Fic: "Shakti," The Good Wife, Kalinda/various R.
First real attempt at The Good Wife fic. Also my inaugural piece for purnima_fic (which needz moar members).
Title: "Shakti" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: The Good Wife
Rating/Classification: R for language, mild sexual content. Kalinda/Cary, Kalinda/Alicia, Kalinda/others. Het, slash.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, don't own them, and am definitely not profiting.
Summary: 950. Alicia's never had it that rough, never gotten dirty. Neither has Cary. They're different than she is.
Kalinda knows guys like Cary. She's *had* guys like Cary. Those perfect-smile, silver spoon uptown boys who've never heard the word "no." He thinks he can charm her, with a few pretty words and the twinkle in his eye. It's been years since that tactic worked. Maybe when she was fifteen and gawky, with unplucked eyebrows and the scent of turmeric and coriander from Ma's cooking clinging to her clothes. But not now. Never now. He's just another man, just another distraction she cannot afford.
She sees him watching her and Alicia through the glass, that little boy's grin pasted on his face. She ignores what looks like a touch of longing. Like he wants to be in their club. Sorry. No entry. This is a female space, their branch of the law; he and his kind have had run of things for too long and she will not allow him to take this over, too.
Alicia glances up at her, catches her frowning, and telegraphs the question without speaking. She simply shakes her head, gestures back down to the witness testimony they're reviewing.
Kalinda's never quite known a woman like Alicia. She's so damn optimistic, so sure that there's good in everyone... though her doubt in her husband is becoming more and more palpable by the day. She sees it her eyes. In the way her knuckles whiten as she curls her fingers around a brief and how her voice grows curt and distant when the children's grandmother calls to ask when she'll be home. Watching her, working alongside her, Kalinda thinks that Peter Florrick is the biggest fool in Chicago. And if she'd realized this amazing woman was who he was going home to every night, she never would have made her own foolish choice one late night at the State's Attorney's office.
It's incredibly hard to work with someone when you know you've tied her husband to his chair with his own tie and fucked him quite literally to kingdom come.
Kalinda was startled the first time she fantasized about doing the very same thing to Alicia. It slammed into her like a truck, that awareness of Alicia's grace and her sensuality. Now, it's as natural as breathing, as inhaling the subtle scent of her expensive perfume and knowing she only has to move a few inches to wind her fingers in her hair. But, of course, she won't give in to that urge. Alicia's never had it that rough, never gotten dirty. Neither has Cary. They're different than she is. Than the Peter Florricks of the world. They're idealists. They assume that every case can be argued and appealed, that justice actually exists.
She stopped making those assumptions before she even hit 21.
When she and Alicia wrap for the day, she says a curt goodnight and gathers her things, sweeping out of the office without a glance at Cary. She'll deny him as she denies herself.
Her mother left a voicemail earlier in the day reminding her that it's the first night of Navaratri and if she can't get to temple for the celebration, she should at least light a tea candle in front of her shrine and pray for blessings. Ma has no idea that the shrine only exists when she comes to visit. The rest of the year the tiny brass statues are tossed into a desk drawer, forgotten. Kalinda has no use for faith. She has cold reason. She has ambition. She has the blond woman with the sad, hungry eyes that she picks up at a dive bar on the way home. In the darkness of her bedroom, she imagines the metallic tang of privilege and the flowery essence of poise.
She doesn't let Tina - Terri, whatever her name is - spend the night, kicks her out after a couple of hours and declines to take down her number. Tracy (that's what it is, not Tina or Terri) says, "fuck you" when she really means "fuck me again anytime."
They'd say "please." Cary says it with every look. He thinks he's not so needy, not so blatantly transparent; he thinks that he would be the boss in bed with her and draw out her secrets like a confession from an unsuspecting witness. But he forgets he's shitty at trials. And she's endured far more cutting cross-examination than his, and has no intention of breaking on the stand. She would break *him.* She would eat him alive. Consume him from head to toe. Mark the soft skin of his throat with her teeth and leave nail marks across the flat-hard stomach he sculpts during precious hours at the gym.
And Alicia... she'd say "please" in a different way. Kalinda knows that. "Please, more." "Please don't stop." Because she hasn't had it without lies in so long. It would be easy to bring her off the first time, probably with just her mouth... and then it would become a challenge, because everything with Alicia eventually becomes a challenge.
A challenge Kalinda will not take on. That she cannot take on.
Not now. Never now.
She can't afford it.
The price of caring about them, about anything, is way too high.
Kalinda bundles up her sheets, stuffs them in the hamper for later. When she goes to get fresh ones from the bottom of her bureau, a funky bit of brass shakes out from the pillowcase. It's the Goddess Durga astride her lion. Her ten arms are splayed out like spokes on a wheel.
She closes her fingers around the lukewarm statue and fumbles to light a stale cigarette instead of a tea candle. And she doesn't pray for blessings.
She prays for strength.
--end--
November 5, 2009
Title: "Shakti" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: The Good Wife
Rating/Classification: R for language, mild sexual content. Kalinda/Cary, Kalinda/Alicia, Kalinda/others. Het, slash.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, don't own them, and am definitely not profiting.
Summary: 950. Alicia's never had it that rough, never gotten dirty. Neither has Cary. They're different than she is.
Kalinda knows guys like Cary. She's *had* guys like Cary. Those perfect-smile, silver spoon uptown boys who've never heard the word "no." He thinks he can charm her, with a few pretty words and the twinkle in his eye. It's been years since that tactic worked. Maybe when she was fifteen and gawky, with unplucked eyebrows and the scent of turmeric and coriander from Ma's cooking clinging to her clothes. But not now. Never now. He's just another man, just another distraction she cannot afford.
She sees him watching her and Alicia through the glass, that little boy's grin pasted on his face. She ignores what looks like a touch of longing. Like he wants to be in their club. Sorry. No entry. This is a female space, their branch of the law; he and his kind have had run of things for too long and she will not allow him to take this over, too.
Alicia glances up at her, catches her frowning, and telegraphs the question without speaking. She simply shakes her head, gestures back down to the witness testimony they're reviewing.
Kalinda's never quite known a woman like Alicia. She's so damn optimistic, so sure that there's good in everyone... though her doubt in her husband is becoming more and more palpable by the day. She sees it her eyes. In the way her knuckles whiten as she curls her fingers around a brief and how her voice grows curt and distant when the children's grandmother calls to ask when she'll be home. Watching her, working alongside her, Kalinda thinks that Peter Florrick is the biggest fool in Chicago. And if she'd realized this amazing woman was who he was going home to every night, she never would have made her own foolish choice one late night at the State's Attorney's office.
It's incredibly hard to work with someone when you know you've tied her husband to his chair with his own tie and fucked him quite literally to kingdom come.
Kalinda was startled the first time she fantasized about doing the very same thing to Alicia. It slammed into her like a truck, that awareness of Alicia's grace and her sensuality. Now, it's as natural as breathing, as inhaling the subtle scent of her expensive perfume and knowing she only has to move a few inches to wind her fingers in her hair. But, of course, she won't give in to that urge. Alicia's never had it that rough, never gotten dirty. Neither has Cary. They're different than she is. Than the Peter Florricks of the world. They're idealists. They assume that every case can be argued and appealed, that justice actually exists.
She stopped making those assumptions before she even hit 21.
When she and Alicia wrap for the day, she says a curt goodnight and gathers her things, sweeping out of the office without a glance at Cary. She'll deny him as she denies herself.
Her mother left a voicemail earlier in the day reminding her that it's the first night of Navaratri and if she can't get to temple for the celebration, she should at least light a tea candle in front of her shrine and pray for blessings. Ma has no idea that the shrine only exists when she comes to visit. The rest of the year the tiny brass statues are tossed into a desk drawer, forgotten. Kalinda has no use for faith. She has cold reason. She has ambition. She has the blond woman with the sad, hungry eyes that she picks up at a dive bar on the way home. In the darkness of her bedroom, she imagines the metallic tang of privilege and the flowery essence of poise.
She doesn't let Tina - Terri, whatever her name is - spend the night, kicks her out after a couple of hours and declines to take down her number. Tracy (that's what it is, not Tina or Terri) says, "fuck you" when she really means "fuck me again anytime."
They'd say "please." Cary says it with every look. He thinks he's not so needy, not so blatantly transparent; he thinks that he would be the boss in bed with her and draw out her secrets like a confession from an unsuspecting witness. But he forgets he's shitty at trials. And she's endured far more cutting cross-examination than his, and has no intention of breaking on the stand. She would break *him.* She would eat him alive. Consume him from head to toe. Mark the soft skin of his throat with her teeth and leave nail marks across the flat-hard stomach he sculpts during precious hours at the gym.
And Alicia... she'd say "please" in a different way. Kalinda knows that. "Please, more." "Please don't stop." Because she hasn't had it without lies in so long. It would be easy to bring her off the first time, probably with just her mouth... and then it would become a challenge, because everything with Alicia eventually becomes a challenge.
A challenge Kalinda will not take on. That she cannot take on.
Not now. Never now.
She can't afford it.
The price of caring about them, about anything, is way too high.
Kalinda bundles up her sheets, stuffs them in the hamper for later. When she goes to get fresh ones from the bottom of her bureau, a funky bit of brass shakes out from the pillowcase. It's the Goddess Durga astride her lion. Her ten arms are splayed out like spokes on a wheel.
She closes her fingers around the lukewarm statue and fumbles to light a stale cigarette instead of a tea candle. And she doesn't pray for blessings.
She prays for strength.
--end--
November 5, 2009