Warning: this does contain description of kissing between two females, also known as femmeslash. Please, I don't want to hear that you find it offensive or disgusting; I would, however, appreciate any constructive criticism and comments about the story structure, content and language.
It is a Sunday in June, over six months since the election, and due to the influence of some higher deity CJ has the afternoon off. She wakes at midday, and makes herself a sandwich for lunch, with her pager in its usual prominent position on the work top opposite. She sits with the radio on, tuned to some cultural show, and sits at her granite kitchen bar to eat her lunch in the quiet little apartment she calls home. By the time it is two o'clock, the show has ended, and some brash comedian she dislikes comes on the air. She flicks the off switch, and decides to take a walk, ignoring the general mess of her house. She pulls out her comfy shoes - the stripy sandals that Hogan bought her for inauguration last year - and attempts to fix up her hair, but then gives up, twists the latch on the door and opens it.
Standing outside her door though, hand poised comically in the air as though to knock on the door and with a slightly open mouthed expression, is Zoey Bartlet.
"Oh," she says, more than a little staggered, "Hello."
She had planned to spend her day alone, maybe shop – how long has it been since she had new lingerie? - but Zoey's there, and so she decides to go to the park. Only a few hundred yards from her home and she loves it, especially in the evening which is when she sees it the most. She sits sometimes, and makes notes; it's enlightening to spend time in places other than the inside of her office. The Secret Service are displeased when she tells them where they're going and she can practically hear them bitching about her mentally as they pace behind them, but it's her life and she doesn't care too much. They're being paid, after all, and she wants to take a walk.
The little gang - CJ, Zoey, and the agents - are entirely conspicuous as they make their way through the quaint little park near her house; they scowl at passers-by, and Zoey has been giggling loudly on and off since a dog began jumping and snapping at the ankles of one of the sterner male agents. She leans on CJ as they walk slowly, following the path and sipping their coffees, talking about everything and nothing. Zoey, being a mature nineteen year old, attempts to play on the children's swings, and CJ who laughs, and grabs the one next to her. It had been raining a little earlier, and then the sun disappeared behind some clouds, so they began walking home. Both of them are covered with tiny droplets of water and pollen particles that cling to them - and in particular, to the soles of the feet - and the tip of Zoey's nose is turning sunburnt red, standing out against the paleness of her cheeks.
There are no press around, and when she tosses her cup into a nearby bin and links her arm in with CJ's, they look at each other and smile. If Zoey's hip is pressed perhaps a little too close to CJ's, neither of them say anything, and if CJ's gaze rests a little too long on Zoey's lips, well that isn't mentioned either.
They say goodbye at the house. They stand awkwardly in the hallway; Zoey, doing her best not to look at CJ's face, but instead focusing her eyes on the hardwood floor, whilst CJ lounges against the wall elegantly. Before she leaves, CJ moves in to hug Zoey briefly, and feels her embrace back. Zoey's surprisingly warm for somebody who just spent two hours outdoors, and she breathes in the smell of wood and grass and the slightly rancid smell of rain on cloth.
They hug, and fall apart. Zoey's fingers rest lightly on CJ's forearm and her thumb strokes the delicately curved wrist where the blue-green veins show through the pale skin. She twists her head to look up at CJ, who looks at her calmly, as though this were an everyday occurrence, to be filed with 'work' and 'sleeping'. In the quiet of the hallway, every sharp inhaled breath is heard; every shallow breath magnified until the sound is loud that the silence is vanquished.
The touch is unexpected; if it came from anybody else, it would have been a turn on, and CJ is suddenly ashamed of her thoughts. She tries to pull away gently, but she can't; she's frozen. She doesn't know where this tension suddenly came from – she thought it had dissipated since the election – but she knows it has to end now, before it begins.
She clears her throat as Zoey holds on.
"CJ..."
"Zoey." She sounds a little hoarse to her ears, but what does she know? She can barely hear the silence for the blood rushing in her ears.
"You're like an aunt to me, you do know that, right?" Zoey almost whispers the last part, hesitating, with her head quirked, and her eyes shining. Her mouth is slightly open and CJ has the urge to kiss her deeply, to feel those lips under her own. She stiffens, and tries not to move. Zoey's convincing herself of something. CJ doesn't know what.
"I know."
Her hand falls heavily to her side when Zoey lets go and leaves, her shoes tapping lightly against the wooden floor.
The next time they meet, it's unexpected. CJ still doesn't know why Zoey came to see her before – she never asked, only dropped unanswered hints into their conversation – but this time, they almost ignore each other. Zoey is dressed in a resplendent green dress; it suits her perfectly, and CJ idly wonders who made it. She spends her evening drinking expensive wine, and talking to well dressed business men, and their perfect looking and boring, trophy wives, but it's not enough to keep her mind off her, and she glances over at Zoey a little too frequently, despite her self imposed ban. Looking can be as revealing as touching, and the press are swarming around the guests, as evident as flies are in champagne. One wrong photograph could change her life, and so she doesn't dare speak to her.
They almost ignore each other, until the end of the party.
Zoey looks up suddenly at CJ, who is talking with a stranger that smells a little of whiskey and acts like he's had too much of it as well, and grins. She tilts her head sideways; gesturing to the door. CJ makes her excuses to the man, and leaves. Zoey follows after her; her agents a respectful distance away.
"Hey CJ," says Zoey, smiling in the twilight.
"Hey," replies CJ, smiling too, struck by the catch of the light in Zoey's hair. Clichéd, yes, but she can't help but think of the strands of hair as forming a halo around her head. Zoey wraps her shawl around her shoulders – evenings in June are still cool – and moves closer to CJ, who hitches her dress up and leans against a white washed pillar. The flowerbeds around them are bright; an array of flower in pink and purple, and their scent drifts lightly on the breeze, disguising the scent of lust CJ's sure she's radiating.
"You look bored in there," Zoey says, curiously. "Don't you like the events?"
It's moments like these that remind CJ of Zoey's age; she's unused to the events she has to attend, and she's never been to Hollywood thankfully, so the cheerful innocence she shows is endearing.
She grins. "Your father makes us attend."
"Ah. That explains a lot then."
"It does?" CJ asks questionably.
"Yes."
"Like what?" CJ creases her forehead as she struggles to understand what she means.
Boldly, Zoey says, "You looked bored. Then avoided me. I figured my father was somehow involved."
"No, I didn't."
"You barely even greeted me!"
"I didn't have time. I'm working, Zoey, I have- had- things to do."
"Were you thinking about me?"
"Zoey!"
"It's a question CJ."
"Yes, but…!"
"But you were, weren't you?" Zoey's voice is a mixture; accusation is entwined with amusement and lust is buried in there too.
"Zoey…"
"I was."
"You were thinking about yourself?" CJ deliberately misunderstands, because her brain is currently shutting down at the sheer strangeness of the situation. This is the White House, and she's deathly frightened that she'll be fired from it if she's caught, but she doesn't care. Blood has stopped flowing to her brain. She's losing control already.
"I was thinking about you."
Five words are all it takes. The statement CJ needs, so she pushes herself off of the wall with her hands, folding them around her waist, and stands opposite Zoey.
"Yes," she says almost unconsciously, "I was."
She takes another step forward, and Zoey mirrors her. They meet in the middle, behind the pillars, and CJ holds Zoey round the waist as she kisses her. And for some reason, all she sees in her head are a million dancers, with their skirts flaring, all in red. It's a strange image; but it's a strange situation, because Zoey kisses back.
Zoey kisses back, and the kiss is unexpectedly delightful; sweet and light, as she knew it would be. It deepens a little,but then Zoey distentangles herself, andbreathes the cool night air in deeply, tightening the wrap around her waist.
"Oh. Oh, wow. Oh."
Zoey is speechless, unusual for a Bartlet, and CJ laughs at her, and links their fingers together.
"Come on," she says remarkably calmly, "Let's go inside." She tugs her hand gently, and nods to the imperceptible agent that has been standing guard. They walk indoors.