Title: Paper Tiger
Author: unwinding fantasy (formerly Aqua Phoenix1)
Disclaimer: Don't own 24.
Rating: T (rated for sexual situations.)
Warning: Horny!Logan ahead. Proceed at own risk.
He looks at her, head tilted downwards as if he's guarding himself against a rainstorm. The gesture makes his neck disappear, lost within the voluminous folds of skin congealing round his chin, a snail retreating into its shell. Martha forces herself to meet his gaze: watery blue eyes seem to reflect the semi-coldness of melting ice, or perhaps the dead coals of a fire. His weakness she can tolerate. It's the faint flicker of hope contained within those insubstantial orbs that the First Lady can't bare. Whether her revulsion evolved from Charles' audacity in believing he was still deserving of her affection or from her own duplicity -- after all, what did she mould herself into by betraying a dishonourable dog? -- Martha doesn't care to know.
Or is she so disgusted with herself because despite the treaty and the nerve gas and David and everything she still cares for him?
A maelstrom whirls up inside her stomach at the thought, making her want to heave, to spew out whatever sick love she may harbor for him yet. Martha falters, sinks to the bed to cover her light-headedness. She hopes the spongy surface will engulf her, squeeze the taint from her goose-pimply flesh. It's awful to consider Charles is anything other than abhorrent to her but then again it's difficult to chain one's memories to some lost portion of one's mind and throw away the key.
His mouth is moving like a fish gasping for air, choking on being alive. Martha realises abruptly that he's been spouting some claptrap -- inane justifications for his actions, no doubt -- and is expecting a reply. And she's been staring resolutely at the floor for the past God knows how many minutes. How she wishes her suite housed something harder than wine!
"You're the president," she ventures, privately omitting the capital P, knowing he won't perceive the words as the hollow husks they are. Charles hears what Charles wants to hear. And if Charles was happy, the vice president would be happy, Mike would be happy, Congress would be happy. Even the terrorists would be happy. There would be sunshine in winter whenever Charles Logan was pleased!
Martha surmises he is arrogant enough to believe it.
A slow smile, like a worm crawling from the bowels of an oozing swamp, works its way onto her husband's face. If she hadn't been so paralysed by the warring emotions inside her, Martha would have had to refrain from hitting him. She's unsure whether she would have been entirely successful, either.
"Martie…" he beseeches her and the pet name pierces like an arrowhead. He's lower than a lifeblood-sucking leech, spawning more deceit and hatred, all the while growing fatter at innocents' expense and she wants to do nothing less than prick him and watch him burst in a spray of custard-yellow cowardice and God help her she loves him, the bastard.
Maybe she is crazy. Martha prays that's the case.
Salty wetness clings to her cheeks, leaving the skin feeling taut as it dries. He moves above her. She thinks of how many lies have spilled from the dead lips ghosting over her flesh, a corpse's tool attuned to preaching unlife. Twisting rumpled bedcovers in shaking hands, Martha comforts herself with the notion that if she died now, everything would fade to dark and she could add necrophilia to his infinite list of sins. She pushes him away -- gently, gently, she chants her mantra silently -- and moves to dim the lights. Charles' face is distorted in the werelight, an assortment of fissures and lumpy hills that morph his features into an ugly landscape but this way she can pretend he's not hers. Her traitorous garments slide easily from her shoulders; his eagerly rustle behind her. Then she's on the bed, his desire making bile rise in her throat and she's daring to ask for divine help -- let me stop caring, let me perform well.
His mouth devours her all.
When he plunges himself into her, he's driving a sword through her belly (in out in out quick breath slow death.) When he comes, his seed clings to her body, stifling her shallow panting. Vile essence for a bitch (only dogs inhale/exhale like her.)
"I love you," he breathes. Martha swallows and smiles.
She smiles a tremulous smile.
She smiles until her face pulls out of shape.
End Notes:
- Martie? Marty? I'm not sure.
- Disturbed? So is Martha.
- Final line adapted from They're Not Your Husband by Raymond Carver.