Cgirl's Bacchanalia of Fan Fiction & Assorted Dictates

Yes, I'm Alive!

2008-08-25T04:42:05Z

Okay, what I thought was a mid-winter hibernation turned into a summer hibernation, and is now threatening to become a year-long hiatus from writing. Somewhere, in the past few months, I lost the mojo. It's more than writer's block; it's writer's exhaustion.

Now that seems disingenuous because it's not like I've been writing up a storm; the exhaustion has more to do with life. Succinctly (ha!), I ended a long relationship, moved half-way across the world, and entered grad school in the past few months. So, I suppose there's reason for said weariness.

Still I hope to have something to offer in terms of writing in the next couple of months, and I hope you'll bear with this 20-something until then :)

Thanks for reading, and have a great week!

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 9

2008-03-18T07:59:00Z

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Kendall, Greenlee, Erica, Jackson etc belong to AMC/ABC. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Natasha, James Wentworth, Neela Kumar and other original characters belong to me. No money/profit being made from any of this.

Rating: Strong R for mature themes. Please read responsibly

Author's Notes:
1. This is an interlude, entirely a flashback covering some of the events of that night in Marseilles.
2. Italics = Flashback
3. My bountiful gratitude to my FANers who make life a pervy giggle-fest! Gracias, kids!!

Audio Reference:
1. An excellent track by Morgan Page's track called "Longest Road," featuring Lissie, remixed by Deadmau5. The title of the chapter is from a line in the song. You can hear it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTJ-T5n2rPM

_______________________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 9: You've Got No Means For Wanderlust

That Night In Marseilles, All Those Many Months Ago...

Sex was divine.

That was the sentence that ran on a loop within her mind. She was staring the ceiling, almost hypnotized by the turning blades of the fan above the bed.

This was dangerous.

There was some strange squeezing motion around her heart, as if it were made of gel. She frowned; it was a feeling so forgotten, an exchange of business cards was necessary.

Hello, Miranda.

The introductions had been made.

She closed her eyes, insistent in her desire to keep complications away from their lagoon of chaotic serenity.

She ran her fingers over the deep arch of Marguerite's body, seeing the almost non-existent friction make the hypersensitive nerves under the fingers come alive with excitement and expectation.

Miranda didn't notice the smile curling around her own lips, an undeniable reaction to Marguerite's body. This was what lay between them: a mutual recognition of purpose and simplicity.

What complications?

Miranda breathed her impatience even as her movements remain unhurried, her mouth offering the deal of a lifetime, her fingers moving as if memorizing a sacred antique. She closed her eyes, and wanted to speak.

"You have, without a doubt, the loveliest back of anyone I've known."

Marguerite smiled into her pillow, her head turned to once side. "How many backs have you known?" she murmured, the humor in her whisper clearly evident.

Miranda didn't answer, smiling into the valley between her lover's shoulder blades. She breathed deeply, astounded by the fact that Marguerite's perfume surrounded her senses; Givenchy's Amirage had never made her this wet before.

Marguerite made to move on to her back, and Miranda let her.

Miranda was sure she was trembling, but she was also sure that if she moved quickly, all of what shimmered before them would disappear.

All the potential that seemed somehow a live thing, standing on the unsteady legs of any newborn emotion, breathing the first few possible breaths of a long life.

Miranda looked up quickly into her lover's face, saw the concentrated squint that she adored and she knew Marguerite was moments away from becoming aware.

So she moved in a flash, kissing with violence; their teeth clacked together and lips were squished against each other. It was sloppy and entirely lacking finesse; but Miranda was desperate.

Her fingers moved between her lover's smooth and agile thighs.

She leaned down and kissed Marguerite in the space between her breasts, where she could feel her lover's heart beat through bone and sinew.

Miranda felt the enormity recede with the increased pace of her fingers, which were flickering over the core of Marguerite's desire.

Marguerite's hands came to tangle in Miranda's long hair, as her back arched, and her head turned sideways into her pillow in an irrepressible movement of desire; her body was being owned with the luscious intent of a negotiation with no contract.

The present moment stretched into a space without time; she didn't know if she were suspended above oblivion for a minute or ten, but when she felt that particular circular maneuver of Miranda's thumb over her, Marguerite hurtled to the depths of pleasure.

Her body screaming at every end, pulling itself taut in celebration, and her lungs squeezed for lack of breath; she could have sobbed her lover's name and not known it.

Yet Miranda heard it, and bent closer to her lover, wanting to hold the quaking shudders in her memory forever; a jewel of a passing minute that would forever alter the course of her life.

_____________________

About Two Hours Later...

Miranda had pretended to be asleep, of course, when an hour ago, Marguerite, who was spooned behind her, had whispered her confession of love into the Marseilles night.

Miranda's heart had gently ricocheted inside its captive cell, and it was all Miranda could do to not jump out of bed, shrieking in terror as if she had discovered a tarantula in the room.

Instead, she had made sure her breathing remained steady, and kept her eyes closed, her body immobile; Marguerite had believed her to be asleep.

Now, she slowly crept from the bed, moving every muscle with a testing hesitation, wanting nothing less than to wake Marguerite.

She crept to the balcony of their hotel room, and then rushed outside, cigarettes in hand. She swallowed deep gulps of the ocean air.

It was a full moon above her.

As she lit her cigarette, she noticed a motion out of the corner of her eye. A lone sea gull was flying through the night, weaving its way across the panorama of her vision.

Miranda turned back to look into her hotel room, the bed clearly visible, Marguerite's body turned away from her in slumber.

But her lover had always been quick to notice when she left their bed; Miranda thought that was perhaps her body tended to give off a lot of heat during the night.

She turned back to watch the sea gull; if Marguerite woke up before the bird made it across the moon, which lay in the center of the view before her, then Miranda would confess her love, joyfully and without regret.

Her eyes narrowed in concentration, and felt every flap of the gull's wings in the staccato rhythm of her heart. The bird was halfway across one half, perhaps a 30 seconds away from Miranda's imaginary battle line.

She turned back to look at Marguerite; there was no change. She frowned, almost willing her lover to move, even in slumber.

Just a movement, any movement.

A twinge of a realization, an involuntary shudder even, but there was nothing.

Miranda breathed out and turned back to the ocean, afraid to look so hard at her lover as if to imagine a sign that wasn't there. The head of the sea gull had just now started to be engulfed by the outer glow of the moon.

Miranda couldn't tear her eyes away; she saw the bird turn almost black as it crossed the yellow iridescence of the Sun's nighttime replacement.

She watched until it had flown across the other side, and turned white in the shimmering light again. Miranda dropped her head, and turned slightly and looked at the bed.

With a last look at the gull, which was disappearing into the darkness again, she stubbed out her cigarette, and re-entered her hotel room, closing the balcony doors slowly and without sound.

In the darkness of the room, she stared at Marguerite, making out the faint line of the curve of her lover's dark-skinned hip against the stark white sheets.

The breath caught in Miranda's throat, and she quickly covered her mouth, desperately and suddenly holding back a horrific sob. She squeezed her eyes shut as her body convulsed with desolation.

It would take her many minutes to calm herself, and be able to carefully insert herself back into their bed.

Sleep was slow to come to Miranda's exhausted psyche, and the next morning, it was if none of the events of the night before had happened.

She had made the wager, and she had to accept the decision; she was only unsure if she had won or lost.

- TBC -

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 8

2008-03-16T11:14:18Z

Author's Notes:
1. Special thanks to my FANers - Dickie, Vicey, and MH - for their daily support, perviness, and superb fun!
2. Italics = Flashback

Disclaimer:
Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; just sit back and enjoy the ride. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Neela Kumar, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Rating: Strong R for mature themes. Please read responsibly.

Visual Reference:
1. Miranda
2. Marguerite St. Just
3. Elizabeth James
4. Neela Kumar
5. Charles Wentworth

Audio Reference:
1. The Verve's Rolling People. The title of this update is a line from the song.

___________________________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 8: HERE WE ARE THE ROLLING PEOPLE

In The Twelfth Month Of The Affair Between Miranda and Marguerite...And Six Months Before Bianca's Death...

They were in the car, and Marguerite refused to tell her where they were going.

"Okay, look. This absconding is exciting and all, but I have to at least know if I'm going to be back in town for dinner."

Marguerite grinned. "Really? Why?"

"Because I have dinner with Bianca and Natasha once every two weeks, and that's tonight."

"Well, this was going to be overnight. I didn't realize it was tonight. We can go back…"

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "Let me make a phone call." She didn't know what she was going to tell Bianca. "Mom, it's me."

"Hello, sweetheart. Are you calling to cancel on dinner?"

There was mirth in her mother's voice; Miranda was almost sure of it. "Um. Are you taking classes from Erica's psychic?"

Bianca laughed. "No. I just know that if you're calling three hours before you're due for dinner, it's either because you're sick or skipping out."

"Actually, I'm skipping out of town."

"Oh, really? Where to?"

"You know what? I don't know. The driver won't tell me." Marguerite rolled her eyes.

Bianca laughed. "What?"

Miranda looked at Marguerite with fake sternness, hoping that her whining to her mother would make Marguerite crack. "Yea, I haven't a clue."

"So it's a good reason then?"

Miranda ducked her head. "Yes."

"Well, tell her that she better get you back safely, or she'll have me to answer to."

Miranda rolled her eyes, as she Bianca expected her to. "Yes, mom."

"And tell her to drive slowly. I've heard she's hell on wheels."

Miranda's eyes widened. "Mom…"

"What? It is Marguerite, isn't it?"

"How the hell did you…"

"Miranda. Really. I think you think parents are far more dense than they are."

"Well, not parents per se…"

"Watch it, young lady. I can still ground you."

Miranda laughed. "Mom, I'm 26. You can't even pretend to ground me."

"Well, it didn't work when you were 16. So I guess not…Just tell her to…"

"I will, I will. And you're scary. I'll definitely reschedule when we get back. Will you tell Natasha that I send my best et cetera?"

"Of course."

"Thanks. I—"

"I know. I'll talk to you later."

Miranda hung up, slow and almost cautious in her actions. She had been somewhat flabbergasted that her mother knew it was Marguerite.

Granted, Bianca had often teased her, albeit good-naturedly, about her intense crush on Marguerite, but her outright acknowledgment of the affair was…surprising. She didn't even realize her mother knew they were together.

"Is everything alright?"

Marguerite's question brought her out of her haze. "Yea, it is."

"You looked lost for a moment."

"I am lost. If someone would tell me where we were going, however…"

"Patience. We're getting there."

So Miranda decided to be a good sport and leaned back, letting the wind sweep past her as she studied Marguerite's profile. What was it about a devastatingly attractive woman driving a stick shift on a vintage Bentley?

Whatever it was, it had possessed Miranda with an overwhelming force.

Marguerite looked at her out of the corner of her eye. She smiled. "What?"

Miranda's voice was gravelly with desire. "How much farther?"

Marguerite looked quickly at her lover, her own eyes darkening in response to the shift in atmosphere. "Soon."

It was when Marguerite was vulnerable with her that Miranda loved her the most. While part of the attraction had been her CEO's seemingly impregnable armor, there had also been the certain knowledge of Marguerite's perforated heart beating beneath the irascible exterior.

And it was that knowledge that had made Marguerite different from all the other gorgeous, capable and ambitious women; that was what made Marguerite undeniable to Miranda.

Miranda also knew good and well that she was indulging a cliche, but as was so often the case, she didn't bother to resist her impulses.

Surprisingly the most volatile moments between them happened when Miranda least expected; if Marguerite felt exasperate at Miranda's cavalier attitude, then the Chairwoman was vexed by Marguerite's ability to render her mute with surprise.

In the calendar of their year-long affair, where seasons passed without note, it was that night in Marseilles that had, unwittingly, become the touchstone of their chronology as lovers.

That night became the most tangible marker, the endless moment that was both the highest high of their relationship, and also the beginning of its end.

Miranda had wanted to have sex like an egotistical man.

Or, at least, the way she thought an egotistical man would have sex; ensuring to please his lover to prove his potency. It had been a sad but salient realization that most lovers could not get her off; she knew, however, in that one regard, she was different from a man.

She did not want to have sex like a woman; she had done with Lizzie, and Miranda had made the hugely irrational and inconclusive jump in logic to decide that she wouldn't do that again.

With Marguerite, she had shown up on a Sunday when there was almost no staff at the Cambius building. She walked into her lover's office and had surprised her CEO; underneath her long coat of faux fur, Miranda wore only that delectable lingerie of pale beige silk and lace. Then there had been that incident in the stairwell of Marguerite's city apartment; Miranda had discovered that those walls could chafe her back into a rash. There had been Marguerite's kitchen and its cold, cold granite floors. The nearby park bench leaving a few of its almost unnoticeable splinters on her hands. The restroom of the museum which was showing an exhibition of Chagall.

Through all of it, Miranda had had fun, and had been both disillusioned and ecstatic; Marguerite satisfied her yet Miranda went to great lengths to make their experiences slightly tawdry. She had wondered if Marguerite noticed; a habit so ingrained it was the norm for Miranda, that having sex in a bed was nearly puritanical.

And then, Marseilles happened.

Miranda thought she knew what love felt like; or what it was like to have sex (she hated the term "making love" because it sounded far too clinical; much like "making a baby") when she was in love. She had had that with Lizzie; feeling overwhelmed and dizzy, feeling foolish and vulnerable, feeling invincible and overwhelmed, and as if she were suffocating yet breathless at the same time.

Miranda had never had that before Lizzie, and she didn't expect to have it afterward.

With Marguerite, she had felt the fissures in the periphery of her consciousness; Miranda was aware of oncoming danger. She just never took it seriously, until Marseilles.

It was a night that she would relive many times inside her head; to the point where she wasn't even sure what had really occurred and what her overwrought mind, seeking comfort and acceptance, had reconjured in reality's stead.

Beyond all expectations, beneath all masks, Marguerite had found her that night. Not because the sex was slow or delicate or particularly heartfelt. Rather Miranda had found someone who challenged her in bed, who took her time to bring Miranda pleasure, no matter how long it took.

Yet there was a flexibility to Marguerite such that she knew when not to push Miranda; to accept her foibles, her vagaries as the different palates of the Chairwoman's character, and not try to change who she was.

To find all of this in one person seemed impossible to Miranda.

She couldn't possibly be in love with Marguerite.

And Marguerite couldn't possibly be real.

It was all so impossibly real that Miranda reacted the only way she knew how; three days after their return from Marseilles, Miranda walked into Marguerite's house and told her they were over.

_______________________________

In Present Time...In Miranda's House Of Pancakes...

"So I just stir the batter like this?"

"Yup. And once you get the lumps out, we want more of a whisking motion."

Marguerite only nodded in response.

Elizabeth took the opportunity to really look at other woman. Not a hair out of place, and a spine of steel; this much Elizabeth knew from what she'd heard from Miranda and the Cambius halls.

Marguerite didn't look up from the large bowl in front of her. "You're staring."

Elizabeth leaned against the black granite of the kitchen counter, unabashed. "I know."

"Asking is a more polite form of social interaction."

"Actually, I wanted to thank you."

"For?"

Elizabeth looked away for a moment, slight shame coloring her tone. "I was in Egypt on the six-month Cambius municipal project there. I didn't know it had gotten that bad."

Marguerite continued stirring, a frown now between her brows. "What are you talking about?"

"Miranda. After Bianca's…passing. And then Maggie's. I came here for Bianca's funeral, but had to fly right back. Her e-mails didn't sound any different. Sure, there was some loneliness and depression that I caught in her voice. But I had no idea it was bad as it was. So, thank you for getting her into rehab. Just…Thank you."

Marguerite paused in her stirring, and looked up at the other woman. "You're welcome. But I did it for her."

Elizabeth smiled, one side of her lips curving up, the other side down. "Miranda takes better care of everyone else around her than herself."

Marguerite didn't disagree.

The younger woman's smile disappeared. "I know how hard it can be. How difficult it is to get her to do something she really doesn't want to do even…or especially…if it's in her best interest."

Marguerite didn't stop stirring. "Do you?"

Elizabeth met the CEO's eyes head-on. "She's been in rehab once before, y'know. Bianca and I took her together. It was kind of a tag-team effort. Natasha caught the first signs of it, and then Bianca and I basically made a very convincing case to convince her."

Marguerite almost smiled. "Did this include sedating her?"

Elizabeth laughed. "We nearly did. That Miranda… it was fifteen years ago…She was far more…prickly than this one, let me tell you."

"So I should thank you, as well."

Elizabeth smiled slightly, measuring the other woman, before clapping her hands together. "Well, now that we've got the mushy stuff out of the way, we should definitely finish with this batter. The beast upstairs will soon be upon us, washed and perfumed, and she will want to be fed, I assure you."

Marguerite silently acknowledged the shifting gears. "So, I'm at the whisking part, yes?"

Elizabeth put up her hand. "Except for my secret ingredient."

"Which is?"

"Well, if I just came out and baldly told you, there wouldn't be any element of mystery, would there?"

"Should I close my eyes then?"

"No." Elizabeth was rifling through Miranda's giant refrigerator. She was reaching so deep inside the machine Marguerite was tempted to make a joke about spelunking. "Aha! Here it is. And just where I left it, too."

Elizabeth extricated herself carefully, and held up her prize.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows. "That's your secret ingredient?"

"Yup! Even Miranda doesn't know."

"You didn't tell her?"

"I refused to tell her. And, believe me, she's tried to get it out of me in a variety of ways. Which brings me to my next order of business. Now…I need your word that you won't tell her, even if she threatens you with…Let's see, what were her favorites?…Okay, treason, sedition, unemployment, extradition, hemlock, torture, or withholding sex. Though I guess it could be argued that torture and withholding sex is the same thing in her case. However, I'm referring to torture in the more medieval sense of the term, a la rack and pinion."

Marguerite sputtered. "Surely you're joking."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "Do I have your word?"

"Why are you even telling me?"

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes purely for dramatic effect. "These pancakes are probably her favorite indulgence of all time. Though she, ungrateful glutton that she is, will never admit it. But I know it."

Marguerite remained laudably unfazed. "You didn't answer my question."

Elizabeth passed the item in question over to Marguerite. In Elizabeth's mind, it was much like passing a baton, or a mantle. It signified more than she was able to verbally express; so she let her actions speak instead. "Oh, quick and tenacious. Good, you'll need to be with her. I'm telling you because…Someday…You can make these for her."

"You have my word."

____________________

Meanwhile, Upstairs...

Miranda did something she hadn't done since she was a teenager living with Bianca and Natasha; she was smoking in her bathroom, with the window wide open and the bathroom's fan on.

Marguerite's sudden and rather charming appearance, coupled with Miranda's own reminiscing while running on the treadmill had left the young woman feeling frayed, anxious, and excited. She quickly extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray, and stepped under the scalding heat of her shower.

A few minutes later, she stepped into the kitchen to the muted laughter of Elizabeth and Marguerite, the former picking out a skillet while the latter was churning what Miranda guessed to be batter in a large serving bowl. The scene was almost surreal, and Miranda had to blink more than once to make sure of it.

Elizabeth caught her out of the corner of her eye. "There you are! All clean?"

Miranda smiled, or thought she did; she couldn't be sure. "Yes. All clean and non-stinky."

Marguerite looked at her in the morning light with those liquid black eyes and a slight smile, only nodding her head fractionally before turning back to her bowl.

Elizabeth looked between the two of them. "Well, my turn. I need to brush my teeth and at least change. Borrow your stuff, Mimo?"

Miranda nodded, not looking away from Marguerite. "Yea, it's in the top drawer of…"

"I know. Thanks. Be back in a bit."

Miranda nodded, and stepped fully into her kitchen as Elizabeth brushed past her, her friend squeezing her forearm in support as she went to change.

The silence wasn't oppressive, but Miranda still felt nervous. She tugged at the high collar of her shirt, and her folded her fingers into her palm to feel the thick edge of the cuff of her full-sleeved dress shirt.

Somehow, she hadn't felt like wearing anything casual. She was dressed for the office. Or battle. She moved to Marguerite's side, leaning against the counter. "How's the stirring coming along?"

Marguerite looked at her briefly. "Elizabeth gives excellent instructions. I'm to keep churning until the mix is without lumps."

Miranda nodded, and swallowed. "Need any help?"

Marguerite discreetly shook her head. "I think you should pick out a skillet. And maybe we'll need some butter or something?"

Miranda rubbed her forehead. "Margo…"

Her CEO stopped stirring but kept looking at the bowl. "How come you're dressed for business on a weekend?"

"I don't know. I wasn't really thinking."

"Is it because I'm here?"

"What?"

"That it puts you so on edge, that we can't be…"

"Margo, it's not that. I just…" Miranda pulled at her collar, almost absentmindedly, almost as if to create more room for her to breathe.

Marguerite looked up then, and noted the movement of her Chairwoman's shirt, and the flash of gold beneath it. The breath left her in a rush; she almost couldn't believe her eyes. Without thinking, she stepped forward, closing the distance between the two of them. "What is that?"

Miranda stopped pulling at her collar. "What?"

The CEO said nothing, but gently moved to pull aside Miranda's collar. The younger woman froze; this was the first time since that fateful morning of their race to Notre Dame that Marguerite had been so close to her, almost touching her.

The space between them was negligible, and Miranda could smell the perfume that her ex always wore. The small wrinkles on Marguerite's neck; the almost invisible crow's feet around her eyes; the way the sunlight shone against her cheekbones…all the things that Miranda had seen when they were lovers were now within sight and sense. She swallowed again, as Marguerite pulled gently on her shirt and felt the whisper thin gold chain underneath.

Without looking down, the younger woman knew that Marguerite had laid her index finger against the jewelry; Miranda had been found out and she couldn't speak for the enormity of it, the simplicity of it, the inevitability of it.

Now Marguerite looked up to her eyes, and they were both breathing through their mouths because it was all there, as it had always been. Marguerite frowned imperceptibly, the skin on her forehead furrowing between her eyebrows. "You're wearing it."

Miranda couldn't deny it, and she really didn't want to. "Yea."

Marguerite's frown deepened, uncomprehending as her finger trailed over the chain just a little, to assure herself that it was indeed real. "Why?" she whispered.

Miranda sighed silently, unable to move, captured and cosseted by the feel of the other woman so close to her; the morning continued to torment and prickle at her false air of calm. She was but a helpless, mad, sentimental fool trying her best to recover her bearings in the unforgiving and jealous world that surrounded her.

When Miranda was shorn of all the platitudes and cutting one-liners, she was left without words, falling back on the truth that would disarm her to the eyes and words of her ex. If she were going to engage in such fatalistic behavior, as was the nature of truth between them, then she would do so while looking at Marguerite in the eye. "I've always worn it. Ever since you gave it to me."

Marguerite looked back up to catch her Chairwoman's eyes, the light from the windows now casting depth and infractions into the dark russet of Miranda's eyes. They were frozen and flayed, caught in past misunderstandings and new hopes. "Margo, I lo--"

And, as fate would have it, the gyrating sounds of the doorbell sounded ominously throughout the house at that exact moment.

Miranda blinked, almost disbelieving at the sound, unmoving for a few seconds. Until it sounded again, sounding more insistent to her ears. She breathed out heavily, and dropped her head. God, or the universe had a very, very twisted sense of humor.

She looked back up, smiled tightly at her CEO and stepped away from the hypnotic gaze directed at her. Shaking her head and cursing all the forces in existence, she walked towards her front door, throwing it open with enough force to rattle its hinges.

She was ready to take a strip out of whomever's hide was so idiotic enough to interrupt her moment of confession. Until she saw who it was. The breath left her body. "Natasha!"

The older woman smiled, almost too widely. "Mimo! Thank God you're home! I know I should have called..."

Miranda was, for the first time since, well, Marguerite had showed up on her doorstep an hour ago, flummoxed. "I thought you were on your way to Pine Valley!"

Natasha threw her hands up. "I am! No! I was! I was just getting ready to leave the house, when they showed up!"

Miranda frowned. "What? Who showed up?"

"I couldn't say no, Mimo. And they insisted. And you know how they are when they want something. Like the Devil with a soul to claim!"

"Wait, wait, wait. Natasha, who are you talking about??"

Natasha looked behind her and her tone was one of no patience and patent exasperation. "Them!"

Miranda leaned out of her doorway and stepped on to her porch to see three limousines pull up at that very moment behind Natasha's Jaguar. As Miranda watched, with ever widening eyes, as Erica, Kendall, Greenlee, Reggie, Jackson and their assorted significant others and offspring stepped out of the cars and waved to her.

Miranda turned back to Natasha with a wavering smile. "We're going to need a lot more pancakes."

- TBC -

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 7

2008-02-26T18:28:23Z

Author's Notes: (Recommended But Not Required Reading)

1. We're moving solidly into the second half of the story arc with this baby.

2. As always, flashbacks are in italics.

3. My thanks to my FANers - Dickie (silly), Vicey (bauer), and Missy H (destini). Extra special hugz to Dickie and Vicey for keeping me saner than I would otherwise be while writing this update. And, trust me, that's a good thing!

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; just sit back and enjoy the ride. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Neela Kumar, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Visual Reference:
1. Miranda
2. Marguerite St. Just
3. Elizabeth James
4. Neela Kumar
5. Charles Wentworth

Audio Reference:
1. BT's seminal record "Dreaming" - what a classic! The title of this chapter is from a line in that song.

Rating: Strong R for the entire series sex, drugs, and bad words. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: Always in style!

______________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 7: NOTHING CAN BE AS SAVAGE AS LOVE

At 8AM The Next Morning...

Miranda had slept maybe four hours. But her psychiatrist had recommended exercise to go with her regimen of anti-depressants. So, Miranda, who had been a competitive runner in college dusted off her runner shoes, and got back on the treadmill. It was 8AM and she was moving at a steady clip in her gym room. She had left Lizzie asleep on the couch after their night of talking and research into Neela Kumar. Miranda smiled at their amazingly lucky nugget of information on their corporate nemesis.

Running wasn't a Zen thing for Miranda; it was purposeful and all about the adrenalin. Perhaps Miranda would never confess that running had been a divine act; she had never felt as close to a larger, God-like force than when she ran. It was the purest form of catharsis that she knew of.

These days, however, her morning treadmill routine had become her own internal therapy session; today was no different as she remembered just how she had ended up in rehab four months after Bianca's death.

As the memories played through her mind, she absently turned the dial on the speed on her treadmill; she was now in a full-fledged sprint, the sweat pouring off her body as Miranda remembered how Marguerite had, perhaps, saved her life all those months ago.

________________________

About Four Months After Bianca's Death, And A Month After Miranda's Proposal At The Gazebo...

Marguerite was a woman who knew how to get information from people who were unwilling to part with it. However, she quickly realized that her Chairwoman's rather colorful younger years had made Miranda nearly impossible to find when the younger woman did not want to be found."Rafael, as the Cambius CEO, I am ordering you to tell me where she is."

Miranda's security detail on the other end of the line was unmoved. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. She told me very specifically to let anyone know that she cannot be reached at the moment."

"Is she alright?"

"Good day, Mademoiselle St. Just."

Marguerite threw her cell phone against the wall, watching it break into an impressively large number of shards. She put her hands on her waist and breathed heavily. She rarely lost her temper, and now all bets were off. She reached for her landline on her office desk. "Isabelle?"

Her secretary responded immediately. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"

Marguerite breathed deeply again and closed her eyes before she pursued this avenue. "Please get Natasha on the line for me."

"Mademoiselle Montgomery's mother?"

Marguerite hesitated. "Yes."

An hour and a rather strange phone call with Natasha later, Marguerite stepped out of her car to the front of Miranda's house, and immediately saw Rafael standing guard at the door. They eyed each other; Marguerite glared, almost sneering at him.

His eyes tightened. "Mademoiselle St. Just. I knew you would find her."

Marguerite realized that her anger had little to do with him, in particular; he had only been doing his job. But he had come between her and her quarry, and so she brushed past him without a word.

She heard the pounding club beat as soon as she entered the house. There were various people scattered around Miranda's home. To her eyes, they all looked chic and young and beautiful. And drugged out. They paid her no attention whatsoever.

Marguerite clenched her jaw as she wandered through the large house. Somehow, Marguerite had an inkling just where to find her ex. She slowly climbed the stairs to the upper level, pausing outside Miranda's bedroom, waiting to hear any sounds from inside; she certainly did not want to walk into a...compromising scene.

Just the thought of actually seeing Miranda with another woman was enough to make the older woman squeeze her eyes shut tightly and clench her hands to make them stop shaking. She opened her eyes and breathed deeply, her resolve hardening. She opened the door and saw the mess that was Miranda's bedroom. When they had been lovers, Marguerite had often teased Miranda about the constant dishabille that was her lover's bedroom. Miranda had only laughed in response then, claiming rather superciliously that a true woman's bedroom was supposed to look like fashion bomb had gone off inside it. Marguerite had only rolled her eyes good naturedly back then.

Now she stepped in to the dimly lit room, hearing the same pounding bass resonating from the speakers all over the house. She saw Miranda in the corner, hunched over a glass table; the Cambius Chairwoman was assiduously using a thin wafer of silver to cut up lines. Marguerite shoulders slumped both in relief of finding her ex and in intense disappointment at what Miranda was doing.

She walked slowly toward her Chairwoman. "Miranda."

The younger woman looked up, first slightly confused and then irritated at the interruption. "Margo, what an unexpected pleasure."

Marguerite purposefully didn't look at the small mound of cocaine on the table. "You missed the Audit Committee meeting."

Miranda seemed unaffected, looking rather blankly at her colleague. "And that's why you thought to come to my house?"

Marguerite looked away as she saw her ex lean over a thin rail of cocaine. The sound of Miranda snorting the drug sent a shiver of revulsion through her body. It wasn't that Marguerite didn't enjoy the rare recreational drug; she didn't want to see the contraband destroy a woman that she loved.

"Miranda…Why won't you listen to me?"

Miranda looked up, and daintily wiped at her nostrils. "Darling, I always listen when you talk." The younger woman felt the drug take its effect; her senses came alive with urgency and pulsating power. She reached into her clutch and pulled out her travel-size perfume, quickly spritzing her pulse points.

The action was not lost on Marguerite. "You missed the Audit Committee meeting."

"I reviewed the data, the projections, and the recommendations last week. I even marked a copy of my notes to you. I decided I didn't need to be there in person."

That was the problem; Marguerite knew that there would come a day when Miranda's dissolute habits would eat away at her Chairwoman's brilliant mind. That was, perhaps, the worst of all tragedies; bodies sagged, but minds could remain agile for much longer. And Miranda's intellect was often dazzling, even if the younger woman never gave herself any credit for it.

Marguerite couldn't let Miranda get away with just formalities. Perhaps, formalities were the last tie to keep Miranda on a somewhat even keel. "You were expected at the meeting. Imagine if it were a Board meeting."

Miranda looked askance at her CEO. "I would never miss a Board meeting."

Miranda got up, her designer threads showing little wear for all the abuse she had put them through. She smiled, with forgiveness and indulgence. "Is that why you went through to such lengths to find me, Margo? To lecture me about missing the meeting?"

Marguerite recognized the look in her ex's face. "Miranda…"

But it was too late. Miranda had, in that way she had, almost backed her CEO against a wall of the room. There was barely a foot of space between them; to Miranda, it measured only what was left of her conquest. She placed her long arms on either side of Marguerite's shoulders, resting her palms against the wall, boxing Marguerite in.

Miranda smiled a slight smirk to accompany her raised left eyebrow even as she whispered. "Really, Margo? Is that why?" She leaned in, her body moving in infinitesimal ways to bring down her prey. The trick was not to seem threatening until it was too late. "Or is it that you remember? How I can be when I get like this? How I can…" Miranda whispered as she ran the fingertips over her ex's shoulder, whispering contact and smiled when she saw the resulting goose bumps. "…Make you sweat."

Marguerite was frozen, affected as always as she was; her eyes dilated, her breathing hastened, and her palms got damp. The woman who had stared down corporate tycoons and spearheaded hostile takeovers was terrified of a wisp of a woman who was not even thirty. No one who had known Marguerite St. Just would have believed it. Yet what else could explain the tremulous quiver of her stomach and her closing her eyes when Miranda leaned in to smell the nape of her neck. The way Miranda did it was so animalistic and single-minded, as if Marguerite was the most delectable offering Miranda had ever come across, that the CEO found herself plastered against the wall in trepidation.

Miranda knew she had her; like every practiced hunter, she knew the moment the battle was won. She was almost disappointed at the ease of it, but the heady thrill of having the otherwise inaccessible Mademoiselle St. Just unravel at the tip of her tongue overshadowed everything. "You're wet. I know it."

Marguerite breathed out, unable to deny the statement, which nearly sounded like an accusation as it reverberated inside her mind.

Miranda ran the tip of her nose against the side of Marguerite's neck, whispering as she went. "You want my tongue. Y'know…the one that drove you so wild you screamed so loudly when we used to f*ck. What was it you said? That you'd never had someone that good eat you out? Yea, I think that's what you said when I had my tongue on your cl*t. I want that again. But…My darling Margo, you have to ask for it."

Miranda's heart was thundering, with lust and drugs, her body hammering with the need to sink to her knees and give them both what she knew what they so desperately wanted. But she would wait. Even as she began to tremble with the force it required to remain patient, she would pause for Marguerite's complicity in this act.

And then Miranda made a fatal error; she looked into Marguerite's eyes. The older woman saw Miranda's extremely constricted pupils, which were overwhelmed with the fevered brown surrounding it. No more visceral a reminder of the effect of the cocaine in Miranda's system could have more effectively resolved Marguerite's decision. She grasped the wrist of Miranda's hand that was outlining her inner thigh. Of course she had to clear the lust out of her voice, but she was undeterred. "No."

Miranda leaned back, sure that she had misheard. Either that or Marguerite was playing hard to get. "What?"

Marguerite pushed at Miranda's shoulders, stepping away from the almost overpowering force of the younger woman's charm. "That's not why I came here."

Miranda rolled her eyes, her patience at an end. She had been so close to having Marguerite that the rejection rankled deeper than she wanted to admit. "Fine. Why the hell are you here then?"

"I want you to sit down and please listen to me."

"What the f*ck is so important that you had to pull this cloak and dagger bullsh*t in my own house?"

"I have nothing to hide; you admitted to hearing me that night in Marseilles. And I can say it now, to your face. I love you."

Miranda laughed disbelievingly, and the sound was sharp as jagged glass, and as cutting. "Oh, God. Are you going to use that line as some sort of shock treatment to jar me from this malaise?"

The pain sliced through the other woman's body, but Marguerite looked superficially undisturbed. "I'm saying because it's true."

Miranda ran a hand through her hair. "You don't even really know me!"

"After nearly six years of working together, and being your lover for a year, I think I can say that I know you."

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "Remember our first fight? What was it about again? God, I don't even remember. You remember that I stormed out of your house? And I didn't see you until the next day at the office?"

Miranda waited for Marguerite's nod. Miranda sneered at her. "Where do you think I was?"

"I don't know."

"I was blowing some guy in the back of my limo."

Marguerite flinched, the blow to her body admirably couched in that small movement. She wanted to weep. Instead, she used every emotional resource left in her body to remain impassive. She knew what Miranda was trying to do. "Well, that was…informative."

"For f*ck's sake! That's your reaction?! I tell you I blew some guy when we were together, and you call it "informative.""

"Just what are you trying to prove, Miranda? That you can hurt me still? Yes, you can. You know why? Because I love you."

"Jesus, stop saying that! And, I repeat: You don't know me."

Marguerite narrowed her eyes, no longer willing to take the high road. "I was married."

Miranda, who was ready to launch into fresh invectives, abruptly stopped. "What?"

"If I really don't know you, then you don't know me either."

That was the other thing about mixing cocaine and Marguerite; Miranda knew it made her very possessive. "When?" she nearly spat the words out.

"Years ago."

"Who was she?"

"He."

Miranda's head went back with surprise. Then she recovered, snarling. "Fine. He. What's his name?"

"Why? Are you going to have him killed?"

Miranda sniffed and then swallowed, feeling the remnant bits of coke coating her throat. "I'm thinking about it."

"Tell me who it was that you blew that night, and I'll have him killed, too."

Miranda smirked with venom. "I don't remember his name."

Marguerite rolled her eyes. "Such a pity."

They were at an impasse, and they knew it.

Finally, Miranda had had enough. "What do you want?"

"I want you to get your things, and let me take you to a program."

"A program?"

"Rehab."

Miranda laughed tinnily. "You're kidding me."

Marguerite was ready to negotiate; this was what she did best. "Or we can run. If you win, I'll never bring up this subject again. If I win, you go to rehab."

Miranda's mind was spinning. "You want to run? Now??"

Marguerite shrugged. "You've got an edge over me; you've got uppers running through your system. And you're younger. Or are you scared you'll lose?"

Miranda smiled, her upper lip curling with polished disdain. "Where to?"

"Notre Dame. Fitting, no?"

"So four miles."

"What I do know about you is that you were a varsity sprinter at Harvard. However, I have the edge of running marathons, and I freely admit that. But it's a good compromise given how much coke you just snorted."

Miranda swallowed, her jaws clenching in absentminded habit. "You're going to lose."

Marguerite didn't allow herself to smile. "I brought my running shoes."

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Miranda shut off her treadmill, not bothering to cool down. She was nearly hunched over with exhaustion, as the perspiration rolled off her body, making her sports bra and spandex shorts stick uncomfortably to her body, and drops of sweat fall on the floor. Her jaws ached as a reaction to the speed at which she had pushed herself this morning; she had gotten lost in her memories of that morning of almost a year ago.

Miranda had lost that race to Notre Dame. Not by much, but she had lost. And, in turn, she had kept her end of the bargain, and gone to rehab. Albeit unwillingly and seemingly under duress, but she'd done the requisite three months of it.

As she tried to regain her breath now, Miranda knew, unequivocally, that Marguerite had saved her life that morning.

And even though her CEO had seen her at her worst, Miranda now only loved her more intensely for it.

The doorbell rang, jarring the young woman from her reminiscining. She flinched in surprise, but also in irritation at the droning sound of the bell. "Okay, that's it," she announced to herself as she walked to open the door, "I'm getting that damn thing replaced today."

She peeked in to the living room, seeing Elizabeth waking up groggily, clearly having been woken up unceremoniously by the bell as well. "Oh, God, Mimo. Get that damn thing changed, will ya?"

Miranda giggled. "I will. Today. Promise."

Elizabeth huffed and then slowly stretched, rousing herself. "Who the hell is at the door at 8:30 in the frickin' morning?"

"I'm about to find out." Miranda walked down the hallway and threw open her door. And lost her breath.

There stood Marguerite. "Good morning."

Miranda blinked, clearly not expecting such an early visitor, and especially this visitor. "Uh. Good morning."

Marguerite cleared her throat, nervous and trying not to sound it. "I know you mentioned an offer of ice cream in the park a few weeks ago. So I thought you'd like to have some...um...ice cream. As friends," the CEO hastened to add at the end of her sentence as she shifted uncertainly between her feet.

Miranda blinked, still unsure what to make of the sight of her ex on her doorstep so early on a weekend morning, and bearing ice cream at that. "Uh..."

She was broken from her reverie when Elizabeth called out from the living room. "Mimo? I need a toothbrush!"

Miranda swiveled back to Marguerite, who was clearly surprised to note that Miranda already had a guest. And, apparently, one who had spent the night.

Before Marguerite could jump to all the wrong conclusions, Miranda did the only thing she could think of. She reached out to grab her CEO by the lapels of her expensive leather jacket and dragged her into her house, slamming the door behind her. "It's not what you think," the Chairwoman said in a rushed whisper. "Lizzie crashed here. She got some really, really bad news and needed a shoulder. Or my shoulder. And so she spent the night. And nothing happened. And she and I are still just friends, okay?"

Marguerite swallowed, realizing that Miranda really owed her no explanations, but feeling dizzied relief all the same. She swallowed again, trying to regain her equilibrium. "Do you want me to leave?"

Miranda shook her head, and then realized that she was standing rather closely to her ex while she was still in her skimpy, sweat-soaked workout clothes. "Uh, no, no. Please. You can join us. I'm sure Lizzie is sick of me already, and would like some company this morning."

Marguerite took a look at the other woman, her eyes tracing the freshly exercised Chairwoman. The sheen of perspiration and the flush of adrenalin and endorphins, along with the wisps of sweat-streaked wisps of hair that clung to Miranda's forehead made Marguerite swallow, now for an entirely different reason. In her basest imagination, Marguerite wanted to drop the carton of chocolate chip ice cream, and push her Chairwoman against the adjacent wall and ravish her. Instead, she clung tighter to the sweating carton of ice cream and only nodded.

Miranda grabbed her elbow, and led Marguerite into the living room. "Hey, Lizzie, looks like we have company for breakfast."

Elizabeth froze in the middle of folding her blanket, and looked up, smiling in relief that it was Marguerite and not Charles. "Ms. St. Just. It's nice to see you again."

Marguerite looked between Miranda and Elizabeth, noting Miranda's hopeful and encouraging smile. Marguerite smiled now, meaning it. "Please call me Marguerite. And it's nice to see you, as well."

Miranda breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Okay, I have to go shower because I'm starting to stink. Hey, Lizzie, you wanna start pancakes? It's either that or eggs, but Margo brought ice cream, so I figured it would go with the pancakes."

Elizabeth smirked. "You just want me to do the cooking so that you don't burn the house down."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Fine, okay, ya got me there. Will you please make us some of your most deliciously wonderful pancakes?"

Elizabeth laughed. "Flattery will get you everywhere. Marguerite, would you like to help?"

The CEO's smile now strengthened further. "Of course, it would be a pleasure. I've never made pancakes, but I do take directions well."

"Perfect. Mimo can neither cook nor follow orders, so let's get this party started."

"Ha ha, Lizzie. So funny. Okay, can I leave you two alone for a few minutes while I clean up?"

Marguerite looked at Elizabeth, sharing a conspiratory grin with the other woman. "Of course. We'll be fine."

Miranda stifled a sigh, wondering what sort of trouble these two women would stir up in her absence. "Okay, I'll be back as soon as I can."

Elizabeth smiled widely, clearly enjoying this new dynamic. "Oh, don't rush, Mimo. I'm sure Marguerite and I will have plenty to catch up on."

Miranda shook her head and rolled her eyes as she walked to her bathroom. She was going to take the shortest shower in the history of humankind.

- TBC -

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 6

2008-02-26T18:26:30Z

Author's Notes: (A Ceaseless Exercise In Frivolity)

1. My thanks, as always, to my FANers: Dickie (silly), Vicey (bauer), and Missy H (destini), for the support, care, and encouragement. Without them, all these stories and characters would stay inside my head, which is crowded enough with voices as is! I need to institute some rent control for space in my brain on these characters that are forever jabbering in there.

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; pursue a non-litigious hobby instead. I recommend golf! Marguerite, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Audio Reference:
1. Armin van Buuren's gentle remix of "Your Loving Arms." It's gorgeously appropriate, and the lyrics are in the sidebar of that video. The title of this chapter is from a line in the song.

Visual Reference:
1. Miranda and Miranda (Take your pick of the two new images!)
2. Marguerite St. Just
3. Elizabeth James
4. Neela Kumar
5. Charles Wentworth (Click on the picture once it loads to clarify/magnify)

Rating: Strong R for mature themes. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: More addictive than crack, and probably more satisfying. And, yea, I'm fine with assuming that.

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THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 6: WHEN THIS LOVE SEEMS THE ONLY CONCLUSION THAT I'M GUILTY OF

She held Elizabeth to her in bed, cradling each other as they had always done. Elizabeth sniffled, and Miranda tightened her hands around her friend, holding her closer.

When she spoke, Elizabeth's voice was rough with choked, yet unspent tears and emotional exhaustion. "You still wear Burberry Weekend"

Miranda smiled as she looked at the ceiling, glad that Elizabeth was able to talk now. "Yup."

"I introduced you to it, didn't I?"

"Yup."

Elizabeth seemed satisfied for the moment and buried her nose deeper in to the crook between Miranda's shoulder and neck, breathing gustily. Even though Elizabeth's exhalation tickled her, Miranda said nothing as she ran her hands comfortingly over Elizabeth's forearm. Just when Elizabeth thought her tears were swallowed, she squeezed her eyes and scrunched her face to stop from unleashing a fresh bout. She clawed at Miranda, desperate to get closer to her mast, her ballast, her captain. Almost without purposeful thought, she leaned in and gently kissed Miranda's throat.

Miranda froze. "Lizzie..."

"I'm so sorry I broke your heart, Mimo."

Miranda swallowed, struggling to hold the past in its place of silence. "Lizzie. You have to let it go."

"Have you?" The question and Elizabeth's breath gliding over Miranda's neck and shoulders, subtle quakes in the quiet that had enveloped them.

Miranda sighed. "Lizzie, it's in the past. What we have now...is so much more."

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes again, the choked sob in her throat gurgling into a helpless moan. "Miranda...you were always there...you never let me down. And I..."

Miranda moved her hand from Elizabeth's forearm to gently run through her friend's lustrous curls. "We were kids. Barely twenty, and stumbling around in college. And...our lives were just...crazy."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't break my heart on your own, Lizzie." Miranda closed her eyes, wishing they could leave their pink elephants asleep, but it seemed that the inevitable time had come to look at these animals in the eye. "I practically made you do it."

"I didn't want to."

"But I wanted you to."

"Why?" came the broken, uncomprehending question.

"Because then I wouldn't have to break yours. Because I knew we weren't ready for the long haul. Because the deeper we had gone, the less we'd have been able to salvage."

"Oh, God."

"There's no reason to be surprised, Lizzie. You always knew how callous I was. I still am."

"And most of it was bullshit."

Miranda said nothing, too tired to deny it.

Elizabeth sniffled again, and Miranda wasn't surprised when the other woman didn't pull away. Perhaps they were returning their baggage to its slumber. The Chairwoman blinked into the dimness of her bedroom. "I'm sorry, too, Lizzie."

"For?"

"For being a callous bitch. I'm not proud of what happened. But, honestly, I didn't want to lose you as a friend. I had to lose you as a lover."

Elizabeth pushed herself on to her elbow, and looked down at her best friend, making out Miranda's vulnerability and self-loathing even in the low light of the room. "You're still the most beautiful woman I know, Mimo."

Her friend smiled without mirth. "You're not thinking straight."

Elizabeth's eyes unerringly found Miranda's. "No, I'm not." She leaned down and gently kissed Miranda, slowly, softly. Her mouth parted, and her tongue gently licked at her ex-lover's lips; more than a request, less than an invasion. Miranda wasn't sure what to do but her hands closed around Elizabeth's shoulders, and almost involuntarily, pulled her closer. The kiss was returned; the past was once again alive and dancing around them like the flames of a thousand tea-candles in a gentle wind.

They broke apart, their faces inches from each other, and Miranda gently held her friend's face in her palms. "Lizzie," she whispered, the words of truth, logic, and safety stolen from her mind as she looked into the eyes of one of her greatest loves. One of the two women in her life whom she had given her soiled, incomplete heart to. And, immediately, the memory of Marguerite was a blistering force that tore through her body. Miranda stiffened even as she felt Elizabeth read her thoughts.

Elizabeth's gaze was disturbingly unwavering. "You really love her, don't you?"

Miranda didn't look away. The fragility of her own emotional state made the words a raspy whisper, infused with heated and undeniable surety. "Yea."

The other woman trailed her index finger gently over Miranda's eyebrows, down her nose, and then underneath those full lips. "Have you told her?"

Miranda swallowed. "No."

"It's only real if you tell her, Mimo."

"I know."

Elizabeth leaned down again, and kissed Miranda like she used to kiss her in college; with a headiness and dissipation of youth that left no thought of restraint or good intentions. This time, Miranda pulled away, and as they looked at each other as they regained their breath, reality had reasserted itself between them. Their connection had been equally cerebral; no other lover had read each of them as they did. It made verbal communication a decidedly tiresome adventure. Elizabeth closed her eyes, and leaned her forehead against the other woman's. "You should tell her, Miranda. She deserves to know. She deserves to feel like her world will never be as bright, as rich, as complicated as it is when she's loved by you." Elizabeth opened her eyes, and slowly smiled at her best friend, realizing, with a sharp pang, that for Miranda to love a woman like Marguerite meant that her best friend would probably never love anyone else.

She smiled, the expression both pained and freeing, as she kissed Miranda once more chastely. "I love you. I always will."

Miranda swallowed again, trying to get past the lump in her throat. "I love you."

Elizabeth lay down, holding Miranda tightly to her. "I know."

______________________________

A Few Hours Later...

It was 3AM, and she couldn't sleep. She had stealthily left Elizabeth sleeping in her bedroom, her friend exhausted by the emotional upheaval. She stood next to the coffee machine as it silently finished its cycle, and poured herself a large cup mixed with a healthy dose of milk and a prosaically sickeningly amount of sugar. She blamed Natasha for getting her hooked on this combination.

Miranda walked into her living room, and stared at the dossier compiled by Joseph on Neela Kumar. There was nothing in his findings that truly rattled the cages, but in both times of trouble and peace, Miranda's sole saving grace had been her inhuman perseverance. She scanned the details, surprised to note that Neela had attended the same University as she, Elizabeth, and Charles had. She quickly logged into her University Alumni site, wondering if there was something to be found there. The site was password protected and had so many protections that maybe only the CIA could hack into it.

She noticed movement by the door, and looked up to see Elizabeth standing there in one of her nightshirts. "Hey there."

"You're awake."

"Yea, couldn't sleep next to your snoring."

Elizabeth cracked a smile at the old jibe. "F*ck off, Mimo."

"Ah, there she is. The Lizzie we all adore!"

"What are you doing?"

"Just some rabblerousing."

Elizabeth moved slowly. She sat beside Miranda, staring off into space. Miranda said nothing, waiting for Elizabeth to lean back against the couch.

"Why did he do it, Mimo?"

Miranda sighed, trying to keep her anger with Charles at bay for hurting this lovely woman next to her. "I don't know, darling. I really don't."

Elizabeth leaned forward again, resting her head in her hands, the hair falling around her face, hiding her expression. "There's so much...anger. And hate. Just yesterday, I was so in love with him. And now, it's all so...horridly dark."

Miranda rubbed her friend's back gently. "Whatever you're feeling, Lizzie, it's totally and completely okay. Even homicidal tendencies. As long as they remain in your imagination."

Elizabeth chuckled, as she pushed the hair away from her face and turned to her friend. "How do I forgive him?"

"You have to want to forgive him."

"I don't know if I can."

"Lizzie..." Miranda hesitated, having not shared what she was considering sharing with anyone other than Marguerite. She sighed. "My mom ended up having a twenty year affair with the love of her life."

Elizabeth's eyes grew large. "What?"

"When I was around a year old, my mom got involved with her best friend, Maggie. They were...inseparable, I guess. Moved to Paris, all of us. And, somehow, Maggie ended up cheating on my mom. Which was immature and unfeeling, but whatever, it happened. They were young. It was Maggie's first lesbian relationship. Let's just say the break-up was...disastrous. My mom, stupidly, refused to forgive Maggie. And then mom married Natasha, and Maggie married another woman. Somewhere along the line, they...my mom and Maggie got together, and it just...All I'm saying is, I saw what it did to them. To my mom, to Natasha, to Maggie. I was an outsider looking in. But I know my mom regretted hurting Natasha, though I don't think she realized that Natasha knew. I knew. And Natasha knew. My point is...my mom and Maggie...they couldn't ever trust each other again. They loved each other so intensely, so ceaselessly. But their f*cking pride and staggering immaturity kept them apart. They weren't acting like adults; they acted like petulant, ego maniacs. And they paid for it. They paid a miserable, miserable price for few moments of life-altering love. When they could have had everything. It was in the palm of their hands..."

Miranda sighed deeply, choking back tears and an unbearable weight of the realization of the death of two of the most important people in her life. Losing her mother had, over the course of the months after Bianca's death, had sent Miranda on a seemingly unstoppable downward spiral. Maggie's death had pushed everything over the edge.

Miranda took a few deep breaths, breathing forcefully through her nose and exhaling out of her mouth. "The point is, Lizzie, you have to be absolutely clear about this, about Charles. I know you're in love with him. You have to decide if you two can get past this, if you want to get past this. Take your time, but make a decision. And, whatever you do, stick by it. Don't vacillate, don't fudge. Grab the decision and run with it, Lizzie. Do not look back. Do not end up like my mom and Maggie. Whatever you do, just please, Lizzie. Do it fully. Do it with your heart. And once you do it, don't ever hesitate. You have to stay or you have to leave. Don't give into the middle ground on this one."

Elizabeth looked at Miranda, almost uncomprehending, before swallowing convulsively. "I need time..."

Miranda was unwavering. "Take all the time you want, darling. You have all the time in the world...Just do it on your terms. And know exactly, unerringly what those terms are."

Elizabeth blew out a breath. "Okay, you're right." She looked at Miranda, and smiled through glassy eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, darling."

"Y'know, somewhere along the way, when I wasn't looking, you got smart."

Miranda laughed. "Only when it comes to other people, Lizzie."

Elizabeth just smirked, and then looked to Miranda's laptop, eager for a change in topic. "So what are you doing on the Harvard Alumni website at three in the morning?"

"I'm trying to nail a nasty bitch to a wall."

Elizabeth's eyebrows rose in high mirth as she smiled. "Want help?"

"It's highly confidential, Lizzie. Board stuff."

Elizabeth nodded in understanding. "Got it. So..." she waggled her eyebrows. "Want help?"

Miranda smiled with her teeth, looking conspiratorially wicked and heady. "Hell yes."

- TBC -

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 5

2008-02-26T18:23:55Z

Author's Notes:

1. And, we're back in action. This is a short, but key, update.

2. I would like to thank my FANers: Dickie, Vicey, and MH for their daily sustenance and glorious joy that they so effortlessly bring to my life. And for putting up with my melodramatic rantings about lack of writing mojo.

3. I'd like to dedicate this update to my screaming/yelling fan, greentea. Thanks for the loud interest!

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; just sit back and enjoy the ride. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Neela Kumar, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Visual Reference:
1. Miranda (After the picture loads, you need to click on the picture to clear it up to a higher resolution).
2. Marguerite St. Just.
3. Elizabeth James
4. Neela Kumar.
5. Charles (Same as Miranda's picture - once it loads, click on it to clarify)

Rating: Strong R. Good rule of thumb - If you have a curfew, then you're too young to read this. Please read responsibly. Also? Don't do drugs.

Feedback: What a silly thing to wonder about!

_________________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 5: CAN'T YOU SEE MY HEART BURNING IN MY HANDS?

Two Days After The Cambius Holiday Party...

Miranda took a deep breath, and swung.

She felt it go awry the moment contact was made but maintained her follow-through. It didn't matter; the golf ball veered dangerously to the right before disappearing over a dune.

She gently thwacked her Driver against the artificial grass of the Driving Range. "F**k," she muttered under breath as her shoulder slumped. She'd lost count of how many balls swung right; she wasn't practicing her hook shoot but it looked like it.

She looked up to see Elizabeth smirking at her from the adjacent booth in the Range. "I think there's a magnet over that dune on the right."

Her friend, the traitor, only giggled. "And this giant magnet turns on only when you swing?"

"Oh, shut up. Just because you've got a rock on your finger, it compensates for your over-emphasized wrist turn."

Elizabeth only raised her eyebrows in a ludicrous expression. "I'm impressed, Mimo. In your long, long list of bullshit lines, that's definitely in the top five. I think, darling, the only real fix for your shots is not just staying down on your feet when you swing, but also mending your broken heart."

"Oh, dear Lord, you're going to become one of those insufferable marrieds, who thinks that everyone should be married. Either because you're so disgustingly well-sexed and blissful or because you're so f*cking miserable that you want company."

Elizabeth raised only one eyebrow. "Finished?"

Miranda huffed as she once again beat the head of her Driver against the patch of fake grass in her booth. "No, I'm not bloody finished. It isn't hard enough being so rich that I have to have a fake name when I go clubbing so that some gold-digging hussy doesn't try to sell some inflagrante pictures to some stupid rag. Oh, no! I have to stay off alcohol and coke and stay on my anti-depressants, which by the way, have made my sex drive evaporate like a drop of rain that fell on the sands of the Sahara. And, because there's no Sundae without its own delightful little cherry of doom, the woman who quite possibly could be the love of my life is now, because of my stupid f*cking suggestion, shagging some wannabe-model who has the dress sense to look only slightly more discreet than a Parisian hooker!"

Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek. "I've missed your rants."

Miranda fumed from beneath the infamous Montgomery eyebrows as she waggled her Driver in her friend's direction. "Careful, Lizzie. There's more from where that came from."

Her friends eyes grew comically large. "Noooo! There's more?! What more could possibly troubling the head of my gorgeous, young, filthy rich, Chairwoman of a disgustingly large private company of which she has an undisputed controlling share?"

Miranda's shoulder slumped. "God, I want a drink."

Elizabeth's eyes softened as she looked at the bent head of her best friend. "Okay, you know what we need to do?"

"What?"

"Now, don't whine. We need karaoke!"

"Uh, Lizzie? We live in Paris."

"Exactly! And there's only one place to do karaoke!"

"Pray tell..."

"Tokyo!"

Miranda goggled. "What?"

Elizabeth beamed, quite pleased with her idea. "Why not? We can catch a flight into Narita today, and thanks to time zones, we can drive right into the city for a night of wild, off-key renditions of "I will survive.""

"Have you gone koo-koo?"

"Look it's the day before Christmas, and Charles is in Sao Paulo on some business conference. The continued joys of being engaged to an atheist! Of course, I still insist on presents; I'm a woman, not an idiot. But, you have nothing to do, though I'll never quite understand why you didn't take up Erica's invitation to do Christmas in Pine Valley..."

Miranda glowered. "Oh, trust me. Once you've been to a Kane Christmas celebration, you've been to all of them. Basically it's a yearly outburst of bedlam and screeching estrogen with a revolving door of angst-filled melodrama and insanity. With the occasional person being resurrected from the dead. Literally. And, besides, Natasha is so forlorn that she's actually decided to brave the crazies this year. I'm sure I'll get the update on the various food fights that'll ensue."

"Well, I still remember that time you took me in college..."

"Then how the hell can you even ask if I'd subject myself to that this year?! Oh, no, those "celebrations" are for people who are stout of heart and spirit. And this year..."

"Okay, true. But, damn, the food was delicious."

Miranda sighed.

Elizabeth clapped her hands. "Okay! Enough reminiscing. So...Tokyo?"

"When is Charles back?"

"Not for another two days. So, stop stalling."

Miranda looked at her friend. Her crazy yet seemingly sane best friend. And, finally, she smiled in earnest for the first time since she'd seen Margo's date at the Cambius Holiday party two days ago. "Let's do it!"

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Meanwhile, Elsewhere In Paris...

It wasn't so simple to move on from Miranda, Marguerite realized. But, oh, how she wished it were.

She could almost hear her mother's wry tone in the thought in her head: If wishes were horses...

To Marguerite, perception was everything; this was not shallow, but indeed the reality that plebeians accepted as gospel.

And while she did not surround herself by such company, she was aware the most of humanity consisted of mediocrity. In her most private thoughts, she wondered if she were a proponent for genocide; a chilling idea to even entertain given her own bloody, war-torn heritage.

She sighed; insomnia did her thought process little credit. Or, come to think of it, her humanity.

It was the Holiday season, and perhaps in some dementedly naive way she had thought she would spend it with Miranda. That was weeks ago, admittedly, before the young woman had, true to form, thrown her a curve ball that Marguerite had failed to dodge; she had been knocked flat by the tremulous plea from her Chairwoman to give her space.

Space!

The sheer audacity of youth never failed to amaze Marguerite; where before Marguerite felt pursued, now she felt not waylaid, but abandoned. Even if she were to account for the veracity in Miranda's argument for time and healing and growth, Marguerite was not so evolved as she would appear as not to feel slighted by Miranda's ability to sideline the possibility of their rekindled relationship.

Marguerite was a woman of action, and as she felt the cold weather frost her window panes, she clenched her hands, and decided that the time for pondering was over; gestures were immediately called for.

_________________________

Miranda was packing. Of course, because she was a Kane, nothing in her wardrobe would quite do. She had eight different closets; two for each season, replete with differently appropriate lingerie, tops, pants, skirts, bags, coats, gloves, and shoes.

Elizabeth had given her the weather advisory; it was freezing in Tokyo, and there would be lots of snow. It was also a good thing that Elizabeth spoke Japanese fluently.

Miranda loved Japan for its idiosyncrasies; the country's history begat an understandable xenophobia, yet all of the well-heeled set clamored after Western standards of luxury.

She would never forget how, on her first trip to Japan in the winter as a sophomore in college, she observed every young woman in the tiniest mini-skirt with knee-high boots or high heels. In below zero temperatures. Most of them didn't even wear tights, or stockings! Miranda's ideal of trading beauty for pain had been redefined by the sight of those women.

She looked at her watch and realized that she didn't quite have the time to go on a shopping spree; she sighed and started randomly picking outfits out of her "Winter" closets. She was traveling for two days; surely, four suitcases would be enough for any eventuality.

The obscenely loud door bell rang, and the sound reverberated through every room of the house, rattling Miranda as it always had. She really needed to get it replaced. Then she rolled her eyes at herself; she had that same thought at least a dozen times and always forgot to tell her assistant.

"Post-It notes are your friend, Mimo," she told herself as she raced down the stairs.

She threw open the door to find what looked like her best friend, except Elizabeth looked like death warmed over, with her mascara streaking down her cheeks and her hair wild.

"Lizzie!"

Her friend barely looked at her as she fell into Miranda's arms. "Oh, my God, Mimo!"

Elizabeth was shaking, and the sobs were wetting Miranda's neck as the Chairwoman saw Elizabeth's car in her driveway, with the driver's door still open, and the engine still running. It seemed that Elizabeth had stumbled forth out of her car and onto Miranda's doorstep.

Miranda silently nodded her head to her security detail, who always stood at a discreet distance from her doorway, to take care of the vehicle, even as she tried to hug Elizabeth. "What's wrong, darling?"

But Elizabeth was seemingly inconsolable, just holding on to Miranda and crying. "Lizzie, you're scaring me..."

And in the next minute, Elizabeth was furious as she pushed away from her best friend. "Charles! The f*cking asshole!"

Miranda slowly closed her front door, looking at her friend in her foyer the whole time. "What happened?"

"He called...he sounded upset. It was a "drunken thing," he said. With some woman in the conference."

Miranda felt her heart drop. "Oh, no..."

Elizabeth wiped ineffectually at her cheeks. "I could f*cking kill him!"

"Oh, Lizzie..." Miranda moved to take Elizabeth in her arms, comforting her best friend and her broken heart. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Mimo...We were going to get married..." she whispered into Miranda's neck as she clung to her for dear life.

Miranda tightened her arms around the shaking body that she held. "It's going to be okay, Lizzie."

"How?" came the broken, torn, and ragged question.

"I don't know, darling, but we'll make sure of it. It's going to be okay..."

- TBC -

Mistresses Fic Status Update

2008-02-26T18:12:36Z

So, as my love affair with this BBC show continues on full throttle, I thought I would share some of what I've decided on for the story.

The title: Road To Somewhere

How did I chose this? Well, I have been listening to a lot of Goldfrapp recently. Especially their new album, Seventh Tree. One of my favorite tracks is called "Road To Somewhere." It's magical and mystical and luminous.

Since the album is new, the only video I could find for the song is from a live performance, but it's still great. Watch/hear the song here.

Here are the lyrics of the song:

Walking down the Mercer St
Been a long hot summer
Rain like daggers coming
Down on me
Get a feeling it's too late
But alone, together, could
Be we might start it up
Allover again

Dream, dream you're not
Too late
Sweet road to somewhere else

Listen to the radio
Are you calling?

3'o clock I'm on my way
On the road to somewhere
Little clouds like wounds
That blow away
Listening to the radio like a
Friend that guides me
Playing out every song
We used to know

Dream, dream you're not
Too late
Sweet road to somewhere else

Listen to the radio
Are you calling?

Bring it on
Come along
On the road to somewhere
Take our time
See the signs
On the road to somewhere

The song is, in my mind, really perfect for the Jess/Alex love story.

So, those are some of the finer details of what's going on inside my head. Stay tuned for the story!

Announcing New Fandom - "Mistresses" (BBC, Series 1)

2008-02-22T16:02:54Z

About six years ago, when I was a sophomore in college, I used to write ER fan fiction (Kerry/Kim pairing), my first attempts at fan fiction, under a different pseudonym. I published quite prolifically for a couple of years, and then quickly got burnt out.

I took a four-year hiatus, and came back to fan fic once I accidentally discovered the BAM (Bianca And Maggie) fandom on AMC in mid-2007.

Speaking from a canon point of view, I had missed the BAM bus, but I, very unexpectedly, was extremely intrigued by a soap opera! Specifically, I was taken in with the character Bianca Montgomery on AMC, and her tumultuous, frustrating, rewarding and revealing relationship with her best friend, Maggie Stone.

Technically, I have never watched AMC on TV, but know the characters through the many, many clips on YouTube charting BAM's relationship. Thus began the past few months of writing. Readers of this LJ will be familiar with my BAM pieces.

Meanwhile, I didn't realize that I had been yearning to write fan fiction with a South Asian character. Even in my BAM stories, I made an effort to include original characters who were people of color, without being obsequious or tokenist about it; I wanted the story to befit the character, to need the character, regardless of the character's racial background.

I'm South Asian, and I truly enjoy writing stories about Caucasian characters, as they represent the majority of the fodder available in pop culture.

But in the past few days, I was totally knocked off my ass by a BBC series called "Mistresses," which revolves around four female friends' romantic infidelities.

To read more about the series, go here

To summarize, the series revolves around four youngish-to-middle-aged women in the UK. Think a deeper, better, more realistic Sex And The City. Only set in the UK, and scintillatingly portrayed by its actors.

The character that took my breath away is the South Asian amongst the four women - Jess Frasier, portrayed by Shelley Conn, who played a lezzie in the cute movie "Nina's Heavenly Delights."

Jess Frasier, an event organizer, is slotted to arrange the wedding of two lesbians - Alex and Lisa. And how amazingly, mindblowingly cool is it that since late 2005, UK legalized gay marriages? Very!

So.

Jess, who is until now straight, falls for one of the lesbians about to get hitched - Alex.

Watch Jess' and Alex's enchatingly disastrous first meeting here.

And then the sparks really start to fly. Did I mention that Jess was formerly shagging her married male boss? Who then turns out to be adorably supportive when Jess stops shagging him and ends up falling for Alex. Too cute!

So, Jess and Alex shag.

Then, Alex marries her partner, Lisa.

And then, Jess and Alex have an affair.

And then through the exciting and wrenching arc of the story, Jess ends the affair because for the first time in her life, she's in love but wants it to feel like a good thing, not something where she's hurting everyone involved.

Oh, the drama! The emotions! The potential!

End of Series 1 (akin to US "Season 1"). No one knows if "Mistresses" is gonna come back for a second "Series".

Of course, I want it to.

But I was blown away by the chemistry and potential of Jess and Alex. Thus, I found a new fandom.

I'm going to write "Mistresses" fandom, as best as I can.

If you want to watch the clips, go here, and scroll down for the videos relating to "Mistresses," starting on Page 2 of the user's video library.

In Jess, I have finally found something I didn't even know I was looking for; I have found a character I can truly connect with. A swanky, svelte, fashionable, complicated South Asian woman who is bisexual and speaks with a Brit accent!

I am in love with this fandom. And I'm going to write it.

You heard it here first.

Original Fic: Cologne Cerrone Houdini - Part 1

2008-01-19T17:29:38Z

Author's Notes:

1. The title is from a song by Goldfrapp, from their "Seventh Tree" album. You can hear the track here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvY-y-H6TDg

2. When I refer to "The Times," I am referring to the "The Times of London." In Europe, they call it "The Times," and it is not to be misunderstood by Americans for another excellent paper of record, "The New York Times." Thanks from the continent.

Disclaimer: Original work, and ALL the characters, plot, and great lines belong to me, me, me. Yes, I've been writing fan fiction for so long that it feels damn good to say that!

Rating: Strong R. If you have a curfew, this story is not for you. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: Why, thank you!

_____________________

COLOGNE CERRONE HOUDINI

By Cgirl

Zamora
London, England

"Your mouth was made to..." her lover gasped as she kissed her way up her body. Zamora smiled, the sunlight dancing patches of heated gold onto her black skin as she heard her lover's salacious whisper. She kissed her lover on her thin lips, with the bountiful smugness of a woman who had done her job and done it superlatively. There was such a lush laziness to their limbs, a feeling that only a Sunday morning could bring to any bed.

Zamora flopped on to her back, letting the woman next to her catch her breath, contemplating the ceiling and the pink inks from the comics of The Times that had smeared on her thigh. The brunch-in-bed had started platonically enough, as they giggled over omelettes with Pepper Jack cheese and toast with marmalade. Zamora could not stand marmalade, but Gemma could not do without it; sex was full of such compromises.

And then there had been the inadvertent drop of marmalade that had landed on Zamora's forearm when Gemma had tried to pry open the uncooperative lid. Zamora had, in fact, squealed at having such an objectionable condiment accidentally land on her body. Albeit in jest. Gemma had (very ill-advisedly) laughed until she was curled into a fetal ball, and then Zamora had taken the drop of marmalade and spread it over Gemma's forehead in retaliation, and things had gone quickly uphill from there as her lover pinned her down and...

...And that was why Zamora was now contemplating the ceiling while Gemma could barely form a thought.

She turned her head, and saw her black hair spread out against the stark white fabric of the pillow cover, and wondered if the world could indeed be reduced to a reality that spanned the length of their bodies; that was what Sundays were about. Not that she was an accountant; in fact, it had been proven on many an ill-fated professional tryst that Zamora had no head for numbers. It was their eighteenth Sunday together.

She was quitting smoking. It seemed liked the thing to do after one heard the news four days ago that their father had died of lung cancer. Deserved as his death may have been, Zamora could see the writing on the wall as long as it was alphabetical and not numerical. So she had not shed a tear over her last parental figure's death but instead fretted over the lack of her nicotine fix from hereon. She had gotten the call in the morning, and gone to her regular shift at the cafe; it was Saturday night and always her biggest night of tips. On the way back, she stopped by the market and realized that she had enough money for soap, scotch, and crisps; but she had to chose between deodorant and Dunhill Menthol cigarettes.

Who needs deodorant, really?

Gemma was a shameless smoker. On the nights when they went clubbing, she was unashamed of her excess smoking, and would gladly suffer the morning-after hacker's cough because nothing rounded out a martini like the painful drag from a high-tar cigarette. She also openly mocked Zamora's "granny" Menthol cigarettes, and then Zamora wouldn't kiss her for a few hours, and Gemma would apologize. But it was always sweet revenge when Gemma ran out of her killer sticks at a pub and would have to balefully yet humbly request one of Zamora's.

All of these idiosyncratic comforts ran through her mind before Gemma curled into her body, holding Zamora as if she were something treasured. While they were equally cynical, jaded, and scarred, there seemed to be a silent but deadly battle of wills of who was going to express the dreaded and prosaic declaration of love. Neither wanted to be the first; but each was certain she wouldn't mind being second. Gemma smiled into the crook of Zamora's shoulder and kissed her neck.

The phone rang. Zamora stretched for the device that lay on the floor. "Hello?"

"Zamora?"

She mentally sighed. "Hello, Aitan." Calls from her brother were few and far between; an arrangement of a silent yet mutual agreement.

"When are you arriving?"

"Aitan..."

"The rites are on Wednesday, so the best day would be Tuesday."

She used the fingers of her left hand to carefully massage her forehead, anything to forestall the brewing headache. "I'm arriving Wednesday morning, Aitan."

"Fine."

"Okay."

There were at an impasse, and she could almost feel Aitan's animosity, his desire to find a way to throw her off balance. "Lucerou is also arriving then."

She closed her eyes; he had fulfilled his wish.

- TBC in Part 2 -

One Shot: Monday - Paracetamol

2008-01-19T09:08:59Z

Author's Notes: (Hopefully Not The Most Interesting Part Of This Post)

1. Got bitten by the bug. Ergo, posting!

2. Definition of Paracetamol:
a. The long version: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paracetamol
b. The unhelpful version: http://www.m-w.com/dictionary/paracetamol

3. The title is from a superlative track by the genius Ulrich Schnauss. Unfortunately, YouTube only had this version of the song, which is a bit speeded up, but still quite the aural experience. Enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2XpmI4A3vk

4. This is a one shot that goes between Ditch The Halo and its yet to be published sequel, The Placebo Effect. Consider this titillation, if you will. Strictly speaking, you won't have to have read DTH to follow this.

Disclaimer: Bianca and Maggie belong to AMC/ABC. No profit or money being made of their use here. Don't sue; moisturize instead! It's good for you and also won't annoy me. That's what I call a win-win.

Rating: R. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: Well, this is short. But if you're generous and feeling like it, you know where to leave it.

______________________

MONDAY - PARACETAMOL

Skin.

Not always soft, not always smooth, and in the winter, movements that would be pleasurable can bring pain.

But waking in the morning was divine, because there were yards of skin and flesh, warm from the comforter and their temporary hibernation. Time for the brain to rest, muscles to regenerate, the world to revolve. Leaving them a tangle of misplaced and purposeful limbs curling around each other, fitting into each other, serving as solace, protection, and bookends.

The first rays of morning and cognition, filtering through the addled mind, processing everything in slow motion because they were allowed that disability just then. It was natural, and she took advantage of her hands roaming slowly over that valley of a waist, before sliding past the fragile rib cage, and then she knew that she was beside her lover.

The movements did not chafe in this winter because they both moisturized.

Moisturizing the skin was like worship for the Evangelicals; done on schedule and with fervor.

Water, especially from bathing, sapped more life out of skin than anyone would guess, and when the steam was still heavy in the air, making it hard for them to breathe in the contained enormity of their shared bathroom, between lingering glances and kisses that never ended too soon, they moisturized.

Of course, if they were true believers, they would have had a schedule, but hands tended to wander, and their own natural human curiosity took them on journeys that a scheduler could never contain. But they would have been given credit for genuflecting when the occasion called for it, when one of them was especially taken with the acres of smooth flesh, and could not contain the very forgivable sin of lust; then a victim must be taken account of, and there were hands in the other's hair, urging one's tongue to go faster, and to to the left, and harder. Just. There. Stay.

And then there was the arch of neck as a head was thrown back, hair flying in slow motion as the body convulsed unto itself, opening and closing at the same time for its tormentor, savior, lover.

The glorious moment of culmination that so many women never really experience during sex. The statistics were mind boggling to her; any gossip rag worth its blowjob tips would trumpet the lack of orgasms experienced by women during the act of sex.

Bianca marveled at the number of her own gender who suffered in silence, teased and caressed by foreplay but never feeling that fleeting explosion of the senses.

To her, while an orgasm was not the be-all and end-all, it was certainly something that made her breathless in her desire, and she wanted to come undone for her lover even as she sought to return the same regard.

Not so much for the pleasure, though that was certainly noteworthy in even the staidest terms, but for the vulnerability, the exposure, sharing of breath and emotion and whispering things like "Maggie" and "I love you" without control or contrition.

There was no doubt, only endorphins and limp limbs, attesting to an absolute loss of power. All this, she would gladly share, because to be thus stripped down was to let the physical barriers dissapate and instead welcome with trust and unequivocal love.

There was no shying away from the brute reality of her fragility when she was senseless from such a physical release; her emotions were moot because her eyes were glossy, revelatory, and omniscient.

Then there were times when moisturizing was just about that. An act of lubricating the outer casing of their bodies, so that there was no chafing. Because on mornings such as these, when she can touch the softness, the smoothness and feel the glide between their bodies.

These mornings, even these Monday mornings, Bianca didn't need paracetamol to get the day going. Because the skin beneath her hand grew alive under her touch and she smiled into the breaking day. These mornings, they only needed the fruits of their own habits, their own indulgences, their own worship.

- FINIS -

One Shot: En Passant

2008-01-19T09:04:13Z

Author's Notes (Defies Usual Logic With Its Relevance)

1. For non chess aficionados, an explanation of En passant: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/En_passant

2. Warning: Character death in this story. I don't like it, but I take responsibility for it.

Disclaimer: Bianca and Maggie belong to AMC/ABC. No profit/money being made from their use here. Connie and Larry are figments of my imagination.

Rating: R for themes. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: Greatly appreciated, especially if it isn't rotten tomatoes!

_____________________________

EN PASSANT: BETTER THAT THAN THE FOOL'S GAMBIT

When you’re on a job like this, the hours seem to meld into one another; the only thing keeping me sane is my chessboard. My mother taught me how to play chess when I was ten, and I have never looked back. On average, I play about eight games a day, each lasting at least forty-five minutes. Unless, it’s a bad day, and I whip out an unusual gambit.

It’s more than just a hobby; it’s an obsession, and, most times, I play both sides, thereby eliminating the need for any and all inadequate companions. If you can beat me at chess, I will give you my soul. The only person to ever beat me was, ironically enough, my mother. And, I figured I’ve given her enough of myself to keep my soul, thanks very much.

I like my job, and I like my work place. Sure there are only a few of the small, square white tiles that aren’t chipped, and yes the chairs are ancient, but the washers and dryers gleam in their efficiency. And, let’s not forget the huge windows, with the neon-painted ad that guarantees the lowest prices for laundry in town. In San Francisco, that’s a deal that people need, and so we’re always busy.

Naturally, the weekends are busiest, and I spend the hours making sure the change dispenser remains stocked. It seems trivial, but without that change machine, this job would suck. Weekdays are less busy, Mondays being the least and Wednesdays being the most.

Unlike the weekend, the weekdays’ hours tick by agonizingly slowly, without my notice or permission, on the ancient clock hanging high on the wall. I hate the weeks because, apart from my games, it’s not overly challenging. However, after that one fateful Tuesday, the time of 6:30pm is an entirely different matter. After that Tuesday, sometimes I think that I spend the preceding hours in a haze of anticipation, frenetically chewing Juicy Fruit (none of that Spearmint crap for me).

That Tuesday, when I saw her for the first time. It wasn’t particularly remarkable, but I, somehow, knew she was going stir something crazy within me. I just knew it, just like I knew that the Spice Girls were going to be the next big thing way back when.

Pawn to King 3. Most people who come in here are on the clock, like that day, when she, harried woman that she was, used machine #104. She came in here, just rushed in like a tornado, breathless in her double-blended, silk-mix Jil Sander suit, which was impeccable except for the right pant leg, which had a bright, wet blotch of what I strongly suspect to be Raspberry Kool Aid.

She was in here for exactly fourteen minutes and thirty seconds (speed rinse cycle), and then she was gone, and I remember holding my breath just watching her move with such speed, intent and precision. Not a wasted move, but certainly not without grace. And I just happened to notice that as she waved a breezy arc of her hand at me in goodbye, even as she pushed the door with the other, that there was no ring on the finger that counted. Now, I’m a pretty observant kid, still something should’ve tipped me off that I noticed that about her. But, that first sighting really didn’t stir much inside; it was more of a sifting of the rubble.

Knight to Bishop 6. The second time was the one that got to me. It was Saturday, the twenty-second of February, and it was exactly 5:30pm. I almost wouldn’t have recognized her if it weren’t for that ol’ smile-and-wave combo; she was dressed in the old-school 501 jeans, which had a cut across the right leg, and a loose t-shirt.

I’ve read a lot of trashy romance novels during my twenty-seven years, and I’ve never felt that heart-stopping, light-headed, breathless lurch that all those authors go on and on about. Till now, that is. I couldn’t decide whether I preferred her in Sander or in Levi’s; she was devastating to me in both.

I can make conversation when necessary, about any topic really, but when she breezed in that day, carrying a sack of what I assume to be laundry, and her glossy lips bowed upwards at me, with just a hint of straight, white teeth, and her eyes, kinder and sharper than my own, pierced through me, I knew what it was to lose power of all your faculties. I was a deaf, mute, senile twenty-seven year old.

By the time I had processed all of this, she’s moved on to the machines, back to #104. Somehow, through this unfamiliar and unprecedented haze in my mind, the realization that I’ve probably been staring at her with this glazed, dilated expression sinks through. I quickly avert my eyes; I’ve given away too much already. I glance at her again, and she’s got her headphones on, and is moving her hips in a fashion that should be illegal, as she loads her clothes.

Okay, two can play at this game. I finger the bottom of my sweatshirt, and pull it off, exposing my tight tank top.

Queen to Knight 4. I go back to my chessboard; if my instincts are right, then she’ll need change sometime in the very near future.

Just as I’m about to take White’s pawn in a truly inspired move, I see a shadow fall over the board. I look up and I’m able to breathe only because I’ve been rehearsing my breathing for the past ten minutes. Her eyes are a very dark brown, and they have golden flecks.

Bishop to Knight 6. She looks at me, for just a moment, establishing eye contact, and then smiled for another moment, and I realize that all my rehearsals are for naught. I have a favorite painting: David Caspar Friedrich's "The Sea of Fog."

When I first saw that painting, I knew that someone on this innocent planet had known what it was like to be me. It was connection of empathy, at first sight. When she smiled at me that day in the laundromat, I knew somehow felt that tension felt between kindred spirits. I'd never met one of those before.

Obviously, these thoughts are hitting me at lightning speed because she’s now talking to me, and I’m fighting the urge to shake my head to clear the sound of blood rush inside.

“Hi.” She says, and it’s a low and soft and intimate and a little rough at the sides.

I’m not yet up to par, so instead of trying to elocute a clear response, I just nod and smile a smile that I hope isn’t goofy or crazed. It seems to work, because she hasn’t fled, and she’s saying more, “Do you have change for three dollars?”

I realize that I have to start speaking, or she’ll assume that I really am mute, “Yea, sure. Just a minute.”

She rewards me with another smile, and I can’t look because I know she’s waiting for her change, and I don’t have time for detailed fantasies right now.

So, I turn to the register, and pull out a new stack of quarters encased in thick, brown paper wrapping. I break the seal, and I’ve got the coins in my hands in less than a minute, which I hope she notices. Yes, I’ve got strong and talented fingers. She hands me three crumpled dollar bills, and her index finger touches the point where my thumb meets my palm, and I manage not to go numb.

I hold the twelve quarters in my palm, and I drop them into her outstretched palm, my little finger grazing her palm. At that exact moment of contact, I look up into her eyes.

She’s watching me, and she says, “Thank you.” Either her voice just got a tad lower, or I’m going insane. I’m tempted to go with the latter at this point.

She glances at my chessboard, and I wonder what she thinks of my moves. She looks back at me, right between the eyes, and says in a clear, luminescent voice, “Queen to Queen 7. Checkmate.” I looked at the board, and realized she was right. Another quick smile and she’s gone back to #104 and her headphones. I reassemble the pieces on my board, and it’s a passing thought that this was the quickest game I’ve ever played.

________________________

The week, mercifully, goes by in a flash, and before I know it I’ve balanced the books for this month, and it’s Saturday again. I’m wearing my favorite clubbing T-shirt, the only piece of Roberto Cavalli party wear I could afford. It’s tight, and flashy; I have a date tonight.

It’s the momentous fourth date; it’s when you know whether a relationship is at all possible, or not. I feel like it’s a life-defining moment, and that’s probably because I’m falling love with someone after more than three years of avoiding emotional entanglements with those I have sex with.

Larry’s come in today because #104 is having problems, and he likes to fix his babies (as he calls them) himself. By trade, he’s a car mechanic, but that was before his paternal uncle died, and left Larry, the family’s only living heir, the laundromat. It was called Benny’s, and it used to make anticipated monthly losses. Larry attributes that to the name, and once he changed it, the profits have risen by 60%. Larry’s wife, Connie, however, credits me with the turnaround.

Connie is forty-nine years old, and is my godsend; she brings me mouth-watering Italian food everyday for dinner. She says that I don’t eat enough and if I don’t want to faint or, worse yet, disappear into thin air, and if I’m too scatterbrained to remember to eat, then goddamit, she’s going to step in and regulate. But, she does much more than provide my dinners; she’s my part-time therapist and mother figure.

I wonder how my mother would feel if she knew that I was closer to an old, rotund, Italian woman who knows more about me than she ever could. It’s 7pm, and in walks Connie, punctual as usual. I smile at her in welcome, and her eyebrows climb into her hairline as she takes in my outfit. She wastes no time on chitchat, and cuts to the bone, “What the hell are you wearing?”

I try not to blush, as I realize that she’s never seen me in anything other than my sweatshirt and baggy jeans. She probably didn’t know that I had a size four figure underneath it all, and she certainly didn’t expect to see showing my assets, as they were, at work. I try to stave off her die-hard curiosity, “I ran out of clothes.”

Okay, so it’s a lame excuse, but I hadn’t remembered that Connie would see me like this.

She gives me the look that tells me that says not only am I a bad liar and that she wasn’t born yesterday but also that I’d better spill the beans in the next thirty seconds or she’s going to have to hurt me. I don’t know why I’m holding out against her; she’s my closest friend, and my confidante. Maybe because I’ve always, successfully, avoided telling her about my sexual proclivities, and today I’ve lost the war because it’d be obvious to even a fool as to why I’m dressed like this for work. And Connie is nobody’s fool.

“Uh, I’m sorta waiting for someone to show.”

There’s a ten second pause as she realizes that I’m not referring to a friend, but to someone. Suddenly, there’s that delightedly devilish and devious look that older Italian woman have patented, and I know she’s smelt blood. “Oh, really??”

And I’m tempted to tell her in that wounded tone that I have that she shouldn’t ask. Because the pain of remembered past intimacies is a place that I’ve always chosen not to visit. But, if I were honest, I would admit that that doesn’t stop me from remembering; it’s one of those cases where if Mohammed won’t go the mountain…

Then, it hits me that maybe she’d be okay with it, that maybe she’d still want to know more, and she’ll get into the nooks and crannies and get it all from me. And, maybe, it’s for the best, and I’ve trusted her with so much of myself that she has to be fine with this.

“Just this…girl…” I say, and trail off, waiting for it to sink in.

Not a facial muscle moves, and it’s one of the longest twenty seconds I’ve known, and then she smiles gently and nods. I don’t know how to interpret that, and my throat is dry. She unwraps the aluminum foil that keeps my dinner warm and gently pushes it towards me on the counter even as she hands me my fork. I accept it, and look down at the food, and am helpless to smile; it’s my favorite of her garlic bread (which she makes from scratch) and her famous Fettuccini Alfredo.

My mouth waters simply from the smells. This is the only thing, apart from beautiful women, that makes my eyes dilate. Then, I remember that this might possibly the last meal she’ll cook for me, and she says, “So, tell me about her.” And, in the moment after she says this, I realize three things: first, I’ve underestimated her because, and that leads me right into number two, she’s fine with it, and, number three, I’ve been a bad friend. I manage to overcome the almost overwhelming urge to apologize.

I decide that I can make it up by telling her everything. As I recount the first few encounters, I try not to speak with my mouth full. I tell her of what happened three weeks ago; the first time that I played chess with someone, other than Connie, and myself, in over a year.

The first time machine #104 woman, Bianca is her name, walked up to my counter, as her laundry load was going through the advanced rinse cycle, and asked me in that voice she has whether I wanted to play a game tomorrow, in the park. And I, lacking any reason of why I shouldn’t, acquiesced immediately.

Connie’s jaw goes a little slack at that; she knows how fiercely I protect my antique chessboard. Only two other people have played with me on it – my mother, and Connie. Then, the devious grin is back. “So, did she beat you?”

She’s got the cat that ate the canary looks, and it’s not going to help that I’m embarrassed to tell her the truth. “Um, no. We didn’t, uh, finish the game.” My voice got progressively softer throughout the sentence, till it tapered off into silence.

I don’t know why I bothered with tact; Connie is all hearing and all knowing. Now, her mouth actually hangs open; in the two years she’s known me, she’s never known me to lose, never mind not finish, a chess game. “What??” she asks, her voice belying that she doesn’t quite believe what she just heard.

Maybe I said something along the lines of stalemate…because, surely, I couldn’t have said that I did not finish. “You resigned?” she asks, still shocked.

“No, we just didn’t finish.”

And, then it hits her, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Connie blush. Oh great, now she thinks I’m some sort of nymphomaniac that I can’t keep my hands off my date long enough to finish a chess game. “We were too interested in our conversation, and we just sort of forgot about the board sitting between us.”

Connie has a secret weapon in her left eyebrow, and she uses it now as it rises in an ‘I’m on to you, so don’t bother shitting me’ look.

I defend my honor, “I’m serious. We spent, like, four hours just talking.” I’ve got my earnest face and my earnest voice on, the one that reminds her I’m one of the world’s last true believers, and now she’s really interested.

She leans forward, arms crossed over the counter, and the conspirational tone is thick in her voice, “So, what did you girls talk about?”

I sigh, and put my fork back in the Alfredo; I’m not going to get eat till she has all the details. “Everything. Anything, really; where she’s from, where I’m from, favorite movies, books—“

“Did you tell her about your family.”

“Um, no. Not yet.”

“Hmmm…has she told you about hers?”

“Yeah, they live in the city…I think she said on Geary.”

There’s that grin again, “What does she look like? Is she a babe?”

“Connie!”

“Oh, please. Don’t go prudish on me, baby. Just because I haven’t seen you in diapers, doesn’t mean I don’t know you.”

That has to be the weirdest explanation for why someone knows me through and through, and I tell her so.

“Yea, well, there you go. It maybe weird, but it’s right.”

I can’t fault her logic really, mostly because all my thoughts have gone on the fritz as the door opens, and I notice her walk in. She’s all apologetic smiles because she’s over an hour late. Luckily for her, I know it’s because she had a family dinner to attend before this. She walks up to the counter in that way she has, and gives Connie a small smile, before leaning over and says, in that whispery tone she has, “Sorry, I’m late. Dinner ran over, and the uncles and aunts wanted lurid details on life.”

I’m feeling more confident around her in public now, so I’m back to my usual rapid-fire responses, “No problem. Was dinner good?”

There’s a smile on her face that says yes, she loves her family but no, she doesn’t really want to talk about them anymore because she’d rather just be with me right now. So, I’m looking towards Connie to preempt our exit, and I notice she’s looking my date over with her critical eyes.

I internally sigh, and realize that I cannot delay the inevitable anymore. I turn to my date, and gesture towards Connie, “This is Connie. She’s my pro bono shrink and honorary mother, all in one. Connie, this is Bianca."

She turns towards Connie, and flashes one of her iridescent smiles, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Connie. I’ve heard a lot of great things about you.”

Connie shoots me a questioning look beneath her lashes, before she takes the proffered hand. "Bianca. It’s nice to meet you as well. How old are you?”

I mentally slap myself on the upside because I should’ve known that Connie would act like a father whose daughter is going to Prom with a date who could possibly end up deflowering his daughter. And so, like that father on that night with that date, Connie’s checking out credentials.

But, not unsurprisingly, she understands exactly where Connie’s coming from, and replies seriously, “Twenty-three years, and eleven months, ma’am.” even as she winks at me from the corner of her eye, and I’m blushing.

Okay, it’s time to break up this tête-à-tête. Being the smooth operator that I am I toss out, “Alright. We ready to roll?”

And, Connie, concerned father of the night, asks, “Where are you going?”

At least she didn’t say ‘Where are you taking her?’ That’d been unforgivably cliché, and Connie is no cliché.

I reply quickly, “We’re going out for a movie and dinner.”

Connie volleys back, “But you’ve already had…” dinner, she was about to say. But, then she realizes that, at least for tonight, I’m not going to subsist on her wonderful cooking. I don’t want her to be hurt by any of this, so I go up to her and give her a big hug, and kiss her on both cheeks. I pull away and smile, “Thank you for the Alfredo. I’ll keep it in the fridge, and finish it tomorrow. I promise. Say bye to Larry from me. I love you.” It’s a rare occurrence that I say such endearments, but I want her to know that she’ll always be important to me. She smiles, and I’ve got the bounce back in my toes. I look past Connie to catch my date’s eyes, and silently tell her that it’s time to go.

Bianca gets the hint, “Well, Connie, it was wonderful to meet you. I hope I get to see more of you soon.” And, with that, a smile and wary wave from Connie, we’ve stepped out of the warmth of Skye’s and into the biting wind of San Francisco.

“Where to?” I ask with a smile that can’t help but be exuberant.

She’s looking at me with quiet warmth and says, “Well, I whipped up something that’s sitting in the oven at my place…if you’re up for it.” She’s a tad hesitant, and it’s endearing.

I smile more and I’m reminded of a teenager on Prom night, and I reply, “Sounds good.”

We’re at her place, and it’s my first time here, so I soak up the effect it has on me. It’s got those solid, wooden floors that speak of age, warm woodsy colors, knick-knacks from her travels around the world and a collection of books and movies to envy my own. I’m comforted by the aura this place projects, and I’m not feeling threatened to be in her territory.

This is a very good sign, in my book. Or maybe I’m just finding more and more reasons that push me towards falling for her. I sit on the high stool at her kitchen counter as I watch her, unabashedly, as she moves around with practiced ease, setting up our dinner. I’d offered help, but she’s relegated me to conversation and telling her if I like the wine. I do; she’s chosen a Riesling. I had mentioned in passing, during that abandoned chess game, that it was my favorite wine. And she remembered.

“What did you pick for the movie?”

She turns away from her preparations for just a moment to toss a saucy smile, “Casablanca.”

My breath catches in my throat; I had also told her that I thought it was the most romantic movie in my book. And she remembered. “Good choice.” Cheesy as my predilection is, it really is a fantastic movie. She rewards me with another one of her luminescent smiles. And I am undone all over again.

We’ve settled with our plates of the best Asian food I’ve tasted, and I know my taste buds are delirious with joy. We’re sitting close on her couch, and I’m acutely aware of her thigh pressing against mine as Ilsa, played by an incomparably gorgeous, young Ingrid Bergman, tells Sam to play it again. I lose myself in the Michael Curtiz’s masterpiece.

Soon, it’s Rick telling Ilsa that they’ll always have Paris, and I don’t notice that I’m crying till she reaches for the Kleenex box and takes two tissues; one for herself, and one for me. I give her a teary thank you smile, and she returns it. Better yet, she understands it. Soon, it’s “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” And the end credits are rolling and our plates are scraped clean. It’s been a beautiful night, and while I don’t know what’s happening next, I know that this connection, where before it was tenuous, has just deepened.

We’re clearing dishes, and she’s loading the dishwasher, and I can’t resist asking, “Would you have been able to do that? Let go of someone who you loved, for the sake of the greater good?”

She closes the machine, and sets the rinse cycle, as she ponders the question, “I would hope so. The world needs less selfish people. If we didn’t have that part in us, we’d all be going to hell in a hand basket.” To say that my interest is piqued is an understatement; I haven’t had this conversation often with dates, because, at those times, neither of us were big on conversation.

But this is different. Isn’t it?

I realize, in this moment, with the quiet whish of the dishwasher, her leaning against the sink with a glass of wine in her hands, and giving me that piercing look she has, I know that I want this to be more.

So, I yank up my courage and continue my tumble down the rabbit hole, “The dying breed of idealists.” I whisper, and I look up to see confusion in her eyes.

“What?”

So, I open mouth and I’m about to tell her some of my most personal beliefs. These aren’t just passing ‘pearls of wisdom’ that I’ve collected along the way; they are the foundation upon which I live. “The dying breed...” this time my voice is stronger, "People who believe that human beings, while flawed and cursed, are essentially self-redeeming. That the world, this planet, our life is going to turn out okay, because underneath all the hate and grime and unspeakable crimes we commit on each other and other living beings, we will survive, and flourish. Not just as a race, but as a world. There will come a time when there is peace, and there is equity amongst people. Real equity. Society will evolve to such extents that we will be able to overcome the less savory aspects of our character. We won’t actually f*ck up and bring Armageddon upon ourselves; there is hope. There is always hope.” I’m tempted to look away, having never really told anyone any of this in quite so many words.

But, I look at her, I don’t look away.

She looks right back at me, holding my gaze and, with utmost seriousness, says “Our salvation lies within ourselves.”

For the second time tonight, she has ripped the breath from my body. Surely, this cannot be real. Surely, she didn’t mean what she just said; she was being conversational, indulging a young, naive fool. I try to smile, but I think my lips tremble, and I don’t manage to pull it off.

She pushes off the sink counter, and walks slowly up to me in that way she has. I’m unsure of what to do, and I tell myself that I really don’t know why she’s approaching me with that look. She’s a foot away, and she’s silently asking for permission.

I try not to think of Alice and the rabbit hole.

I look at her, and she must have seen something, because she leans forward, and gently cups the back of my neck with her hand, leaning closer and closer…till I can feel her breath upon my mouth. Her hand caresses the hairs at the nape of my neck, and moves around my neck to the front and up towards my chin in a smooth move that leaves me breathless. “The dying breed of idealists,” she whispers to me, and my eyes close in gratitude and love, as I wrap my arms around her, and give into the dream.

_____________________________

It’s been three weeks since then, and though neither she nor I have used the L word to each other, I predict it won’t be too long before we fully surrender to the inevitability of what we have.

We’ve even survived the experience of having dinner with Connie, who, upon seeing the glow in my eyes and seeing a corresponding one in my dinner companion’s, retired the concerned pre-Prom father routine. Bianca and I decided that Connie needed a girls’ night out, so we left Larry to his pizza (home-made), beer (Miller) and his football game (69ers versus Raiders). Bianca and I toned down our jokes and gestures of affection around Connie, not wanting to alienate her. But, you’d have to be blind to see the chemistry between us, and Connie is anything but oblivious.

At the nights’ end, we dropped off a tipsy and very giggly Connie, with Larry looking at us from the front porch with a look of unabashed horror at his inebriated wife. Till she stumbled into his arms and planted a big, wet kiss on his mouth. I waved at him from the passenger seat of the car, and gave him a big thumbs’ up sign and a wink, before the girl in the driver’s seat pulled back onto the road, her tires squealing and burning with the force she put on the accelerator.

If there’s one thing that scares me about this woman it’s the speed at which she drives. It’s amazing that she’s only gotten five speeding tickets in the last month. I look over at her, and shameless ogle her as she concentrates on making the trip from Larry’s to her place in five minutes flat. I’m surprised at how I’m not protesting against traveling at warp speed; it’s a trip of ten miles. Ten minutes later, the car is safely parked in her garage, where the smell of her burned tires has permeated, and we’re running up her stairs, not bothering with the elevator, giggling and playing like little kids. Till she gets her key through the door, and we’re inside her sanctuary. Where before we were all light-hearted and juvenile, this moment is anything but flippant as I reach out to her, extending my right hand. She smiles, breathless and glorious, leaning against the door for one last second before pushing away, clasping my hand and kissing me.

_______________________________

A week later, I’m at work, and Connie and I are having a heated match of chess. See, even though we’ve played more games of chess than we can count, Connie has yet to beat me. I’ve always checkmated her, or she has resigned. Not even one stalemate.

But, today, with this game, is as close as she’s ever come to beating me; she’s got my Bishop, Knight and Castle. I’ve got her Queen and both her Bishops. I should’ve checkmated her by now, but I’m not concentrating.

It’s 6:15pm, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before Bianca gets here. It’s our one-month anniversary, and we’re going to watch Roman Holiday (who knew that we were both Audrey Hepburn maniacs?), accompanied by a great Chablis, Lasagna and Tiramisu. We’re both still in that giddy, new love phase, and we’re in no rush to overcome it.

Connie makes that annoying tsk-tsk noise at the back of her throat as she takes my other unprotected Knight. She’s giving me that smile that tells me I’m a lost cause today because my heart and hormones are on the rampage, and she knows this, and she’s going to savor every moment of my unceremonious defeat.

I fight back with, “Don’t even think of winning this game, darling. I’m going to wipe you out.”

Her grin just gets wider, “Oh yea. Since you’ve been doing such a good job till now.”

That’s it; there’s no reason I have to take this sort of ego bashing from a loved one. In an orchestrated move, I remove her Castle. The same Castle that she thought she was going to use to checkmate me in three moves.

It’s my turn to grin, and hers to bitch, “Bitch.”

I laugh, throwing my head back, and I can hear her almost grinding her teeth. As I recover from my giggling, the sounds of distant sirens pierce my consciousness.

Everyone in here seems to hear it at the same moment, for there is a synchronized whipping up of heads. Those amongst us now, who react quickly to everything in life, already have some degree of sadness etched on their faces. For they are already contemplating the negative implications of those screaming wails. Death, of some shape, form or kind. I grimace inwardly at their pessimism, their lack of not wanting to believe the best. No one would be harmed, no one was dead, and no one hurt. No one. Zero casualties. Start believing it, you goddamn fools.

Everyone drains out of the place, wanting to stare at the possible wreckage, the possible loss of life, arms and limbs torn asunder maybe.

I look at Connie, who shrugs and gestures with a lurch of her shoulder that maybe we should go check it out. I rise, as does she, and in my hurry I hit my King piece, knocking it over.

There are quite a few people standing on the streets, watching the drama unfold. I roll my eyes as I see each of their internal conflicts between wanting to see the damage and gore for themselves, and staying away and, thereby, preventing nightmares. For some of them, the former wins out, and those venture forward towards the swiveling lights of blue and red, and those huge red trucks. But it’s not a Fire truck, because it’s not red.

I step towards the whirling lights, not consciously hearing Connie’s shout of warning. Through the haze of confusion, I walk towards the wreckage. The very walls are quaking with each further step. The pavement seems to sneer at my brain, the buildings beckon me closer to the scene, the trees seem to part to allow me entrance, the cars stop traveling and all life seems to be frozen in time, as if their welcoming embrace is worth all of their time, interest and effort presently.

The whole world slows down, as I walk faster, further, my legs eating up the distance to that fateful white van. I am oblivious to the shouting and horrified people around me.

I am merely a few feet away now. In a continuation of the abnormality of my even being here, my arms try to clear a path amidst the crowd of people who have lost their souls already to the permeating jadedness of the world. My elbows dig in and flay out, as my breath hitches, and I begin to catch faint glimmers and fleeting views of the drama before my eyes. My mind is a whirlwind of loud, screaming noises and hateful voices from my past.

My spine rolls front, and my back prepares to stretch as my inner mechanism pushes me to my toes, and then, finally, I get a clear vision of the stage.

All the world’s a stage, I’ve heard. But the only thing I can think is that I know those legs. Those legs that are lying horizontally on the road. I don’t see any cuts on the legs themselves. So the blood smeared must have come from somewhere else.

My eyes, whole heartedly ignoring the outraged warnings of my brain, slowly travel upwards, till they reach the face. That face. The face. Perfection. With its matted and soiled hair clinging to the forehead by the force of drying blood. Those huge eyes, which I have stared into countless times during the past month, bulging as if they are disbelieving of the fact that they will never see the green of the trees again. Those arms, the gentlest of hands. One stretched out on the rough surface of the road. The other tucked in to the crook of the body. Those cheeks marred by oozing body fluids. The road must be highly uncomfortable. With its sandpapery surface and hardness like nothing else. No, not the most comfortable place at all.

I want to bend down to her, and whisper to her that if she wanted to die, she should have chosen a more comfortable place. I glance at the car, as if stopped in mid motion, with its dented hood and bloody license plate. I have seen enough. These are the visions it will recall and replay again and again and again and again and again, when I turn off the lights, and am surrounded by darkness. I turn around and walk away. The dying breed is extinct.

- END -

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 4

2007-12-10T14:59:04Z

Author's Notes:
1. One step forward...

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; please work out your existential angst in some other fashion. I recommend either therapy or sex. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Neela Kumar, Henri Thierry, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Rating: Strong R for the whole series. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: It is most greatly appreciated!

________________________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 4: DIFFERENT DAY, DIFFERENT LIGHT

As Miranda bit delicately into her omelette fromage, she looked across at Marguerite, who, uncharacteristically, was actually eating something for breakfast. They were in Marguerite's office, at the little nook in the corner, eating on the round granite table top.

Miranda suddenly remembered that they had had a rather...vigorous...encounter on this table during their year-long affair. She hastily looked down at her plate again, even as she gently (and as unobtrusively as possible) pushed at the edge of the table.

"I had the table rebalanced after that...incident."

Marguerite's amused voice jerked Miranda's eyes up, and the younger woman couldn't help her blush. Marguerite's eyes twinkled, and Miranda swallowed at the sudden heat that enveloped them.

"I'm seeing a psychiatrist," she blurted, finding their careful words too stifling.

Marguerite's eyes didn't waver. "I see. Is that helping?"

Miranda looked at her hands. "I'm not sure. I think it is. It's just...exhausting. And a lot of work."

"That's what I hear about therapy."

Miranda sighed, deciding to bare all. "I'm also on medication."

Marguerite's eyebrows rose fractionally. "You chose to do that?"

Miranda hated the level tone of her companion; it made it extremely hard to comprehend what Marguerite was really thinking. "Yes. I did. I know that's probably surprising given that I'm not a huge fan of anti-depressants, but I needed help. And if there's one thing I learned from rehab, it's that asking for help is better done early than late."

Marguerite's eyes softened, as did her tone, and there was a sudden depth to it. "I'm glad you did that, then. Is it helping?"

Miranda looked up at her CEO, unsure how to answer the question, or explain how it would affect their interactions. "Lizzie is engaged."

Marguerite tried her best not to drop her fork. As it was, it clanked on to her plate. "What??"

Miranda smiled, feeling better at being able to share happy and light-hearted news for once. "Oh, yes. I found out at a little past midnight. It's really wonderful."

"But I thought you were..."

"What?"

"She's engaged?"

"Yes, to a very wonderful guy. We all went to college together, actually. Well, they both went to college with me, but not at the same time as each other. I took a year off college, so Lizzie graduated a year before I did, and I got to meet Charles because he was two years behind Lizzie, but only a year behind me. And then at a college reunion, I ended up introducing them. That was six years ago. And, now, they're engaged!"

Marguerite had managed to recover from her shock. "I thought you two were involved."

Miranda gaped. "What?? Lizzie and me?? How on earth did you think that?!"

Marguerite nearly blushed. "From the other night, when I stopped by your office."

Miranda's eyes firmed. "For God's sake, Margo, she's my best friend. Nothing more."

Marguerite glared. "She's more than that."

Miranda's mind flashed back to her collegiate years, to one of the greatest love affairs she had ever had. She wasn't backing down now however. "Fine, okay. Yes, she's more than my best friend, she's been my confidant ever since we met. But I am not dating Lizzie. We were involved in college, and it ended there. So, now, we are each other's rock."

Marguerite sighed, the fight draining out of her immediately. The words came slowly to her now. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed."

"Yes, you shouldn't have. I wondered why you seemed so abrupt that night. I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression. I'm not interested in anyone else, Margo. You know that. You know it," The last sentence was said so fiercely that Marguerite knew it only confirmed what she had originally thought.

"Yes, I know that."

Miranda sighed. "There's something else."

"What?"

"My medication..."

Miranda's uncharacteristic shyness made Marguerite frown. "Miranda..."

The younger woman looked up into fathomless jade eyes. Marguerite smiled gently. "You can tell me..."

Miranda looked away, grimacing at her own weakness. "When I started them, my shrink gave me a list of side-effects..."

"I hear these medications often have side-effects."

She took a deep breath. "My sex drive is non-existent."

Marguerite cleared her throat, uncharacteristically at a loss. "Okay..."

Miranda looked back to her companion, her heart hurting, but unable to see another way. "I can't be who you want me to be, Margo. Not for a few more months. Between my AA meetings, my shrink, and my medication, I'm barely able to perform for Cambius. I am barely holding myself together."

"I just want to help you."

And then her heart lurched even more. "I know," she whispered. "I know you do. And it means so much to me. I just wanted to be upfront and honest with you. To let you know that it will be sometime before I can be whole again. I mean, I was never really whole. For years, now. I can see that now. I don't even know who I am. Not entirely, anyways. And I know I've been asking you out ever since I got out of rehab. But, recently, in my sessions, and with my meds, I've realized that all I can be right now...is your friend."

Miranda stared at the woman across from her, aching with the atrocious twist of fate. Now that she was clean and sober, and trying to piece herself back together, perhaps for the first time in her life, she didn't have the resources for love. Or, at least, the full-fledged, headlong commitment she desperately wanted with Marguerite.

The CEO said nothing for a few minutes, letting Miranda's words settle deep within her, and then she smiled slightly. She reached for Miranda's hand on the table, covering it with her own warmth. "Thank you for telling me. For telling me everything that you have. It took an incredible amount of maturity and strength, Miranda. You should know that."

Miranda shrugged.

"Don't do that. Don't shrug it off. You are amazing. And...I would love to be friends. For as long as you need me."

Miranda could feel the tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and blinked them away. "Thank you for saying that," she rasped. But there was more. Before she could lose her nerve, she said, "I think you should date other people."

Marguerite's jaw slackened at the abrupt announcement. "What?"

Miranda rushed on. "It's not fair that you wait, Margo. You're gorgeous and amazing. And single. I'm sorry if I came on to too strongly in the past few months, and I don't know even if you're seeing someone--"

"I'm not," came the firm, clipped response.

Great. Now she knew her CEO was starting to get angry with her. "But if you want...a relationship. Or whatever, I just wanted to say that I think you should pursue that. With whomever..."

Miranda trailing off, hating when Marguerite took her hand away, but unable to see another recourse to this matter. "We're still going to be friends, Margo. You should just...have everything. And I can't give that to you now."

The other woman said nothing, dropping her eyes to her plate, swallowing slowly. "If you think that's best."

Miranda closed her eyes briefly, and whispered, "I do."

Marguerite brought her eyes, turbulence barely banked behind the swirling green and black. "Then, friends it is."

They both smiled at each other, stiffly and with unspoken remorse. They barely tasted the rest of their breakfast.

__________________________

Three Days Later...

"Whoa, girl, whose eyes are you gonna claw out?"

Miranda turned to see Lizzie by her side. She kissed both her cheeks. "Oh, Gawd, thanks for coming!"

"What? Miss a chance to drink some superlative champagne and your scintillating company?"

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Lizzie, try not use all your SAT words in one sentence."

"Whoo! Someone's got their knickers in a twist."

"Did you steal that line from Charles?"

"Of course. By the way, can I just say that Cambius knows how to throw a great Holiday party? Yes, this shindig is quite fabulous. So, who are you planning to kill with that look in your eye?"

Miranda sighed as she sipped her fresh lime and soda, knowing that Elizabeth had found her out. "Burgundy dress. By the bar. Persian, I think. Or Middle Eastern, anyhow."

Elizabeth looked around in that artful way that women had, seeming to scan the crowd with a careless sweep when actually she was perfectly aware of just whom she wanted to see. "The short burgundy dress?"

Miranda looked in the opposite direction so that they weren't obvious. "Yes," she said through clenched teeth.

Lizzie raised her eyebrows. "Well, the girl is a looker. Check out that ass! Oh, and now she's turned around...Gorgeous face, too. That rack is definitely something to write home about. If I weren't getting hitched..." And then she broke off when she saw Miranda glower at her. Elizabeth only smiled placidly, enjoying gently teasing her friend. "Who is she?"

Miranda nearly spat out the words. "Margo's date for the evening. I can't believe she actually brought a date to our Holiday party."

Elizabeth's eyebrows rose high on her forehead. She cleared her throat. "Oh." That explained a helluva lot. She leaned into Miranda, squeezing her friend's elbow in support and love, her eyes twinkling at Miranda as as she whispered sotto vocce. "Let's lure her to the loo, hit her over the head with my compact, and dump her body in the Seine."

Miranda's laugh echoed through the party.

- TBC -

One Shot: Simpletons Abound In Shallow Waters

2007-12-07T19:43:08Z

Author's Note:
1. Impulse writing; this is what happens when I put my college playlist on shuffle.
2. This is a one shot.
3. Addressing 2006/07 AMC canon.

Disclaimer: Bianca, Maggie, Leslie etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money/profit being made from their use here.

Rating: PG-13

Feedback: Should the urge strike, indulge.

______________________________

SIMPLETONS ABOUND IN SHALLOW WATERS

Ultimately, it takes much to forgive. The emotional effort can be overwhelming. What seemed so simple became anything but. She had thought, foolishly of course, that it would come easily. The words, the intent, pure and true, flowing from her lips; the sentiment sealing the beginning of a renewal.

I forgive you.

I forgive you for breaking my heart. She wondered now, as one did when one wanted to distract herself from the central and unshakable axiom of her situation, as to the roots of the phrase: breaking one's heart. Indeed, the image was visceral, but seemed so dry. The phrase hardly seemed adequate for the constant ache in her chest cavity; was it a mental aberration that the organ pumping blood to her veins actually felt as if it were in pain? Because her heart, the organ, hurt. Was it a mental mirage? Cultural brainwashing?

Oh, God, she was going insane.

Focus!

She was heartbroken.

No, no, no.

New phrase.

She was sundered.

There.

She felt split into two; one part of her couldn't imagine not forgiving Maggie, and the other, filled with pride and insecurity, clawed at her for retribution. To hurt her ex as much as she had hurt Bianca. That was why forgiveness was exhausting; pettiness was just an excuse for a childish yet ingrained defense mechanism. Biting insecurity camouflaged itself as pride; and there was no limit on the price of indulging one's pride. Especially Kane pride.

And, so, here she was. Sundered, and her psyche mottled with pride.

Leslie had been lovely. If Bianca's baseline for companionship had settled on the blandly mundane.

Don't be so picky.

In some ways, Bianca realized, that she'd been blessed in that the two women who had dominated the landscape of her romantic liaisons had been seemingly superlative.

There was Lena, who seemed too good to be true, and then had been; betrayal had taken on new meaning with Lena. Bianca thought it abjectly unfair that her first serious love affair had been with a woman, who for her all machinations, had loved her with an unyielding steadfastness yet had twisted Bianca in more knots than any sane person should have to endure; a simple straight-jacket would have been more fashionable.

And now she was thinking in run-on sentences.

Then, of course, there was Maggie.

Really, you should have known better. Sexually confused girls, Bianca? Again? Will you ever learn?

But Bianca was a die-hard romantic, and now her romanticism, which was purportedly so brave in this cynical and vapid world, had left her sundered.

Why was it that the brave ones end up most scarred?

Really, there were great advantages to cowardice.

Of course no one made pithy sayings about cowardice that made anyone feel better. Perhaps there was an untapped market in that.

"The advantages of cowardice are that you save your heart, live a long life, and have great yet meaningless sex."
- Bianca Montgomery

So, pithy quotes were not her forte. She would stick with her day job of running Cambius for Miranda, after all.

Bianca realized, with a rueful grin, that there must be some hope if she could grudgingly admit her lack of both a scintillating humor, and, consequently, immortality via a quotable remark for the ages.

In her capacity for rising above base illusions, Bianca felt herself be tested. She felt as if she were bleeding from a thousand tiny papercuts, and then doused in acetone so that she was aware of the hissing sting until tears rolled silently from the corner of her eyes.

She was terribly, terribly afraid that she wasn't as noble as she'd given herself credit for. Worse, as others had assumed. She had, in an inexplicable twist of logic, been able to forgive a woman who had stolen her child, and yet the agony of Maggie's betrayal seemed to overshadow all of Bianca's past horrors because she had been so horribly blindsided by it. She had lulled herself into complacency, because the fear of losing Maggie had nearly driven her mad that she had no choice but to assume that things would work out. It was an act of mercy, of mental euthanasia, because she couldn't face the reality of losing the woman who would probably be the love of the rest of her life.

And then it had happened; denial had been no match for the unraveling reality of Maggie's affair.

Now, Bianca had to forgive her. She realized that she was hurting herself, Maggie, and Miranda with her inability to forgive, to forget.

Then again, forgetting maybe asking for too much.

One step at a time.

She just wished she had the energy for that first footprint in new sand.

Bianca closed her eyes and wished fervently for the spirit and strength that she knew she had somewhere inside her. For her to reclaim all that was good in herself; for all her mutterings about pretty words on risk and reward, she was human, and was helpless in her need to believe in the better part of humanity.

In the better part of herself. It wasn't so much about forgiving Maggie; it was about embracing the brighter part of herself.

If only she could find the energy for it.

- FINIS

At Twelve Paces: INTRO

2007-12-07T16:31:36Z

Author's Notes:
1. This is the BAM version of the movie "Mr. & Mrs. Smith"
2. Here's the trailer for the movie.
3. Need I say more?

Disclaimer: Bianca, Maggie, Lena, Erica, Greenlee, Kendall etc belong to AMC/ABC. The storyline is from "Mr. & Mrs. Smith," which is by 20th Century Fox. No copyright infringement intended. No money/profit being made from their use here. Please don't sue; go shopping instead! All original characters belong to me.

Rating: Strong R for sex, violence, and adult words. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: This update is short, but I'll never turn feedback down.

________________________

AT TWELVE PACES

INTRO

"So why are you two here?"

Bianca was ready for this question. She sat in the overstuffed seat, facing the man across from her with her legs crossed just so. "Well, we thought it was a good idea. Just to check in, see how things were going in our marriage."

Maggie, however, was far from comfortable. But this was...unavoidable. As so many things were. She resolved to keep her participation to short answers. "Yes."

He looked at the couple sitting across from him. As was so often the case on the first session, it was startlingly simple, to his eyes, to see a clear dynamic. "Well, let's start with the basics, shall we? How long have you two been married?"

Maggie at least knew that one. "Four years."

Bianca flinched infinitesmally, yet the wince was subsumed by a brittle yet wide smile. "Five."

The blonde tried her best not to grimace. "Right. Four or five years."

He smiled benignly, showing nothing of his inner thoughts as he scribbled in his pad. He looked up and grinned reassuringly. "Well, let's see how we got here, shall we?"

- TBC with Chapter 1 -

"The Secret World Of Haute Couture"

2007-12-07T15:30:38Z

I stumbled upon this from one comment made on one of my favorite sites: Jezebel

I quickly did a YouTube search, and was thrilled to find the BBC documentary there -- "The Secret World of Haute Couture."

My close pals know of my gushing and unabated my love of great fashion; I am thrilled by stuff like this!

Here are the six parts of the documentary:

1. Part One
2. Part Two
3. Part Three
4. Part Four
5. Part Five
6. Part Six

I fucking love the BBC!!!

And, just for fun, I'm going to throw in a link to an hour-long interview with one of the greatest icons of fashion, Karl Lagerfeld. This is an interview with Charlie Rose of PBS. Please ignore the idiotic fashion mag editor that is also in the interview. My respect for Lagerfeld grew immensely when he made that comment about women buying what others may consider "bad fashion" but that, to them, they were over the moon when they made the purchase, so it's up to no one to say what is "bad fashion."

I'm waiting for Lagerfeld Confidential to come out on DVD!

And, finally, the piece d’ resistance: an homage (?) to Lagerfeld that I find très amusing.

Ah, fashion makes me crazy. In the best possible way!!

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 3

2007-12-05T06:39:21Z

Author's Notes:

1. A shout-out to mah amazing support group of FANers: Dickie, Vicey, Missy H! Y'all rock my Casbah on a daily basis. Mil gracias!

Visual Reference:

1. Because I will never tire of looking at beautiful women, and neither should you!
a. This is Miranda, Marguerite, Elizabeth James, and Neela Kumar.
b. Since I'm an equal opportunist when it comes to eye candy, this is Charles. You can also click on the picture to magnify.

Audio Reference:

1. I've recently been on a big Ulrich Schnauss kick, and I'm choosing a posh ambient track of his called A Letter From Home.

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; please work out your existential angst in some other fashion. I recommend either therapy or sex. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Neela Kumar, Henri Thierry, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Rating: Strong R for the whole series. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: It is most greatly appreciated!

________________________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 3: THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Her BlackBerry screamed at her at midnight.

Miranda fumbled out of her sleep and reached for it, automatically bringing it to her ear. "Hello?" she rasped.

"Oh, my God!! I'm engaged!!!"

Miranda blinked her eyes open and sat up quickly. "What?? Who is this?"

"Who is this?? You doofus, it's Lizzie!!"

Miranda's heartbeat began to slow. "Jesus! Lizzie!"

"What do you mean, "Who is this??""

"Okay, okay, sorry! I was asleep!"

"Well wake the f*ck up! I'm engaged!!"

"I'm awake, I'm awake. Oh, my God!!"

"I'm engaged!!"

"Congratulations! I'm so happy for you, but for God's sake, Lizzie, please stop screeching!"

"Oh, Mimo! It was such a surprise! I thought it was just dinner at this super posh restaurant, but at the end of it, we were walking outside, and passed the Louvre, and he just dropped down on one knee! Because you know that's where we met! Oh, my God, I'm engaged!"

"Congratulations, darling! I knew Charles had some brains in his head!"

"Oh, my God! We have to celebrate!"

"How about you and Charles come over for dinner tonight?"

"Tonight?! No way, we're having sex all day and all night!"

"Thanks, Lizzie."

"Oh, and I won't be at work today, boss."

Miranda laughed, even in her exhausted state. "Of course. You go have your wild, jungle sex with your very, very lucky fiance."

"You got that right, baby! He's not gonna be able to walk for a week!"

"Lizzie!"

"Miranda! I'm engaged!"

"Lizzie, I love you, but I'm gonna strangle you if you screech in my ear one more time."

"Okay, we've got champagne, and we're home, and you're the first one I've told. I've got to call Mom and Dad, but if she asks you, I told her first."

"Of course, darling. Your secret is safe with me."

"Miranda! I'm--"

"Yes, darling, you're engaged! Congratulations! And to Charles, too! Now don't morph into one of those annoying brides we've always mocked, and you'll be fine."

Lizzie guffawed. "As if! How dare you?!"

Miranda smiled. "I know you, darling."

"Okay, gotta go. Let's do dinner tomorrow night, okay? I'll give you the dish, and you can check out the bling!"

"Is it big?"

"Hmmm...it's big enough, but not gaudy. Thank God!"

Miranda laughed again. "Then it's perfect."

"Okay, my love, must go ravish my man! Call me! Love you!"

"Love you too, Lizzie!"

Miranda hung up and stared at her phone. She was disoriented and jumbled. Her heart rate had slowed, and she breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. In and out.

She reached for her phone again, and scrolled through her e-mail and voicemail. No messages from Marguerite.

She set the BlackBerry back on the bedside table and put her hand to her forehead. She sighed in frustration. She was elated for Elizabeth; Charles had been good for her, and made her happy.

She reached into one of the drawers on her bedside table, and felt beneath the books to the very back of the drawer. She pulled out a crushed envelope. Opening it gingerly, she pulled out a strip of Xanax. All she needed was one tablet to calm herself, to help her sleep .

To take the edge off, darling.

She broke the foil seal and knocked a pill onto her open palm. It was small, round, and slightly yellowish.

Miranda walked into her bathroom to fill a glass of water, the pill held securely in her increasingly sweaty palm. She dispassionately watched the water gush to fill the glass. With one hand, she shut off the faucet, and cupped her other palm, the pill laying in the middle.

It would take the edge off.

She thought of the past three months of being clean since she got out of rehab. Not a drop of alcohol, not one prescription pill, not one line of coke.

Three months; twelve weeks; ninety days; two thousand one hundred and sixty hours; one hundred and twenty nine thousand and six hundred minutes; seven million seven hundred and seventy six thousand seconds.

And counting.

She recalled her conversation with her psychiatrist three months ago:

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid these are going to make me a zombie."

"Selective Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors, or SSRIs for short, don't make people zombies, Miranda. They regulate the amount of seratonin in your brain. That will help reduce the fluctuations in your moods."

Miranda said nothing.

"Miranda?"

"So these are supposed to make me less...volatile?"

"Partly, yes. That, in addition, to therapy can be a great treatment."

"They will make me less impulsive?"

"They won't change your personality, Miranda."

"But they will."

"What is your real concern here?"

Miranda sighed deeply. "A month ago, I finished two-month long stint in rehab, for coke and alcohol."

"I know. It's in your file."

"I've been sober for the past month."

"That's wonderful. The first month is always the hardest."

"Before rehab, I used to have a...thing...with Xanax."

"Xanax is an anti-anxiety. It's understandable that you used it. Were you addicted to it?"

Miranda nearly smiled. "No, it was recreational. To take the edge off the cocaine."

"But?"

"It was more of a...flirtation."

"Well, should you get on these SSRIs, you will have to stay off any Xanax, Miranda."

"Not even a flirtation?"

"No flirting."

Miranda smiled that brash smile that had charmed so many. "Aw, but Doc, it's my best talent."

The woman across from her smiled, but was unmoved. "Flirt with beautiful people, Miranda. Not Xanax."

Miranda sighed again. She did that a lot in this office. "So how do these SSRIs work?"

"We'll start you off at 10 miligrams per day, and ease you into it."

"When will it hit me?"

Her psychiatrist smiled. "I prefer to call it a normalizing process than "hitting" you."

"Okay, when it will normalize?"

"In two to three weeks, you should be settled in. They work much faster these days."

Miranda smiled drolly. "Great."

"I will warn you that the first few weeks can be rocky. If you make this commitment, I strongly advise you to stick with it. We can, of course, experiment until we find the right medicine. But it's often a complicated journey. The long-term effects are usually worth the trouble, however. It will a take a very strong commitment from you. Do you want to do this?"

Miranda looked away for a moment, and then firmed her jaw, her eyes hardening. "Let's do it."

Her psychiatrist smiled. "I've already given you list of side-effects, but here's the official literature for you to have."

Miranda glanced down at the pamphlet and smiled slightly. "Sexual side-effects? Don't worry, Doc, my libido is too strong to be knocked sideways by a little pill."

Her psychiatrist laughed.

Miranda snapped back to reality, still standing in her bathroom.

She felt her toes squirm against the cold marble floor of her bathroom, and the adrenalin rushing through her body; her brain was excited at the thought of comfort, her body craving an old, familiar ease.

Her throat felt arid, and her tongue fell away from the roof of her mouth. She bit her lip as she breathed heavily. She kept staring at the Xanax in her hand.

She walked the short distance to the toilet, and carefully turned her palm upside down, hand trembling slightly. The pill dropped into her toilet bowl. She flushed.

She drank her glass of water all in one go; she had never felt more parched. Miranda closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling torn yet not particularly comforted. There was no medal for her achievement, but she told herself that she was proud of herself.

Miranda stood in the middle of her expansive bathroom in her office at twenty minutes past midnight, and she was proud of herself.

She turned off the lights in her bathroom and walked back to bed, setting the empty glass on the bedside table. She lay down on her very comfortable bed, and began counting sheep.

_________________________

At 6AM That Morning...

At the best of times, Miranda was not a morning person. She always awoke cranky, and unhappy to be awake, a leftover symptom from her years of often using sleep as an escape from reality.

Awareness came slowly to her now, and she noticed the dimmed lights of her office's bedroom, and blinked blearily as the early dawn came into focus.

Suddenly, she tensed and flipped her body quickly to her bedside table, and she saw Marguerite sitting not ten feet from her, calmly sipping her morning coffee.

Miranda was speechless for a few moments. She wasn't sure if she was furious or relieved to see the other woman. So, she settled on curious.

She looked at her CEO with sleep-addled eyes. "So what happened?"

Marguerite set her coffee cup gently down on its saucer, the clinking sound of expensive china reverberating through the room anyway. "We have a battle."

Miranda frowned, unsurprised that both of them had done away with plebeian pleasantries. She supposed that after six years of working together, and having had a year-long affair made such things as "Good morning," more perfunctory and useless than it would otherwise be.

Miranda pushed the hair from her face. "I thought her shareholder's approved the deal."

"They did. She, however, doesn't."

Miranda scoffed. "That doesn't really matter." Marguerite looked back at her from beneath her lashes. Miranda raised her eyebrows. "Does it?"

Marguerite licked her lips. "Technically, no. But she's going to delay by calling on her Board for a special resolution to look into various things. It's a stall tactic." Marguerite twitched, the movement so unlike the contained woman that Miranda narrowed her eyes.

The CEO sighed and rose from her seat, to turn away and walk to the windows that ran from the ceiling to the ground. The windows were tinted so that no one could look in, not that anyone would be looking in at the thirty-fifth floor of the Cambius office.

Miranda knew there was more to it. "Margo?" she asked gently, not jostling the delicate air of the early dawn.

Marguerite put her hands on her waist as she took one last look at the breaking day, which apparently promised to be cold and rainy.

She turned to face her Chairwoman, still sitting on her bed across the room. "She did make an offer."

Miranda dropped her chin, and raised her eyebrows, a silent request for more information.

_____________________

"Are you suggesting that I have sex with you in order for you to approve this acquisition?"

"Well, I didn't expect you to put it so bluntly."

"Then you don't know me very well."

"But I've heard so much about Marguerite St. Just's unbridled ambition. I believe the quote was, "She would make a deal with the Devil if it got her what she wanted.""

"Then your sources were wrong."

"You haven't responded."

Marguerite was not naive. One did not become the Vice President at Chanel as a black woman by being slow-footed or idealistic. Marguerite had no qualms about being harsh or even underhanded when the intention was honorable.

Europe, and France in particular, was not altogether friendly towards minorities; she knew in many eyes she would never be French, regardless of her father being one of the most prominent former ambassadors of the French government. Because her black mother had been a former Sudanese refugee. Marguerite's brusqueness was not of choice; it was survival instinct.

She wiped at the corners of her mouth delicately with her dinner napkin, and placed it back on her lap. "Ms. Kumar--"

"It's Neela."

"Ms. Kumar," Marguerite continued, looking at her companion with unfeeling eyes, "While I am, of course, flattered by your offer, I'm afraid I cannot accept."

Neela squinted, while she subtly clenched her jaw. "Is it because your boss won't let you whore yourself for anyone but her?"

_________________________

"I'm going to kill that bitch," Miranda said, fury dripping from every word.

"Miranda..."

"No! I am going to kill her! Peel the skin from her body very slowly. And then make her eat it!"

Marguerite sighed, and moved closer to a now standing Miranda, and she felt the rage coursing through her ex's vibrating body. "We have to stay focused on the company."

"F*ck her company! I'll get her little company and her! How dare she! The miserable little C**t!"

Marguerite raised her eyebrows, and nearly smiled at her Chairwoman's swearing. The older woman's lip twitched. "I've heard worse," she said, trying to soften the charged air in the room.

Miranda's blazing eyes were snapped out of their imagination of doing painful things to one Neela Kumar as she looked at her CEO. Her shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, Marguerite. If I'd known she was going to..."

"I know."

Miranda desperately wanted to put her arms around the other woman, to hold her, to console her, and to assure her that Marguerite was one of the finest women she'd ever known.

But she had no idea if Marguerite would rebuff her. So Miranda did what she thought was the next best thing. She stalked to her phone and hit a speed dial button she hadn't used in her entire tenure as a Chairwoman.

"Joseph? It's Miranda Montgomery."

Marguerite's head went up. "Miranda--"

But the Chairwoman silenced her with a furiously raised palm. Marguerite sighed; she knew from experience that when Miranda got like this, she was be an unstoppable force. At least until the first tremors subsided.

"Good morning. I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but I need your help urgently. I need any and all information on Neela Kumar, CEO of DFB Industries. And I mean all information, Joseph. What she eats, whom she's sleeping with, everything. What? Yes, of course, I'm sure! I don't care if you have to go through her garbage or f*ck her maid, just get me something I can bury her with! How long? No, no, not two weeks, Joseph. This is urgent. One week. Double the fee if you have to, but one week. What? What? Fine, triple it. Okay. Thank you."

Without pausing for a moment, Miranda hung up and pressed another speed dial button, this one far more used.

"Whom are you calling?"

Miranda didn't look up. "Henri. I need to call an emergency Board session so that we can launch a hostile bid on that bitch's little firm."

Miranda saw Marguerite's finger come down on the phone's dial tone, disconnecting the call. "What are you doing?"

"Miranda, stop," the other woman said gently. Marguerite took the handset from her and laid it gently to rest in its cradle. "Just stop. For now."

Miranda was still quivering with repressed anger, and Marguerite was undone by it. She gently took the younger woman in her arms. "It's alright."

And with that, Miranda shuddered in her CEO's arms, speechless at the depth of emotion screaming through her body. She was on the verge of tears, and it occurred to her that she should be the one comforting the other woman. "I'm so sorry, Margo. So, so sorry," she whispered into the other woman's shoulder.

"I know. I know."

And as the sun dared to peek through the gathering storm in the world outside, the two women just held on to each other for the time being.

Slowly, they disengaged from each other, Miranda almost breathless from the rush of intimacy now surrounding them. She felt strangely vulnerable, and completely helpless in her desire to soothe her ex. Miranda moved to remove herself from such close proximity, when she felt Marguerite's fingers on her chin urging her face up to meet her CEO's eyes.

It had been slightly over one year since they broke up, and still, looking into those malachite eyes could make Miranda quiver in places she hardly knew existed. It was, in one way, reassuring to know the connection was still strong. On the other hand, it hurt her more to realize that it would perhaps never quite be rekindled.

Marguerite was studying her, and it surprised the CEO to realize that as beautiful as she always considered Miranda, looking at her now, in the early hours of the day, still mussed from sleep and an eventful morning, Marguerite had never seen her Chairwoman look lovelier.

She smiled at the younger woman, admitting not for the first time, that the most troublesome aspect of being in love was the absolute lack of sensible control. "Have breakfast with me."

The Miranda of yore would have raised a saucy eyebrow or prolonged the suspense for her own delight. But now she was without artifice because the delicacy of their interactions had stripped her of any illusions of frivolity. "Yes," she breathed as Marguerite raised Miranda's hand to her mouth and softly kissed her fingers.

- TBC -

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 2

2007-12-05T06:37:28Z

Author's Notes:

1. Miranda is getting wild. Ready?

2. There's quite a bit of corporate intrigue in the story thus far, but hopefully it's written simply enough that it doesn't throw anyone off. I think there will always be that underlying corporate tension to this story, but soon we will be focusing more exclusively on stuff outside the office.

3. Picking up where we left off at the last chapter. Flashbacks are in italics.

4. As always, a special shout-out to my FANers, who have recently so bravely and kindly put up with my incessant b!tching and moaning about writer's block and other such mind-numbing drivel from me: Dickie, Vicey, and Missy H -- Y'all are ultra-special and are like rays of incandescent sunshine in my day! Yes, feel free to barf now!

Visual Reference:

1. Okay, so I know I said I wouldn't post pictures of Miranda and Marguerite, but I couldn't resist! They're just so pretty!
a. This is Miranda, Marguerite, and Neela Kumar.

2. Ah, clothing choices!
a. For both Miranda and Marguerite in the Boardroom flashback scene (in italics), I present outfits from Bottega Veneta's superlative Fall 2007 Runway show.
b. Miranda is in the dress on the right -- the silver/gray one.
c. Marguerite is in the suit.
d. You now have permission to drool.

Audio Reference:

1. Miranda is rocking out to this, an avant gard, and rather hardcore remix of the wonderful song by Unkle (featuring Ian Brown) called "Reign." Hear the original here.

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; just sit back and enjoy the ride. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Neela Kumar, Henri Thierry, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Rating: Strong R for the whole series. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: 'Tis the season.

_____________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 2: ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS

Miranda stared at the picture in the dossier, her index finger not touching the photograph as she traced the curve of the prominent cheek of Neela Kumar. She glanced at her BlackBerry, but it was alarmingly silent.

It was 11PM. She knew Marguerite's dinner with Neela had been at 9PM.

She couldn't sit still for long; she shouldn't have had that last cup of coffee.

Miranda got up and reached into the inner pocket of her jacket, finding her cigarettes and lighter. She inhaled deeply, feeling the psychosomatic effect of nicotine imbue her with power and lassitude. She stared at the door that led to her personal quarters in her office, stocked with a comfortable bed and full shower. She sighed, and made her way slowly into the other room. She set her BlackBerry at its loudest volume on the black granite of her bedside table, and stared it for a moment as she sat on the edge of her bed.

She clenched her hand around the thick mattress. Sometimes she hated the stillness of sound.

It had, ironically, all started with pot at the age of fifteen. But, pot wasn’t in fashion in Paris but hash was. Mixed with nicotine and rolled as a cigarette. At least that’s how her Algerian boyfriend at the time had taught her. She would describe it as a combination of pot with the light sprinkle of the tingliness of Ecstasy. But, Ecstasy would come later, so at the time, all she knew was that hash made her feel intellectual and contemplative. The irony being that it was indeed a gateway into a glittering and harrowing carousel ride.

She sighed; sometimes in the quiet moments of the night she felt ancient, having experienced more than people thrice her age.

Her current therapist, having lasted longer than any of the others before her, told her that feeling that way was fine. To stop expecting so much, that life wasn’t always grand, and her expectations that it always be so had led to a deep disenchantment with life.

Perhaps it was that simple; snorting cocaine and feeling like the life of the party, any party, looking for the joie de vivre.

Cocaine reduced her attention span to mere seconds, but that was no worry because everyone around here was in a similar state: smiling and talking at a million words per minute because the most amazing cultural, social, ecological, political, economic, sartorial, monetary revolution was occurring right now and they were young and going to grasp every second of the gloriousness with their bare hands, fulfilling dreams that were larger than ever before, larger than before those three lines of coke and that puff of hash (just to take the edge off, darling). Because everything was possible now; everything was immediate; she was in the bosom of the most wonderful revolution of all. And it wasn’t her revolution if she couldn’t dance. Or converse, laugh, drink, flirt, and f*ck. So she did all of those things, and the sunrise was so beautiful, and her heart was exploding and she was nearly in tears from the momentousness of every minute, even if her foot was twitching with an unnoticed tic from too many uppers. So some more hash, a Xanax, and she’d be in a fine mood for breakfast.

Her eyes snapped open, and she watched the cigarette, held precariously between her index and middle finger quiver delicately with the subtle shiver of her hand. Remembering always did this to her.

Then, over ten years later, there was that time that Marguerite had caught her dancing on the Board’s table, and even though she’d been high on coke at the time, the memory of that morning made her smile now.

It had been in her fifth year as Chairwoman, and two months into her relationship with Marguerite. The Board had convened to decide the fate of an acquisition of a German electronics company. There was heated debate, with Miranda and Marguerite leading the charge in favor of the acquisition, and it was such a rush to feel their energy joining forces, using their persuasive charm and hard data to quell the sometimes vociferous minority of opposition.

Balthazar Garzón, a Director on the Cambius Board named inexplicably after the famous judge who fought against the ETA in the Basque region of Spain, was an idiot. He was nothing like his namesake, Miranda decided, and Marguerite had agreed that this Director was a protectionist fool masquerading as a man of the people.

Marguerite, Miranda thought, had made the point so eloquently when she couched her barbs in a smile as her CEO smiled disarmingly at the dolt. “Really, Balthazar, the German employees will be just fine, and you can assure them yourself. I’m sure they will be glad to hear it from you and your Hugo Boss suit.” He had flushed in fury at the insult, but because Marguerite winked at him and smiled as if it were an inside joke between them, he was unable to lash out.

And so Miranda had her victory, and the Board voted, nearly unanimously, to acquire the company.

It was a coup and Miranda’s largest success at the time, when she was just twenty-nine years old, costing Cambius $1 billion to acquire the company, but with a return on investment within three years, which was extremely favorable.

As the Board meeting concluded, Miranda watched her Directors, CEO included, filter out of the room. She smiled at those who caught her eye on their exit, but she remained seated at the head of the table. She rested both of her palms flat on its cool, shiny surface. The Board’s new table, made of slim and solid titanium gleamed under the dimmed overhead lights.

She had whipped out a bullet from her purse, and stuck it delicately under one nostril as she inhaled the drug deeply from it. The combined high of the cocaine and the Board victory flowed through her system, and she leaned back in her chair, laughing, delighted and omnipotent all at once.

She plugged in her iPod, and kicked of her heels.

She was going to dance.

Climbing on top of the titanium, she moved smoothly on stocking-clad feet. The raging techno beat pounding through her headphones made her move with frenetic lightness, deft in body and furious in spirit.

And that was how Marguerite found her, when she wandered back into the Board room ten minutes later, looking for her Chairwoman.

At first, Marguerite was shocked, and then once her mind grasped that Miranda was indeed dancing on the Board’s table with her headphones on, Marguerite felt an almost irresistible urge to laugh. It was so incredibly…audacious.

And in the five years she’d known Miranda as her Chairwoman and the past two months as her lover, she knew she should have gotten used Miranda being so anti-establishment and unpredictable, but unlike other people, Miranda’s impetuous irreverence never manifested itself the same way twice.

As if the deal and their joined efforts during the Board meeting hadn’t irrevocably turn her on enough, now watching Miranda dancing with such abandon and energy was enough for Marguerite to feel as if her desire were fire itself; gluttonous to consume everything in sight with its heat.

Still as Marguerite leaned against the door of the Board room, and flipped the lock behind her back, she couldn’t help but fall in love a little at the frenzied and heady display in front of her.

And suddenly, Miranda looked up, freezing upon seeing Marguerite looking at her with that unabashedly amused look on her face. They didn't move for a moment, and then Miranda blushed as she slowly moved to pull out her headphones. She smiled sheepishly for a second before bursting out in laughter, having been caught by her lover. Marguerite only raised a eyebrow, high on her forehead, in mirth and question.

Miranda burst out laughing. Between giggles, she asked, "How long have you been here?"

Marguerite chuckled at the young woman. "Long enough to wonder if you do the moon walk also."

Miranda blushed harder. "Oh, my God! This is embarrassing! I didn't think anyone would come back in. I was just...celebrating."

The Cambius CEO smiled widely. "Oh, yes? Is that how you youngsters...celebrate...these days? Dancing on tables?"

Miranda was trying to control her laughter. "Why, of course! Don't you read the tabloids? Dancing on tables never goes out of style with my set."

Marguerite slowly walked up to the table, looking at her lover standing in front of her, swept up in the light-hearted surrealism of the moment. "Do you swing?"

Miranda laughed. "What?"

Marguerite said nothing. She simply toed off her heels, and lofted herself onto the table. She stood next to Miranda, and held out her arms. "Swing."

Miranda didn't know what had gotten into both of them. But she indulged her lover, and mirrored her dance position. "No, but you'll have to teach me."

Marguerite smiled. "It is rather simple. Watch my feet." The younger woman glanced down, and Marguerite called out the steps, repeating the basic five-foot moves of Swing dancing. After a few tries, Marguerite beckoned Miranda's eyes back to her face. "Ready for the real thing?"

Before she could respond, Marguerite was leading her into a gentle dance. Miranda's smile had never been wider, taken as she was with the wonder of swing dancing with her lover on the table of the Cambius Board.

The ludicrousness of the act was subsumed by the unintended romance that now engulfed them as they moved only to the muted sounds of their stocking-clad feet swirling on the glitteringly smooth surface of the metallic structure.

Before she knew what was what, her lover had twirled her into a complicated and dizzying dip, and as Miranda was bent back, she felt Marguerite's body come flush against hers, their pelvises meeting in a tight cinch as Marguerite leaned over her lover's body to gently kiss her neck in a spontaneous move of understated emotion.

As her mind swirled with laughter, affection, headiness and the beginnings of something deeper in her heart, Miranda felt it -- the unexpected hardness as she pressed up against Marguerite. She raised her eyebrows. “What’s this?”

Marguerite smiled down at her, her green eyes shading to black. “A surprise. If you’re in the mood for it.”

And then the drugs and victory were combined with a suddenly thundering lust, and Miranda could barely hear anything over the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. She reached up, and kissed her lover, with force and mastery, feeling the immediate tightening of the arms around her waist.

She pulled back to whisper. “Don’t you think we should climb down from the table, though?”

Marguerite smiled and nodded, gallantly holding out her hand as she helped Miranda get down from the table. But before they could step away from it, the older woman pushed her lover against the edge of it, making Miranda gasp with want as she perched on the edge of the titanium surface.

Where before Marguerite was all chivalry and slowness, she now breathed with a desire that seemed to have been banked too long. “God, I wanted to f*ck you all through the meeting. I didn’t think I could wait.”

Miranda groaned in desire, Marguerite’s whisper sending chills down her spine, She wrapped her legs loosely around the other woman’s waist, pulling her lover close to her, and grinding against the hardness in her pants. She could only breathe out her next words in a hasty confession of her own. “I thought I’d almost lose it when you shut down Balthazar. I mean, I know I was dancing on the table, but I’d much rather be f*cking you.”

“Miranda, do shut up.”

The younger woman grinned. “Yes, ma’am,” and just to demonstrate that she could follow instructions, she kissed Marguerite, letting her tongue tease until she had her CEO groaning in frustration. Smiling, and still kissing her, Miranda let one hand drop to Marguerite’s form-fitting black slacks, leaving the button untouched, but lowering the zipper, hearing the sound almost be obscenely loud with only the increasingly hurried movements of her body.

Miranda grasped the toy with a tight and sure hand, as she stared into her lover's eyes. "Next time you wear this, I'm going to give you a blow job that you won't forget," she whispered against Marguerite's lips, feeling the delicious gasp her confession earned. "But for now, I'm too wet for anything else," she said as she pulled her lover flush against her. The bottom half of Miranda's dress bunched luridly around her waist, as she guided the strap-on inside herself, letting go off it at the last moment to wrap her hands around Marguerite's shoulder as she pushed her hips against her lover until the toy slid into her to the hilt.

They both groaned as Marguerite pushed into her, and Miranda clung tightly to the standing form of her lover, feeling so deliciously full. She wouldn't come from this position, but the psychological rush from being taken in this way never failed to raise her desire to a fevered pitch. It was primitive and it was f*cking hot, and Miranda couldn't get enough of it sometimes.

She began to move slowly and assiduously against Marguerite, feeling her lover's hands come to grip her ass as they fought to remove all distance between them. Miranda bit lightly at Marguerite's neck as she felt the older woman's harsh breathing beat against the tender skin of her clavicle.

Miranda felt restless and euphoric, pushing harder and faster now, wanting her lover to feel the delicious pressure against herself, needing her lover to find release as she curled her hips and thrust herself against the fullness inside her.

Their intense sexual connection was only one of the reasons that Miranda had later fallen for Marguerite. Of course, for the first few weeks, Miranda walked around in a haze of disbelieving gloating, not quite fully accepting that the woman she had lusted after for the past five years was actually now her bona fide lover. Mingling with the smirking egoism, a signature of dissolute youth, was, of course, fear. That it would end at any time, that there were no guarantees, that Marguerite was just fulfilling some fantasy of having a young and nubile lover.

Even two months into their affair, Miranda was still plagued by those thoughts, but her thighs tightened against the thrusting force of her lover’s hips; even if she were a diversion, Miranda would execute the only guarantee she was sure of – that she would sear herself in to Marguerite's memory. For surely no one could be as wicked, as wild, and as maddening as she could; she would bring Marguerite to her knees, and she would make the other woman love every moment of it.

But first, she wanted Marguerite to capitulate.

“Come inside me,” she whispered to her lover now as she felt her breath hitch. “Come inside me, Margo.”

As their movements grew rapid against each other, and Miranda lost all grace as she arched her back to gain more leverage to the movement of her hips, she could feel the telltale tremble in her lover. With the last of her energy reserves, she moved frenetically, her legs squeezing around Marguerite's waist, her thighs quaking from the effort, and her hips pistoning to bring her lover to the edge.

Marguerite came with such force and surrender that it was now Miranda who held her up as she felt the last hard thrusts of the other woman. She could feel the voracious and liquefying orgasm tear through Marguerite, and held her tighter, moaning her own desire at feeling Marguerite come in such a debaucherously intimate position. On the Board table, no less.

Miranda felt Marguerite melt into her, a curious stinging around her eyes and a strange pressure in her chest as she now folded her arms around her torso, holding Marguerite to her as they leaned back until Miranda was lying flat on the table, Marguerite covering her.

Her lover's heart rate slowed and in those moments, Miranda felt the sweat on their bodies cool, shivering in reaction. The involuntary shudder made Marguerite pull away slightly, and look down at the woman in her arms.

They stared into each other's eyes until they smiled incongruously yet giddily at their own actions, an incomprehensible impulsiveness had gripped them in its vise, not letting go even now.

Marguerite leaned down and gently kissed her lover, wanting to communicate something profound, and Miranda returned the artful caress until she felt her emotions were in danger of revealing themselves.

Miranda closed her eyes then, and her heart, as she subtly pushed at her lover's shoulders.

Marguerite pulled away again, further this time, and leaning on her elbows noticed Miranda's expression even though her lover's eyes were closed to her. It was on the tip of her tongue to whisper something revelatory and vulnerable, but with Miranda's current pose and expression, she wasn't sure it would be well received, or what her lover even wanted in the moment.

All they had in the moment was an overwhelming desire that refused to let them rest for long, regardless of such contrivances as dignity or location.

Marguerite's own expression softened, even as lust surrounded them anew.

She pulled out of her lover, achingly slowly, eliciting a groan from Miranda, and then smiled wickedly. Urging Miranda to remain lying against the cool metal of the table, Marguerite moved to slip down her lover's spent body until she was kneeling on the plush carpet. She draped Miranda's still quivering and weak thighs over her shoulder, and gave herself up to her most ardent need: to give Miranda an incandescent and searing release from her desire.

Miranda snapped back into the present, the quiet of her inner sanctum in her expansive office oppressive at the late hour.

The cigarette she held had burned itself to ashes.

Her BlackBerry mocked her with its silence.

She willfully turned away and lay down on the whisper soft mattress, staring at the ceiling as she lit another. The law of marginal returns asserted itself, and each inhale brought her less pleasure until she mercifully stubbed it out.

She reached with one hand to turn down the lights, and closed her eyes, willing herself not to care that her ex was, perhaps at this very moment, still having dinner with an accomplished, worldly, and extremely beautiful woman.

Neela Kumar represented, for all Miranda could glean from the official dossier, a maturity, and a cultural and racial background that had much more in common with Marguerite than Miranda could ever offer. A professionally successful past that Neela had earned through her own hard work and grit, not a position of power that had been conferred on her as a birthright.

As Miranda fell into an uneasy slumber, the call from Marguerite never came that night.

- TBC -

Type your cut contents here.

The Prodigal Daughter: Chapter 1

2007-12-05T06:34:03Z

Author's Notes:

1. We're picking back up in present time, six months after the end of Movement In Still Life

2. For those of you who haven't read it, here's summary of the last chapter of MISL, as it pertains to Miranda and Marguerite: After working together for about five years, Miranda and Marguerite finally got together, had a year-long affair, and then Miranda abruptly broke things off. Following Bianca's death, Miranda rethought her life and decisions she'd made. Three months after Bianca's death, Miranda and Marguerite talked in the gazebo overlooking Bianca's grave. There, Miranda proposed, and Marguerite ran. They're still working together at Cambius now. There. I think I covered the major points.

3. Special shout-out to my FANers: Dickie, Vicey, and Missy -- y'all make me laugh every single day, which is really a wonderful thing. Your QBG gives her heartfelt thanks to you for your lovely support!!

Visual Reference:

1. This is an adult Miranda.

2. This is Marguerite.

3. This is Elizabeth James.

4. This is Neela Kumar.

5. From now on, I'll only be showing clothing choices/links under the "Visual Reference" section. I trust you will remember what Miranda and Marguerite look like.

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; just sit back and enjoy the ride. Marguerite St. Just, Elizabeth James, Neela Kumar, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Rating: Strong R for the whole series. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: Should the urge strike, give in.

_______________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 1: AN ILLEGITIMATE SERIES OF EVENTS

Six Months After End Of Movement In Still Life

"Oh, my God. I can't believe it's past 1AM! And don't you have a press conference in a couple of days?"

"Lizzie, darling, stop. This turned out to take longer than we damned well expected, but I wanted to help. Know what we need?"

"What?"

"Wine! I have some excellent white on hand. You still prefer white, right?"

"Red makes me sleepy."

"Yup, I still remember."

Elizabeth James rubbed her eyes tiredly, careful as ever of her mascara, and then looked around the Chairwoman's office. "Did I ever tell you have really nice digs?"

Miranda chuckled. "Yes, darling, you did. I think I prefer the view from your office though."

Elizabeth leaned back against the head of the couch, staring at the ceiling as Miranda expertly uncorked a German Riesling. "Good God, Mimo, what happened to our social lives?"

"Evaporated, my dear! They didn't tell us that in college, did they? I want a damn refund!"

"I'm not sure all of this is worth it, M."

Miranda rolled her eyes, having had this conversation too many times over the years with Elizabeth. "Lizzie, you always say that when it's past 1AM. In fact I think it's the third time this week."

"I know I've been keeping you here so late. You don't know how much I appreciate--"

Miranda cut her off with a glance as she handed her friend her wine glass. "Lizzie, stop. You know anything for you."

Elizabeth smiled, exhaustion apparent in her eyes. "Well, thank you anyways," she looked back up at Miranda as she sipped from her glass. "Oh, my God, this is delicious! Better not make me loopy though. You're not having any, are you?" It was an honest question, asked between old friends. Elizabeth arched her eyebrow.

Miranda smiled, showing slight fondness at the intent behind her friend's question. "I'm making coffee for myself."

Elizabeth laughed. "My God, you're like the perfect wife!"

Miranda only glared, and Elizabeth laughed harder.

_____________________

At The Same Time, Elsewhere At Cambius Headquarters...

Marguerite sighed as she leaned back in her office chair.

It was past 1AM, and she knew that Miranda was still in the building, having spied her ex's town car in the parking lot from one of the windows of her expansive office.

If there were one other person who worked as hard as Marguerite, it was her Chairwoman. Something that had, at first, surprised Marguerite. Granted, all she had known about Miranda was the voluminous tabloid coverage the younger woman had generated in her teenage years. In the past six years of working together, Marguerite had discovered, as was to be expected, some of the person behind that sordid veneer.

In the six months since Miranda's unexpected proposal at the gazebo, the younger woman had been sweetness reincarnated. Never pushing Marguerite, but always there with a ready smile and solicitous personality.

Of course, it was too much to expect that their working relationship be entirely harmonious; Marguerite admitted that she would have been alarmed if Miranda hadn't continued to be fiery in her positions when it came to Cambius matters.

And all of it just made Marguerite love Miranda more: seeing the gentle and non-cavalier side of Miranda had caught Marguerite off-guard.

In fact, she had expected Miranda to come in guns blazing, romancing Marguerite with wild abandon after their interaction at the gazebo, not letting up in her pursuit of Marguerite.

Instead, the older woman had been nearly shocked at the subtle ways that Miranda approached her in the past six months. Gentle and non-binding offers to lunch, a picnic, a drive by the countryside, a walk by the sea, a shopping trip, an antique show, a charity art auction, coffee, tea, drinks, a weekend outing to a museum. Marguerite had turned down all of them.

She sighed harder as she stared at the papers on her desk, not really seeing them. Marguerite didn't know why she was fighting her own desire so much, other than the fact that she wasn't beyond feeling slighted by Miranda and the young woman's impetuousness when Miranda had so callously and superciliously broken off their affair the first time.

Now, a year after their break up, and six months after Miranda's proposal at the gazebo, Marguerite was still extremely wary, and still licking her wounds.

"Your damn pride, Marguerite," she whispered to herself in her empty office.

Miranda had stayed true to her word, and hadn't given up. Regardless of the numerous rejections to outings, even the seemingly platonic ones, Miranda had steadily yet unobtrusively shown Marguerite that the young woman's desire for more hadn't abated, nor would it for the foreseeable future.

If only Marguerite would go the park with her. That had been today's offer: a stroll in the park for the two of them, and perhaps ice cream while they sat on a bench. The CEO didn't know how she kept rebuffing Miranda's requests, especially when she saw the downcast shudder in the younger woman's eyes for a moment when Marguerite flatly rejected the offer. In the next moment, Miranda's easy smile would come back, and her Chairwoman would say yet again, "Well, another time, then."

Marguerite had half a mind to tell Miranda to stop it all. Just to stop it all.

But the other half of her traitorous brain didn't want any of it to stop, and that was the part that enjoyed the pursuit, and, Marguerite admittedly guiltily, took slight pleasure in having the upper hand.

The problem was, Marguerite knew, that there wasn't an upper hand to be had in love and relationships. Not in healthy ones.

She eyed the business papers on her desk, and wondered if they presented a plausible enough excuse for her to go see Miranda.

They used to meet past midnight all the time, back in the old days, even before they were involved, to check-in with each other or resume a battle. Often, Marguerite would sip on some of the excellent red wine that Miranda always seemed to have on hand, while the younger woman had opted for Perrier.

Those late night conversations, Marguerite knew, were one of the many ways in which they got to know each other as more than surly business associates. And it was one of the many things that Marguerite now missed; since Miranda ended the relationship, Marguerite stopped visiting her Chairwoman past 6PM, preferring to use the phone or e-mail to communicate at night.

She leaned forward, elbows on her desk, and whispered again in frustration. "Your damn pride, Marguerite. It's going to shatter you." Suddenly she shook her head, as if she'd had enough of introspection for one night. Maybe this weekend, after this business deal closed and the press conference was over, the weather would allow an outing to the park. Maybe even for ice cream.

She gathered up the papers, and straightened her suit, and then reached into her desk drawer and spritzed herself with Givenchy's Amirage d'Amour. She blushed slightly even as she touched up her lipstick and eyeliner, and then left her office, papers in hand, to take the elevators up to her Chairwoman's office.

She opened the door to Miranda's office after a cursory knock. Marguerite stepped in expecting to find Miranda alone. She was not prepared for the sight that greeted her: Miranda standing next to a beautiful woman, laughing at something that had just been said. Marguerite hated surprises, but tried to recover. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company."

Miranda looked up and smiled, deliriously happy as always to see Marguerite, even if her CEO came armed to see her these days purely for official business. Being in love made Miranda weak, but she saw no way around it.

She threw herself down on the couch next to Elizabeth and slung a casual arm over the back of the couch. "Oh, you're not interrupting at all. Lizzie and I were bonding over college delusions. And she wouldn't even qualify as company, only trouble." Miranda easily ducked Elizabeth's smack and looked between the two of them. "Have you two met before?"

Elizabeth smiled and stood. "Miranda has horrible manners, but that isn't anything new." She stepped forward to shake Marguerite's hand. "Elizabeth James, but please call me Lizzie. I head up the new project on the bridges. I know we've met at various meetings, but I'm glad to see you outside of all that."

"Marguerite St. Just. And, yes, it's wonderful to meet you again. A college friend of Miranda's?"

Elizabeth looked back at her friend on the couch. "Oh, yes. We've known each other now...how long is it, Mimo?" Elizabeth had that twinkle in her eye that made Miranda smile.

"Oh, too long clearly if you're having trouble remembering. Then again, could be the early onset of senility."

Elizabeth laughed. "With my family, it's bound to be the latter!"

There was an incredibly easy comfort between the two, a shorthand that Marguerite immediately noticed. The CEO felt herself start to disassociate, and wondered if the two friends were lovers.

Miranda looked at Marguerite then with an open smile. "Won't you join us? We just opened this excellent Riesling, and as much Lizzie used to be a lush in her college days, I don't think she can finish it without help."

Elizabeth turned wide, faux affronted eyes back to Miranda on the couch. "Me?! Why, you rat!" She turned to a still standing Marguerite. "Did she tell you about the time she broke into the School of Ed and vandalized the chalk boards?"

Marguerite had to smile, imagining a collegiate Miranda doing something just like that. Almost without noticing, she sat down on the nearest chair, facing the couch. "No, I certainly missed that particular story."

Miranda rolled her eyes, something both Elizabeth and Marguerite ignored. "Don't listen to her, Marguerite. The brat is just trying to save her own skin. Let's not forget the night you flew the Coop."

Elizabeth's jaw dropped. "You wouldn't!"

Miranda only raised her eyebrows and cackled delicately. "Oh, darling, but I would! I bet Marguerite would like to hear that one."

Elizabeth smacked Miranda on the knee, and they both giggled, taken back years in their shared memories. Marguerite watched Miranda, somehow so young and carefree around Elizabeth...similar to how her Chairwoman had been with her, during their year-long love affair. Marguerite had thought, perhaps rather egotistically, that she had been the only one to bring out that side of Miranda.

And then Marguerite saw Elizabeth's hand stay on Miranda's knee, and she guessed that they must be lovers...be it rekindled or newly formed from an age-old friendship. She stood abruptly. "All this does sound tremendously hilarious, but I'm afraid I can't stay."

Miranda and Elizabeth looked up, and the Chairwoman frowned. Miranda had thought they'd been getting along. She so wanted Marguerite and Lizzie to be friends; it would certainly help her court Marguerite if her best friend would help her. There was an edge now to Marguerite that Miranda hadn't noticed when she first came into tonight, and she wasn't sure she could place it. But it made her frown.

"Are you sure you can't stay? One glass. C'mon. We'll regale you with embarrassing stories from Lizzie's wanderlust years."

Miranda looked at her former lover, the offer holding a slight edge of a plea to it.

Marguerite had thought that Miranda was being patient with her, by giving her space to breathe since that untimely proposal in the gazebo. Now, six months later, it seemed that Marguerite's worst suspicions had been confirmed; Miranda had made that offer of matrimony in haste, swept away by grief and impulsiveness brought on by Bianca's death.

Miranda seemed to have moved on.

Marguerite smiled tightly. "I wish I could, but I can't." She turned to leave, a strange stinging in her chest. She glanced down at the papers in her hand, and turned back to face her companions. "Before I forget. I have that meeting with Neela Kumar tomorrow night. We should find out if the deal will go through, but I'm hopeful."

Miranda looked at Marguerite, bewildered by the sudden change in Marguerite, but trying to take heart in the fact that her CEO had come to visit her for a late night chat after not doing so since their break up. She was sorry that Elizabeth's presence seemed to put Marguerite on her guard, and she was sorrier that Marguerite had reverted to her clinical business persona, speaking dispassionately but ambitiously of the Cambius deal they were about to hopefully close.

Miranda smiled widely, hoping momentarily to thaw her CEO's tough exterior. That particular smile had always worked before. "I'm sure you'll sweep her off her feet. I would consider it a done deal."

Marguerite's heart thudded, as it always did, when Miranda smiled at her that way. But now she felt toyed with, and her face tightened at the hurt that swept through her body. "Nothing is a done deal until the papers are signed, which will only happen an hour before the press conference."

Miranda silently sighed. She only had so much energy this late at night, and she had been working for hours with Elizabeth. Her sense of hope, never towering under normal circumstances, frayed in light of Marguerite's continued iciness tonight. She looked away, and into her coffee. "Fine. I trust you to wrap it up as best you can."

Marguerite nodded towards Miranda's downturned head, and smiled once more at Elizabeth, the woman who had seemingly replaced her in these late night rendezvous. "Ms. James, the pleasure was mine. Good night."

Before Elizabeth could return the greeting, much less correct Marguerite to call her Lizzie, the CEO had swept out of the office.

Elizabeth turned to Miranda on the couch. "Well. That was something."

Miranda leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and groaned. "God, some days I wonder if it's worth all this bullsh*t."

Elizabeth rubbed her back gently. "I'm sorry, darling. She does seem like an absolute handful."

Miranda stopped rubbing her face and turned to her friend, and smiled rakishly for a moment. "You have no idea."

Elizabeth took a moment to catch on to Miranda's double entendre. "Oh, you perv!" The friends laughed, before Elizabeth cocked her eyebrow again. "So...Is she amazing in bed?"

Miranda fell back against the couch, laughter shaking gently through her body. "Oh, Lizzie! I leave it to you to remind me why I bother..." She looked at her friend from lowered lashes and grinned. "She's f*cking amazing, actually."

Elizabeth laughed as she leaned against the couch, as well, turning her body towards her friend. "You dog! Tell me everything!"

Miranda sobered slightly. "Oh, no! I'm saving that for later. We should try to wrap up this tonight, otherwise it's going to drag on forever," she said, pointing towards the side table off in the corner of her office where their business papers and construction drawings were strewn.

Elizabeth sighed. "I can't believe you're choosing work over dishing about your sex life! When did you become the adult??"

Miranda smiled wanly, an ocean of meaning banked behind her words. "When you weren't looking, Lizzie. Apparently, when I wasn't looking either."

___________________

The Next Evening At A Restaurant In Paris...

Neela Kumar was very, very lovely. Every head turned as she walked into the restaurant, led by the maître d' to Marguerite's table. The Cambius CEO saw her coming, and stood to greet her.

"Mademoiselle Kumar," she said as they kissed each other on each cheek. "It's wonderful to see you."

The other woman smiled and leaned back from their temporary embrace. "Mademoiselle St. Just. You must call me Neela, and it's absolutely great to meet you. I've heard so much about you."

Marguerite moved to sit as did her guest. "Then you must call me Marguerite."

They smiled congenially at each other as they reached for their menus. A waiter appeared at their elbow. "Something to drink, mademoiselles?"

Marguerite looked up, and deferred to her guest. "Dirty martini with two olives."

The waiter nodded solicitously and looked at Marguerite. "Mademoiselle?"

"Scotch on the rocks."

He nodded again, and left them to their perusal. Marguerite surreptitiously studied her dinner companion, and even Marguerite was surprised to see that the other woman looked more stunning in person than in her pictures in the official dossier. Neela looked up from her own menu to catch Marguerite's appraisal.

"Well, what looks good?"

Marguerite raised her head fully, and smiled. "The roast duck. You can't go wrong with that."

Neela smiled. "I'm vegetarian."

While the dossier had omitted that detail, Marguerite didn't miss a beat. "Then the linguine is to die for."

Neela nodded in thanks, and went back to her menu. A moment later she shut it decisively. "The linguine it is."

Their drinks arrived, and Neela held out her drinks. "To a dinner between powerful women."

Marguerite dutifully clinked her glass. "And to a successful merger."

Neela said nothing to that, only sipped from her glass. "Ah, business so soon? One has heard much of the legendary Marguerite St. Just. I see all of it's true."

Marguerite laughed companionably. "Your sources have probably elevated me far beyond my actual abilities!"

Neela sipped slowly from her glass before setting it down with a wide smile. "No, I don't think so. Well, if it is business you want, let us get it out of the way."

Marguerite smiled again, a cautious edge to her mind as she sipped from her own glass, more out of thirst than need for the libation.

Neela leaned back in her chair. "My shareholder's have approved the deal, so some might say that our meeting is just a formality. But you know that I have always been wary of Cambius, and as CEO of the company being acquired by your conglomerate, I'm not thrilled with this deal."

Marguerite leaned forward, completely engaged. This was what she did best. "I understand your concerns, and I'm going to do my best to allay them. As you know, in the past two decades, Cambius has changed courses in how it conducts itself. We have divorced ourself from our admittedly murky past, and under the guidance of both Bianca Montgomery and now Miranda Montgomery, we've been able to offer the companies we acquire much more leeway and leverage in their daily operations."

Neela smiled facetiously. "All of what you say is very true, Marguerite. And what do you think of Ms. Montgomery?"

Marguerite frowned slightly, and then her face cleared. "She's one of the most gifted and talented young women I know. She has done wonderful things for Cambius."

Neela reached to twirl her martini glass on the table by its stem. "And you enjoy working with her?"

"Very much. She's an amazing Chairwoman, even at her young age."

Neela raised her eyebrows. "And yet one hears of the vociferous disagreements between you and Ms. Montgomery."

Marguerite smiled disarmingly, even though she wondered about Neela's sources. "Really, isn't that how successful decisions are made? Through frank and brutally honest discussions?"

"Do you consider yourself brutally honest, Marguerite?"

Marguerite nodded assuredly. "Yes, I do, Neela."

Neela nodded in response, and then took another swallow of her drink, saying nothing for awhile. Marguerite realized that her neck and back muscles had tensed during the past few minutes and made a conscious effort to ease her posture. There was something amiss, but Marguerite struggled to put her finger on it.

Her companion looked at her. "Well, as much as this dinner is a formality, you realize that if I want to, I could delay this acquisition of my company by Cambius through various fiduciary and corporate bumps."

Marguerite narrowed her eyes even while she smiled. "Very true. But why would you want to? You are about to become a very, very wealthy woman, and your company will be cared for very well under the Cambius umbrella."

Neela looked at her sharply. "I know that some CEOs consider it a crowning achievement to have their companies acquired by Cambius, but rest assured that I am not cut from the same cloth."

Marguerite backed off. "Very well. What can I do to assure you that we will take excellent care of your organization?"

Neela smiled, her lip curling upwards. "Will you be looking after my baby yourself?"

Marguerite cocked her head slightly, unsure where this was leading. "I can offer you my personal assurance, Neela, that I will make every effort to oversee your baby. We will retain most of your staff, as well. Your organization has been very well managed, and we at Cambius see no reason to change that."

"You want to offer your personal assurances?"

Marguerite nodded solidly. "Anything I can do, Neela."

Neela leaned back her in seat, sipping from her drink, and then setting it down on the table. She swallowed and licked her bottom lip slightly, tasting the last of the bitter alcohol. "There is one way you can assure that me that my company is safe in your hands."

Marguerite looked at her companion, seeing the telltale glitter in Neela's eyes, and had to forcibly stop her jaw from dropping. She almost couldn't believe what she thought the other CEO was suggesting. She had to force down the disbelieving bubble of laughter that sprang to her lips. Instead, she asked, a trifle lightheaded. "Neela?"

Neela only continued to stare at Marguerite with her shimmering eyes. "Oh, I think you understood my price for this merger, Marguerite. And how convenient that I have a room in this very hotel."

Marguerite leaned back in her seat with a rush. She had been completely blindsided, and she knew that what was left of her drink would be useless to quench her now parched throat.

- TBC -

The Prodigal Daughter (Miranda: Spin-off from Movement In Still Life)

2007-12-05T06:31:07Z

Author's Notes: (Here We Go Again)

1. This is the adventure of Miranda and Marguerite from the Movement In Still Life (MISL) series. To get caught up on their back story, you need only to read the last chapter of MISL. However, I will try to make sure that you don't miss any salient details even if you haven't read that chapter. No guarantees, but I will try.

2. This chapter ("INTRO") picks up at the time when Miranda takes over Cambius during the DRC chapter of MISL. It's in italics because it's in flashback. The next chapter, Chapter 1, will pick up in present time, a few months after the end of MISL.

3. This is an adult Miranda:
http://i.models.com/i/oftheminute/images/H...ga_1_LowRes.jpg

4. This is Marguerite, who is half-black and half-white, having a Sudanese mother and a French father:
http://www.ourbollywood.com/uploads/Bipash...-Look-thumb.jpg

5. Some of Miranda's adolescent years will be covered, as will some of the initial relationship between Miranda and Marguerite as adults. All flashbacks are in italics.

6. Bianca and Maggie may appear, but only in flashback scenes. Other AMC characters will appear in present time.

Rating: Strong R for mature themes. Please read responsibly.

Disclaimer: Miranda, Bianca, Maggie, Erica, Kendall, Greenlee etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money or profit is being made from their use here. Please don't sue; pursue a non-litigious hobby instead. I recommend golf! Marguerite, Natasha and other original characters belong to me.

Feedback: Like a Chanel suit, it never goes out of style.

_____________________

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

INTRO

"Now this table has been with us for three generations. The Senior Mister Cambius chose it himself, on a trip to Thailand. Solid Mahogany, inlaid with the finest ivory. It has seen 40 years of business of this Board. It's practically priceless."

She trailed her hands over the aged wood, feeling little warmth but the legacy of power that the wood had been imbued with. She looked up into the eyes of her mother's closest ally. "Monsieur Thierry."

He chuckled and shook his head. "My darling Miranda. Please. You must call me Henri." He slid his bifocals off in a casual move and stepped closer, his eyes crinkling with pride and joy. "I have waited over twenty years to see you in this room. Your mother was one of the finest women it was my honor to know. But she knew, as did I, that her role was that of a Regent, preparing all of this for her Queen. And, you, Miranda, are no longer the child Queen."

He looked back at the table that span the breadth of the room, the massive piece spanning twenty feet long and six feet wide had held court for some of the most accomplished, ambitious, and egotistical men and women in the corporate world. "Your mother," he said, fondness outlining every word, "hated this table. For so many reasons, not least of because of the ivory. She detested that elephants were hacked to death for the ego of one not very nice man. I cannot say I disagreed with her. But she didn't want to rock the boat for the small things, when she was overhauling so many of the big things."

Miranda looked at him, with trust and openness, knowing he would be one of very few friends she would have in this room. He looked at her, and smiled. "You have so much of her in you. She did her best to cut our ties to the more...questionable...practices Cambius had engaged in. But there is only so much she could do. She was all too human, but she was wonderful, even if she always felt that she was forced into the role. She was happy to do it, most of the time. Because it was for you."

Miranda swallowed, letting her nerves show through in front of this wizened and wise man. "Henri...I'm...scared...I'm...not sure I'm ready..." She couldn't help the quaver in her voice, the slight tremble in her hands. This morning, she was going to sit down in the chair of the Chairwoman of the Board of one of the most vast and powerful private organizations in the world.

He smiled again, and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead. "That's how you know, Miranda. That's how you know you're ready."

She leaned back, and smiled, her eyes just a little watery. She grasped his wrinkled hands in her own, and smiled for the first time in genuine mirth that morning. "You said this table was priceless?"

He raised his eyebrow and only nodded.

She grinned, letting her teeth show. "Don't you think it's time we found a price for it?"

He chuckled, and she hugged him. She was ready for the other Directors to step into the Boardroom.

_________________

A Few Minutes Later...

As she looked around the table, smiling at each of her Directors, wanting to start things off on the right foot but knowing that there would be battles waged in this room.

That she would be the Queenmaker as much as the linchpin; she had Cambius blood in her veins, though she would always consider herself a Montgomery, a Kane.

The oft troublesome legacy which put her at the head of this table, this organization, could no longer be denied, and she had decided to embrace it.

She was her mother's daughter. She was Erica Kane and Jackson Montgomery's granddaughter, Bianca Montgomery's daughter.

She was Miranda Montgomery, and there wasn't anything she couldn't do, including running Cambius Industries.

As she stood, waiting for each of her Directors, some of whom would be her allies, some her adversaries, she caught Marguerite St. Just's eye, the older woman standing on the other end of the table, opposite her. Her CEO. Miranda smiled wider, feeling a tickle of excitement work its way speedily up her spine.

Henri Thierry cleared his throat, and brought the muted murmur of movement to an end. "It is my great honor and pleasure to be here today, and welcome you, Mademoiselle Montgomery, as our new Chairwoman. We were honored to have your mother serve this organization for over twenty years, and we now welcome you to your rightful place at Cambius Industries. As we move forward in this new day and age, we, as your Board, will do our best to help you guide Cambius to even greater heights. We greatly look forward, with hope and pride, to creating a more successful, more holistic, and more prestigious era in this great organization's history. I know I speak for all our Directors when I say that we wish you the best of fortunes and success as our Chairwoman. Congratulations, Miranda."

The sound of applause greeted her, some more enthusiastic than others, but all more than willing to see what the future held with her at the helm.

She grasped the chair that stood in front of her, and said a silent prayer for strength and poise.

She was Miranda Montgomery.

She looked at each of her brethren in the eye. "Thank you, Henri. Thank you to all of you. It is my great honor and pleasure to be here today. I am incredibly grateful to all of you for your presence here, and I look forward to your guidance. I know I am young, and I count on your honest feedback and counsel in the coming years," she said, knowing full well that she was about to get their opinions for the next few decades whether she wanted it or not.

"I am humbled by the trust and privilege of leading Cambius in our new future together. I strongly believe that with us working together, we are all destined for great success. Thank you again, from the bottom of my heart."

The applause started again, ten hands coming together in a cheer for her first official address as Chairwoman. As they all moved to take their seats, Miranda carefully pulled out her seat, and sank into the soft leather. She pulled herself toward the table, and settled in further.

She looked down at her folder, noting the long agenda in front of her, and silently sighed. This was going to be a drawn out first Board meeting. This was going to be much of the rest of her professional life. She straightened imperceptibly in her seat.

As she heard the rustle of folders opening around her, she looked up to catch Marguerite watching her, green eyes watching her like a hawk, a curious smile curling around the older woman's lips. Their tangle over the DRC deal was, Miranda had no doubt, still fresh in the other woman's mind.

Miranda had thought that she had won that round in a quick and bloodless battle, ruthlessly yet seemingly painlessly exercising her new eleventh vote on the Board. Miranda was sure, however, that that particular wrangling was only round one.

But now Marguerite only dipped her head slightly, and Miranda wasn't entirely sure if that was a sign of encouragement or a polite yet deadly declaration of war.

Miranda held Marguerite's eyes for a moment, and returned the slight nod.

Yes, Miranda thought, we're either going to relish this or kill each other.

- TBC with Chapter 1 -

Type your cut contents here.

The Placebo Effect (Sequel To "Ditch The Halo")

2007-12-03T15:38:12Z

Synopsis:

It's 2009: Almost four years after the end of "Ditch The Halo," where Bianca, Maggie, and Miranda left Pine Valley for Paris, France, as decreed by Miranda's pointing at the globe in the last chapter (#14) of DTH.

Picking back up from AMC canon, Maggie cheated on Bianca while they were together in Paris, and they broke up. Bianca came back to Pine Valley, and yes, Zoe happened. Keeping with canon, Maggie returned to Paris first, and then Bianca followed a few months later.

Now, what?

"The Placebo Effect" melds the characters and events of "Ditch The Halo" with 2006/07 AMC canon to make 2009 a very exciting year for our favorite characters! New understandings are formed, fresh compromises molded, hidden wars fought, new acquaintances flourish, dangerous emotions surface and old friends return...all to coincide in Paris!

See it here first: The Placebo Effect's first chapter will be up on this site before it's posted anywhere else -- probably in the next month. Watch this space!

Movement In Still Life: Vignette 10

2007-12-02T20:50:28Z

Cgirls's Note:
1. If you want to know what an adult Miranda looks like, click here: http://i.models.com/i/oftheminute/images/H...ga_1_LowRes.jpg
Note: Click on the picture once it opens up to clarify the image.
Yup, that's our Mimo in this series. And, yes, she's wearing that Balenciaga outfit (bag included) in the Gazebo scene.

2. Last soapbox moment of the series -- for more on the rape crisis in the Congo, please see this excellent article from the New York Times, published a couple of weeks ago:
http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html...753C1A9619C8B63

Time Line (Very Important!)

Intro: Original Piece of "Movement In Still Life"
Vignette II: The Benefit - 5 Years After Intro
Vignette III: The Elevator - 10 Years After Intro
Vignette IV: The Gift - 12 Years After Intro
Vignette V: The Lobby - 14 Years After Intro
Vignette VI: The Revelation - 15 Years After Intro
Vignette VII: The Train – 16 Years After Intro
Vignette VIII: The Coup d'état - 17 Years After Intro
Vignette VIV: Saying Goodbye Part I – 22 Years After Intro
Vignette X: Saying Goodbye Part II - 22 Years And Three Months After Intro

Disclaimer: Bianca, Maggie, Miranda, Kendall, Greenlee, Erica etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money/profit being made from their use here. Natasha, Jacques, Pierre, Phillipe, Lucerou and Marguerite belong to me. Susan and Aidan belongs to both me and Diva.

Rating: Strong R for the entire sequel. We mean it. Really. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: This is the last one of this party, folks. It's now or never!

____________________________

MOVEMENT IN STILL LIFE

VIGNETTE X: SAYING GOODBYE PART II
This vignette was written by Cgirl

Twenty Years And Three Months After Intro...

With Bianca's death came an enveloping, all-encompassing numbness.

And then came the envelope.

Maggie was working a 14-hour shift at the Paris hospital when the package arrived. It was a nondescript khaki envelope with the insignia of "Lassiter, Frost & Chambers" on the outside. She guessed it was a law firm. She opened it to find a velvet box and a letter.

She opened the box to find the biggest sapphire she had ever set her eyes on, cut in an exquisite square emerald-cut, set in gold. She hurriedly opened the letter, and then felt it the paper fall from her hands to the floor, shock overtaking her senses.

Just when she thought numbness would destroy her, pain ripped through her body as she realized that Bianca's lawyers had, as instructed in her will, sent Maggie her engagement ring that Bianca had bought for her over twenty years, purchased only a week before Maggie made her confession about her infidelity. Maggie hated diamonds even back then.

And, so, Bianca had gotten her a sapphire.

She closed her eyes, letting the grief wash over her. She wondered if it would ever be over, if she would ever stop feeling as if her most precious appendages had been amputated. Then she looked back at the ring. In it, she saw a future unfulfilled.

In it, she saw everything that she and Bianca could have had, and had heedlessly spurned.

_________________________

The Next Day, On the Outskirts of Paris...

The gazebo was ornate without being overdone, and she leaned into the wooden chair, tipping her head back to gaze at the ceiling. She felt her trusty flask move inside the inner pocket of her jacket. Miranda heard the sharp rap of heels against the steps of the gazebo, and sighed; she was in no mood for company. Maybe they would go away if she feigned sleep.

"Are you coming to the office?"

Miranda sighed harder. She opened her eyes, still looking at the swirl of wood above her. "No."

"They need you there."

"Does it look like I care?"

Marguerite St. Just, CEO of Cambias Industries, leaned against one of the large wooden pillars, and crossed her arms. She looked at Miranda, her Chairwoman. Miranda, who was in her late twenties but looked like she was still in her early twenties. Marguerite was only ten years older, but doubted that anyone would age as gracefully as Miranda.

Marguerite noted the desolate flow of Miranda's body as it lay slumped in the chair. They had been working together for over five years now. Marguerite knew Miranda better than the younger woman knew herself. A deep compassion flitted briefly over Marguerite's eyes. Then she stiffened; compassion wouldn't do Miranda much good right now.

Marguerite firmed her voice. "Come with me."

Miranda lifted her head to look at her colleague. "Where?"

"Headquarters."

"What part of 'No' do you not understand?"

"We need you there."

"Too bad for all of you then, isn't it?"

"Bianca wouldn't want you to—"

Miranda's eyes flashed with immediate anger. "Don't you dare…"

Marguerite sighed and dipped her head. She walked over, and sat in the deck chair next to Miranda. She looked out, and saw Bianca's grave two hundred feet away. This was such a beautiful spot. She reached over, and gently placed her hand over Miranda's. She hadn't touched Miranda in months, and she valiantly fought the stutter in her heartbeat when she felt the softness of Miranda's hands.

"I lost my mother when I was twenty-three."

Miranda slowly turned her head, her hand automatically closing around Marguerite's, her body feeling more relaxed from that gesture than all the alcohol in her flask could have done. Miranda looked at her companion, and was, not for the first time, breath taken with the sophisticated loveliness of her CEO. Aloud she said, "I'm sorry."

Marguerite shrugged. "Driving accident. Can you imagine? She survived being born and raised in Sudan, and marrying a white man against her family's wishes, and even giving birth to a biracial child. All to die in a car accident. At least it was quick."

Miranda stiffened. "Going quickly doesn't do much."

"Better than my father; he suffered for ten years from lung cancer before he went. Believe me, it helps to go fast."

Miranda felt her heart being squeezed; she wanted to be held by the other woman, but didn't know how to ask. "I'm sorry. I can't say…"

Marguerite turned her gaze away from the lawns surrounding them and into the golden brown eyes looking at her. "I know what it's like. Maybe not exactly what you're going through now, but I know. Your mother was a great woman."

Miranda smirked, her mouth running away with her as it often did. "Even though you tried to blackmail her all those years ago?"

Marguerite stiffened and pulled her hand away in shame and anger. "I was young, and very foolish."

Miranda cursed herself. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry. That was stupid."

Marguerite stood. "Don't call me that."

Miranda wondered why she had felt more at peace in the last ten minutes than in the last three months. She looked out at her mother's resting place, and noticed a faint figure standing by the grave. Miranda recognized Maggie immediately, and then the image of what she saw made her think about her own life. She looked at Marguerite who was putting her gloves back on. Literally and metaphorically, it seemed to Miranda.

"Marguerite," she said, to see those luminous green eyes sweep over her. She plucked up her courage and continued. "Why didn't we work out?"

The older woman paused, clearly startled. And then the door slammed shut in Marguerite's eyes, and the French woman smiled in insouciance. "I don't think there was a reason. One day, you walked into my house, and said we were over."

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "And you just accepted it."

Marguerite's smile was brittle. "But of course. I was not going to argue if you wanted to leave."

Miranda had a crazy thought. "Marguerite. Marry me."

Marguerite's eyes widened in a flutter, and her jaw slackened. "Miranda, are you quite mad?"

The younger woman grinned. "Mad with love, yes."

"You are mad, drunk, or something else."

Miranda stood, making Marguerite take an involuntary step back. The Chairwoman grinned at her CEO. "You didn't say no."

Marguerite folded her arms stiffly as her eyes flashed. "Then let me say it now. No!"

Miranda couldn't stop grinning. "Why not?"

The other woman gaped. "Why not?! Because we want to kill each other half the time! God knows how we lasted that entire year together!"

"Justine says that half of marriage is overcoming frequent homicidal urges!"

"Justine is on her third marriage!"

Miranda laughed. "True, but she hasn't killed any of her husbands."

Marguerite gaped. "Are you drunk?!"

Miranda stopped smiling. "No," she said slightly testily. "I am not drunk. Tell me why you won't marry me."

Marguerite sputtered. "We do not love each other!"

Miranda smirked. "That's not true. I remember that one night in Marseilles, when you thought I was asleep, you said—"

Marguerite's eyes widened in panic, unaware all this time that Miranda had heard her whispered confession. "That was months and months ago. It means nothing now."

Miranda flinched. "Did it mean anything then?"

Marguerite closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, Miranda knew that a different woman existed behind those malachite eyes than the one who had held her hand and told her about her lost parents a few minutes ago. "Miranda, you are upset."

Miranda looked past Marguerite, and saw Maggie still standing next to Bianca's grave. Miranda remembered her mother's sacrifices, and her mistakes, the ones that caused a lifetime of regret.

Miranda was resolved to making only new mistakes.

She turned away from Marguerite. "I left because I wasn't ready to admit that you might well be the love of my life. You couldn't be it, could you? From that first meeting when I sat in the Chairwoman's seat and you walked in to my office, flabbergasted to see me there. And you were the woman I fought with so intensely and so self-righteously at Cambius, the woman whom I couldn't stand. You were also the one I couldn't stand to be away from. Even before we were together, you were the one I fantasized about for years when I was with other women. And after we were over, you were the one who haunted me so much I couldn't touch another woman because none of them was you. How could that be?"

Marguerite said nothing, her face frozen. She couldn't move, and she wouldn't breathe for fear that she would shatter. The melancholia in Miranda's voice was something she never thought she'd hear from the bubbly and vivacious younger woman.

Miranda turned towards Marguerite and continued, "And then I thought it might just be the sex. You know, until you touched me, sex had never been mindblowing for me," she continued, without blushing, looking straight at Marguerite, who, ironically, found herself looking away. "So I ran. And you didn't say anything. You didn't ask me to stay. And I thought that, maybe, it was just sex to you. You had had me, and it was fun, and that was that."

Marguerite clenched her jaw, refusing to allow herself to open her mouth and say what was burning on her tongue, trying to contain the torrent of pain that she had held at bay all these months after their year-long affair.

Miranda knew that she was her mother's daughter, but she wouldn't make Bianca's mistakes.

She smiled as she looked into those turbulent jade eyes. "So, I'm not running anymore, and I'm not hiding any longer. Marguerite St. Just, will you marry me?"

Marguerite's calm, which was legendary at Cambius, shattered. "You are definitely mad, drunk, or joking!! And I'm not going to again let my heart—" she broke off, and clenched her jaw.

Miranda caught the slip, and stepped closer to Marguerite, those brown eyes beseeching. "I'm sorry, baby. I was an idiot. A stupid fool, and a young stupid fool. But I think you'll admit that I'm also a gorgeous stupid fool, and this gorgeous, stupid fool would be so happy if you would say 'Yes'. To allowing me to massage your feet after an eighteen-hour work day of wearing those ridiculous designer heels that make me want to F**k you on my office table every time I see you in them. To you being the only woman who I will go to sleep next to and wake up with for the next few decades. To me taking care of you when you've got the winter flu, or you burning my favorite soup when I get my PMS cravings. To looking at me with that look of pride to see me next to you. To you being the only one who will make me laugh so hard that I cry. To me being the one you can't wait to talk to when you wake up in the morning. To you being the only one I want to get down on my knees for no matter what time of day or night. Say 'yes,' baby."

Marguerite's breath caught. She remembered being seduced just like this by Miranda all those months ago. Marguerite had sworn never to be a fool to love, and all of her intentions had flown out the window the day Miranda Mona Montgomery had kissed her after a dinner in one of those hole-in-the-wall establishments. Marguerite still remembered the hint of Chablis on the younger woman's breath, the autumn wind teasing her hair, the curl of Miranda's flirty smile, and falling into the edge of forever.

For Marguerite, Miranda had been the impossible made real, and she had surrendered her heart to the younger woman without question. They had still had their famous fights over work, but what had changed when there were together was that at the end of their tirades, they would look at each other and smile. Or leap into each other's arms, and defile whichever office they were in with their lust. Marguerite remembered endless Sunday mornings, of newspapers and brunch and comics and laughter and warm sex. She could recall with such stunning clarity the sun shining off the auburn glow of Miranda's hair; how the younger woman had smiled at her, making Marguerite believe in all the stupid cliches the world had to offer. She remembered how they had touched each other, with furious desire and gentle worship; they had screamed each other's names and sighed their silent emotions.

And then Marguerite remembered having her heart broken a year later, mere weeks after she'd made that secret confession one night when they'd both snuck away for a lover's getaway in Marseilles. The sudden shock at Miranda walking into her house, when Marguerite thought they were just having dinner, and Miranda announcing with a clear voice that she wanted out of their relationship. Marguerite remembered the chill that had swept through her body, freezing her tears behind her eyes, and left her silently gasping with anguish. She had only smiled and nodded once, before asking what wine Miranda thought would go best with their lasagna. They had eaten the dinner, neither of them tasting the food. Marguerite's hand had shaken throughout that meal, and they hadn't dared to look at each other. In the end, they cleared the dishes, Marguerite kissed Miranda on the cheek, and walked her to the door. She waved from the door until Miranda had driven away. And then she had wept for hours, the sobs seemingly ceaseless.

Marguerite shook herself out of her reverie, and brought herself back to the present. She looked into the darling brown eyes of her former lover. Marguerite wouldn't be a fool for love again. Not even Miranda's life-altering love.

She thought she would derail Miranda's crazy idea of matrimony by being as cutting and cruel as possible. "Your mother wouldn't have approved."

But instead of making Miranda angry, the comment made the younger woman smirk. "She was actually surprised when we broke up."

Marguerite's eyes widened in astonishment. "Bianca knew we were involved??!"

Miranda laughed. "Whenever you and I had one of our huge fights over Cambius, I would call her and bitch about you. She said that it sounded like sexual tension. Of course that could have been because I kept saying something along the lines of 'Just because she has an MBA from INSEAD, and looks so hot in her Chanel suits, doesn't mean she's always right!' She asked me if I'd kissed you yet. So, really, my mother gave me the idea to kiss you."

Marguerite was speechless. Years after she had pulled her despicable stunt with the photographs, she had gone to Bianca, to apologize. But Bianca had only smiled in response at her, eyes twinkling, and had never actually said whether she had accepted Marguerite's apology. To this day, blackmailing Bianca was the one mistake that most haunted Marguerite. "I do not believe you."

Miranda grinned. "She wasn't entirely happy that we broke up. I think she thought that you were good for me," the younger woman said, chuckling. "So you see, baby, you're running out of reasons."

Suddenly the gazebo was too small, and Marguerite could feel the air freezing in her lungs. She looked into the gorgeous face before her; she remembered loving the younger woman with a passion and intensity that she had never before experienced. And suddenly she was angry. "You are mad!"

Miranda raised her eyebrows in mirth, a habit she had acquired from her mother. "Well at least you don't think I'm drunk or joking anymore."

Marguerite was furiously backpedaling. "It would never work!"

"Why not?"

Marguerite needed to escape. She buttoned her coat and turned away. "Because I have no morals, and you! You! You have no brains!" she tossed over her shoulder as she hurriedly walked down the steps of the gazebo.

Miranda didn't chase her, but lazily followed her to the edge of the gazebo, and leaned against the outer pillars of the wooden structure. Miranda called out to her departing former lover, her voice full of laughter. "I'll lend you my morals, baby, and you can give me your brains!"

But Marguerite didn't look back as she hurried away to her car, and passed Maggie on the way, who was just starting to climb the steps of the gazebo.

Maggie raised her eyebrows at Miranda. "Who was that?"

Miranda grinned as she watched Marguerite reach her car and turn around to look at Miranda. Miranda blew her kiss from across the distance, and laughed when Marguerite made an obscene hand gesture in response before getting in her car and driving away.

Maggie smiled and frowned at the same time. "She seems nice."

Miranda finally turned to Maggie and smiled. "No, Maggie, she's not nice at all. But she is fierce."

"Looks like it. Who is she?"

Miranda turned to see the disappearing image of Marguerite's car. "The woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with."

Maggie's eyebrows rose. "I thought you weren't the marrying kind."

Miranda looked away from Marguerite's departing car, and smiled rakishly. "What can I say? She's got a way about her, clearly enough to turn even a cold heart like mine."

Maggie squinted at the younger woman, the sun's rays catching the edge of the mahogany. "I don't think anyone would say you have a cold heart, Mimo."

Miranda thrust her hands into her jacket, and scuffed her right booted heel on the wooden floor, a habit symbolizing discomfort. She looked away and her shoulders hunched. "Mother might have disagreed during my Technicolor years."

Maggie frowned. "Technicolor?"

Miranda looked up from the ground, from underneath her eyebrows, her eyes were filled with a hasty remembrance. "The more…colorful…years of my life. Technicolor…Sensory overload, I guess is the blandest term for it, and ended up driving Mother more than a little ragged around the edges."

Maggie stepped closer, not yet reaching out with her hands. "Miranda. I don't think there was any doubt that Bianca loved you. No matter what."

Miranda ducked her head, and then reached to push her wisps of her hair behind her ears, the movement so reminiscent of Bianca that Maggie had to swallow past the cinder-like lump in her throat so as not to cough.

The younger woman tucked her hands back into her jacket's pockets and straightened to her full height, an inch taller than Bianca's height. She shrugged. "I know. I think that's the hardest part."

Maggie looked away, her eyes drawn to the grave. "I hate her epitaph."

Miranda smirked, and somehow Maggie didn't think it was entirely benign. "Natasha chose it."

A lesser woman would have flushed, but Maggie just sighed. "I see."

Miranda reached into the inner pocket of her suit, and pulled out a small but gorgeous mahogany flask. "Drink?"

Maggie looked at her. "It's 11 in the morning, Miranda."

Miranda smiled while rolling her eyes. "It was a yes or no question, Maggie."

"What are you offering?"

"Scotch."

Maggie's eyebrows wrinkled. "Neat, no chaser?"

"I'm a minimalist type."

"Thanks, but I'll pass."

Miranda shrugged, and slowly unscrewed the lid, and delicately tipped the flask as she leaned her head back to drink.

"Why does it seem like you're using that as therapy?"

"I forgot the part where you were a shrink."

"I'm not."

Miranda looked at her. "That was sarcasm, Maggie. Surely your life isn't so dull as to have leeched all ability to recognize satire."

Maggie inhaled slowly. "You walk around with a flask of Scotch on you all the time?"

Miranda turned to face her fully, not hiding her irritation. "Who are you? My mother?"

Maggie was slightly taken aback by the tone, but unwilling to accede the topic. "Miranda. Are you self-medicating?"

"Let it go, Maggie."

"You can come with a thousand smart answers, but I'm not letting this go."

Miranda looked at the woman across from her, and then slowly, almost with painful slowness recapped her flask. She sighed deeply, and leaned against railing of the gazebo, careful not to look at her companion. "As you Americans say, I fell off the wagon."

Maggie winced but didn't react otherwise. "When?"

Miranda dropped her head. "A few months ago."

"Did Bianca know?"

"She knew about rehab. Hell, she put me in it enough times. But I'd done it for alcohol only once. Seemed to stick."

Maggie wasn't letting go. "Did Bianca know about the relapse?"

Miranda leaned her hands more, a sudden nervous force engulfing her body as she rocked back and forth, and clenched her jaw. "No," the word a mere whisper.

"Miranda…"

And then Miranda whirled, but said in an extremely calm voice for all the energy seeming to flood her body. "She didn't know because it was two days after she died, Maggie. Happy now?"

"Are you angry?"

"Why would you ask me that?"

"Because your right eyelid is twitching."

"How--"

"Bianca had the same thing."

Miranda took an expansive breath, and looked at her mother's grave with squinted eyes. Then she turned to face the other woman. "No, Maggie. I'm not angry. I'm furious. I'm furious at the two of you. I know that's unfair. You two were just f*cked up from the start."

Miranda paused here, still somewhat reverential to Maggie, but the other woman only winced, and so the younger woman continued, allowing the froth of her rage to surface. "She's dead, Maggie. I'm not blaming you. I'm blaming both of you. You both just made the worst decisions, again and again and again. Years! Decades! For what? Your pride? Saving face? Both of you! My God! It's worse than a soap opera! Worse than Erica even! At least she stuck by Grandpa Jackson. But, no, the two of you had to have your complicated charade. As if the petty little wounds you hurled with such glee were some sort of comeuppance! You could have been my mom, too. And maybe I should have just called Mother on the bullshit. Or made her end it. Or, Hell, maybe I should have stood up at some Christmas dinner and just said in front of everyone: "Mother, please stop f*cking your ex." Somehow…And, now, my mother is dead."

The young woman turned away, heaving with unspoken regret at her own part in the affair. Maggie said nothing as tears stung at the edges of her eyes. She was struck again that Miranda wasn't a copy of Bianca; Miranda didn't forgive as easily, and wasn't as blind to the vagaries of human self-absorption as Bianca had been at a similar age. Maggie wondered, somewhat bitterly, if the differences were Natasha's influence, or Miranda's own evolution. Regret was a wasted emotion, Maggie knew, but it had become a permanent settler in her psyche. "Miranda..."

"Don't, okay? Don't you get it, Maggie? How much the two of you could have had? Either with each other, or with others? Something whole, and maybe good, and not tainted with bitterness. Instead of stealing crumbs of kindness and tenderness every few years to assuage some longstanding torch for each other. Because no matter how you play it, Maggie, you both cheated yourselves out of a good life. And, now, she's dead and you're alone, and I don't even know who you are!"

"Don't judge us, Miranda. It's not your place."

"Then don't stand on principle with me, Maggie. You haven't earned it. You can't just sweep into my life, and be my second mom because my first one died. It doesn't work that way! It's not that easy!"

Maggie was breathing harshly, and it wasn't in anger; she hadn't considered just how much their actions had affected this young woman, who, for all intensive purposes, Maggie did consider to be her child, as well. Yet, Maggie realized, she hadn't been there for Miranda, not in all these years apart. It sunk in with ripping force that there was no filial relationship to speak of between them; memory did not always conquer all.

"I don't think I'd ever deny that Bianca and I made a huge mess of things. Saying that is probably an understatement, but you know what I mean. I am more sorry than I can say that I wasn't there for you. That I didn't fight for you. That Bianca and I couldn't see past ourselves. I know she tried to be the best mother she knew how. I'm sorry I let you down. I know I really, really let you down. For years, and repeatedly, because I never sought you out. I never asked to be a part of your life, regardless of what went on between Bianca and me. It's a regret that weighs more heavily than you will know. You have every right to be angry, and not to trust me now even as I say this because you don't know me. But I'd like to change that. I would really, really like to change that."

Miranda looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "Aren't you going away?"

Maggie sighed. "Only for a few weeks. It's my last mission to the DRC, and I'll be back in five weeks. If we could get together then…I think we can do this, Miranda. Please. Please give me the chance. To get to know me, for me to get to know you. For me to earn your trust. Please."

Miranda turned to the other woman, absorbing every angle of Maggie's face for a long moment. "Maggie…"

"In the meantime, I want to give you this," Maggie said as she held out the box that Bianca had left her.

Miranda took in an automatic reaction. "What is it?"

Maggie only raised her chin, motioning for Miranda to open it. The younger woman gasped as she took in the ring. "It's gorgeous."

Maggie waved her hand. "I want you to have it."

Miranda looked up, the surprise evident. "Maggie, I can't accept—"

Maggie cut her off. "Bianca was going to give it to me…" Maggie let the words trail off, a lifetime of unseen opportunities surrounding her in an invisible shroud of conflict and pain. But she smiled now, ready to hand over the future. "I think it should be yours. If that woman of yours," and here Maggie smiled while Miranda blushed, "is really whom you want, it should be hers. Think about it."

Miranda looked back at the ring for a long moment, her thumb tracing the decisive edges of the sapphire. "So much better than a diamond," the younger woman whispered.

Maggie smiled. "I'm not trying to buy your affection, Mimo. But let me just say this with all of my heart: don't let anger, or pride, or bitterness keep you from happiness. Whatever you do, whatever you want, you have to go after it. Don't let anything, or anyone, hold you back. Just promise me that, and no matter if you never see me again, just promise me that, and I'll be happy."

Miranda was taken aback by the ferocity of the older woman's words, but understood perhaps better than anyone else living, save Maggie herself, where the words originated from. She didn't have to think for long. "I promise."

Maggie smiled, and the relief was apparent. "I'll call you when I get back, okay?"

Miranda closed the box with a definitive click. She slowly put it inside her jacket pocket, and looked up at Maggie. She closed the distance between her and Maggie, and engulfed the older woman in a hug. She felt Maggie cling to her, and try not to sob. She tightened her own hold. She whispered to Maggie in a clear voice. "Maggie, when you get back…I think we could be friends."

Maggie only tightened her hold again, in gratitude.

______________________

The next day in Paris...

Maggie hated these speeches. It's not as if she didn't know that her work was noble, but announcing it as a high-minded principle threatened to cast the entire MONUC mission as a condescending Western incursion to heal the "savages."

But it couldn't be helped; the mission had just received an obscenely large influx of cash, and her superiors at the UN had wondered how much could be raised if only they publicized their work more.

The donation, one of the largest ever made in the history of the UN, had been done anonymously and had stirred intrigue amongst international philanthropic circles as to who or what had made the contribution to MONUC.

And, so, there she was. It was all so wrong, Maggie thought, to hold this press conference at the Ritz, but the powers that be decided that they needed a much needed gilded edge to their image to haul in the power brokers.

Never mind that this recent anonymous donation would keep them afloat for another twenty years, even by conservative estimates. Perhaps the UN was just very forward thinking, at least when it came to fundraising.

"I'd never seen so many zeros in my life. I couldn't even count all of them," had been the reaction of the head of MONUC, to whom the check had been delivered to earlier that week. Or at least that's what Lucerou told her was the popular rumor in their ranks.

After all these years of working in the DRC, Maggie had a stump speech, and had toned down her righteous anger of her early years enough not to alienate, but to inspire. Yet if one looked close enough, there was a worn edge to her words, as if she wasn't entirely sure that money, aid, and dedication could heal the wounds inflicted in such a brutal civil war.

An hour later, after answering more questions than she knew would ever get printed in the newspapers, and meeting with more moneyed interests than she knew existed, she was ready for a drink. The bar at the Ritz had at one time been amongst the finest in the world. Maggie was willing to assess whether it had remained in good standing.

As she walked, she noticed the woman sitting in the valued corner table. The widow Montgomery wore black. The society papers said (on word from certain unnamed but close confidants) Natasha was still in mourning, and the inches of column space marveled at how she continued to be so graceful in her complete devastation. Today, the Givenchy draped with an exquisite fall, and Natasha was every inch the principal owner of the one of the largest and most storied luxury brands in the world.

Maggie took a deep breath, wondering at the world's coincidences, and whether this was just one of them. She slowly walked up to the table even as a large part of her wondered at her own sanity.

"Is this seat taken?"

Natasha's mirthless smile widened a fraction. "No, it's not. Please," she said pointing elegantly with her fingers, a stripped-down gesture of politeness.

Maggie swallowed delicately, not entirely sure what she was doing. She carefully sat down, and set her handbag carefully on the table. Since this was the Ritz, a waiter magically appeared at her elbow. For a moment, Maggie thought to say that water would do, but a passing glance at her companion, and just what Maggie had walked into made her realize she would need something more. "Gin and tonic. Make it a double, thanks." The waiter nodded sharply.

Maggie wasn't sure what to say. "How are you?"

Natasha only smiled. "I came to see the MONUC press conference."

Maggie's eyebrows rose in surprise. "What did you think?"

"It's impressive," Natasha said, the noncommittal tone grating slightly.

"I'm glad you thought so."

Natasha's smile remained sharp. "The new funds. I'm sure they will be in good hands."

Maggie's expression turned questioning; this conversation was starting to sound surreal. Then again, she didn't expect much more. "Have you always been interested in the Congo?"

Natasha rested her chin delicately on her wrist, her fingers curling into her palm. She wondered, certainly not for the first time, just what sort of history her partner had had with this woman who sat across from her. From what little Bianca had told her, and what she had gleaned from time interacting with Bianca's family and friends, was that the erstwhile couple had been exceedingly close, getting each other through more emotional minefields than anyone would expect.

From what Natasha understood, Bianca and Maggie had been almost hermetically sealed in a cocoon of their friendship and love. Right until Maggie cheated on her.

Natasha had intimate knowledge of Bianca's expansive and forgiving spirit, even as she was aware, as all wives are, of her partner's foibles – Bianca could be heedlessly stubborn and, in certain situations, carelessly cruel. Natasha wasn't so base as to consider Bianca some prize to be won, but she knew that she loved Bianca with intense passion and, Natasha knew, blind devotion. Because she had been in love, and had continued to be even through the lacerating knowledge of the affair.

While Natasha realized that her partner had grappled mightily with the knowledge of her affair, and that Bianca had loved Natasha deeply, Natasha also knew that Bianca hadn't loved her without reservation – because of the woman who now sat across from her. Surely, a lesser woman might have flung her drink in Maggie's face, but Natasha was bred in politeness and lived for calmness. Yet, she was human.

"You're not as smart as I thought."

Maggie only clenched her jaw and hoped her smile was quizzical rather than derisive. Natasha was, after all, owed her pound of flesh. "Really? That would make two of us. I'm not usually as smart as I think either."

"That was a very good speech. Very eloquently given."

Maggie felt her chin dipping again. "Thank you."

"Tell me, did she visit you when you were there?"

Maggie's eyes jerked back to Natasha, whose expression seemed only to hold mild curiosity. She hesitated, and in that, she realized, she had given herself away. Still, Natasha deserved an answer to anything she wanted to know. "Yes, she did."

Natasha leaned back in her chair, one arm crossed, and the other holding her drink precariously. "That explains it."

Maggie leaned her head askance, the universal symbol for an unspoken question.

Natasha narrowed her eyes, and smiled infinitesimally. "And you never wondered where it came from, or why now."

Maggie frowned, but didn't want to voice the guess that was now clamoring inside her head. "Natasha. You clearly know something. If you want to tell me, please do."

The other woman leaned back in her chair, as she reached for her glass and took a healthy swig. Natasha tilted her head just so. "Confidentially," she said, looking at Maggie from beneath her lashes, and waiting for the confirming nod. "It was from Bianca's estate. The donation."

Maggie felt her jaw drop, and her eyes grow round with astonishment, but she couldn't help the reaction. She had never even considered Bianca.

Natasha was caught up in her recollection as she started into her martini glass. "The reason it was deposited only a few months after…" And here Natasha stumbled, the grief overwhelming here for a moment so intensely that her hand shook as her heart felt as if it were being crushed inside her chest cavity, the tears almost spilling over.

Natasha shook her head sharply, as if it were possible to swat away stinging agony with that movement. Yet, from what Maggie had seen, if anyone could do it, perhaps Natasha could. She continued. "The reason it arrived a few months after her death," and this time she didn't falter as she continued. "Certain assets had to be liquidated. But there was only one benefactor to all of her personal wealth – MONUC. Except, of course, for certain personal items of jewelry." And with that Natasha looked at Maggie.

Maggie wondered if Natasha knew about the ring, and cursed herself and Bianca for their weakness. She had come face-to-face yet again with another façade of their collateral damage, and she was sorry for it. But she was deluding herself, Maggie knew, if she thought that even the patent suffering of everyone around her was enough to make her want to go back and undo the affair. This was, perhaps, the most damaging of all realizations, even as Maggie recognized it as the sole truth in the amalgamated rubble of her relationship with Bianca.

Maggie wanted to sigh, but restrained herself. "I'm sorry for your loss," she whispered, only able to refer to Bianca in hushed tones, and she winced at how utterly inadequate the phrase seemed.

But Natasha only looked at her with those cutting, cerulean eyes. "Thank you."

There seemed nothing more to say, and in all honesty Maggie wasn't sure if she could sit through more of the oppressive silence that had seemed to envelop them. Maggie picked up her handbag. "Thank you for telling me. About the donation."

Natasha tilted her head in consideration. "It's in confidence."

Maggie nodded. "I know."

Natasha nodded in response, and picked up her drink again.

Maggie stood, and extended her hand to shake Natasha's. The other woman only raised her eyebrow as she looked at Maggie over the rim of her glass. Maggie slowly let her arm fall back alongside her body. Natasha nodded once, and then dropped her eyes to her own handbag, effectively dismissing Maggie.

Maggie took a deep breath and looked at Natasha for one more moment before walking away, and she made her way through the hotel, her mind blank. As she stepped out on the sidewalk, she realized she was trembling.

____________________

A few days later, in the Democratic Republic of Congo…

She sat, but not morosely, on her bed, hands turned up on her knees. She wondered at the reduced elasticity of the skin on her hands, each wrinkle like a ring in the body of a tree. She let her chin drop into her chest because she didn't want to think. The realization that the DRC wasn't going to rejuvenate her this year was a crushing realization, but one that she had ultimately known as much as feared.

She whispered. "Where are you?"

Mourning's over, Maggie. The body is gone.

The tears flew into the corner of her eyes, but her fluttering eyelids held them behind their aegis. "This isn't fair."

No, it isn't.

The breath traveled from within her, seemingly caught in the back of her throat, choking off rationality and calm. "We weren't supposed to be like this."

Maybe we just ran out of chances.

Her lips trembled at that response, the edges twitching to hold back the culmination of a sob.

I'm sorry.

And then Maggie was furious and pushed away from the bed and ran outside. Into the cold, crisp night of the Congo.

As she stood in the cold, she realized that there were, of course, moments of great fury, expressed in small manners. If one were to gently open her palm, and flutter fingertips over the life lines, the self-inflicted, crescent-shaped scars would be hard to miss. A physical manifestation of invisible wounds, her inner self raked over the coals – the death of Bianca Montgomery had changed the landscape of her life. She wasn't entirely sure that she didn't hate Bianca – for leaving her, for abandoning her.

And in the next moment, Maggie was in tears, begging forgiveness of some unseen, unheard apparition – as if absolution was a power of those other than the living. She did realize, with the same irony and regret that always came with a retrospective intelligence, that forgiveness had been within their grasp, and was never fully realized – what had been decades of carefully inflicted darts would take at least as much time to undo.

Maggie.

Even in their coldest, their most hurtful moments, of which there were more than either of them wished for, there was an undeniable fire that ran through their veins. The very reason that kept Bianca and her in each other's spheres long after propriety and common sense dictated such interactions. But they were never one for sense, and they had paid the price for their lack of self control. Infidelity being such a dirty word to Maggie, for more reasons than to Bianca, but they had cavalierly rushed headlong into their affair – knowing full well the inexorable price to be borne. If it could indeed be reduced such overly simplistic terms, and she was so tired; psychoanalysis was, even when directed at her, exhausting.

I forgive you.

If only it were that easy. She was tempted to smirk, knowing that if her lover were in the right humor and beside her, Bianca would nudge her shoulder in playful banter. They were experts in both emotional self-flagellation and relentless denial – a deadly combination to embody, if only because a stunted, myopic approach to loaded emotional situations was the norm, leaving both of them serrated and vengeful.

And, yet, for all of the unpardonable, there were moments of joyful incandescence; she could remember just looking at her lover, as they were caught in a movement of laughter and a secret language that gave them special insight into the ridiculous world that lit both of them up from inside.

Moments where the fury of passion was also transmuted into the gentle cadence of reverence, fingertips dancing over excruciatingly sensitive skin, bringing life, and making each minute too long and too short for a culmination that would leave them in a gasping, incendiary tangle of limbs and emotions.

I'm here.

She looked up at the sky, her ultimate source of solace. As she arched her neck to stretch it, she noticed a flare out of the corner of her eye. She arched her neck further to the left, and smiled. This had to be a first; she had never before seen a shooting star in the African night.

The golden-bluish hue of the arcing heavenly body completely different from anything she'd seen. She felt a spurt of joy flow through her at this surprise, her lips curling in one corner.

The frailty she felt now had nothing to do with how tired she felt, or how hopeless the world continued to seem. What was memory? She felt the fingers of her right hand rub together and she couldn't recall the warmth of Bianca, the touch of her hand, the warm of the fingers, the sensory perception of contact. She had images in her mind, but she couldn't feel the wholesome contours of her lover's body in her mind. But she had memories...

Their first time had been slightly disastrous. She had never felt so nervous in her life. They were ungainly in their haste; teeth clinking against each other, buttons that wouldn't yield, bumping into furniture, tripping on their own feet. They were trying to outrun their minds with their actions. Until they were a partially clothed mess on the carpet of their Parisian apartment.

There was a faint glimmer of a smile in the corner of her mouth now, and jerked out of her reverie.

Maggie re-focused on the present, on the shooting star, which was still in the night sky. It was truly beautiful.

Make a wish, Maggie.

She had seen much beauty in her life. The Pacific Ocean, with its oft compared calming reassurance; the sunset near the temple of the Emerald Buddha in Bangkok; the sunrise from the steps of the Notre Dame; the cherry blossoms of Kyoto; dusk at Trafalgar's Square; night of the Congo. Bianca had not been with her for many of those experiences, and while Maggie had shared some of those moments with others, she had always felt Bianca's presence with her.

More than once she had extended her hand involuntarily to reach out to curve around the brunette's, the message relayed a few moments too late to her brain that Bianca wasn't there. But that's how it had always been, and while it had been both disconcerting and even irritating to realize her habit at first, Maggie had accepted it with equanimity after a few years; she had even stopped apologizing for it.

Maggie looked up again into the Congo night, and the shooting star was still making its journey in the night sky.

That was unusual, and Maggie frowned, looking at it closer, with its dirty yet incandescent tail. Her lips parted…the star…it was…coming closer. Maggie's eyes grew larger, as denial burned, painfully slowly, away to reality and there was no hiding the truth.

Maggie! Run!!

The floodgates opened, and adrenalin was released in copious amounts; every muscle in her body froze for a moment before nature asserted itself with startling alacrity. The breath left her body as she turned and fled. And, just like the movies, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

It was no shooting star that was heading towards their camp.

With detonation, mere feet from where she had stood a few seconds ago, debris flew into the thick night air, singeing everything in its path. The sound and fury of the rocket exploding engulfed a hundred feet of the UN ground. With the intense heat of impact, sand fused into glass and cauterized the air, slicing flesh with irreparable force.

She couldn't see, but felt the heat and cold all the same, as the world went mad around her. Her body was thrown into air, but she wasn't even aware of the flight. There was a hollowed out sound ringing inside her head, as everything went even blacker; perception went silent for all of eternity as she hit the ground with bone-crunching might.

In the next second, it seemed that her senses came back with an ear-splitting crescendo.

In a mighty distance, she felt herself be lifted, indistinct voices screaming around her. She could barely make out any faces, or make sense of being jostled and carried and screamed at. A blurred face could have been Lucerou, but Maggie couldn't understand any intelligible words – only vague shapes moving. She felt what she knew to be the liquid stickiness of blood soaking her tattered clothes.

Her head lolled back onto the makeshift table in the operating theater. Parts of her body were on fire, and she think she grimaced in pain, but couldn't be sure. Other parts were cold, and felt as if they were seeping out of her skin, hanging by only shredded sinew to its original positions.

She couldn't think, she wasn't aware of anything, but she could tell that she was still alive. In this new realm, she was wracked with curling physical agony combined with an indescribable mental fog that altered and distorted reality. She couldn't make out faces, voices, or even actions.

The ringing inside her head was so loud she thought she would go mad from its insistence. Or her head might well shatter. Anything to stop the clarion crushing her mind; this was no existence to relish. She could feel a strange lassitude creeping within her even as the lights above her head grew harsher, and the voices that screamed a name that sounded somewhat like hers grew louder, more insistent.

She didn't want to let her team down, so she tried, she tried so valiantly to decipher. And she wanted to scream at them to either shut up or talk in slow and lucid words, but her brain and her mouth were no longer connected it seemed. The exhaustion of thinking submerged her and she could only curl her fingers of her hands ineffectually.

Maggie!

The potent whisper fought through the shrill needles shooting insider her head. Her head twitched on the operating table as if she were trying to move towards the voice.

You have to hold on.

She couldn't speak, and the heaviness in her mind made any attempt to speak futile. As colleagues moved furiously around her body to stanch the flow of blood from her serrated abdomen, Maggie lost track of the chaos that swirled around her.

Maggie!

And then she knew that she didn't want to wait any longer, she didn't want to fight this. It was such a clear thought, her first truly unequivocal one in the months since Bianca's death. While circumstances may have pushed her into this situation, she was going to take advantage of the opportunity presented. If only she could tell her friends to stop saving her.

Maggie, fight!

No. This was a decision to be made without regret, ironically, the most irrevocable of all decisions ran against the most irrevocable emotion of her life.

She had loved Bianca Montgomery for decades, and in the months following her death, had been unable to find any trace of succor in life. It wasn't a depression, it wasn't a phase, and it wasn't meant to pass. It wasn't a lack of perspective to say that she knew she'd never again feel truly alive.

When Bianca was live, the knowledge that Bianca was there with her – facing life and its constant tribulations – somewhere, anywhere on the same living plane; that had counted for more than Maggie had ever realized. It wasn't even that they had to be together; it was a visceral understanding of companionship, regardless of the ever-present antagonism and blistered hurt.

Somewhere on Earth, they were muddling, stumbling, stultifying and celebrating all that they had in their lives. Apart, together – nothing more than a state of mind; they had always clung to each other regardless of how tenuous the thread of their connection. They had tried to forgo their claims, and couldn't. And they were both alive to admit their unspoken license; even if for over twenty years, they'd never said the words – they knew.

Time and geographical distance became only forces that held other, lesser mortals back; she and Bianca had overcome, in their own stilted, wounded, and commemorative manner. They had meant more to each other than either had ever been adequately been able to express, and no one else needed to understand.

Back in the present, Maggie felt her body sink into the hard metal of the OR table, as the fight for her continued. But she could hear the tension, sparsed carefully between the frenzied actions of the doctors and nurses. She could feel their hands moving against her own will. Let me go, she wanted to say, aloud and fearless.

They wouldn't, of course, even if she had asked. Even if she could ask. She closed her eyes, and sighed. She felt the force of her own decision sweep through her, the brain a far more powerful force than given credit for. She didn't feel omnipotent when it came to her fate, and she didn't want to harbor delusions of grandeur – but she was ready.

Her fingers loosened from their earlier curl and she felt the warmth slowly seep out of her body. The chill that began to envelop her was not unwelcome; it brought her closer to a destination that she now embraced, her own long-standing desire that had been denied for longer than anyone could, or should, bear.

As the light grew harsher to her clogged aural perception, the shouting voices of her colleagues dimmed further, and Maggie saw a face float before her eyes, swimming into focus with painstaking slowness. The visage that would always be her siren; pride, obstinacy and bitterness were no match, none at all, for the overwhelming stillness that flooded her body.

Maggie stared into those brown eyes, and knew she was more than ready. As the machines hooked up to her body began to sound their insistent distress, she closed her eyes, the face staying with her, that gorgeous, ageless face smiling at her, that smile Maggie had long ago memorized, finally communicating its acceptance of Maggie's decision. With that silent but unambiguous blessing, the last obstacle within Maggie had been felled. And, finally, Maggie smiled – infinitesimally yet unabashedly – even as the machines started to flatline. Maggie whispered her love with her last breath, "Bianca."

__________________

A Few Minutes Later In Paris...

Miranda hated the end of the financial year. February and March were the worst months of her life. Ever. And every year, too. It was midnight, and she was cross-eyed from looking at figures until words like PBT, Amortization, and Discounted Cash Flow started to swim before her eyes. Maybe a nap...

The door burst open, which was highly unusual, and what was more, it was Marguerite. Maybe this was some sort of Twilight Zone or parallel universe where Marguerite had come to confess to her undying love. Miranda liked this exhaustion and what it brought. She was about to smile when she noticed the expression on her ex-lover's face.

She was already out of her seat. "Marguerite. What is it?"

Marguerite was out of breath, having taken the stairs rather than the elevator. She ran to the large plasma TV on the far wall of Miranda's office and reached for the remote. "You need to see this," the CEO said curtly and breathlessly as she switched to the BBC.

On screen, Nisha Pillai, Miranda's favorite broadcaster had a very stern look on her face. "And this is breaking news from the Congo. The Northern Alliance Rebel Front has attacked a UN camp in the Democratic Republic of Congo. We've lost our satellite link for the moment, but we are getting news that multiple rockets were fired into the UN camp, which primarily serves as the MONUC humanitarian mission..."

Miranda felt her knees give out, and then strong arms were around her as they crumpled together into a heap on the floor, her eyes still on the screen. "Marguerite," she whispered.

"I'm sure she's okay, Miranda."

"Oh, my God, Maggie..."

The newscast continued, "And we're just receiving an initial death toll. The UN is confirming upto 40 of its personnel are affected, all of them being fatal casulaties. We will keep you informed of this breaking story. Again, the MONUC mission in the DRC has been attacked..."

And then Miranda couldn't hear anymore because she could hear herself sob. Her wail of despair muffled against Marguerite's shoulder, as the older woman held her close and kissed the crown of her head. As Miranda fell apart in Marguerite's tight embrace, she knew. She just knew. And she hated herself for knowing so unequivocally.

In an inexplicable twist of fate, over the course of three months, Miranda had lost them both. Stuck in an emotional tornado, Miranda held on to Marguerite, praying for sanity and hope in a world gone mad.

- THE END -

Author's Final Note: I hereby solemnly swear to never again write a character death for either Bianca or Maggie in any story. Scout's honor!

Movement In Still Life: Vignette 9

2007-12-02T20:47:46Z

Movement In Still Life: Vignette 8

2007-12-02T20:45:05Z

Time Line (Very Important!)
Intro: Original Piece of "Movement In Still Life"
Vignette II: The Benefit - 5 Years After Intro
Vignette III: The Elevator - 10 Years After Intro
Vignette IV: The Gift - 12 Years After Intro
Vignette V: The Lobby - 14 Years After Intro
Vignette VI: The Revelation - 15 Years After Intro
Vignette VII: The Train – 16 Years After Intro
Vignette VIII: The Coup d'état - 17 Years After Intro

Disclaimer: Bianca, Maggie, Miranda, Kendall, Greenlee, Erica etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money/profit being made from their use here. Don't sue; take a deep breath instead.
Natasha, Jacques, Pierre, Phillipe, and Marguerite belong to me. Susan belongs to both Diva and me; yes, we share party favors sometimes!!

Audo Reference
I believe this is very fitting on so many levels --
Deepsky (featuring Jes) - Ghost (Filo & Peri Mix)
Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiLdxCcejCc

Rating: Strong R for the entire sequel. And we mean it. Really. Please read responsibly.
Extra Warning -- Depictions of war-torn country lie ahead. I've been told that it isn't overly gruesome; however, you have been cautioned.

Feedback: Give and you shall be glad that you did.

_______________________________

MOVEMENT IN STILL LIFE

THE COUP D'ETAT
This vignette was written by Cgirl

Seventeen Years After Intro

The Democratic Republic of Congo wanted to do business with the Cambius' Mining & Mineral division.

Were Cambius to make an initial "investment," which was nothing more than a glorified bribe, with the DRC's resident junta for the sum of US$ 4.5 billion, the DRC would be so generous as to grant Cambius the prime mining sites in its newfound diamond and coal reserves, or US$250 million per year over the next ten years. .

The deal had brought the Cambius Board to a grinding halt because Bianca Montgomery refused to do business with blood-thirsty dictators.

For the first time in her twenty years of leading Cambius, Bianca was absolutely certain of her moral high ground; to give nearly 5 billion dollars to one of the most brutal dictatorships in the world was an unforgivable act, regardless of the profits involved. It smacked of the worst form of capitalistic moral bankruptcy.

She had corralled five of the Board members, all of the new guard, against five of the old generation of Cambius. The five of the Olg Guar had little qualm in dealing with the brutal "government" of the DRC as long as Cambius prospered in the deal. Their attitude was enough to churn Bianca's stomach; they represented, in the brunette's eyes, all that was wrong with modern corporate behavior. As Chairwoman, she had the deciding eleventh vote, and, unsurprisingly, had exercised her vote to crush the deal.

What had surprised her was the vehement opposition from her CEO, Marguerite St. Just. In a stunning move, Marguerite had sided with the Old Guard, and shocked everyone at the Board.

However, Bianca's decisive eleventh vote had nullified the deal, and all that remained was signing the official minutes of the meeting, which would make Cambius' rejection of the DRC deal official. Before the Board could sign the document, however, Marguerite had asked to see Bianca in private.

Even though Bianca was technically Marguerite's superior, Marguerite was Bianca's CEO, and as that commanded respect, Bianca granted her the request. The Board agreed to convene tomorrow to sign the document.

Marguerite St. Just was a brilliant woman. Bianca had hired her herself, having recruited the extremely impressive woman from Chanel Paris, where Marguerite had been Vice President of Operations.

Bianca knew that, traditionally, the CEO was supposed to work in tandem with the Chairperson of the Board, but that they also be each other's counterfoil.

Marguerite St. Just, Bianca had come to realize, was not a traditionalist. They had their scuffles over the past year when they'd worked together, but this deal with the Congolese Government had been passionately fought by both women -- from opposite sides of the ideological divide.

Marguerite did not deal well with opposition. She sat in the lush chair, with her malachite eyes and striking black hair, in Bianca's expansive office. She spoke English fluently, and now her tone was deliberate as she addressed Bianca. "I did not want to do this."

Bianca sat back in her chair, unsure what Marguerite was referring to. "Do what?"

Marguerite St. Just said nothing but opened her dossier and gently pushed across a rectangular packet on Bianca's desk. Bianca looked at the large nondescript brown envelope suddenly in front of her, taking in the "Do Not Bend" sign on the upper right hand corner.

A sliver of unease crept up her spine. "Marguerite?"

Her CEO said nothing, but gently nodded her head towards the packet. Bianca reached for it, and carefully tore the lip open, and reached inside. She pulled out what were a series of 8 inches by 11 inches black and white photographs. Her vision went blurry when she noticed the subjects. Shocked eyes flitted towards the blue ones across from her.

"What the hell is this?"

Marguerite swallowed, the movement gentle yet measured. "Please, Mademoiselle, I suggest you look at what you're holding."

In her life, Bianca's voice had never been lower, or more furious. "Marguerite."

Marguerite flinched, but was unswerving. "Mademoiselle Montgomery. Trust me when I say you want to see the rest of it."

Bianca's hands were shaking ever so slightly as she turned her eyes back to the pictures in front of her. They weren't obvious, or indecent, but if one looked close enough, it was enough to make a connection.

They had been taken over a year ago, when she had met Maggie at an out-of-the-way coffee shop, and they had walked to their hotel room. It was of them in the street walking side by side, so it wasn't even technically illegal. But there was the first picture when Maggie had spotted her from across the street, and Bianca now wondered how this picture had captured the fleeting expression on Maggie's face when Bianca had never noticed it herself.

And then there was the picture when Bianca had approached Maggie's table at the coffee shop, she could see her own hand extending in almost involuntary gesture to hold the blonde before Bianca had remembered to control herself.

There was the picture of that slight smile Maggie had on her face, again something Bianca couldn't recall now as she sat in her office, which was understandable she supposed, since Bianca was looking away from Maggie in the picture and Maggie had been looking at Bianca when the blonde thought she was unnoticed.

And then the picture where apparently a joke that the blonde had made that caused Bianca to chuckle with genuine mirth.

The pictures where, unbeknownst to Bianca, Maggie had reached out and took almost Bianca's hand in an instinctual move as they were crossing the street to get to their hotel.

Pictures that represented moments that Bianca had either missed or had no recollection of had suddenly been thrust into her hand.

Bianca doubted very much that Marguerite had had her followed, spied on, and photographed so that the French woman could show Bianca the hidden undercurrents of her involvement with Maggie.

She looked at Marguerite. Her hands clenched around the glossy photographs. "What is this?"

Marguerite St. Just was not proud of what she had done, but she was not ashamed of it either. "She is working with the UN on a voluntary basis, Mademoiselle."

Bianca's eyebrows rose. She hadn't known that, but that fact hardly explained anything. Her voice lowered so that it vibrated in the space between her and the other woman. "What is this?"

"For the past five years, she's been working on the MONUC humanitarian mission in the DRC."

Bianca was again surprised; she had had no idea. The dots were coming together, however. "I didn't know that."

Marguerite raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Bianca suddenly had to clutch the photographs so that she wouldn't strangle her CEO. The fury was boiling within her. "I really don't give a damn whether you believe me, Marguerite."

The other woman shrugged. "Either way, you understand that these photographs will give the impression that your judgment on the issue of our investment in the DRC is...impaired."

The penny dropped.

Bianca lips thinned into a smile; she had to admire the other woman's underhanded tenacity. Erica Kane would have been impressed, and admitted as much to Marguerite's face. Right before the grand diva shredded Marguerite like Parmesan.

Bianca leaned back in her desk, suddenly almost smiling benignly. "This DRC project means that much to you? You would risk corporate espionage, blackmail, and the wrath of your Chairwoman?"

Marguerite's throat went dry at the seemingly wry tone that her boss had suddenly acquired. The fox was in the lion's den. "Two hundred and fifty million dollars in pure profit per year is nothing to scoff at, Mademoiselle. Not even for our higher morals."

Bianca crossed her fingers. "It doesn't mean anything to put our money squarely into the hands of a tyrannical dictator who starves his own people and yet denies most of them to even the most basic form of healthcare?"

Marguerite's mouth twitched in a way that belied her impatience with such liberal foppery. "With all due respect, Mademoiselle, we are in the business of making money."

"Yes, we are."

Her CEO was momentarily stymied, but recovered. "So you agree, then?"

Bianca shook her head. "No, Marguerite, on this, we will never agree. I will not make money at such a cost."

Marguerite stiffened. "Then we are not in agreement."

Bianca looked at her. "No, we are not."

Marguerite's eyes flitted meaningfully to the photographs in Bianca's hands, and then back up to meet Bianca's stare. Bianca knew exactly what Marguerite's look had meant -- her CEO would leak them (anonymously of course) to the public.

The Chairwoman looked at her adversary for a moment and then back to the photographs. They were glossy, and if they weren't used as collateral in such an ugly scheme, Bianca could have easily seen the loveliness of the moments captured.

Bianca's eyes wandered over the arch of Maggie's face and clothed body, the smiles that she had missed, and the subtle movements that she'd ignored. If Marguerite leaked the pictures to the Cambius Board, or even the public, Bianca knew that she could perhaps weather the storm. She could pull every string, every resource, every trick in the book and somehow limit the damage.

But Maggie would have no such recourse; the blonde wasn't nearly as well connected or positioned as Bianca. This would potentially destroy Maggie's marriage and her family.

It did occur to Bianca that she assumed that Natasha would stay with her through the public humiliation, but things were slightly different in France than in the US; affairs were more acceptable. However, the emotional fallout remained the same.

Bianca could convince all the major newspapers not to publish the pictures, since she was on a first name basis with most of the editors, and Cambius owned enough of the other major publications. But the tabloids would salivate over these pictures. And there would be no stopping those rags; the damage would be public and ugly.

Bianca could remain somewhat sheltered from the backlash by retreating into her ivory tower. But Maggie would be left with little protection.

Bianca had never been so thwarted in her life. Bianca realized that even if she yielded to Marguerite on this hellish DRC deal, there would be future points of contention, and this would forever hang over her head. Bianca was all that stood between Marguerite St. Just and the deal with the DRC.

Bianca now knew, without a doubt, that she had been irreparably compromised.

She looked away from the glossy pictures to the brilliant jade eyes across from her. Bianca had made her decision. "I want all originals, copies, and memory cards of all the pictures. I want a signed document that you and the photographer have relinquished all the necessary documents, and no one else has any of the same. Finally, I want a non-disclosure document from you and the photographer to never reveal any knowledge, material or immaterial, about the contents of this package."

Marguerite relaxed infinitesimally. She leaned back in her chair, and crossed her legs. Slowly. "And in return?"

Bianca looked down at the pictures, staring at Maggie's face, staring at the smiling face of the woman she had loved so long ago. Bianca laid the pictures carefully flat on her desk, and looked back into the waiting eyes of Marguerite St. Just. "In return, Mademoiselle CEO, you will have my resignation from the Board of Cambius Industries, effective end of business day today."

_______________________

In The Democratic Republic of Congo; Two Days Later...

Maggie tucked her hand above her eyes, trying to block out the sun, as she squinted. The few kids able to run were thundering away, their bare feet on the hot, sandy ground. She knew from experience that they only acted like that when something unfamiliar came to town.

The first time she'd arrived, she was swamped by grinning children. She didn't really believe that happened outside of the movies, but it had. From what she could tell, a lone figure was walking down the dusty road, about twenty feet away from the main entrance of the clinic.

She turned back to her patient; new foreigners were rare, but it was probably just another journalist looking for his Pulitzer moment. She couldn't entirely begrudge such people their curiosity or ambition; whatever it took to get the story out.

She carefully cut through the last round of bandage, which in the heat and dust, had become fused to the wound. It was a temporary bandage administered by an aid worker on the scene, just enough to stop the bleeding. Now, she was going to have to look at the wound and assess it even though she already knew that she would have to do. Since there was no exit wound, the bullet was still lodged inside his shoulder; she was going to have go in with forceps and her fingers, dig through the flesh and find the bullet. Assuming, of course, it hadn't fragmented. She prayed to God it hadn't fragmented because she was going to have to retrieve all of it without any anesthetic.

The first time she had to do this, over ten years ago, she had vomited violently, unable to finish the procedure; she had had to have two nurses hold down another young boy as she went digging through his calf to find the bullet. There had, however, been shrapnel and then she had had to amputate just below his knee. With no anesthetic.

She winced knowing that what she was doing was painful, but the young boy sat stoically, looking off into the distance, no expression on his face, while the skin around the wound rippled with nervous reaction to the pain. The bullet wound wasn't deep, but she knew that she'd have to have someone to hold his other hand to counter the automatic twitching from certain muscles as she gently poked around them. She looked up, wanting to get a nurse, but most of them were attending to other patients, and the rest were inside in the main operating theater. She really didn't want to ask one of the other kids to help.

"Do you need a hand?"

She turned slowly, disbelief clearly etched on her face as she took in the drawn but firm face of Bianca Montgomery.

________________

The Same Day; In Paris...

As Marguerite sat in her office, going over the final details on the DRC deal, she heard the private line on her phone ring. She frowned as she saw the Chairwoman's secretary number flashing on the display. Intrigued, she picked up the receiver. "This is Marguerite."

The very precise tones of Bianca's long-term secretary sounded in her ear. "Mademoiselle St. Just?"

She frowned. "Yes, Genevieve?"

"Mademoiselle Montgomery would like to see you in her office."

Marguerite's eyebrows rose very high on her forehead. Bianca wasn't even Chairwoman anymore, and she had had her office cleared the very day she resigned. Surely there was a mistake. "In her office?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle. The Chairwoman's office."

Surely there was some sort of error. Marguerite knew if nothing else, Bianca was a woman of her word. "Genevieve, there must be some mistake--"

"She will expect you in five minutes, Mademoiselle St. Just"

Marguerite's jaw clenched as she heard the dial tone. The anger was starting to sweep through her body; she didn't have time for such distractions. The DRC government was waiting on her finalized memo. She got up from her chair, and straightened her Chanel suit. Carefully, she took the elevator to the Chairwoman's office on the floor above hers. As the elevator moved up, she leaned against the back wall, wondering what the hell Bianca was doing back in her office. Marguerite's expression was severe as she stepped out of the elevator and onto the lavish waiting area to the Chairwoman's office. Genevieve stood behind her desk, and ushered Marguerite to the Chairwoman's door.

The secretary, whom Marguerite considered a battle-ax of a lost generation of secretaries, didn't smile as usual, but there was a certain gleam in her eye that Marguerite had never seen in her years of interacting with Bianca's secretary.

Genevieve spoke in her modulated voice. "Mademoiselle Montgomery will see you now."

Marguerite looked at her, and then at the closed door of the Chairwoman's door. There was a twisting knot in her stomach, but she had no time to indulge a case of the nerves. She straightened imperceptibly and pushed the door open.

As she stepped into the Chairwoman's office, her eyes settled on the figure seated behind the Chairwoman's desk, who looked up from signing some papers to smile at Marguerite.

The figure stood, and extended her hand. "You must be Mademoiselle St. Just," the young woman said smiling widely, the slight dimples accentuating the twinkling brown eyes. "Miranda Montgomery, your new Chairwoman. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Marguerite was, for the first time in her professional life, thunderstruck. She could barely blink and extend her hand to reciprocate Miranda's gesture. She swallowed against a very dry throat. "Marguerite St. Just."

Miranda continued to at the gobsmacked expression on her CEO's face. Miranda looked forward to telling her mother about it; Marguerite should have really known better than to try to best a Kane. Her mother had forgotten, however, to tell Miranda just how stunning Cambius' CEO was. Miranda's smile stayed wide as her eyes hardened a little. "So, about this deal with the DRC..."

Marguerite closed her eyes for a moment. Bianca had indeed kept her word, and had resigned. And now Marguerite would keep her side of the deal with Bianca. Marguerite hadn't, however, counted on Miranda Mona Montgomery. The twisting knot in her stomach had evolved to a sinking feeling throughout her body. If she were a betting woman, Marguerite would have wagered that that memo to the DRC sitting on her desk wasn't going anywhere.

Ever.

____________________

In the DRC; Two Hours Later...

The MONUC emergency vehicle had raced past the front gates, the guards recognizing a critical care patient and forgoing the usual checks. No rebel dared used the same tactic to bomb the camp since that would be tantamount to a declaration of war. They had unloaded the stretcher from the Jeep and all Bianca could see was blood, everywhere. In the midst of the bloody morass, she knew there seemed to be some version of a human body, but there were intestines and flesh everywhere and the blood soaked through everything, making shapes and forms unrecognizable.

Bianca had to swallow back the bile, but then she saw the small, unformed mass of flesh in the next stretcher, and she could barely turn around and run fast enough so that she didn't vomit too close to the scene. She fell to her knees and retched until she was dry heaving. The images were burned into her mind however, and every time she closed her eyes, she couldn't get them out of her mind.

Maggie had found her an hour later, when Bianca had crawled some distance away and leaned against the wall of the hospital's walls. The brunette's face had been ashen, her hands twitching with shock, her eyes glazed over.

Maggie had crouched down on her knees in front of her. "Hey."

Bianca blinked and brought the blonde's face into focus. She couldn't really say anything. Maggie looked away, and clenched her jaw before turning back to Bianca. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have seen that."

Bianca shook her head, clearly uncomprehending of anything so mundane as the English language. "What?" She spoke simply because that's all she could manage.

Maggie moved her hands to lightly clasp Bianca's, both of them thinking nothing of the public intimacy. "It's a game. The rebels take bets on the sex of the baby, and then rip open the woman's womb and extract the fetus to see who won the wager."

Bianca thought she would be sick again. She swallowed against a dry throat, tasting the choking remnants of her earlier nausea. She closed her eyes, and lightly banged her head against the wall behind her, her eyes squeezing together, tears leaking out. Maggie's hands grasped hers, this time in a stronger grip. "Come on, B."

Bianca opened her eyes, partly amazed that her lover was handling this so much better, but then she remembered that Maggie had seen this for decades; even Maggie's explanation was so matter-of-fact. Bianca looked at herself, propped up against the hospital wall, her legs sprawled on the ground. She didn't think she could ever get up, but when Maggie tugged at her hands again, she found the strength to move.

___________________

In The DRC; Six Hours Later…

She considered her Gin, which she held in one hand, as she rubbed her eyebrow with the other. "Why are you here?"

Bianca wouldn't apologize for practically stalking her across continents. "I had to see you."

Maggie turned to her, her face expressionless, brows furrowed as she took a long sip. "Why?"

Bianca sat on the ottoman, her feet crossed Indian style, as she looked around the room built from mud and earthen brick. She shrugged. "Wanted to see where you ran off to so often."

Maggie only looked at her. "Ten million people, Bianca. So many more hacked to death for the glory of diamonds and coal. For what? For carbon rocks. This place will never know any peace."

"Then why do you come here? If it's all so hopeless?"

"At first, sure, there was some guilt. The US supported Mobutu for thirty years, while his people starved. Do you know that there are still refugees untended here from the Rwandan genocide, and Darfur. Twenty years ago, and they're still here, still suffering."

Bianca sighed, the great disgust weighing down her spirits even further. She didn't think she could cry. The French Ambassador, who requested a meeting with her so that Bianca, the (now former) Chairwoman of Cambius, understood exactly what she was getting into by requesting a visa to the Democratic Republic of Congo.

The Ambassador, an officious man that Bianca couldn't stand, had taken some pleasure in informing Bianca towards the tale-end of their chat, before she left Paris, just how complicit her home government had been in brutal dictatorship of President Mobutu from the '60s to the late '90s, by providing money and aid in exchange for mining rights to the coal and diamond mines in the Congo.

Bianca had tried to counter with the fact that France had anything but guilt-free in the colonial races, but as the Ambassador had so silkily pointed out, unlike the US, none of France's "alleged" crimes against humanity had happened in the recent past. She had wanted to slap him so hard when she had no reply to that, and he smiled so superciliously as he handed her her passport, wishing her a safe trip the DRC.

Maggie turned around to face the brunette. "We're in the middle of a civil war, Bianca. You really shouldn't be here."

Bianca smiled. "Maggie, I'm in the middle of a UN Refugee camp, under the aegis of the MONUC mission, the only organization that has carte blanche presence here. Besides, my head of security is about a hundred feet away."

Maggie's eyebrows rose. "Jacqueline's here?"

"Do you really think she'd let me come to the Congo without protection?"

"Why are you here?"

"Is this your penance, Maggie?"

"What?"

"You come here, see these horrors, save children's lives, and live with the scars. Is this some sort of penance?"

"You don't think I have an inner do-gooder, do you?"

"I'm trying to understand why you couldn't do that in Paris, which has its poor. Or, some place in the world that isn't being torn apart by ethnic conflict. Certainly some place that appreciates your efforts, rather than trying to get you and the UN to leave everyday."

"They don't really want us to leave. The government just makes those sounds to appear nationalistic. Pride, you know, triumphs all."

Bianca looked at her sharply. "Why are you here, Maggie? Do you want to kill yourself saving the world? Because I've seen some news reports. If you were to be kidnapped, it wouldn't be pretty."

"You shouldn't have come, Bianca. I'll be back in Paris in two weeks."

"This is where you come, isn't it? The Congo. Every year, when you disappear. This is where you come."

"You can leave tomorrow. The safest time to fly is in the early—"

"I'm not leaving, Maggie. Not for another week; I have a visa."

"You can't stay here. You don't know what it's like. Today was a cake walk compared to some other days."

"Why are you here, Maggie?"

Maggie sighed. "Susan's home village is only twenty minutes from here."

Bianca stiffened. "Is she here?" She never could say the name.

"No. She can't come back here. Too many scars, too many nightmares."

Bianca was almost angry. "So, what? You're here on her behalf? Putting yourself at risk of being butchered to alleviate her guilt??"

Maggie took one last sip of her drink. "I'm here because of us."

The surprise was evident. "Us?"

Maggie turned away from her. "When you and I meet, it's an indulgence of the most selfish part of myself. It's when I can't deny something that not only destroys a part of who I am, but puts in danger everything I've built for the past decade. You forget, Bianca, my family no longer includes you. Just as yours no longer includes me."

Bianca swallowed, unable to counter anything of what Maggie was saying. The blonde turned around, looking at Bianca, but not really seeing her. "Always when I go back to Paris from here, the first few days are hazy, surreal. Almost as if I'm so embarrassed by the opulence, the apparent wealth. In the simplest things – the clean streets, the cars, the gardens. Most of which, of course, was acquired by raping this continent. Slowly, numbness permeates, because I have to forget, I have to let go of that guilt, otherwise I'd be useless as a doctor, as a human being. That's me in Paris, shutting off a certain deep but keening pain. When I come here, I can't stay numb when my fingers are digging for shrapnel inside a ten year-old, and he isn't even crying because this isn't the first time it's happened to him!" She was nearly screaming, and she hardly realized it. "Is this penance, Bianca? You're goddamned right it is! Because this is the only place that everything is real! Where I have to feel because otherwise some kid is going to die from being a guerrilla warrior before he knows what puberty is! If I get butchered by saving these kids' lives, I don't F**king mind because when I'm not here, I'm F**king you, aren't I??"

Bianca had stepped closer and closer with every escalating word until she had finally wrapped Maggie in her arms. She didn't say anything, and the blonde didn't fight her; Bianca was expecting a fight, instead she felt Maggie's hands push at her waist with far less force than either of them expected. Even now, she couldn't push her away. Even on hell on Earth.

The blonde spoke into Bianca's shoulder. "B?"

Bianca closed her eyes, her lips against Maggie's forehead. "Yeah?"

Maggie closed her eyes. "You can stay this week."

_________________________

A Few Minutes Later...

She had no protection against this woman in her arms. As she stared up at her lover, she realized that, once again, they had traversed more than half-way around the world; one had run, and the other had given chase. Without ever acknowledging it. Maggie looked up into those bottomless brown eyes, and the world slowed down and slowly disappeared at the edges.

Had it always been like this? It was like a forgotten wound, hidden away and callused, but when they touched each other, the wound was ripped open, it flared and bled and everything came back. It was the most alive either of them ever felt, burning in the hurt, and relishing the searing acridity of being together. Her palm sloped from Bianca's nape to her shoulder, feeling the still supple skin warm underneath her open palm, and then made the journey back again, into the brunette's nape, where Bianca's wedding chain was fastened.

Maggie felt the clasp, the metal cool and unwelcoming to her hand. She looked directly into Bianca's eyes and felt the slight stiffening of the body above hers. They stared at each other, tracing all the lines in each other's faces, some of which were years old and others that were more recently acquired. The years that had passed between them, the long silences, the incendiary interactions, all the many places they had touched each other and all the many more that they avoided, the lies that had kept their secret, and the sole truth they shared that had, after all these years, blurred itself into near extinction.

It seemed that when one of them was at the edge, going to give up and write all of this off as a mad, mad extravagance, the other would pull her back. When one felt a waning of strength to continue this most arduous but necessary of indulgences, the other would lend enough courage and foolishness to make up for the lack. Was it then luck or lunacy that made it such that they were never both at the same place at the same time?

"Take it off," Bianca whispered.

Maggie looked at her again, and with slightly trembling hands, reached up and underneath Bianca's silky hair to find the clasp that held the brunette's promise to another woman. She gently eased the clasp out of its place, and brought her hands away, holding the platinum necklace that held Bianca's engagement and wedding rings.

Without taking her eyes away from her lover, Maggie caught the necklace in one hand and extended it over the edge of bed, releasing the ornament, which fell to the ground with near deafening silence. The blonde eased her palms over Bianca's shoulders, and over her breastbone, feeling the hard beat of the brunette's heart. She closed her eyes. Bianca slowly rotated until she lay next to her lover, one hand going to Maggie's hip, urging the smaller woman to face her. Though it was an ungainly move, Bianca snuck one hand under Maggie's neck, and the other over Maggie's shoulder, and unclasped the blonde's necklace, as well. She rose up over the blonde's body and let the jewelry fall to the ground, next to where Maggie had dropped Bianca's.

In the low light of the oil lamp, everything seemed much more antiquated, and they had, with their symbolic gestures, freed themselves of other obligations. Maggie let her fingers trace the curve of her lover's hairline, down to the strong jaw and prominent chin. She smiled; she was still taken in the same way she had been decades ago. Beneath all the rancid hurt, there was the ever-beating heart that seemed ceaseless. She traced the curve of a breast, to the generous cleavage, and felt the skin beneath her fingertips shudder in reaction. Somethings never changed, and others only got more powerful.

Maggie's own response to nothing more but tracing the skin of her lover made the desire swell within her like a storm gathering, but where before her actions would have been calculated to both ravish and destroy, now she only had the energy to be worshipful.

If nothing else, their struggle to stay away from each other and then return was something that they should be both damned and blessed for. The flutter in her stomach, the heaviness of her limbs, the laboriousness of her breath, the heated sensations at her fingertips, the wetness between her legs; they were all testament of her desire, and if she could experience all of that in this pocket of wretchedness where humanity insisted on inflicting upon itself the worst of all inhumanities, then Maggie knew all of this must mean something.

Maggie leaned on her elbow. "I lied."

Bianca arched an imperious eyebrow.

Maggie looked at her hand, tracing circles on Bianca's sternum. "When I said that the only place I felt alive was in the Congo. That's not the only time I feel alive." She looked back at her lover, her eyes trying desperately to communicate what Maggie struggled to put into words.

Bianca's eyes gentled, and in them, Maggie saw something dangerous and lovely and fierce...Maggie saw something she hadn't seen since they were in love in Paris, over two decades ago. And then Bianca surged across the scant distance between them, and caught Maggie's lips in a bruising kiss, as if the hurt between them was nothing but ashes and dust, long buried.

Maggie leaned into her lover's body, feeling the one constant over the years re-affirm itself. She gentled her voracious hands, and swept them over Bianca's hips, pressing the brunette's body back into the bed, as Maggie rose above her, wanting to stay like this forever. The day and its demons melted away between them, leaving only their desire, which burned away their incessant heartache.

What they could never admit otherwise was given expression in their movements, and Maggie was overtaken by the desire to soothe the tender inner self that she knew Bianca hid from most. No matter how much transpired between them, beyond all the recriminations and the helplessness, Maggie was always secure in the knowledge of Bianca's soul, and she knew the brunette still knew her like the back of her own hand. With that power flowing through her veins, Maggie felt light-headed and drunk. She pulled away from the seductive aura of the body under hers, and looked into Bianca's eyes, which were partly hidden the by the low night and night's shadows.

The silence was broken only by the rustle of their bodies moving together. They looked at each other, not knowing how to move forward, frozen in their desire, until Maggie was seized by initiative. She moved to the edge of bed, and snagged Bianca's ankle, pulling her forcefully until Bianca's legs were over the edge, as well.

The suddent movement surprised her lover, that much the blonde knew, but she had no patience to explain as Maggie sank to her knees, and kissed the inside of Bianca's thighs, the ravenous hunger growing between them again. Maggie carefully positioned Bianca's legs over her shoulders as she kneeled on the hard, earthen ground. And there was Bianca, her hips on the edge of the bed, and her hands already in Maggie's hair, already aroused beyond reason.

And then Maggie's tongue flickered over her. Bianca moaned low as she felt the familiar swipe of her lover's tongue, and she knew that she would always be a prisoner to this.

The brunette's mind was overwhelmed as images from their past flitted over her mind, and she was caught in a storm of their making. She knew that Maggie knew her favorite places, and yet the blonde still found new ones. The breath choked in her lungs and she shivered in her lover's grip.

Bianca melted back into the bed, as Maggie gripped her hips tighter, as the blonde's tongue flitted over her lover, proving to both of them that there were always going to need each other in a way that denied all morality and tradition. The ties that held them apart from each other were no match for the animal motion of Bianca's hips as she tried to get closer to the addictive rhythm of her lover.

As they felt the pressure build, and the flutter of Bianca's thighs against Maggie's cheeks, Bianca felt the pleasure rise up inside her, the expression of desire transforming into something beyond her control. Her fingers twisted in Maggie's hair, gripping with a tightness that only drove the blonde on further, both of them furious in their quest for Bianca's release.

And as she came, Bianca felt herself rip at the edges, as if all that they had endured and surpassed overwhelmed her in the moment, and she couldn't control the searing tears that shook her body, the scream of pleasure in her voice transmuted into the devastating sobs that overtook her body and seemed to continue for forever. Until she found herself in Maggie's embrace, the blonde whispering to her in comfort to her, squeezing their bodies together in solace and comfort.

Maggie felt tears at the edge of her eyes, unsure as to what caused Bianca's physical release to end in this emotional upheaval. She held her lover tightly, babbling words of reassurance as Bianca's seemingly endless tears wet her neck. Maggie swallowed her own emotion and fragility in tending to her lover. In this godforsaken hovel, where there was so much tragedy, they had found their oasis of hope, and it was all too much to admit. The blonde held her lover, protecting her from every threat and demon in the night.

Maggie, in her litany of comfort, kissed the crown of Bianca's hair and said, "You're safe, Bianca. You're always safe with me, cherie." As Bianca's sobs slowly settled, and their arms wound around each other in the wake of this emotionally ravaging coupling, neither of them noticed that the blonde had, for the first time in over twenty years, used that French term of endearment from when they had been in love in Paris all those many years ago.

______________________

A Few Hours Later...

Bianca wrapped the Pashmina more firmly around herself. The sun, apparently, didn't rise any earlier in Africa than it did in Europe.

She couldn't sleep; too many years of avoiding spending the night with Maggie had driven her to insomnia now. So, she had let Maggie sleep and gently extracted herself from the blonde's arms. She had found this chair a few feet outside of their tent, and had settled in hours ago, leaning intermittently as her eyes narrowed with intent; as if she could conjure the sun through sheer will alone.

The refugee camp was never quiet; the night shift of medical and security personnel were milling around a few hundred feet away, but no one bothered her. There were tall embankments on the edges of the camp, enough to keep the anarchist rebels away, if the intimidating blue UN flag flying at the watchtower weren't enough.

She set her head in her hands; whatever images she'd had of the DRC, nothing prepared her for the horrific reality. This is what Marguerite hadn't, couldn't have considered in her decision; the brutal ground reality couldn't be captured in a glossy brochure or corporate PowerPoint presentation. She didn't know how anyone could support such atrocities, even indirectly as corporate investments, and then say with a straight face to flashing cameras that it was all "just business."

Bianca smiled infinitesimally for the first time in two days; she hoped that Miranda was giving Mademoiselle St. Just a run for her money. And then Bianca smiled just a bit wider as she recognized the pun. As she felt the first ray of warmth touch her skin as she looked up to see the edge of the sun touch the horizon.

Somehow, no matter how heinous the sights and sounds she'd seen and heard in the last day, it was all temporarily wiped away with the glory of the rising sun. The most predictable of Nature's occurrences was enough for Bianca now.

It was a new day. As she kept her eyes locked on the horizon, she huddled within herself.

Until a beaten-up football rolled around her chair and stopped a foot in front of her. Bianca turned around, wondering where it had come from, and saw a small boy hobbling with a crutch on his one good foot. He smiled shyly at her, and she smiled back.

________________________

About An Hour Later...

Maggie woke up to the voices to distant yelling. Years of instinct honed in the DRC made her leap out of her bed, and hit the ground running. As she made her out of the entrance of her tent, she looked around like a crazed woman, trying to identify who was in distress.

She didn't think she'd ever forget what she saw next: Bianca Montgomery being swarmed by kids as the brunette tried to dodge and weave a football through the makeshift football field. Maggie blinked, just to make sure that the stress hadn't driven her batty. And then she grinned. Maggie didn't even know that Bianca ever had football skills.

The kids were yelling to each other in the native tongue, trying to co-ordinate the attack on Bianca, who clearly was trying her best to make it to her goal. It seemed, to Maggie, patently stacked against the brunette; Bianca's goal was being guarded by a grinning doctor, while the kids' goal was unattended.

Finally a cheeky youngster ended up inadvertently tripping Bianca, who dramatically yet unceremoniously fell on her ass. Bianca was laughing, however, when the kids shrieked in delight and now that the giant had been felled, they carefully herded the football, multiple crutches in play, and sent through the net with a flourishing left kick from one of the enterprising boys on the team.

Bianca was still cheering from her spot on the ground, more than happy to let the kids celebrate their victory while she sat in the middle of the field. Finally, the kids' goalie, otherwise known as Lucerou, the pediatric surgeon from Mozambique, walked up to Bianca. The young black woman grinned at Bianca and offered her a hand up, causing Bianca to laugh and accept the help. Bianca was now covered with dust of the field, and Maggie grinned at the image.

Then the blonde saw the stunning (and single) Lucerou's hands drifting a little too close for Maggie's comfort to Bianca's butt in order to help the brunette dust off. Maggie frowned, the sudden spike in jealousy choking her. And then she dropped her eyes, well aware that Bianca wasn't hers, and if anything, she shared the brunette with others. There was no ownership between them.

Bianca looked up then, and saw Maggie leaning against the tent's entrance. She smiled joyously, and loped towards the blonde, ready to share in the sudden happiness. Maggie looked up to see her lover approach. Bianca was stunning. Her face was streaked with sweat and mud and dirt and she had dark circles under her eyes, and Maggie had never been more bewitched.

The love within Maggie collided with her self-preservation, and she found herself cast adrift. She was, she realized, a hostage to some parts of her past. She saw Bianca reach out to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face, and Maggie flinched and stepped away from her lover, the rejection like a slap. "Don't," she said as she took another step backward. She turned her face away from Bianca. "Not in public."

In a moment, Bianca's blinding joy had turned into a disillusioned fury. Bianca had wanted to laugh out loud, mocking Maggie and her efforts; if anything, the pictures that Marguerite showed Bianca had proved that they couldn't hide it. But Bianca couldn't mention that evidence, and she dropped her hand in silent agony.

Maggie didn't have to look at her lover's face to feel the change in the air between them. Bianca stared at Maggie for another moment, her fingers clenching, before she brushed past the blonde, and stalked into Maggie's tent. The blonde blew out a breath, and looked up to see Jacqueline looking at her from the distance, the bodyguard's expression completely blank. Maggie inhaled slowly, and held the breath before releasing it. She tilted her neck from side to side, stretching out the muscles and working out the kinks. Then she turned around and entered the tent, loaded and ready for the bear.

She found Bianca throwing her things into her sole suitcase.

"Where are you going?"

Bianca glared at her, as she kept moving, before she laughed mirthlessly. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me for twenty years, I must be Bianca Montgomery."

Maggie felt the old ache flare. "What are you talking about?"

Bianca stopped in mid-stride, clothes fisted in both hands. "For me to think that anything had changed at all. That it wasn't just me who was tired of this f*cking charade. Twenty years, Maggie. Twenty years."

"Slightly longer, actually."

Bianca glared. "Shut the f*ck up, Maggie. For once, don't crack a f*cking joke, okay?"

"What the f*ck is your problem all of a sudden?"

Suddenly the fury drained out of the brunette, and her shoulder sagged, as she stood over her suitcase that was open on Maggie's bed. "I'm tired," she whispered, making Maggie swallow convulsively. Bianca looked at the blonde over her shoulder, and continued in a low tone, "I'm so tired of this. Seeing you once every few years, never for more than a few hours at a time. The endless mind games, the never-ending chess match. I'm exhausted, Maggie."

Maggie felt a chill go through her whole body. She hadn't heard that melancholy strain in Bianca's voice since decades earlier, when Bianca and she had still been in Pine Valley, everyone had thought Miranda had died. It had been over two decades since Maggie had heard her lover sound so disenchanted with life.

And that brought out the bitterness in Maggie; there was no choice in this dynamic between them.The image of the easy flirtation between Lucerou and Bianca burning fresh in her memory. "What? Need somebody new?"

Bianca turned fully now, righteous rage flowing through her body. "You are the woman I would have married, Maggie. Had it been possible."

Maggie felt the tears burning through the emotional bypasses in her defense. She laughed cruelly. "Possible?? I wasn't the one who made it impossible."

Bianca tilted her head to a side, the move holding the fury in check. "So I made it impossible?"

Maggie crossed her arms. "I'm not the one who got married, B."

"You followed through on that move soon enough."

Maggie shrugged. "You weren't going to put us before your work, and we're never going to trust each other."

Bianca felt her eyelids flutter in surprise. "Never?"

Maggie's anger flared. "Cambius and all that it entails will always come first, Bianca. You always put that damn organization before us. You could never give it up, could you?"

Bianca clenched her jaw; she wasn't going to mention her resignation. She had done that for love, not for martyrdom. So, she focused on the other issue. "We're never going to trust each other?"

Maggie looked at Bianca, sensing some great mystery, but unsure as to what it was. She only shook her head. The overhead alarm sounded for doctor's rounds. Maggie laughed in frustration.

Bianca looked away, and began to walk across the room to collect the rest of her clothes. Maggie caught her wrist in a strong grip, and Bianca couldn't resist touching her hand. The blonde whispered. "Don't leave when I'm gone, okay? We can..."

Bianca looked at her now. "What, Maggie? What can we do?"

Maggie pursed her lips. "Why does anything have to change?"

Bianca smiled cruelly as Maggie squeezed her wrist gently. "Please. Let's not leave things like this." Bianca said nothing, as the second alarm sounded. Maggie dropped Bianca's wrist. "I'll be back in two hours. We can talk then." Bianca said nothing again as she watched Maggie hurry out.

The brunette looked around the tent, memorizing everything. She spied her wedding chain on the ground, next to Maggie's on the floor, and clenched her jaw. She picked hers up, and slowly fastened it around her neck, feeling the familiar weight of the jewelry settle.

She picked up the rest of her clothes, methodically folding them, and closing her luggage. She sighed as she leaned her weight on it, and then picked it up, and set it on the ground, and pulling it alongside her on its wheels.

She didn't look back as she walked out of Maggie's life.

- TBC -

Movement In Still Life: Vignette 7

2007-12-02T20:43:04Z

Time Line (Very Important!)
Intro: Original Piece of "Movement In Still Life"
Vignette II: The Benefit - 5 Years After Intro
Vignette III: The Elevator - 10 Years After Intro
Vignette IV: The Gift - 12 Years After Intro
Vignette V: The Lobby - 14 Years After Intro
Vignette VI: The Revelation - 15 Years After Intro
Vignette VII: The Train – 16 Years After Intro

Disclaimer: Bianca, Maggie, Miranda, Kendall, Greenlee, Erica etc belong to AMC/ABC. No money/profit being made from their use here. Don't sue; take a deep breath instead. Natasha, Jacques, Pierre, and Phillipe belong to Cgirl. Susan belongs to both of us, and she was quite a find.

Rating: Strong R for the entire sequel. And we mean it. Really. Please read responsibly.

Feedback: Give, and ye shall receive.

______________________

MOVEMENT IN STILL LIFE

VIGNETTE VII: THE TRAIN
This vignette was written by Diva

Sixteen Years After Intro

Susan was a petite beauty, just a breath shorter then her brilliant surgeon wife. Her skin the color of sweetie light brown sugar, her eyes as deep and haunting as a dark obsidian stone, but radiated with more warmth and love then should exist in any one woman.

She was a natural caregiver, and had she not been a nurse she would most assuredly been the exemplary mother of numerous children. Wee ones, admirers and friends would have seen attached to her small hips and short legs enjoying all the love she would bestow on them without reservation. The very same love she shared with her cherished wife, Maggie.

As for Susan's wife, Maggie, she was a much sought after successful surgeon whose time was spent, more often than not, repairing the sick and dying, not only in Paris, but other cities and continents in the world as well. Maggie was Susan's love, her life, her hero; the woman who appeared almost magically, or so it was told, and saved her from a life absent of love. Absent that was until the small blonde Doctor walked into Susan's ER and stole her heart.

And so it had been these many years, Maggie and Susan. Two women fate had brought together, but life was forever pulling apart and keeping at a distance. Susan waited, hoped and longed for more time with her wife, but demands from work would always come first. Something Susan understood and accepted. But then there was that part of Maggie that belonged to neither her medical calling nor her wife. A part that Susan first suspected and was finally resolved in the knowledge that this part belonged in silence only to her wife. So Susan made a conscious decision and chose not to dwell or obsess over something she clearly had no control of. Instead, she decided whatever part or parts Maggie could share or offer her were enough. Because without her, life would be empty of something irreplaceable… it would be empty of Maggie and Maggie's love.

Susan had been an ER nurse when Maggie met her, and until a year ago; but now she was retired, not due to age, but to become a stay-at-home mom for their new son. A sweet child, from the DRC, Maggie had saved and brought back for them to adopt.

A little boy whose entire family had been slaughtered before his very eyes; something they both hoped this baby would never remember when he was older, but neither knew what that life had left imprinted on his tiny infant mind. A life of blood, death and destruction, that had brought him to Maggie's makeshift hospital in that war zone and into their lives. Lives that not so long ago lost their own child, a baby girl who never lived to be born; but had been carried in her mother's womb long enough to make them love her, want her and mourn her when Maggie lost her. A loss neither wife would speak of now. A loss that was put on a dark and distant shelf in their hearts; now replaced with Aidan; the boy who they hoped would fill the holes his dead baby sister left behind. Perhaps too much for a child to take on, but since he was brought home his new loving parents had done all they could to spoil and shelter him. Though his mother, the one who found him covered in mud and blood; was slowly becoming his absent mother. Something her wife wished and prayed would change with each passing day, week and month.

Susan would never accuse Maggie of being a bad wife or mother. It was her job that kept her busy and the family left with few free days. But when she was there, she couldn't be more attentive or caring. Taking on any and all projects or duties Susan and little Aidan needed. They were her life - her responsibility and she took that seriously; even when she couldn't give them the one thing they wanted most - her.

It was another stormy, damp, fall day. The wind had been beating relentlessly against the windows of their penthouse for hours. Their son, Aiden, had been asleep in Susan's arms for about an hour, but had grown restless as his feeding time approached.

Susan smiled at her son, a precious gift, one she had hoped to share with Maggie, but as time taught her, hope was something that wouldn't and couldn't bring Maggie home any quicker or more often. But being a natural dreamer, she would never lose that hope or her love for her absent wife. So she stroked Aidan's soft cheek with the back of her fingers and enjoyed the feeling of closeness it brought. Then her body jumped, the front door slammed telling her Maggie was home, causing that smile she had for no one but her wife, as tiny Aidan, now awake, cooed, fussed and smiled back at his mother.

"There you two are. Enjoying the warmth of our home, while your wife battles with the elements outside?" Maggie said, as she leaned down lovingly and gave her beautiful wife a kiss on the cheek and tapped her baby boy's nose with her finger, causing him to giggle and coo at her.

"I see he still falls for that Stone charm, Maggie," Susan said with a chuckle.

"And why wouldn't he, you do too, my wife,"

"True, but I've been smitten for years, he's still new to your wicked ways,"

"Well, when he gets older, I will make sure he learns my wicked ways so he can snare a loving and wonderful wife, just as his tired old mother did,"

Susan stood holding their baby, expecting Maggie to take him, as she always would once home, but the blonde doctor embraced both her child and wife, kissing Susan on the lips then junior on the top of his head, before she headed for the shower.

"Mags, where are you going? Aidan wants his bottle and you know he prefers you to feed him when you're here,"

"I know love, but I have to shower, pack and catch the next train to London tonight. And I only have a little over an hour to do it all, sorry love,"

Susan held her son closer to her chest, trying not to let this last minute trip bother her. Or upset their son in the process. He was very sensitive to his mothers' emotions. But it was hard; Maggie had promised this weekend she would spend it with them - no medical emergencies would keep her from her family. But then there would be other things that popped up and kept her away - things that weren't discussed or acknowledged. Things Susan had pieced together as the years passed. Things she didn't want to know about. Things that could cost her everything if exposed. Things, that took Maggie away, on even shorter notice then any medical emergency, but were carefully veiled in lies.

Susan had lost herself in thought, about those things, when Maggie came from the bedroom showered and dressed in a towel, her hair still wet.

"Love, why are you still standing there like that? Did you go off into one of your lovely fantasy escapes?" Maggie asked, pinching her wife's ass and kissing her cheek quickly as she rushed to grab her travel bag from the hall closet.

"Yes - lost in thought. You know me, forever drifting off to far off places,"

"Well, unless they have Aidan's bottle there, I suggest you hurry off to the kitchen instead before he starts to cry and brings you back to the real world, love,"

"Yes - Maggie, how long?"

"I'm sorry sweetie, I couldn't hear you. What did you say?"

"How long, Maggie? This time, how long will you be gone?"

"Just the weekend, I hope. I have to do a consult on a heart patient for a colleague. I know I promised to be here, but this came up. I'm sorry Sues."

"I know - duty and all. We'll miss you, as always," she said with genuine love.

"Me too love, me too,"

Maggie hurried back to the bed room, packed, dried her hair and dressed. Gave both of them one last kiss goodbye, before she rushed to catch her train. Shouting she loved them as she slammed the front door once more with her exit.

"Love you more..." Susan said to the closed door, holding her only constant connection to Maggie in her arms - their son.

========

The private car, within the train, from Paris to London held but one tenant; the blonde doctor, waiting for her companion. Though, she seemed less than interested if anyone joined her at all. The door to the car suddenly slid back, making a loud bang, distracting the blonde, but not enough to cause her to look up and see who or what was about to enter her sanctuary. It caused her small frame to jump, but then continued to look out the window and concentrate on the moving scenery and the pounding rain being whipped against the windows by the relentless wind.

"God, the weather is enough to chill one to the bone. You would think it was winter instead of fall, from the look and feel of it," Bianca complained, juggling the door and her bags as she tried to enter the private car.

She huffed as she struggled, glaring at Maggie and wishing the blonde would offer to help her, but clearly that wasn't about to happen.

Bianca slammed her two wet bags down, beside Maggie's one, and proceeded to struggle out of her drenched coat, until she finally freed herself from its grasp. Tossing the wet offending apparel down next to her bags, and at last collapsing in exhaustion beside her silent and brooding companion.

Without looking at the brunette, Maggie finally spoke, "Did your umbrella fail or did you forget it,"

"Finally, she speaks – well if you must know, it was blown out of my hands by the wind. I was running late so I didn't bother to try and retrieve it. Thanks ever so much for asking and for your help," she spat out with disgust.

"You're welcome," the blonde answered, with no hint of tone or reaction.

"God, why did you even call me, Mags, if this is how you're going to behave? I don't need this shit. I'm tempted to just leave you and your cold heart once and for all. It's growing old and tiring," Bianca said, with less anger then hurt.

She went to rise and leave as promised, but Maggie surprised her and reached out taking hold of her arm with what amounted to a death grip; but continuing to avoid all eye contact.

"Please…" was all the small blonde said, with just a hint of pain in her plea. Enough to break through Bianca's anger and hurt; causing her to sit back down and gather her composure.

It was going to be one of their more complicated retreats, that much was clear to the brunette. But it was also clear, Maggie both wanted and needed her, no matter what her body language or lack of speech might indicate. And no one knew Maggie's more complex moods and how to deal with them better then Bianca. Besides, Maggie's pleas always broke through any hurt or barriers that existed between them.

After a few quiet moments, Bianca took hold of Maggie's small hand and led them both towards the dining car. There they ate and drank, but spoke very little and about nothing of any great importance. Empty chatter about others on the train and what they might be doing there and where they might be heading. It was a game they played, speculating on the lives of strangers. For them a form of entertainment, perhaps, or a way of distracting themselves from the reasons that brought them there and to this place; and kept pulling them back together after so many years.

***

The couple in the private car next to theirs was privy to the lust filled moans, screams and pounding bodies against the compartment walls. The two women appeared insatiable and driven in their desires, to any who could hear them. Causing those, who also happened to pass by their cabin, to stop and stare and smile or scowl in reaction to the sounds and foul, harsh words emanating from within.

After more time than any decent person would care to admit to, silence finally returned to that part of the train. And the two women, naked, sweaty and sated said nothing about what had just transpired. Their train ride was coming to an end and they both needed to dress and prepare to disembark from this train and proceed with the next part of their weekend.

***

A London Cambias Penthouse condo was their next and final stop. This would keep prying eyes from seeing them in public places, where word could get back to others. Something neither of them wanted or could afford. They weren't teenagers or even young adults anymore. They had careers and families who needed to be protected from their dirty little secrets. Families they loved and wouldn't hurt for the world. But this draw, they had for one another, wouldn't let go and at least in Maggie's case, had started to eat her alive – the guilt, the lies and the deceit.

"Mags, you can put your clothes in that dresser and this closet, if you like," Bianca offered, as she unpacked and watched Maggie stand motionless in the center of the bedroom.

"Sure - fine," was all the blonde said.

She wondered what it mattered. Why unpack, when she knew the chances were slim she would wear any of what she brought while here. Bianca had made it clear they weren't going to leave this place, and all meals would be delivered. Facts, which actually gave Maggie some peace of mind, though little having to do with her time with Bianca ever did.

"I'm going to take a shower," Maggie announced, dropping her bag where she stood and headed off to the bathroom.

Bianca sighed and stashed the bag in the closet.

****

It was the middle of the night and the two of them lay side-by-side; Maggie with her back to Bianca, the brunette’s body flush against hers, as the blonde stared out the condo window and listened to the wind howling its plaintive call. A call Maggie was almost certain was meant for her, as a warning perhaps, but she buried the thought.

Bianca, on the other hand, was lost listening to Maggie’s breathing. Trying to tell if she were awake or lost to sleep after hours of them making love.

Love - could Bianca in all honesty call it that? Perhaps, for there had been brief moments of tenderness - hadn’t there? But Maggie’s emotional distance seemed to grow with each new connection.

Connection – had there been connections or just sex? Bianca wasn’t completely sure. Instead it always seemed just a breath away, as if some invisible barrier stood between her and Maggie, no matter how intimate they were. Yes, there had been a connection or two, no matter how brief, but Bianca craved more…not just for herself but for Maggie too.

Bianca began to run her fingers over Maggie’s arm, down her slender and still damp hip from their heated love making earlier. She felt Maggie shudder from her touch, so she stopped for a second. Her blonde counterpart rolled onto her back and stared at Bianca with a look full of conflicting emotions. Leading Bianca to do the only thing she knew to do, to silence those emotions within the blonde – she kissed her.

Nothing heated or forced, just their lips pressed gently together with eyes closed. It felt wonderful for both of them, but almost too much for Maggie. Not wanting to end the kiss, Maggie took hold of Bianca’s hand and moved it between her thighs. Inviting the brunette in, wanting – needing her touch.

Bianca cupped her lover’s sex, filling Maggie with as much as she could take. Their kiss now heated as their bodies became inflamed once again by their passion. Maggie and Bianca’s bodies, hands, hips, mouths one – one entity fused by their inexplicable draw to one another. That wonderful tension building just before the climax. That excruciating pleasure of two loves bringing the other to incredible heights. That moment of bliss…and then it STOPPED!

Maggie broke their kiss – her head turned away as Bianca heard crying – no, not just crying but sobbing. It seemed almost out of body and surreal. They had been so close – but none of that mattered now. Something was terribly wrong and she needed to force herself from that sexual precipice they were both on just seconds ago.

“Maggie, what is it? What happened? Please baby, don’t cry, talk to me. What did I do wrong?”

But nothing Bianca said or did helped. Maggie appeared to try to say something. Her lips would move, but nothing even close to words would come out. Finally she pushed Bianca away, frantic and desperate in her actions, as if Bianca’s touch was causing her pain.

The petite blonde rushed from the bed and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it. The sound of the lock made Bianca’s heart almost stop. Clutching her chest, she ran to the bathroom door and knelt before it. Her hands placed flat against the wood veneer, trying desperately to reach her lover on the other side, but fearful she wasn’t going to be able to console or beg Maggie out of that room.

Bianca waited, prayed, hoped and cried, but finally gave into her own exhaustion and returned to their bed; crying herself to sleep.

The bathroom door opened, slowly as Maggie exited the room several hours later. She approached the bed, where she stood and stared at Bianca and then redressed, took her unpacked bag out of the closet and left. No note, no goodbye - nothing.

=======

Natasha arrived home, having spent the afternoon with an old friend playing hooky and taking in an old film at the local revival movie house. A classic, An Affair to Remember, a film that always made her cry, but she couldn't resist watching for its cinematic beauty, flawless actors and heart wrenching ending.

She found Bianca's coat and scarf deposited on the love seat, by the front door, often forgotten by her wife and left for her to hang up or put away; when Bianca arrived home weary from one of her trips.

Natasha picked them up, held both the coat and especially the scarf close to her face; inhaled her wife's unique scent only to recognize there was that ever present and lingering other familiar scent as well permeating her nostrils. One that would make its presence known too often for her liking. Injected into the blonde's senses enough to know what the tell tale perfume meant...and caused her heart to cringe with enough pain to make just the hint of tears threaten to make a show; but never enough to shatter her determined state of survival denial.

"What are you doing Tash?" Bianca asked, confused and unnerved by her wife's strange inspection of her clothing.

"Trying to see if they need to be dry cleaned, my love. Sometimes you surround yourself with chain smokers and your clothes, especially your coats, reek of it,"

"I'm sorry, I guess I've grown oblivious to it after all this time." the brunette said, as she placed a sweet kiss on her wife's cheek.

Natasha hung the coat and scar in the hall closet and eased her hand into Bianca's. Only to feel it slide quickly from hers. Bianca smiled and excused herself, asking the blonde if she wanted a drink.

"No, I just came from the cinema. I've spent the last thirty minutes crying off and on. I'm afraid liquor would only intensify my already erratic mood,"

"I know what you mean. You know how romantic films, especially the sad ones, destroy me,"

"Yes, something we both seem to suffer from,"

"What was it?"

"Excuse me,"

"What film did you see?"

"Just some old black and white, which Joyce and I wanted to see. I can't even remember the name of it. Something with beautiful people making difficult choices,"

"Well, at least you two had time to spend together doing something you both enjoy. I know you never seem to see her enough this days,"

"No, life keeps us both very busy."

Bianca stood staring at the drink she had poured, and her wife sat quietly watching her.

"Love, I've changed my mind, could you pour me a sparkling water, please?"

"Of course," the brunette lifted the heavy crystal glass, placed a few cubes in it and poured the water.

She handed the glass to her wife, as the statuesque blonde swept her finger tips over her wife's hand holding the glass, then she removed the offered drink from said hand, "Thank you, darling,"

"No trouble, Tash. Well, I haven't showered from my long trip, so if you will excuse me, I'll go freshen up and then we can get some dinner,"

"Yes, love, whatever suits you,"

"I'd kiss you, baby, but I feel so grungy. Once clean, I promise a more suitable hello from your tired, traveled wife,"

Natasha nodded, pressing her cold drink against her forehead. A new pain was pulsing between her eyes and a persistent dull thud in her heart; as that scent followed Bianca out of the room – but a hint of it still lingered on the hand Bianca had touched. But Natasha knew once Bianca had returned from her refreshing shower, both of them would feel better and find their familiar closeness, that had been interrupted by real life once again. And that phantom, forever present between them, would be put aside for yet another night, and maybe another year.

TBC

Movement In Still Life: Vignette 6

2007-12-02T20:41:03Z