DISCLAIMER: The Middleman and its characters are the property of ABC Family. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

Lacey Wants Paris
(or How Wendy Watson Learned To Stop Thinking And Love Humphrey Bogart)

By Kate


Considering that they were purportedly the only Batman and Robin duo fighting comic book evil in the entire world, Wendy always had a difficult time believing in the concept of 'Slow Days At The Office.' So, riding the freight elevator up to the illegal sublet she shared with another young, photogenic artist, she was wondering whether she had been exposed to some kind of mind erasing device, or if she had really spent the entire day doing paperwork like she recalled.

"Hey, Wendy Watson," Noser greeted, perched on a crate in the hallway and cradling a skateboard like a guitar in his hands. As though strumming strings, one hand was spinning a wheel.

"Hey, Noser," she replied, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets and ambling down the hall.

"What does it sound like when the doves cry?" He asked, tipping his head towards her apartment door.

Wendy frowned, knowing Noser too well to assume the gesture was simply an overly mellow nod. "Like walkin' after midnight, searchin' for you?" she ventured as an answer.

"Like followin' Alice into Wonderland," Noser nodded approvingly.

Wendy sighed and braced herself with her hand on the door knob. "They do call her sunshine." She pushed the door open and unbuckled her watch while looking around the sublet, easily locating Lacey, sitting on the couch with a remote clutched in her hand and a particularly devastated look on her face. She pushed a smile on her face and tried a cheerful approach first. "Hey, Lace!"

Wrong tactic. Lacey rolled her eyes to look at her, the corners of her mouth not even twitching. "Hey, Dub Dub."

Wendy set her watch down atop a pile of mutilated stuffed teddy bears and gently pulled the remote from Lacey's fingers, glancing at the television. "Aw, Lacey. Casablanca? After what happened last time?"

Lacey sniffed, uncurling from the edge of the couch and flopping back in a boneless position of depression. "I was flipping channels and it had just gotten to the scene with the thing and the guy and –" She sniffed again, her lower lip trembling. "And I don't even have Paris, Dub Dub! I've got nothing! I'm just a confrontational spoken word artist with – with –with the worst track record with relationships ever and no Paris!"

She was practically sobbing and Wendy, despite her confusion, understood that something was really wrong, and did the only thing that occurred to her: she turned off the television, tossed the remote to the other end of the couch, and sat down on the coffee table in front of her best friend.

She wiped the tears off Lacey's cheeks, followed the tear tracks all the way down her face, and realized, as though a proverbial light bulb had been snapped on over her head, that Lacey had the softest lips of anyone, ever. And Wendy had just walked in after a really god awful boring day, so she wasn't able to muster the necessary defense to the discovery, and instead found herself scooting forward, on her knees between Lacey's akimbo legs, and kissing her.

She had the control, at the last second, to make it soft, hesitant, even though what she really wanted was to attach her lips in place, succubus style, and never even come up for air. But she kissed her softly, slowly, and with all the sweetness their years of friendship had given her. She was, after all, a Middleman. She always did the right thing, even under pressure.

So when she realized, somewhat belatedly, that Lacey wasn't kissing her back, she reigned herself in, pulled herself back, and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable barrage of chatter from the spoken word artist. When none was forthcoming, Wendy peeked her eyes open.

Only the pressure of Lacey's hand against her collarbone kept her from lunging forward again. Lacey's face was flushed, her lips shiny and kiss-swollen, her eyes still gleaming with the remains of her tears. "Dub Dub?" she ventured, voice cracking slightly. There was a curlicue of blond hair tumbling over her forehead and in front of an eye, and Wendy wanted to reach up and brush it aside.

Instead, she looked down and away, biting her lip and feeling her eyebrows knit with the sudden, irrational urge to cry. "I…"

She never had to finish the sentence, because Lacey chose that moment to yank her forward by her lapels, and this time she kissed back, and this time it was so good that Wendy promptly forgot that she had ever, in her entire life, said a single word. Somewhere along the line, someone had taught Lacey to kiss, and Wendy fleetingly hoped it hadn't been her boss, until Lacey tickled her tongue across the roof of her mouth and Wendy decided that she might even thank him personally, if he had taught her that one. Not that she ever planned to stop kissing Lacey long enough to ask.

She felt the pressure against her shoulders and pushed back, forward, straining her neck to continue the kiss. Finally, Lacey pushed hard enough and they separated with an audible pop, a sound suspiciously like a whine emerging from Wendy's throat.

Wendy was worried for an instant, ready to protest if Lacey was stopping them, again, but Lacey kept pushing on her shoulders and she was smiling. Like, really smiling, so brightly her eyes were sparkling and her face looked like it could split in half trying to contain it. Wendy stared, awestruck, and only registered her continued movement when her shoulders hit the floor of their illegal sublet and suddenly that smile was hovering above her, with the delicious pressure of its owner's body laying atop her own. Lacey kept smiling, so that all Wendy could do was smile back, until she descended and Wendy's smile gave way to more proactive uses for lips.

She couldn't think about the cliché it made them, or how she was proving her mother right, because Lacey's lips were blistering a path down her throat and Wendy was gasping, literally gasping, for breath, and her most pressing concern was helping Lacey work the Eisenhower jacket off her shoulders. The Middleman's feelings for the thirty-fourth president aside, he really had no business in such an apparent den of homosexuality.

The jacket flung back against the couch, Lacey ripped off her tie, and Wendy opened her mouth to protest. What emerged instead was a long, drawn-out moan that had apparently been sitting in her chest for some time, waiting to escape. Lacey took this as a signal to continue ripping the rest of Wendy's clothes off, all the way down her shirt with a loud popping of buttons, and Wendy didn't care because, hi, Lacey's hands! Welcome to Wendy's breasts. No, go ahead. Make yourselves at home. We're very-y-y happy to have you.

Wendy arched her back against the hard surface of the floor, looking to increase the contact, and in the process discovered that her roommate was wearing way too many clothes.

"Lace," she managed to choke out, her voice thick and barely recognizable to herself. "Off." She tugged at the oversized cotton t-shirt, feeling the rasp of the hand-painted peace sign cracking against her palm.

Lacey immediately reached for the hem of her shirt, flexing upwards and working it over her head – too slow for Wendy's pleasure impaired brain, so she sat up slightly to help. It got caught on a necklace and they both yanked, giggling a little bit, until the chain popped and flew into the same ether Wendy's jacket and tie had disappeared in, and the shirt slid smoothly over Lacey's head.

Wendy's hands abandoned the shirt, overwhelmed with the sudden need to touch Lacey's face, their foreheads falling together as they stared into each other's eyes with a sweetness and a sincerity that Wendy would have gagged at the thought of only an hour earlier. She'd never considered herself a romantic; all she knew, in that moment, was that she could have looked into Lacey's eyes forever. If that made her a sickening romantic, then she was willing to accept that hat.

Lacey tipped her chin forward minutely to be kissed, and Wendy obliged without breaking the gaze, her spine refusing to hold her upright so that she fell, boneless, to the floor again. They both sighed as their bodies made contact, sinking together as their eyelashes fluttered closed. Lacey's skin was hot and soft, and Wendy stretched her fingers as wide as they would go, trying to feel as much as possible.

She found the dip of her spine and slid her fingers upwards, slowly. Lacey moaned into the kiss and her hips rocked slightly, possibly even unconsciously. In any case, when Wendy's hands changed course and her fingertips danced down Lacey's sides, they rocked again, harder, and Wendy got an idea, possibly from the same idea factory in her brain that had produced the idea to kiss Lacey in the first place. Carefully, she shifted her legs, arranging them so that Lacey straddled her thigh, and repeated the gesture.

Lacey broke the kiss to draw in a ragged breath, holding herself up with one palm against the floor near Wendy's head, staring down with eyes completely dominated by dark pupils as she rocked against Wendy's tensing thigh with purpose. Wendy gripped Lacey by the hips, the material of her barely-there-anyways shorts bunching between her fingers, ostensibly to help stabilize her even though mostly Wendy just needed something to do it her hands. Her idea had worked a little too quickly, and she hadn't had time to think of her next one.

Then Lacey shifted her weight slightly, and Wendy stopped thinking altogether, because Lacey's thigh was pressing against her in a distinct rhythm that was apparently exactly what Wendy needed, and Wendy panted into Lacey's open mouth, her eyes slamming shut at the same moment a high, squeaking sound emerged from her throat.

Despite the fact that it felt good, very good, good enough that Wendy's entire body was beginning to burn in an almost-forgotten manner, two things entered her consciousness and refused to leave again: one, she really wished they had made it to a bed, and two, she really, really wished they'd had the foresight to remove their pants.

She gripped Lacey's hips, hard, and held her in place as she lowered her leg slightly, hoping to stop them long enough to articulate her desires because, as good as this was? Wendy was pretty sure it would be even better if her back wasn't in danger of splinters and the zipper of her pants wasn't a constant threat.

Lacey whimpered, her eyes shooting open and hitting Wendy with the saddest puppy-dog expression she had ever seen anyone make, and Wendy immediately realized she didn't have the willpower to accomplish her goals. Rather than sensibly put her leg back in place, however, and without much thought behind the movement, Wendy simply slid a hand past Lacey's waistband.

Lacey practically convulsed, head thunking down against Wendy's collarbone as Wendy ran her fingers over soaked, twitching heat and discovered that apparently, like kung fu, lesbian sex was something Wendy was immediately and irrationally good at, because her fingers seemed to be hitting all the right places and Lacey wasn't so much breathing as just constantly moaning. Finally, two of her fingers circled her opening and Lacey jerked forwards, which Wendy took as permission to proceed as she wanted to.

Lacey's teeth clamped down on her collarbone, but Wendy barely even registered the flash of pain, because, hi? Being inside Lacey was probably the most incredible thing her fingers had ever done. Wendy totally understood why guys were so keen on the idea.

She had a notion that this could be even better if she had more leverage, so she cupped the back of Lacey's head in her free hand and carefully rolled them over. Her fingers sank even deeper and Lacey hooked a leg around the small of her back and Wendy had to work really hard to keep from roaring in pride like some kind of lesbian stud lioness. Instead, she leaned down to place kisses on every inch of skin she could reach without breaking rhythm, avoiding her lips because Lacey seemed to be coming apart way to quickly to be able to kiss back.

Lacey's breath hitched, and everything seemed to go still even though nothing had really stopped. "Dub Dub?" Responding to the broken, almost piteous tone, Wendy lifted her head and blinked hard, clearing her vision enough to look at Lacey's face even though the way Lacey was beginning to grip at her fingers was about the most distracting thing ever. "W-Wendy?"

Wendy registered the wide eyed, skittish look in her eyes and cupped Lacey's cheek in her free hand, brushing that same lock of hair aside. "Hey, Lace," she responded, breathlessly. "It's okay. I'm right here." She didn't know what else to say.

Apparently it was enough. Lacey's eyes snapped impossibly wide and something that was almost but not quite a scream exploded from her chest. Wendy hardly noticed either, completely enamored with the way her fingers were locked in place by twitching muscles and a veritable flood of moisture was pouring into her palm. Her chest felt tight and she realized that she wasn't breathing. She exhaled profoundly and when she inhaled, all she could smell was Lacey, and that realization brought along with it how very close to coming Wendy was all by herself. She forced herself to remain still, waiting for Lacey to recoup.

Lacey, her breathing nowhere near under control, wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Lacey?" Wendy asked, distracted, propping herself up to a better vantage point. "Are you crying?"

Lacey peeked through her fingers. "I, um… no?"

Wendy frowned and gently pulled her fingers free, using both hands to pull at Lacey's wrists and pin them to the floor, looking critically at her best friend's face. "Yeah, you kinda are. Did I hurt you? Because I am so sorry if – "

Lacey kissed her, quickly, as a means of shutting her up since Wendy had both of her hands trapped. "You didn't hurt me."

Wendy sighed in relief, sinking down into Lacey's body before tensing again. "You're having, like, a thing about this, aren't you? You're about to explode in some kind of gay panic and I should go make you some tea or something, right?" She let go of Lacey's wrists and braced her palms on the floor, ready to shoot onto her feet.

But Lacey hooked her fingers through her belt loops, pulling gently. "No, I'm not," she replied gently, smiling in a way that squinted her eyes up and made Wendy feel all kinds of uncomfortably warm and fuzzy inside. She began to wonder if she needed to go make herself some tea. Or something. Lacey took a deep breath and glanced down their bodies. "I can't believe you," she mused after a moment, jokingly aggrieved. "I mean, you're still practically almost dressed."

Wendy grinned, most of her panic dissolving in a warm, liquid fashion. "Well, the person undressing me got a little bit distracted." She measured the distance with her thumb and forefinger, squinting comically.

Lacey huffed and rolled her eyes, grabbing the rumpled collar of her shirt and kissing her soundly as she tugged the white cotton down her arms. Wendy's arousal came fluttering back to life, and she let herself be pushed, her back thumping against the couch, Lacey kneeling between her bent legs. Her head fell back and she gave herself over to Lacey's obviously superior kissing abilities.

When Lacey stopped kissing her, Wendy opened her mouth to ask why, when she heard the reason. Sighing, she rolled her eyes towards the sound and the flashing of her watch. "Jiminy Cricket," she swore absently, noting the fact that the watch face was aimed directly at the couch.

Lacey giggled, rocking back onto her heels. "Go ahead."

Wendy's eyebrow crawled upwards. "Are you kidding me?"

Blond hair whipped from side to side as Lacey levered herself upright and stepped over Wendy's knees, toeing out of her shoes as she went. "Answer the phone watch thing. I'll be in your bed."

Wendy blinked and grabbed for her shirt, struggling her arms into it and holding it together with one fist as she lunged for the still ringing watch. Ida's face filled the screen and Wendy immediately closed her eyes, sinking down onto the couch. "About time, Sappho. I was running out of fingernails to file. Not that that's something you'd worry about any more."

"Enjoy the show, Ida?" Wendy snarked back, then decided she didn't have time for banter. "What do you want?"

"Cool your heels, kitty licker. Boss wanted to ask how soon you could be back in. There's a report of a German rap group writing a prayer to Beelzebub into one of their songs that's causing dozens of hardcore Germanic gangstas to become mindless pawns of the smelliest demon in the Underworld."

Wendy scratched her head, glancing back towards her bedroom, and then scrambled to hold her shirt closed again at Ida's exaggerated leer. "Gimme an hour. Maybe two?" Ida gave her a look, and she rolled her eyes. "German rap is not that popular a subgenre. There's time."

"Whatever you say, Ellen Degener– " Wendy slapped the watch, face down, onto the coffee table, and struggled to untie her boots and walk up the stairs at the same time. She only had a couple of hours, and she'd be damned if she used any more of it trying to get undressed gracefully.

The End

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