Author: Bibi
Email: gorgeousbibi@h...
Title: Hometime
Characters: CJ
Rating: Fun for all the family.
Disclaimer: WB owns everything. I can't make money any other way;
why
the heck would this be the exception?
Spoilers: Nope.
Feedback: Yes please, good & bad.
Bibi's Note: This is my first ever fic, so blame Angie for making
me
write it. Really, big thanks to Angie for helping me so so much.
And
Chris for thinking 'that giant woman' is cool. Erm, liked the title
at four this morning, but now I'm not so sure. Ho hum.
Thrusting $20 into the driver's hand, CJ emerged from the cab,
looking and feeling old. As she walked up the stone steps to her
apartment, clutching the box of take-out, her mood did not improve-
it was nearly midnight and she felt that she'd achieved nothing.
CJ replayed her day in her head:
The President had ridden his bicycle into a tree, making the
administration a laughing stock. Cubans were living such awful
lives
that they'd risk everything to reach `the land of the
free'- the land
of the free where millions of Americans were illiterate and living
below the poverty level. Unemployment was rising, while at the same
time managers of big companies gave themselves pay rises for
ruining
yet more of their planet. The rich got richer and the poor got
poorer.
There was nothing she had done to end any of it, make any of it
better. She had just sat in a meeting and not managed to say a
word.
Her apartment, as always, was cold and empty. She looked around the
all-too-familiar scene. No one was there to welcome her and the
unblinking red light on her answering machine told her there were
no
messages: no one had called all day. There was just the TV, the
couch
and her now tepid Chinese take-away.
CJ sat down at the couch, put her feet up on the coffee table and
began to eat her food. She'd read somewhere, perhaps a Glamour
magazine in a dentist's waiting room, that eating after eight in
the
evening could make you fat. She snorted a little at the thought.
Managing to find time to eat was trouble enough, her hectic
schedule
would never allow her to consume enough to outweigh the energy
expended through running around from briefing to meeting for
fourteen
or more hours a day. All women worry about their weight, she
thought.
Not her. Perhaps it showed that she was something less than a
woman,
perhaps it showed that she hadn't quite the same inner-workings.
She
knew that the men at work considered her one of them, forgot that
she
wasn't in possession of the same Y chromosome and while she knew
she
wanted to feel feminine, she had come to believe that this would
lessen her power and her standing in their eyes. So, she wore her
hair cut short and wore plain, sombre suits, ignoring fashion to
appear efficient: to appear more masculine.
Glancing around the room, CJ saw, not for the first time, how empty
her house really was. On the mantelpiece were pictures of a father
who was rapidly losing his mind; brothers she saw once a year if
she
was lucky, and nieces and nephews who didn't recognise her on the
few
occasions that they did meet. She made a mental note to phone her
father, to let him know that she still loved him and thought about
him. She'd all but severed her ties with her family and knew that
she
needed to make amends for that.
She rose from the couch and walked slowly to the drinks cabinet.
She
opened the lacquered doors and removed a bottle, beginning to pour
herself a large measure of gin. She stopped when she noticed the
unopened bottle of scotch, nestling at he back of the cabinet
between
the vodka and the polished mahogany. She picked it up, feeling its
weight in her hand. She'd bought it for Toby, hoping he'd
come to her
house more often and talk, exchange ideas about the world and how
they were going to fix it, just as they used to do in college, and
even after, when they were on the campaign trail. But he'd never
drunk a drop. Since they'd been in the White House, he'd been
far to
busy to spend time with his old friend, preferring to stay at the
office late or read memos at home- too busy to relax with her. Time
spent with friends was time not spent arguing with Republicans or
writing eloquent speeches to make the President's message clear
to
the American people; working at becoming the Voice of the President
Sighing, she carefully poured her gin back into its turquoise
bottle,
catching the colorless drop that slid down the neck and sucking it
from her finger, and then went to the kitchenette to rinse out her
glass. Standing her glass on a coaster, she poured out two fingers
worth of the tawny whiskey. She inhaled the scent deeply, the smell
reminding her of smoky bars and the cheap motel rooms that they'd
stayed up late in, discussing what they were going to do to make a
difference to people's lives if they ever made it to Pennsylvania
Avenue.
Sipping on the whisky, its warmth spreading through her chest, she
realized that it wasn't Toby she was pining for; she was pining
for
the girl she had once been. She was pining for the girl with her
whole life ahead of her, who thought a career and family would be
so
easy to combine. The girl with a thousand shining tomorrows, each
of
them filled with the laughter and love of her husband and children,
as well as the admiration and respect of her colleagues. She knew
that now it was too late to be all she had wanted to be. She would
never cook Thanksgiving dinner for her impatient husband and
children. A sick child in need of comfort would never call
her `Mommy'. Heirlooms, passed on for generations came to a
dead-end
with her. She was a cul-de-sac for her grandmother's pearls and
for
her mother's diamond bracelet.
CJ sighed and rested her head on her hands, rubbing her temples
with
long, slender fingers. It was time to let go of those dreams, and
to
look forward rather than back. She had to make new goals for
herself
and work out how to achieve fulfilment without those things she'd
always dreamed of.
She drained her glass in one measured movement, and stood up to go
to
bed. Tomorrow, she'd make a difference.
Email: gorgeousbibi@h...
Title: Hometime
Characters: CJ
Rating: Fun for all the family.
Disclaimer: WB owns everything. I can't make money any other way;
why
the heck would this be the exception?
Spoilers: Nope.
Feedback: Yes please, good & bad.
Bibi's Note: This is my first ever fic, so blame Angie for making
me
write it. Really, big thanks to Angie for helping me so so much.
And
Chris for thinking 'that giant woman' is cool. Erm, liked the title
at four this morning, but now I'm not so sure. Ho hum.
Thrusting $20 into the driver's hand, CJ emerged from the cab,
looking and feeling old. As she walked up the stone steps to her
apartment, clutching the box of take-out, her mood did not improve-
it was nearly midnight and she felt that she'd achieved nothing.
CJ replayed her day in her head:
The President had ridden his bicycle into a tree, making the
administration a laughing stock. Cubans were living such awful
lives
that they'd risk everything to reach `the land of the
free'- the land
of the free where millions of Americans were illiterate and living
below the poverty level. Unemployment was rising, while at the same
time managers of big companies gave themselves pay rises for
ruining
yet more of their planet. The rich got richer and the poor got
poorer.
There was nothing she had done to end any of it, make any of it
better. She had just sat in a meeting and not managed to say a
word.
Her apartment, as always, was cold and empty. She looked around the
all-too-familiar scene. No one was there to welcome her and the
unblinking red light on her answering machine told her there were
no
messages: no one had called all day. There was just the TV, the
couch
and her now tepid Chinese take-away.
CJ sat down at the couch, put her feet up on the coffee table and
began to eat her food. She'd read somewhere, perhaps a Glamour
magazine in a dentist's waiting room, that eating after eight in
the
evening could make you fat. She snorted a little at the thought.
Managing to find time to eat was trouble enough, her hectic
schedule
would never allow her to consume enough to outweigh the energy
expended through running around from briefing to meeting for
fourteen
or more hours a day. All women worry about their weight, she
thought.
Not her. Perhaps it showed that she was something less than a
woman,
perhaps it showed that she hadn't quite the same inner-workings.
She
knew that the men at work considered her one of them, forgot that
she
wasn't in possession of the same Y chromosome and while she knew
she
wanted to feel feminine, she had come to believe that this would
lessen her power and her standing in their eyes. So, she wore her
hair cut short and wore plain, sombre suits, ignoring fashion to
appear efficient: to appear more masculine.
Glancing around the room, CJ saw, not for the first time, how empty
her house really was. On the mantelpiece were pictures of a father
who was rapidly losing his mind; brothers she saw once a year if
she
was lucky, and nieces and nephews who didn't recognise her on the
few
occasions that they did meet. She made a mental note to phone her
father, to let him know that she still loved him and thought about
him. She'd all but severed her ties with her family and knew that
she
needed to make amends for that.
She rose from the couch and walked slowly to the drinks cabinet.
She
opened the lacquered doors and removed a bottle, beginning to pour
herself a large measure of gin. She stopped when she noticed the
unopened bottle of scotch, nestling at he back of the cabinet
between
the vodka and the polished mahogany. She picked it up, feeling its
weight in her hand. She'd bought it for Toby, hoping he'd
come to her
house more often and talk, exchange ideas about the world and how
they were going to fix it, just as they used to do in college, and
even after, when they were on the campaign trail. But he'd never
drunk a drop. Since they'd been in the White House, he'd been
far to
busy to spend time with his old friend, preferring to stay at the
office late or read memos at home- too busy to relax with her. Time
spent with friends was time not spent arguing with Republicans or
writing eloquent speeches to make the President's message clear
to
the American people; working at becoming the Voice of the President
Sighing, she carefully poured her gin back into its turquoise
bottle,
catching the colorless drop that slid down the neck and sucking it
from her finger, and then went to the kitchenette to rinse out her
glass. Standing her glass on a coaster, she poured out two fingers
worth of the tawny whiskey. She inhaled the scent deeply, the smell
reminding her of smoky bars and the cheap motel rooms that they'd
stayed up late in, discussing what they were going to do to make a
difference to people's lives if they ever made it to Pennsylvania
Avenue.
Sipping on the whisky, its warmth spreading through her chest, she
realized that it wasn't Toby she was pining for; she was pining
for
the girl she had once been. She was pining for the girl with her
whole life ahead of her, who thought a career and family would be
so
easy to combine. The girl with a thousand shining tomorrows, each
of
them filled with the laughter and love of her husband and children,
as well as the admiration and respect of her colleagues. She knew
that now it was too late to be all she had wanted to be. She would
never cook Thanksgiving dinner for her impatient husband and
children. A sick child in need of comfort would never call
her `Mommy'. Heirlooms, passed on for generations came to a
dead-end
with her. She was a cul-de-sac for her grandmother's pearls and
for
her mother's diamond bracelet.
CJ sighed and rested her head on her hands, rubbing her temples
with
long, slender fingers. It was time to let go of those dreams, and
to
look forward rather than back. She had to make new goals for
herself
and work out how to achieve fulfilment without those things she'd
always dreamed of.
She drained her glass in one measured movement, and stood up to go
to
bed. Tomorrow, she'd make a difference.