DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and all its characters belong to NBC, no infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
The voice wrapped in honey and dipped in silk flows over the press secretary like a waterfall, pulling her from a restless sleep. She resists.
"C.J.," is whispered closer to her ear, and she feels the warm breath tickle her neck. She thinks, knows, she must be dreaming. Only in her dreams would she wake to that voice and that touch; it has been the same in every dream she's had in the last six years.
Finally opening her eyes, she is stunned by the flash of burgundy that passes by her vision before a face comes into view.
She groans and closes her eyes again.
"Hi ma'am," she says, her words muffled by her desk blotter. Decorum returns to her tired limbs and she stands so abruptly she startles herself and her guest, whose amusement is light and carefree.
"C.J., don't do that. You could hurt yourself " a beat "or me."
C.J. looks repentant but is too exhausted to do much about it. Before she can explain, the redhead next to her motions for her to take a seat. C.J. does as ordered, not surprised that Abbey doesn't request a justification C.J. believes she can read minds.
She only meant to rest her head for a moment, didn't mean to fall asleep, especially in such an uncomfortable position. Her hand comes up to massage her neck before it is batted away to be replaced by the cool fingers of the First Lady. C.J. thinks she should put an end to this right now, knows that it is not proper, but her desire to feel the other woman's skin is too strong.
"Did you need something?" she asks. At least, she thinks, she can say she attempted some level of etiquette when she's making excuses to herself later.
"I wanted to say hello," is the response. C.J. hums quietly in reply and is close to sleep again when she feels soft lips on her cheek.
Her nerve endings now wide awake, the lanky press secretary jolts from her chair only to discover an empty room. Touching her face in awe, she sighs at the repetitive nature of her hope. One day, she forces herself to believe, one day she will wake to the feel of her dream lover's body. Sitting down again, she rests her head on the back of her chair and closes her eyes.
Return to The West Wing Fiction
Return to Main Page