 | ShatterStorm Productions
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| ShatterStorm Productions
|
Disclaimer: "The West Wing", the characters and situations depicted are the property of Warner Bros. Television, John Wells Productions, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This site is in no way affiliated with "The West Wing", NBC, or any representatives of the actors. This site contains stories between two mature, consenting adult females.
Author's Disclaimer: Abbey, CJ & The West Wing all belong to NBC, Aaron Sorkin and whoever else. Purely for pleasure, not profit. Richie Valens is property of… Richie Valens, I suppose. La Bamba belongs to his Estate too, I presume.
Author’s Notes: And we got the First Lady drunk, and we saw that it was good. Now that’s scripture! ;) Sorry that this one took longer; I kept tweaking it all weekend. For clarification, singer Richie Valens was killed in an plane wreck. My attempt at funny. This is also going to be my first attempt at a true series; you’ll have to bear with me as serials haven’t gone so well for me in the past.
Comments, critiques, coupons… All welcome. :D
He was a former Congressman of somewhere, and she’d put his age somewhere between very, very old and dead. And he kept ending every story by patting her arm and telling her that it was “back in the days after the war”. She wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, and was even less sure of how he managed to actually find his way to the party. Carol materialized suddenly behind her, apologizing to the former Congressman of wherever and dragging CJ by the wrist through the groups of people gathered at each table towards the edge of the dance floor.
“CJ, you need to come with me.”
“Okay, since you seem to be dragging me along behind you it appears that I don’t have a choice. But I would like to know why.”
“The President had to take a call.”
“Okay… He does do that you know, from time to time.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. But he promised the First Lady two hours ago that he’d be back in twenty, and now she’s pissed at him.”
“I believe that would be the White House Marriage Counsellor’s area, Carol, not mine.”
“Is there really a White House Marriage Counsellor? Never mind. Anyways, I guess she decided she would have a couple drinks while she waited for him to come back.”
“I’m still not seeing where I come in.”
“I think we can be reasonably sure that she’s had a few too many, and publicity of that nature - I think that’s where you come in.”
“She’s drunk?”
“Not according to her.”
“She’s drunk. OK. Do I have damage control to do here or is it just a case of-” Before she could finish, the sounds of raucous Spanish guitar filled the air.
“They’re playing La Bamba, CJ.”
“Okay, you really need to start giving me more information per sentence, here.”
“The First Lady requested La Bamba.”
“Hey, don’t mock Richie Valens. What, we’re worried about bad mojo on Air Force One?”
“She’s also dancing to La Bamba, CJ.”
“Oh. OK. I see where this has the potential to be not so good.”
“Yeah.”
“You need to get her off the dance floor.” Carol finished, disappearing into the crowd of partygoers.
CJ turned towards the dance floor just in time to see Abbey Bartlet pressing up against a more-than-willing partner.
“Definitely the potential to be not so good.” She strode across the floor and managed to insert herself between the First Lady and her dance partner.
“CJ!” The First Lady exclaimed with a grin. “Have you met Marc?”
“Yes, Marc Vasily, Canada’s ambassador to the United States. We met at a thing. A thing about Canada. Very informative, something about beavers. Anyways, Marc, very good to see you again.” She placed a hand on his shoulder as she shook his hand and turned him away from the First Lady and back into the crowd. “You can go now.”
The ambassador looked back over his shoulder but continued in the direction CJ had steered him.
“The President of the United States thanks you for your continued support!” She called after him. On the bright side, she thought, at least Abbey picked a Canadian ambassador. Worst case scenario, she ends up putting the President’s name on a brewery or a hockey arena. Maybe sends their armed forces a snowmobile or two.
“CJ, why did you send that nice young man away? I like to dance, my husband isn’t here; I thought he made a very suitable replacement.”
“Are you drunk, Ma’am?”
“Drunk? Noooooo, no, no, no. Tipsy. Tipsy is a better word, it’s more fun.”
“Okay. I think maybe it’s best if you just come over here and-” She grabbed her wrist and attempted to drag Mrs. Bartlet along in the same fashion Carol had done just moments ago to her.
“Ah, I see. You wanted to dance with me.” The First Lady grinned wickedly as she grabbed CJ’s other wrist and pulled her closer. “You’re taller. You lead.”
“Ma’am, I think maybe it would be best if we-”
“You’re not really leading, CJ.”
“I’m not even really dancing, Ma’am.”
“All right then, I’ll lead. Come on, CJ. It’s La Bamba! It’s a fast song, all you’ve got to do is move backwards and forwards and pretend you’re at Mardi Gras. I suppose tequila would help.” CJ awkwardly attempted to convince her legs to mirror the First Lady’s. Abbey looked quizzically up at her stumbling partner. “I think I’m going to go get that Canadian boy again.”
“I’m trying, Ma’am. I’m just not all that good a danc-” Abbey slid her hands onto CJ’s hips.
“Just move with me, CJ. Follow my lead.”
The years of measured responses, of always having a reply at the ready - and she was lost for that instant in a touch she’d dreamed of but never dreamed possible. She knew she had to get Abbey off the dance floor; had to get her out of the party all together… But there was thirty seconds left of La Bamba, and she had Abbey Barlet’s hands guiding her hips across the dance floor, and if she really did close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere in New Orleans and they both had someone else’s jobs, she could pretend that there really was nothing but the sweet scent of her breathe between them.
