From: "the stylus" <email@example.com> Subject: NEW FIC: (Pink) Lady Godiva [WW: Nancy/Amy; NC-17] (1/2) Date: Saturday, October 26, 2002 12:20 PM TITLE: (Pink) Lady Godiva AUTHOR: the stylus (firstname.lastname@example.org) KEYWORDS: Nancy/Amy. RATING: NC-17 SPOILERS: Set after "Enemies Foreign and Domestic" but before "Posse Comitatus" because Amy still has her old job. DISCLAIMER: Aaron could kick my ass. SUMMARY: 'You could be my demon.' FEEDBACK: The tasty treat. Whatever you think, I'd love to hear it. ARCHIVE: Ask and it shall be given. NOTES: CG and CGB, for excellent and very different betas I owe you both tiny portions of my soul, yes I do. Still, I make my own mistakes. ["Why a Nancy/Amy story?" "Because I can."] Maybe mostly Christine's fault because she said "Nancy," and many moons later it was so. Possibly also the fault of other people. Thank you, you unscrupulous few. Part of the 'not my typewriter' series (http://thestylus.topcities.com/typewriter.html) and Liz's Cocktail Challenge (http://www.gatefiction.com/cocktail). Lazy but sly am I.
(Pink) Lady Godiva
In the Oval she always has at least five things in her hands and five million in her head. Still, the best days are the ones when she doesn't have time to think. She's good enough that her instincts can carry her.
"Sir, with all due respect--"
"I never like what follows that."
"--can't we just nuke 'em back to the stone age?"
Fitz almost, but almost, cracks a smile. She gives herself half a point for that.
"I'm sure." She lays the folder on the desk open to the papers he has to sign and gestures to the blanks.
He signs with a flourish, his hand finishing at ear level. "Because, my dear, that would make us Republicans."
"I think I'd have more fun in this job if I worked for a Republican."
"Probably, but you'd hate yourself at the end of the day."
"Oh, come on, Mr. President. What about just nuking them back to the Dark Ages? They could keep the iron and the fire. I'll even throw in the bronze."
"Nancy, I said no and I meant it. You'll have to come up with something else to do with your copious free time. Isn't there a small island nation with a dictator that you could intimidate?"
"Sir, are you implying that I'm a bully?"
"Hell no. I'm stating it flat out. Now go."
"Thank you, Mr. President. I'll have a brief on the Chechnya situation for you before lunch tomorrow."
"Thank you, sir," Fitz says and trails her out.
Karen hands her a stack of files the moment her body breaks the plane of the doorway.
"Jesus Christ. Do you have some sort of heat sensor embedded in the back of your head?"
"I'm just that good. That's why you hired me."
She harumphs for effect.
"Oh, and Amy Gardner's waiting in your office."
Damn sneaky woman, to let her get the door open before she said anything. The afternoon is not looking up. Well, the door's open now and pretty Amy's legs protrude in the corner of her vision. She's made herself at home in one of the huge wingbacks.
"Karen?" It comes out tumbling over a sigh.
"Next time, a little more warning would be good."
"Right. What's wrong? Did the President not let you turn anyone's country into a smoking pile of ash?"
"Something like that." And there's a snake in my grass wearing Armani like it's her new skin. She puts the desk between them.
Nobody's going to win the pissing contest of silence and Nancy, at least, doesn't have time. "Are you here about Saudi Arabia?"
"Yes." The feral smile is broken by a pale hand tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear.
"Did C.J. send you?"
"What makes you think C.J. had anything to do with it?"
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter."
"C.J. brought some things to my attention."
"And I will make her pay in due course. Aren't you too busy to harass me because you're harassing Josh, anyway?"
Even when Amy is seated, she seems to be in motion. She uncrosses her legs and recrosses them.
"Anyway, I came to let you know that we've started work on a large-scale investigation of the status of women in US-aligned foreign nations--"
"I appreciate your point, but--"
Amy glances quickly at her, annoyed. "Don't interrupt. I have a spiel."
"You have a spiel?"
"Well, then. A: you've been hanging around Josh too much. And 2: it's too late in the day for a spiel. Make an appointment like everyone else. I'm gonna go home before seven one day this week if it kills me. Or you. Or both of us."
The tally of the gold hands on the clock hits Amy's face hard. It's just possible she really didn't know. She cocks her head to the side, considering and spreads her hands, palms up. Truce. "Buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink."
"Buy you an orange juice in a bar?"
"I lied. I drink." And when I dance with the devil we're pretty.
"Ok. Let's go."
They both drive, but Amy chooses. It's a bar off Dupont with enough dark wood for dignity. The lighting is warm but low and the waiters in their stiff white shirts have monosyllabic names and hundred dollar hair.
Nancy orders a Laphroaig 30 for the first time since she quit smoking. There are no martyrs in this bar. It weeps quietly next to Amy's Pink Lady.
"How can you as a woman countenance the tacit acceptance of women as worse than second-class citizens? Women are chattel in these countries, traded like grain or cows." She starts strong, making the points in quick succession. Her hands move so fast they blur. The voice, which has a whine about its edges, modulates and smoothes once into rhythm.
The scotch tastes like tar and smoke. Amy shifts from the broad-ranging introduction to a prcis of the not-yet-done research. "...Because these bases are militarily expedient we turn a blind eye to the injustice of the human situation on the ground."
Her throat is a pale shifting column of light. If they blow you up, Nancy thinks, it won't matter what you could or couldn't say. Where you could or couldn't walk.
At some point while Amy is still talking they order drinks and salads and more drinks. When the spiel is over they are on the fourth round.
There is really nothing to argue. They try it anyway.
"I appreciate your points," Nancy tells her. "Many of them are true. But that doesn't change the facts of the situation." Her gestures are economical, succinct.
Amy protests with her body, leaning in all thin wrists and righteous indignation. "You can't justify our safety at the expense of others. People are suffering."
"I can't protect everybody." Not even here: none of us are safe.
"That doesn't mean we can't try."
"I am trying. I'm doing my job."
"And your peace of mind is worth women being caned for laughing, or executed for not wearing a burqa?"
"This from a feminist in Blahniks drinking Plymouth in a cocktail glass."
There is a moment when Amy is angry and then she is not. Nancy holds up her hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did."
Nancy shifts a little to unkink her spine, simultaneously wishing her hose away. Amy has a steady gaze, too, and when she leans in it feels as though she is sifting through whatever surfaces in Nancy's eyes.
"Well, that was my spiel."
"So I noticed." Amy's thigh is angled next to hers on the wooden bench seat and her knee presses into Nancy's leg slightly just above her hemline.
"What did you think?" A bit of pleading in the tone, just enough for Amy not to be conscious it's there.
"It was good." It was. Passionate, sincere-- it didn't change Nancy's mind, but it wouldn't have. There is a reason for doing this over drinks and not at a desk, a reason that has almost nothing to do with the slightly sweet scent of Amy's perfume.
"Yeah." Amy sags back just a bit, her shoulder biting into the wood at her back. "It was good, wasn't it?" Her gazes focuses somewhere else. "Not that you're going to do anything about it."
Nancy says nothing. The waiter sets down fresh drinks that Nancy doesn't remember having ordered.
"You know," Amy is still looking away, her hair hiding most of her face, "it's too bad. We could have been great friends, you and I."
Nancy uncrosses her arms and leans on an elbow, opening toward Amy's profile. "No, we couldn't have."
"No." Amy turns and in that motion they are too close.
"Allies." She tests the word, the heft of it. Amy's breath is warm and smells of gin.
Someone moves. Amy's hand comes to rest on Nancy's thigh. Nancy's lips are soft and strong; Amy leans into her body.
Amy's apartment smells like a layer of dust over cleanliness. There is a stack of mail on the kitchen table and dry cleaning draped over a chair; she has probably been spending most of her nights somewhere else.
They move in the pattern of parry and thrust. Attack, defend. Nancy finds herself with her back against the wall of the narrow hallway, Amy's lithe form pinning her. When the kiss breaks, she pushes off, turning them; they stumble into the bedroom and Amy ends up beneath her on the bed.
Neither one still has a jacket or shoes. Amy moves to unbutton her own blouse. "No," Nancy says from above, and Amy stills in surprise.
Nancy undoes the buttons languidly and drags her tongue up from the waistband of the skirt to the bottom of the functional black bra. Amy's stomach trembles and she makes her hands into fists to keep from touching. She wants to touch.
Naked, they clash like swords. The curtains are open and the steady white light from a streetlight pours in. Nancy doesn't know if there are neighbors or if they might be the kind to watch. "So good," Amy purrs in her ear. Everything between them is already hidden in plain sight.
Amy bites her shoulder hard enough that it will leave a mark for days. Nancy tries to catch her wrists but fails and finds herself on her back, Amy's tongue rough and teasing on her nipples. There, and then gone. Her hands are in Amy's hair-- half pushing, half pulling. A second or an hour later Amy's tongue moves past her navel and lower and Nancy feels herself groan. The blood in her ears is loud, louder; Amy hums against her clit and runs restless hands over the muscles of Nancy's calves. Nancy comes hard and fast, arching her body off the bed; her hands never leave Amy's hair.
Amy raises her head, her mouth twisting into a smile. Nancy raises her knee, sliding it up between Amy's legs and the smile thins. She sucks a breath in between her teeth. Her pale skin is almost translucent in the light, but wherever Nancy has touched there are faint pink marks. She starts to rock against Nancy's thigh but is deftly flipped so she lies supine.
Nancy kisses her hard and drives two fingers into her at the same time. There is no time to breathe or to think. Amy moves sinuously, keenly. Nancy can feel the vibrations build under her and angles her hand to press harder. A deep flush spreads like blood over Amy's chest; she cries out once and pulls Nancy in for a kiss, holding her there by gripping the nape of her neck.
They lay without touching, limbs wrapped in the crumpled bedsheets.
"What about Josh?" Nancy hears her voice as if from somewhere far away.
"What about him?"
"Wouldn't he have something to say about this?"
"Probably. You want to call him and ask?"
Amy sighs and rolls over. There is some vindication in her need to explain. "Josh and I are... complicated."
When nothing else follows, she responds. "So I gathered."
Amy blows a long breath through her teeth. "We enjoy each other's company. We have similar interests and ambitions and dreams. He tried to take me to Tahiti. It's just, it's..." Her voice fades like the repeated last chords of a song.
"Yeah, it's complicated."
It is not, exactly, that she wants Amy's pain. She also doesn't want to be told that she is selling people out to save lives. There is an appealing innocence about Amy's fumbling inability to make her choices.
"So complicated you had to sleep with someone else to make it clear?"
Amy recoils, stung. She is used to being able to say no to the unethical options. "I didn't coerce you into coming here or ending up in my bed."
"No, you didn't." Would you have?
Nancy dresses quickly, her back to the bed and the woman in it. She thinks about offering Amy something on the way out, a quick phrase to dismiss it all. Instead she stuffs her hose into her purse and doesn't look back. There is the sound of Amy turning in the sheets, presumably to face the wall.
She drives home with the windows down, the air smelling of exhaust and live things in damp soil. The air smells nothing like the woman she has just left. She turns up the radio and drums her fingers on the wheel; the beat is fast and hard.
She is remorseless and very awake in the humid night. As the Stones roll over into Zeppelin, it suddenly comes to her how she will handle the upcoming address on immigration screenings. She presses the pedal harder, eager to capture the idea as it forms. The severe lines of liveoaks and longleafs whip by.
There is fresh ground coffee at home and she feels ready to go all night.
"I know I would die if I could come back new." http://thestylus.topcities.com
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