Fic: Doing Well on Television Has Its Own Rewards, CJ/Ainsley, PG
Title: Doing Well on Television Has Its Own Rewards
Author: lauriestein
Recipient: ariestess
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: CJ/Ainsley
Rating: PG
Word count: 1430
Disclaimer: Not mine - all belonging to Aaron Sorkin, NBC, John Wells Productions et al. No profit is being made, honest!
Warnings: None required that I can think of. Bipartisanship, if that weirds you out?
Summary: (set in early s3) CJ wants to say thank you to Ainsley for helping them out with Rawlings and shifting the battle. Then there's wine.
"You did well last night on Capital Beat."
Ainsley looks up from her computer screen at the interruption, losing her train of thought in the process. She discovers CJ, with whom she’s now on first-name terms, and is no longer just that woman she used to see on C-SPAN five times a day. CJ, who accused her of killing her pets, which seems incongruous with the tired eyes and kind smile beaming at Ainsley from the doorway of the illustrious Steam Trunk Pipe Distribution Venue.
"Thank you. Although you already told me that, upstairs."
Suspicion still comes naturally to Ainsley, no matter how many times people point out that she is the potential traitor in everyone else's midst. Nothing as overt as Brookline and Joyce's antics have cropped up since Sam fired them, but the hostile glares and sudden hushes when she walks into a room haven't stopped completely. A compliment from CJ, the same compliment twice now, isn't easy to accept but Ainsley tries her best.
"I know. I guess I wanted to... well, I want you to know that I meant it. It can't be easy being the token Republican around here when the rest of your party is baying for our blood."
With a shrug, Ainsley flicks her eyes back to the screen, deleting an errant comma.
"When are they not? The spirit of bipartisanship is usually good and dead by this point in an election cycle anyway."
CJ steps into the room, and it's hesitant despite the long stride. Ainsley can't recall seeing the Press Secretary down here since last year, when there was Gilbert & Sullivan and cupcakes that made her head spin. Those relatively carefree days seem a million miles from Special Prosecutors and every synonym the press can come up with for lying. Feeling courteous, despite the fact that this brief still isn't finished and Babish will be looking for it sometime in the morning, Ainsley motions to the unoccupied but decidedly shaky chair in front of her desk. Nodding in acceptance, CJ folds herself down onto the cracked pleather surface and almost succeeds in hiding her grimace. Senior staff aren't accustomed to hand-me-down office furniture, it seems.
"Well anyway, it's tougher than normal. I wanted you to know I appreciate everything you and Babish are doing." Not Oliver, Ainsley notes, and if the notes she sneaked a look at from the Senior Staff interviews with her boss are any indication, there's been no love lost between Babish and CJ since their first meeting. "And thank you for getting it out there about the Law Review."
Biting her tongue, Ainsley suppresses the instinct to append the "Yale" that CJ forgot, because that sort of thing is important to a woman whose alma mater has its own, arguably superior title and distinctions have to be made.
"It didn't take much. And I shook my head, just like you told me. That's probably what sold it."
An exchange of grins at Ainsley's gentle dig, because CJ lives her life in the public eye and forgets sometimes that other people do have an idea of how to behave without her instructions.
"Are you almost done for the day? I thought I might take you for a drink, to really say thank you."
The questions coming racing to the front of Ainsley's mind: why her, or why now? Shouldn't Josh and Sam and Toby be closer to the top of CJ's list? Or are the rumors of infighting between the Senior Staff actually true?
It would be so easy to beg off, with a host of valid excuses, not least that Ainsley needs to take her contacts out before her eyes dry out completely or that this brief is neither finished nor anywhere near her usual high standards. But Ainsley's curiosity, or maybe the part of her who never got invited anywhere in junior high, wins out in the silent wrestling match in her head.
So she agrees politely, grabs her purse and follows CJ out into the night. There's a lightness in her step and in her head that makes Ainsley feel better than she has in weeks. Nobody thinks to ask her what she thinks of the President's non-disclosure, whether because it's assumed that she toes the party line, or that her opinion doesn't count, Ainsley can't be sure. All she can be sure of is that CJ won't want to talk about it tonight, and Ainsley is perfectly happy to go along.
They make it to the bar at the Tabard Inn, which is pleasingly close and on Ainsley's route home. Before they can order a much-needed bottle of Pinot Noir there's a scene with a loud and intoxicated man that CJ handles with calm exasperation. Sensing that the bar is no longer the refuge both women were hoping for, Ainsley does the unthinkable and mentions the really nice Chilean reds she has in the wine rack at home.
CJ hesitates before accepting, and it becomes a painful few seconds for Ainsley and her sudden attack of nerves. She stumbles in her next few sentences, reverting to the iambic pentameter and other awkward cadences that she is so frequently mocked for. But they resolve the clumsiness and a cab is called, since both of their cars are still in the staff parking lot.
As houseguests go, CJ is delightful. Away from public scrutiny, she visibly relaxes and compliments Ainsley on her cosy apartment. With consummate skill, she grabs the corkscrew from Ainsley and pours generous glasses for them both. The sensation that her stomach is somersaulting takes Ainsley by surprise, and she realizes that she hasn’t invited anyone back to her apartment since starting at the White House. It feels too intimate, suddenly, and it strikes her that it feels a lot like a date.
Which is ridiculous, of course, because CJ Cregg is linked with every handsome man in the Beltway most days of the week, and though she never seems to date publicly, every rumor screams heterosexuality. There’s Berkeley to consider of course, but how can Ainsley base anything on that when she herself went to Smith? After all, she’s had sex with quite a few women there and otherwise without changing her whole lifestyle. Ainsley wonders if that fact would shock CJ and when the talk turns, as it inevitably does, to dating, Ainsley drops a subtle bombshell. CJ doesn’t seem surprised at the news, and the grin on her face looks almost as though she wanted that to be the case.
Before Ainsley can ponder whether there’s a pool about her dating life running amongst the White House staffers, CJ has moved just that little bit closer on the sofa cushions. Up close, Ainsley is in no doubt as to why so many people have a guilty little crush on the Press Secretary. It’s more than the job title or the quiet confidence, and of course the forties film star looks and endless legs don’t hurt.
So the kiss, when CJ initiates it, isn’t quite as surprising as it would have been a few hours ago. Ainsley can taste the oak and tart black cherries of the wine on CJ’s lips, and when her tongue slips into Ainsley’s mouth there’s a undertone of mint. Unable to speak, Ainsley thinks of all the things she could have said, that she might still say if CJ stays the night in the dark cotton sheets of Ainsley’s lonely queen-sized bed. She lets the words fall away in favor of kissing CJ more thoroughly, of trying to impart silent promises that this won’t become another complication, another reason for CJ to think about running.
CJ seems to accept the wordless bargain, if the hitch in her breathing and the newfound intensity of her kisses are anything to go by. Ainsley is the one to lead the way to the bedroom, a consummate hostess even now. In many ways, she is not the woman her mother raised her to be, but some ingrained courtesies die hard. At last, Ainsley realizes, she feels involved: part of the inner circle that outsiders could only speculate about. Tonight, she’s creating her own dirty little secret, something that’s more valuable than any other currency in Washington circles.
And if this is how CJ says thank you (with her fingers tugging at Ainsley’s blouse, and kisses that press firmly at the base of her throat) then Ainsley is happy to say anything at all on any show, because the President’s pleasure is no longer the only one she’s serving at.
Author: lauriestein
Recipient: ariestess
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: CJ/Ainsley
Rating: PG
Word count: 1430
Disclaimer: Not mine - all belonging to Aaron Sorkin, NBC, John Wells Productions et al. No profit is being made, honest!
Warnings: None required that I can think of. Bipartisanship, if that weirds you out?
Summary: (set in early s3) CJ wants to say thank you to Ainsley for helping them out with Rawlings and shifting the battle. Then there's wine.
"You did well last night on Capital Beat."
Ainsley looks up from her computer screen at the interruption, losing her train of thought in the process. She discovers CJ, with whom she’s now on first-name terms, and is no longer just that woman she used to see on C-SPAN five times a day. CJ, who accused her of killing her pets, which seems incongruous with the tired eyes and kind smile beaming at Ainsley from the doorway of the illustrious Steam Trunk Pipe Distribution Venue.
"Thank you. Although you already told me that, upstairs."
Suspicion still comes naturally to Ainsley, no matter how many times people point out that she is the potential traitor in everyone else's midst. Nothing as overt as Brookline and Joyce's antics have cropped up since Sam fired them, but the hostile glares and sudden hushes when she walks into a room haven't stopped completely. A compliment from CJ, the same compliment twice now, isn't easy to accept but Ainsley tries her best.
"I know. I guess I wanted to... well, I want you to know that I meant it. It can't be easy being the token Republican around here when the rest of your party is baying for our blood."
With a shrug, Ainsley flicks her eyes back to the screen, deleting an errant comma.
"When are they not? The spirit of bipartisanship is usually good and dead by this point in an election cycle anyway."
CJ steps into the room, and it's hesitant despite the long stride. Ainsley can't recall seeing the Press Secretary down here since last year, when there was Gilbert & Sullivan and cupcakes that made her head spin. Those relatively carefree days seem a million miles from Special Prosecutors and every synonym the press can come up with for lying. Feeling courteous, despite the fact that this brief still isn't finished and Babish will be looking for it sometime in the morning, Ainsley motions to the unoccupied but decidedly shaky chair in front of her desk. Nodding in acceptance, CJ folds herself down onto the cracked pleather surface and almost succeeds in hiding her grimace. Senior staff aren't accustomed to hand-me-down office furniture, it seems.
"Well anyway, it's tougher than normal. I wanted you to know I appreciate everything you and Babish are doing." Not Oliver, Ainsley notes, and if the notes she sneaked a look at from the Senior Staff interviews with her boss are any indication, there's been no love lost between Babish and CJ since their first meeting. "And thank you for getting it out there about the Law Review."
Biting her tongue, Ainsley suppresses the instinct to append the "Yale" that CJ forgot, because that sort of thing is important to a woman whose alma mater has its own, arguably superior title and distinctions have to be made.
"It didn't take much. And I shook my head, just like you told me. That's probably what sold it."
An exchange of grins at Ainsley's gentle dig, because CJ lives her life in the public eye and forgets sometimes that other people do have an idea of how to behave without her instructions.
"Are you almost done for the day? I thought I might take you for a drink, to really say thank you."
The questions coming racing to the front of Ainsley's mind: why her, or why now? Shouldn't Josh and Sam and Toby be closer to the top of CJ's list? Or are the rumors of infighting between the Senior Staff actually true?
It would be so easy to beg off, with a host of valid excuses, not least that Ainsley needs to take her contacts out before her eyes dry out completely or that this brief is neither finished nor anywhere near her usual high standards. But Ainsley's curiosity, or maybe the part of her who never got invited anywhere in junior high, wins out in the silent wrestling match in her head.
So she agrees politely, grabs her purse and follows CJ out into the night. There's a lightness in her step and in her head that makes Ainsley feel better than she has in weeks. Nobody thinks to ask her what she thinks of the President's non-disclosure, whether because it's assumed that she toes the party line, or that her opinion doesn't count, Ainsley can't be sure. All she can be sure of is that CJ won't want to talk about it tonight, and Ainsley is perfectly happy to go along.
They make it to the bar at the Tabard Inn, which is pleasingly close and on Ainsley's route home. Before they can order a much-needed bottle of Pinot Noir there's a scene with a loud and intoxicated man that CJ handles with calm exasperation. Sensing that the bar is no longer the refuge both women were hoping for, Ainsley does the unthinkable and mentions the really nice Chilean reds she has in the wine rack at home.
CJ hesitates before accepting, and it becomes a painful few seconds for Ainsley and her sudden attack of nerves. She stumbles in her next few sentences, reverting to the iambic pentameter and other awkward cadences that she is so frequently mocked for. But they resolve the clumsiness and a cab is called, since both of their cars are still in the staff parking lot.
As houseguests go, CJ is delightful. Away from public scrutiny, she visibly relaxes and compliments Ainsley on her cosy apartment. With consummate skill, she grabs the corkscrew from Ainsley and pours generous glasses for them both. The sensation that her stomach is somersaulting takes Ainsley by surprise, and she realizes that she hasn’t invited anyone back to her apartment since starting at the White House. It feels too intimate, suddenly, and it strikes her that it feels a lot like a date.
Which is ridiculous, of course, because CJ Cregg is linked with every handsome man in the Beltway most days of the week, and though she never seems to date publicly, every rumor screams heterosexuality. There’s Berkeley to consider of course, but how can Ainsley base anything on that when she herself went to Smith? After all, she’s had sex with quite a few women there and otherwise without changing her whole lifestyle. Ainsley wonders if that fact would shock CJ and when the talk turns, as it inevitably does, to dating, Ainsley drops a subtle bombshell. CJ doesn’t seem surprised at the news, and the grin on her face looks almost as though she wanted that to be the case.
Before Ainsley can ponder whether there’s a pool about her dating life running amongst the White House staffers, CJ has moved just that little bit closer on the sofa cushions. Up close, Ainsley is in no doubt as to why so many people have a guilty little crush on the Press Secretary. It’s more than the job title or the quiet confidence, and of course the forties film star looks and endless legs don’t hurt.
So the kiss, when CJ initiates it, isn’t quite as surprising as it would have been a few hours ago. Ainsley can taste the oak and tart black cherries of the wine on CJ’s lips, and when her tongue slips into Ainsley’s mouth there’s a undertone of mint. Unable to speak, Ainsley thinks of all the things she could have said, that she might still say if CJ stays the night in the dark cotton sheets of Ainsley’s lonely queen-sized bed. She lets the words fall away in favor of kissing CJ more thoroughly, of trying to impart silent promises that this won’t become another complication, another reason for CJ to think about running.
CJ seems to accept the wordless bargain, if the hitch in her breathing and the newfound intensity of her kisses are anything to go by. Ainsley is the one to lead the way to the bedroom, a consummate hostess even now. In many ways, she is not the woman her mother raised her to be, but some ingrained courtesies die hard. At last, Ainsley realizes, she feels involved: part of the inner circle that outsiders could only speculate about. Tonight, she’s creating her own dirty little secret, something that’s more valuable than any other currency in Washington circles.
And if this is how CJ says thank you (with her fingers tugging at Ainsley’s blouse, and kisses that press firmly at the base of her throat) then Ainsley is happy to say anything at all on any show, because the President’s pleasure is no longer the only one she’s serving at.