violently, the amount of effort and means politicians on either side put into not alienating any potential voter or ally, it only results in less substance and lesser results. “Are you going to vote for him again?”
She doesn’t know what she’ll do if the answer’s ‘no’, has little inclination to try and change the woman’s mind. Parting ways would be her first choice, but she still hasn’t claimed a cab. Addison shrugs and kicks at a discarded cigarette bud. “I used to work with his wife. Can we just go inside? I’m not drunk enough not to feel the cold.”
CJ frowns, surprised and manages not to pounce the first half of those strung-together sentences. “Wuss.” This woman wouldn’t survive two seconds with the President.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re tough as nails. Just come inside.” She follows without much protest. After all, she’s only wearing a thin blouse under her summer coat and she definitely wants to know more. They pause by the front desk and the hotel is high-end, so CJ is sure she’ll be recognized as soon as the clerk sees her.
This could be one hell of a story, Bartlet’s drunk Press Secretary checking in with a redheaded, female lover. Not that that’s actually the case, but that’s what the little rats will make of it. The responsible thing to do, is to turn around and leave, but she’s thought about that a number of times during this night. The company is too good to pass up and the prospect of her dark and deserted flat utterly unappealing.
Is one friend, one friend who doesn’t have anything to do with the White House, politicians or press really too much to ask?
Mind made up, she turns to Addison. “How’s the room service?”
The woman’s face lights up, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes as she grabs CJ’s hand and pulls her into the nearest elevator. “Room service is excellent… so is the minibar.”
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They’ve installed themselves on the floor, backs against the couch. It’s not exactly her typical choice of surfaces to sit on, but the carpet is soft and woolly and the room is very nice. Georgetown doesn’t spring for this, CJ knows.
Room service brought up some coffee and grilled sandwiches, but they surrounded themselves with tiny bottles of fun nonetheless. Right now, Addison is unscrewing numbers three and four and CJ feels obliged to warn her new friend that she doesn’t have any cash on her.
The redhead smirks sassily, “I can make you pay in other ways.”
“I don’t doubt it, Serge.” They clink and Addison’s eyes cross a little when she puts the small bottle to her lips. CJ laughs, the last time she was this drunk was at Abbey’s birthday party. “So you worked with the First Lady?”
“Hmmm, did my internship under her.”
“Isn’t Abbey in cardio-thora-ra-cics?” At least her companion doesn’t seem to notice how she totally tripped over her tongue.
“We don’t choose out specialty right away. I thought I wanted to be a neurosurgeon at first, then cardio. I didn’t want to be a walking cliché.”
CJ raises her eyebrows questioningly and finishes another grilled sandwich, washes it down with vodka.
Next to her, the surgeon half-smiles. “You know, the pretty little rich girl who’s a hopeless romantic and just wants to play with babies. I’m a kickass surgeon,” she adds for good measure, “I could have chosen any specialty, but babies… they haven’t done anything yet, you know? They have their whole lives ahead of them, they deserve every chance.”
Her words are so earnest, they cut through the drunken haze surrounding them. “Do you have children?” She forces the question past the lump in her throat and briefly meets the redhead’s eyes.
“No.” She delicately places the small and now empty bottle of gin next to its slain brothers. “I want to, but the timing just hasn’t been right. You?”
“I made a choice,” CJ states matter-of-factly, “I chose a job over kids - never really wanted them that badly anyway.”
Addison studies her frankly, “you’re not that old and I would say that we no longer have to choose one or the other. You could work and be a mother.”
“Not with the hours I’m making, besides, the last functioning relationship I had ended in 1992.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Amused, rather than feeling sorry for herself, CJ snatches another small bottle from the line-up and unscrews the cap. “I’m not big on relationships,” she admits before putting the bottle to her lips.
Her new friend looks skeptical. Not much of a surprise, considering the stories Addison told earlier. “Why not?”
“They just never seem to work for me.”
“So you just give up?”
“No, I just do the things I love which happen to take up most of my time anyway.”
“Must be some job,” the surgeon comments dryly.
And despite the horrendous week, the losses and unreachable goals that she and her friends carry with them every day, CJ smiles fondly. “It is.” Yes, the White House eats every spare moment, drains her energy and challenges her ideals and principles on an almost daily basis. She’s lost friends and for a while, she’s lost trust in the most important person in her life. This job keeps her away from her ailing father and anything resembling a social life, but she loves it anyway and although she may forget it some days, this is where she wants to be. “It really is.”
“There's nothing like surgery,” the redhead shares, “It’s like you’re in this bubble and nothing outside the OR matters. All that matters is you and the patient and you have to believe in yourself, because nothing, no one will save that life, but you.”
They sit in silence, commiserating their respective lives while each finishing another bottle - which, by the way, really are too small. CJ doesn’t mind the silence, since there is so little of it in her life, but Addison obviously feels differently.
“How long has it been since you… you know…”
“Since I, what, Serge?”
The woman blushes slightly, but that could just be the alcohol. “Had sex?” She giggles like a teenage girl and CJ is less annoyed that she thought she’d be.
Still, no point in just rolling over. “A while.”
“Oh come on, Claudia, humor me.”
It’s the eyes that do her in, beseeching her for more than just gossip, but something to chase away whatever demons showed up in those few moments of silence. “Six years, give or take.”
Addison’s eyes blow up to saucers. “Seriously?!”
She redoes the math in her head. There hasn’t been anyone the four years she’s been in the White House, or since the early weeks of the campaign. Public image and all. She repeats Addison's exclamation back to her, a little confused by the unreadable look that crosses the redhead's angular face. “Seriously.”
“Wow. You haven’t done anything?”
“There’ve been kisses,” she allows, thinking of Simon and Danny, and decides against more alcohol when the room starts warping. The edges of her vision have been blurred for a while. It’s been a long time since she’s been this drunk, but she still recognizes the point of no return and doesn’t feel like crossing it.
“Good ones?”
The memory of Simon’s lips on hers feels real and she wonders, not for the first time, if she’d have memorized those moments more precisely if she’d known… if the kiss would’ve been even better. Forever, that great kiss will go hand in hand with one of the worst days of her life. “Yeah, really good ones.”
“When was the last?” The look in Addison’s eyes right now, is exactly the same as the one Carol gets when she pries into her boss’ personal life and it makes CJ smile even though the question hits a little too close to home. She’s never been very good at this girl talk.
“Too long.”
“Maybe you should consider one-night stands?”
“Are you offering?”
The surgeon snorts. “Ha! Funny. Very funny.”
“I am a funny woman. And one,” she adds after a beat, “who really needs to pee.”
“No funny business in my bathroom,” Addie calls after her.
Pretty, little rich girl indeed, CJ mutters to herself. The bathroom is almost as large as her office. She takes her time, silence a nice reprieve. Even though she’s enjoying Addison’s company, the woman does have a mouth on her. Her eyes are wide and unfocused when she studies herself in the ornately decorated mirror and her hair is nearing its expiration date.
Somehow her current situation reminds her of Abbey’s birthday. Of beautiful, drunk women and blurred boundaries. At least tonight she doesn’t have to be on dangling modifier patrol, can’t really get herself in trouble, so it’s safe to let her guard down.
“Took you long enough,” the redhead complains when CJ ventures back out into the main room.
Incredulously she stares at her host. “You have to go again? I thought you had all this WASP-training.”
It earns her a glare and although Addison does an impressive job, it’s nothing compared to Leo’s. “Your phone rang, the Apocalypse Now theme.”
“Great.” She fishes her phone from her purse. Apocalypse means Josh and considering the late hour, it can’t possibly be good news.
“Work?”
She doesn’t need to answer and waits until the bathroom door is shut before giving the call-back command. “Josh? Tell me you fixed the Thing.”
“I did!” Her colleague insists. “I fixed the Thing” She might actually believe him, except that he’s calling her at two in the morning.
“So go home and get some sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“You fixed the Thing.”
“Yeah, but Toby broke it again.”
She wishes she hadn’t seen that coming. “Then he’d better fix it before I sic the Secret Service on him - they’ll help me this time.”
“Probably,” he agrees. “We’ll fix it, I just need your campaign-file on Mrs. Bartlet’s press.”
“Left bottom drawer of my desk, Leo has a key. And Josh, you know what’s going to happen if this reaches the Oval…”
On the other side of the airwaves she can hear Josh slump when he answers with a despondent 'yeah' and hangs up. For a moment CJ considers the empty bottles neatly lined up next to each other. He's the best, she reminds herself. Not just one of the best, but the best. He'll fix the Thing.
Convinced - or at least half way there - she makes a quick trip to the minibar and fishes out two more bottles. “Last one,” she mutters, just as the redhead emerges from the bathroom.
“Bad news?” She grunts an affirmative and passes one of the bottles. “If you have to go?”
“They'll manage.”
“I'm getting the feeling it's not any old PR-job,” Addison comments, not quite teasing. She's a Doctor, so her curiosity doesn't surprise CJ.
“It's not.” When she doesn't elaborate, the redhead crosses her arms sternly and looks up at her a little. They're no longer at eye-level, though the difference is minimal. “Can we leave it at that?”
“Why?”
Sure enough, when she looks down, the other woman's pale toes and bright red nails contrast sharply with the plush, dark brown carpet. Her shoes, shiny leather with killer heels - the First Lady would approve -, lie discarded under the salon table and probably have been for a while. “Because this has been fun and uncomplicated. Talking about my job will make it complicated. I really just want to not think about the complicated tonight.” CJ looks up slowly and finds that Addison has schooled her face into an almost neutral expression.
There's just a hint of mischief in her unfocused eyes. “See something you like?”
She's drunk enough, damaged enough, to play along and does. Holds the stare without allowing a chuckle or smile to light the sudden tension.
Predictably, Addison looks away and it's probably a good thing. One-night stands with women aren't a good idea when you're the face of an administration. She misses that part of her life though. This woman reminds her of one of her old girlfriends and in an odd way - of Abbey. They have that same kind of effortless sexuality and are very much aware of it. Not that she thinks about the First Lady like that, she doesn't. Not even when four drinks past buzzed.
She thought about Simon like that, but Simon's gone.
Suddenly she's not sure what she would've done if the Doctor called her bluff. Disillusioned, she drops onto the couch, elbows on her knees, tiny bottle of vodka dangling in between. Addison's eyes are boring holes into her temple. The mood's changed and it's her fault.