DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine. They are Showtime's. I am poor, and this isn't making me any richer. Please don't sue.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
SPOILERS: Season three.
Getting Even
By bank_farter
Nancy surveys the damage. It's not as bad as most of the high school keggers she threw—not by a long shot—but there's yuppie debris strewn all over her living room. It's too late to ask Silas or Shane to help clean up, and Andy's already passed out on the couch from the Jager Bombs he knocked back after he got the dessert trays circulating.
"Too bad I had to fire Lupita," she mutters.
She picks up an empty bottle of Black Label and a few cocktail napkins before deciding that smashing up a grow house, hosting a party, and trying to keep people the hell away from U-Turn's heroin had left her too beat to do this tonight. After making herself a mental promise that she'll get up early tomorrow and straighten the place up before she has to go into work, she tosses the garbage bag down by the table and turns around.
And runs smack into Celia.
"Ow!" Nancy exclaims. She frowns. "What are you still doing here? You scared the crap out of me."
"Not happy to see me?" Celia slurs.
Nancy rolls her eyes because, clearly, this is exactly what she needs to be dealing with right now.
"I didn't think so," Celia continues. "That's why I came back."
"You came back because you thought I didn't want to see you?"
Celia nods, and waves dismissively when she sees Nancy quirk an eyebrow. "You know what I mean. You didn't mean what you said earlier about not hating me."
"Celia, I don't hate you," Nancy says, trying not to roll her eyes. "But, now that you mention it, you did royally screw up my life in ways that you can't even begi--."
"I already apologized for that," Celia snaps, rolling her eyes dramatically.
"No, Celia, you didn't," Nancy corrects calmly. "You just said you didn't want us to fight anymore."
"Fine," she says, lifting a finger. "But I got you a job." She lifts another finger, and Nancy realizes that she's enumerating the favors. "And I got your delinquent son community service instead of jail--"
"And I already said that I wasn't mad anymore. What more do you want?" Nancy asks, trying to conceal the irritation in her voice. "And why does this matter to you so much, anyway?"
Celia smiles wryly. "I don't have a lot of friends these days."
"You never did," Nancy muses. "Not really."
"Yes, well." And then Celia's stepping forward, awkwardly because of the alcohol or something else, and pressing her lips softly against Nancy's.
Nancy's a little stunned (and a little tipsy), so it takes her a minute to react. When she does, she pulls back and opens her mouth to ask what the hell that was. She closes it just as quickly, though, because something in Celia's eyes gives her pause. The look she's giving Nancy says, I need this and I want you, but mostly, Nancy thinks, it screams, You owe me.
And something inside of her snaps then, because she's fucking tired of owing people. She's tired of being the one that people kiss without permission, force to do brick dances, sexually harass as part of a contract. She's tired of feeling like she's losing control of her own life. And, while she knows this isn't going to solve anything long term, she feels like it's a chance to get things back together, just for a few minutes.
So, she kisses Celia, hard, and the momentum of it pushes Celia back until her thighs are pressed against the kitchen table. Nancy helps Celia into a seated position and moves between her legs without breaking the kiss. Her hands find Celia's breasts, and she revels in the groan Celia emits when fingers flick her nipples through her dress.
"Is this what you want?" Nancy asks as she moves one hand lower and roughly pushes Celia's skirt up until it's bunches around her waist. It comes out sounding angrier than she intended, and Celia wisely avoids answering. Instead, she merely lifts her hips to assist.
She is not wearing panties.
"Wow," Nancy says, surprised. "Apparently, it is. Did you know this was going to happen?"
"I thought it might," she admits, smiling condescendingly. "I know you, Nancy."
And, the worst part is, it's mostly the truth. Nancy doesn't know whether to be angry or relieved, so she settles for sliding three fingers into Celia.
"Jesus," Celia gasps. "You're as bad as a man with foreplay."
"Shut up," Nancy growls. Or tries to; she's still working on the whole intimidation thing, but it doesn't matter. She starts a quick rhythm that has Celia clenching her teeth and screwing her eyes shut as she arches into Nancy's hand. And, to Nancy's relief, Celia is quiet except for the little hitches and moans issuing from between her lips.
Nancy feels strangely powerful for the first time in a long time.
"Harder," Celia grits out, and Nancy sighs because none of the good things ever seem to last. She obeys anyway, curving her finger and pumping them faster, taking out all the frustration of the past months on the woman she loathes to admit is her only female friend. She feels Celia's walls tense around her fingers, knows she's close. She doesn't want it to end—feeling Celia vulnerable, wanting, pulsing around her fingers—but takes pity and grinds her palm against her clit.
"Fuck," Celia groans, and then she's clenching at Nancy's fingers over and over again and digging perfectly manicured nails into the back of her neck.
When Celia finally relaxes and releases her grip, Nancy pulls her fingers out and moves to sit on the table beside her. They sit in silence for a few moments, Celia catching her breath and Nancy rubbing at the stinging nail marks by her spine.
"God, I needed that," Celia says, breaking the silence as she reaches to light a cigarette.
"Didn't you just sleep with Doug a few days ago?" Nancy asks, genuinely confused. She adds, "And you can't smoke that in here."
"Please," Celia snorts. "I think you lost the right to complain about my cigarettes when you became a drug dealer."
And Nancy wants to argue, but Celia does have a point.
"How did you know about Doug?" Celia asks after a beat.
"He told me."
"Fucking loser," she mutters, shaking her head and sliding down from the table. She walks towards the door and turns around when she reaches it. "Hey, Nance?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks."
Nancy nods and says the three most perfect words in the English language: "We're even now."
The End