There's A Girl That You Might Know
Thought I would treat the femslash lovers to a christmas treat. Enjoy!
"What a perfect Christmas" C.J. thought ironically as she raised the blinds in her office. She was stuck, once more, in her office on Christmas Eve. A terrorist in Quran again, and four American girls in college dead. There would be no peace in the world tonight.
C.J. thought about her own time in college. Brown had treated her well but she had never felt comfortable there, seeking solace with smart, mean men. They had all been afraid of her she had figured later, as most men were. She was too tall, her shoulders were broad and her intellect and ambition stronger than any of theirs had been. So she had hunched over a bit, learned to dress quietly and speak softly to let them feel the fairer sex really had been conquered. Then she had met Brett. Brett had been one of those jerk's exes they kept running into on their cheap, unoriginal dates. Brett was a small woman, but she claimed the title too proudly. She had a daring little pixie cut that made her look even more feminine and whatever boyfriend they had shared (Was it Phil? Colin?) had revealed that more than once Brett had deliberately kicked him where it hurt the most (C.J. immediately admired this as she had more than once wanted to do the same).
C.J. had broken it off with the boy and forgotten Brett for a summer and then walked into her fall polisci seminar only to find the only empty seat next to the ex. Awkward and still growing into her legs C.J. had leaned away from the girl and sink lower into her plastic chair. Brett had (C.J. was still amazed at her bravado today) scribbled on her legal pad something witty about C.J. ignoring her and from that very moment on it was a sort of blur. The lady Brett swept C.J. off her feet.
Brett was clever and loud, she smoked Marlboro Reds but not enough that she smelled like them. No, she smelled like coconut and thick cream. Brett didn't drink cheap beer like the rest of them, nor did she drink often. She picked particular nights, scooped C.J. out of her books and did countless tequila shots off every man in sight. Brett talked about foreign policy and philosophy and art and when she walked she curled her hips sensually. Most charmingly, Brett seemed to be absolutely taken with C.J. (this had to be a lie!). She would exclaim at a moments' notice her envy of C.J.'s long legs and flat chest (Brett had neither) and athleticism (Brett was tiny and unathletic, but seemed to consume nothing but diet coke and juicy, rich pears). Where Brett had thought-out and manipulative arguments C.J. was quick-witted and always merciful.
One night, drunk on tequila and their throats thick from smoke and the cold air, they had climbed (as usual) into bed together. C.J. had no idea how it had happened, who had made what move. Someone had leant too far over, meaning to kiss a cheek perhaps and accidentally kissing a neck, only to be answered with a bitten earlobe and a stifled giggle. Perhaps it had been then a tickle on the inside of C.J.'s thick sweater, a hand up Brett's daring wife beater tank top, finally, world-stoppingly, a soft and hungry kiss, then a rapid removal of any clothes left, a pause and a laugh when some banjo-playing student walked by, and, C.J. thought to herself, she didn't remember getting any sleep that night….
Brett had moved on quickly, to who C.J. didn't remember, some dark arrogant boy or gorgeous blonde bombshell. Brett never stayed very long anywhere. C.J. had heard her name again just a few years ago, she was writing poetry or curating some show in New York. C.J. wondered if Brett ever turned on CNN and thought of her.
It had been Christmas Eve, C.J. remembered. Not much of a Christmas really, rather like this one.
Okay it's been AGES since I wrote anything on here, but West Wing definitely needs more femslash. Like, right now. This can be a oneshot, or you can review and I can write more.