Title: Sides of Similar Coins
Author: Michelle K. (CageyGrl@yahoo.com)
Site: http://glimmershine.tripod.com
Rating: R
Pairing: Margaret/Amy. Some implied Margaret/Donna, Josh/Donna, Josh/Amy.
Summary: You both deserve better. (post-ep for "Dead Irish Writers")
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. Get out your 'surprised' Crayolas and color yourselves in.
Notes: For the contrelamontre 'hot/cold' challenge. Written in the full seventy minutes.

Sides of Similar Coins by Michelle K.


1. On the Outside


You've never liked big crowds. Even as a kid you hated parties, hated the way your mother wanted to dress you up in frills. You always found pleasure in the simpler parts of life, of taking a bath, of reading a novel while listening to music.

And, truth is, you didn't really want to come to this party. You wouldn't be here if it weren't for her, if she hadn't whispered seductively in your ear, "It'll be fun. Trust me."

But she abandoned you. Granted, the first separation wasn't her fault. But she certainly left of her own volition to get drunk with the first lady. And she's certainly willingly separated now - she's with Josh, bantering about Canada. She's smiling at him, laughing with him. But she expects you to take her home, kiss the inside of her thigh, tell her that it was okay that she left you alone for the entire night.

She expects you not to wonder about whether she'd rather spend her nights with Josh.

You've already decided that you're not doing any of that tonight. You're not going to go home with her; you're not going to curl your body against hers.

You're *not.*

You refuse to even look at her -- not that she notices.

You really hate her sometimes. But you love her, too, and that...that just makes you mad at yourself. You want her, she wants him.

You really wish you could extract yourself from this unholy mess.

You look around the party (anyone but *her*) and Amy catches your eye. She glances at you, and you both hold the gaze.

She crosses to you, says, "Leo's assistant, right?" in a semi-drunk tone.

"Yes. Usually, though, I just go by Margaret."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." She holds out her slim fingers. You take them, shake firmly. "Amy Gardner."

"I know," you reply. You find yourself staring at Josh and Donna again despite yourself.

Pulling her hand away, she follows your gaze. Her eyes go dark. "I asked if he was dating her. He said no."

"He's not," you snap.

She looks over at you questioningly. "I know. But I think he wants to be," she continues, eyes moving back to them. "She's pretty."

So is she, and you tell her that in a low voice.

"But I can't feign innocence. Deep down, J's a sucker for that." Amy looks back, still making inquiries with her eyes. "And you?" When you don't answer, she continues. "Are you and Don--"

"I know what you mean," you say, staring into your drink. "And you know the answer, or else you wouldn't ask the question."

"Very astute," she grumbles. "You know, we both deserve better."

You look up at her. "You don't know me."

"But I know me. I know him. I know where you and Donna are headed." Her smile is bitter.

She's right, and you know it. You've always known that you and Donna weren't meant to be. But you don't encourage her beliefs. You don't do anything.

"We should get out of here," she continues.

Then, you look up at her. "Yes," you say, out of anger, pain, desire to hurt Donna, need to not be alone tonight. "Yes, we should."

Her smile widens, but it is no happier.


2. Come Away With Me


She slams the door after you're both inside her apartment. Pushing you against the wall, she kisses you hard. You swear that the thermostat's up way too high, but you realize the effect is because of her hands on your body.

When she pulls away, her smile is softer as her fingers dance around the fabric of your dress. "You're pretty," she says.

"You're drunk."

"That, we both knew." She licks your bottom lip before sucking it into her mouth.

You stumble to her bedroom, her hands pushing up the skirt of your dress. You fall backwards onto her unmade bed, legs falling open. She climbs on top of you, kissing you furiously as you hold her in place with your thighs. Undressing each other is a blur to you, this kinetic thing that seems unique to drunken, lonely, fuck-*them* sex.

You groan when she straddles your knee, slickness pressing against your skin. You push up. She groans, smiles, lowers her mouth to your breast. Teeth, tongue, and another blur as she drifts down between your thighs. She opens you, tongue drawing snakes on your newly exposed flesh. You arch towards her, hands moving to the back of her head. She makes you quiver, beads of sweat forming on your skin. "Amy," you groan.

She seems surprised to hear her own name, head tilting up to look into your eyes. Another smile, and she's devouring you again, her nails digging into your thighs.

It's never been this good with Donna, and you love her. Maybe sex is better with strangers, when you don't feel a pressure to make them want more than an orgasm. Or maybe you just want this to be better, want to pretend that Donna's an inferior creature.

When you come, you have a desire to cry. Maybe it's guilt -- guilt that you tell yourself is misplaced -- or maybe you're so messed up that climax is like a weepy revelation. Either way, you suppress the impulse, sleepily muttering her name again.

She rests on her knees, watching you lie still after the tremors subside. You move to meet her, kissing her as you move your hands to her breasts. You push her back into the mattress as you lower your mouth to her neck.

She sighs. You make no reply. You kiss her breasts, darting your tongue out against her nipple. She sighs again, and you want more than that, so you draw it into your mouth. She hisses, arches, and you push two fingers inside her. You create circles with your thumb as she rocks against you. For a moment, you see Donna's face. But Amy's scent, the taste of her skin brings you back into the now.

Donna is nothing, nothing, nothing like this.

You don't know how that makes you really feel but, now, all you concern yourself with is the convulsion around your digits, the way Amy says your name.

You kiss her, fingers still lingering between her thighs and wonder if either of you deserve better than this.


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