I'm Right Behind You (Part Eight)

Apparently tds_rps is watched by 666 members. It's the community of the beast!

. . . anyway. This is the last full part of the story. There will be an epilog (posted in tcr_fps, in keeping with the way this story has been straddling comms). I'll stop talking now so you can read it, eh?

Title: I'm Right Behind You (Part Eight)
Rating: PG
Pairings: Sam/Charlene
Words: ~1600
Disclaimer: The usual two.

For the Report character fic: The Colbert Report characters are property of Stephen and the other Report writers. Not mine. Sue me not, please.

And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.

Summary: It's just over a year after the birth of Samantha Bee's first baby; her career is thriving, her marriage stable. Then she meets this really, really hot woman. You can guess where it goes from there.

One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Coda


I'm Right Behind You - Part Eight

Sam woke to the smell of bacon.

Why is there bacon? she wondered drowsily. I haven't gotten up yet. Is Jason actually making breakfast? He probably had a craving for bacon or something . . . if I want to get any, I should probably get up . . .

Then she opened her eyes to surroundings that were unfamiliar, at least until the memories of the past night reasserted themselves.

Oh.

Oh.

Sam started to get up, realized as the sheet slipped off of her that she was stark naked, and blearily reached for a bra, only to find that she was apparently not awake enough to put it on. At least at home she knw the way to the kettle; she could make tea in her sleep, or rather in her pre-caffeine morning state, which wasn't really much different.

She was struggling with one of the straps (was it inside out? Backwards? She wasn't really sure) when Charlene, in a comfortable-looking lavender robe, opened the bedroom door. "How do you like your egs?" she asked nervously.

"Caffeinated," mumbled Sam. "Do you have tea?"

"No, sorry . . ."

"Coffee?"

"I don't drink it. Will you be okay without it?"

"Can't even get dressed without it."

"Er," said Charlene. "That's actually, ah, mine."

"Oh." Sam looked dazedly down. That explained why it was so lacy. "Yep, I need coffee."

"Stay right there," directed the younger woman. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sam extricated herself from the bra and fell back onto the pillow, closing her eyes.

Of course it was Charlene who was cooking. Jason never cooked. He didn't express his caring with cooking. But he did care; he showed it in other ways, like . . . like . . .

Sam rifled through her memories of her husband. Jason handing her a fussy, unchanged Piper. Jason dashing out of the room for a football game. Jason leaping into a poll with their daughter for a Daily Show human interest piece. Jason asking "What's for dinner, honey?" on the day she got home from the maternity ward.

She didn't have the focus - or the heart - to focus on it any longer. It was so much easier to let her mind drift over happier memories. Specifically, memories of Charlene, the way her breath caught in her throat at the slightest touch and the way her heartbeat pulsed under Sam's lips.

Her thoughts hadn't been there long when the door opened again and in walked Charlene herself, now fully dressed in a T-shirt and peasant skirt, and carrying a cup with the blessed logo of Starbucks. Hugging the sheets around herself, Sam sat up and reached for it. The coffee was hot, but she downed half of it in one go.

When she lowered the cup and opened her eyes, still not fully awake, Charlene was still there. "Is it good?" she ventured.

"Best coffee I ever tasted," slurred Sam reassuringly.

The younger woman gave her a shy smile. "How do you like your eggs?"

Sam tried to think of different ways of cooking eggs. She knew there were a lot, but it was far too much effort to figure them all out. "Let's just go with scrambled."




It didn't take long for the caffeine to hit Sam's brain. Within a few minutes she was lucid enough to find her own bra, and the rest of her outfit besides. The jacket and at least one sock (she couldn't find the other) had landed on the heap of leftover Chinese food boxes, and been stained by sweet-and-sour sauce; but her underwear, her blouse, and the pants of her charcoal suit had survived the night unscathed. Clad in these, she finally headed for the kitchen.

Charlene had evidently been unpacking dishes as well as cooking, for on the little table in the kitchenette were genuine plates - two at the chairs and one, in the middle, heaped with bacon - flanked by wine glasses filled with orange juice. "Well!" exclaimed Sam, surveying the scene. "This is classy."

"Is it? Oh good!" responded Charlene, who was attending the eggs with a spatula. "I wasn't sure if I was doing all right - I've never done this before . . ."

"You're doing a wonderful job." Sam licked her lips. "What on Earth did you order in that coffee?"

"Maple syrup. Is that all right?"

"No kidding? It's delicious. Here." Sam stepped forward, tipped Charlene's chin towards her with one hand, and kissed her, quickly but deeply enough to ensure that the taste made it through.

"You should eat," murmured Charlene reluctantly into Sam's mouth. "You have work . . ."

"I'll call in sick." Sam's eyes fell on the stove clock. "Ooh. I should do that right now, in fact. I'll be right back. Do you know where my purse ended up?"

Charlene pointed to the foyer. The purse was lying on its side on the rug, next to her shoes and--

"Ah! My sock!"




Jason's cell phone burst into ESPN's football theme, and he listened to it play all the way through (while noting that it was his wife's cell calling) before picking up. "Hi, honey!"

"Hey, Jason. Sorry to disappear on you. Everything all right down there?"

"Oh, it's fine. It's swell. Get this." Jason grinned. "I woke up last night, and Piper was fussing, right? So I went into her room, and it turns out she had a full diaper, so - guess what - I changed it!"

Sam didn't sound quite as enthusiastic as he'd expected. "You figured it out all by yourself?" she asked, almost skeptically. Jason was hurt.

"Well - not exactly - she told me - but c'mon, honey, I changed it. All by myself. And then she went right back to sleep, happy as you please."

"Good for you, dear," said Sam at last. "I'm going to be out today. See you after work?"

"Maybe," quipped Jason. "Big game on tonight, you know."

"I know."

"You're too good to me, honey. Anything else?"

He waited, very patiently.

". . . No. Nothing else."

"All right. 'Bye, honey."

"Goodbye, Jason."




Jon was in the middle of his daily crossword (6 Down: three-letter word for "came first?") when the phone rang. He reached across the mess that was his desk to pick it up. "Hello?"

"Jon? It's Sam. Taking a sick day."

"Sorry to hear that, Sam. I hope it's nothing serious."

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I'll be back in no time, don't worry." She paused. "Jon?"

"Yes?"

"I . . . really can't thank you enough for everything you did yesterday." Her voice had gone quiet, sincere. "I couldn't have done anything without all the strings you pulled. You're a great boss, and . . . a great friend. I mean that."

"I take it you've patched things up with Charlene, then?"

A voice that was not Sam's, but distinctly female, called in the background, "Eggs are ready!"

"Yes," said Sam hurriedly. "Yes, I have."

"Good to hear. Feel better."

"Will do, Jon. See you later."

"Later," he agreed, and she hung up.

The host was left staring blankly at the paper. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed something. Something important. Something that was floating just out of his reach. If he could only put two and two together, he would realize . . .

And then, in a flash, he understood.

"Eureka!" exclaimed Jon, and wrote 'EGG' in 6 Down.




Charlene turned off the stove, retrieved another plate, and started scooping the scrambled eggs onto it. She might have to heat the bacon up again, she thought; between her run to the nearest Starbucks and her preparation of the eggs, it had had time to cool off, and she couldn't stand the thought of Sam eating cold bacon.

Was this love? She'd read some novels, and most of them involved the woman being saved from some terrible danger and then swept off her feet and ravished by the dashing hero. Charlene knew about danger; and, she realized with a delicious thrill, she finally had a little experience with the ravishing part as well.

But there wasn't anything in any of the novels about bacon.

Sam came in from the fire escape, snapping her cell phone closed with one hand; her pants were unbuttoned and sliding ever so slightly down her hips, and Charlene nearly poured the last of the eggs on the floor. She set the pan down and straightened up.

"The eggs are ready," she repeated, "but I think I should heat up the bacon, it's gotten cold, and . . . and I think I love you, and . . ."

She groped for words to explain everything about novels and Starbucks and bacon, failed, and looked helplessly at the elegant older woman in front of her.

Then Sam's hands were around her waist, and before Charlene quite realized what was going on she was pressed into a kiss against the side of the fridge. (There wasn't much free wall space in the kitchenette. Not that she minded either way, really.)

"Aren't you hungry?" she stammered as soon as her mouth was released.

Sam pulled back, looked into Charlene's eyes, and was somehow instantly sincere and gentle and accomodating even as she pinned Charlene to the fridge.

"If you're hungry," she said, "then of course we'll eat. But I, personally, am willing to work up more of an appetite first."

Charlene's face broke into a grin - the one that was always mirrored by a sparkle in Sam's soft green eyes.

"I can warm up the bacon later," she offered.

It wasn't a line that would get a second glance in any of the books she'd ever read, but Sam understood - the way she understood everything Charlene said - that it was an invitation.

And she accepted.