![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
rpf: Madeline Albright/Margaret Thatcher, Champagne, PG
Disclaimer: not mine. No, really, really, really not mine. At all.
Warning: Real People Fic, Femslash. If either of these squick you, run the other way.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Madeline Albright/Margaret Thatcher.
Length: 1,000+
Notes: I blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kali921 entirely for this pairing, not to mention the fic. Yes, granted, I am still fandom's bitch sometimes when it comes to accepting prompts and being inspired but. Really. This wasn't supposed to be this long.
Champagne
by ALC Punk!
France is warm, this time of year, and Madeline wants to enjoy it, but she's got a flutter in her stomach. She's faced down world leaders, brokered treaties that gave political geniuses cold sweats, and been threatened for being a woman more times than she cares to remember. And the upcoming meeting is making her want to turn and run.
She's a grown woman, she should really have more control over this sort of reaction.
The small bistro isn't exactly obscure, but it's not really the sort of place her retinue expects her to go. She waves them off with a random excuse they'll buy, and enters.
The maitre'd smiles at her, and settles her in a corner at a table for two. She has a view of the kitchen and the front door, and blames the slight paranoia on too many years in this business. It's been a long time since she's dealt with the sort of under the table deals that require more than one escape route, but sometimes she has nightmares about them.
A black-eyed girl of about sixteen brings her a serving of bread and the tea she requested with a bright smile.
Watching the girl bounce away, light on her feet despite obviously having been up with the dawn, Madeline feels wistful. Not that she was ever that young, even when she was that age.
Two minutes after her tea appears, she opens her small laptop and begins working. Either the person she's planning to meet will show up shortly, or it could be a long wait. Madeline doesn't exactly begrudge her, but she also isn't one to waste the time she's been given.
Proofing reports takes time and fogs her mind with concentration. Her tea grows cold twice before the chair across from her is pulled back and occupied.
It takes her almost a minute to retrieve her mind from the clauses and wherefores of Henderson's proposal regarding Lockheed-Martin and the current Russian space program. "Order tea," she suggests as she looks across at her companion.
Margaret laughs softly, and then, her poise unflustered, orders coffee and biscuits.
"You're going to want more than that," suggests Madeline, and then almost has to blush at the forwardness of the words.
Eyebrows arching, Margaret's eyes twinkle, "Quite. But I find the need for a slight appetizer before I take in the main course."
Now, Madeline's blushing.
Really, she's getting entirely too old for this sort of reaction. Nevertheless, she has to look down and busy herself with her laptop while Margaret orders.
-
The cookies and tea pass into dinner, and the conversation remains far removed from the reason they're there. Both women have decided opinions on the events of the world around them and neither is likely to give gracefully, until the little waitress blushes and asks if they would mind keeping it down. Madeline makes a note to leave the poor thing a decent tip, and then changes the subject mid-sentence.
Horses, cats, dogs and children aren't exactly verboten, but neither is all that fond of certain sub-groups. Madeline hasn't liked horses since one stepped on her as a small child, and Margaret claims the cats continually destroy her suits on purpose.
That conversation is traded for a discussion of dessert, the impact of ad campaigns on young women and a sidebar into the politics of pink versus blue.
The waitress has to ask them to keep it down a second time.
-
Madeline gets the check before Margaret, but there's no real argument about it. Somewhere, there's probably a feminist rolling in her grave.
-
Two people follow them at a discreet distance, and Madeline is careful of her movements. Her hands stay at her sides, and there's a correct amount of space between them as they walk, talking about whatever comes to mind--in this case, the American habit of feeding people when things are down. Madeline grew up with it, Margaret grew up simply pretending there wasn't anything wrong.
Conversation changes as they wend their way through tiny streets and almost-alleyways. There are shops and people whom they pass, but not much catches their interest.
Madeline's feet begin to hurt after a while, and she mocks herself for her habit of always wearing heels of some sort. If she were in sneakers, she'd be fine. Margaret isn't quite so formal, and is wearing sneakers, a practical move Madeline can't help but approve of.
Their handlers stop to converse at the street corner, and Madeline takes the moment to duck into a doorway and raise her eyebrows at Margaret.
Margaret is almost impish when she grins back.
-
The hostel is full of politically-minded young people, adults in all sorts of ages who simply don't have that much money, and two honeymooning couples who aren't quite certain why they've ended up where they are. It's easy to barter for one of the rooms, and Madeline leads the way up the stairs, ignoring the few disinterested looks they get.
A purple-paneled door opens into a blue-lacquered room, with bunk beds covered in stripes and polka dots. Margaret closes the door and moves to help Madeline shift the beds together.
-
Neither of them brought a change of clothing, so they freshen up afterwards as well as they can, borrowing soap from one of the young women. She has three tattoos on her face and a line of rings down her left ear that look like they were painful to acquire. The sight of two rather flushed and smiling business-women doesn't phase her in the least. She even offers a little bit of advice, and fixes the rip in Margaret's skirt with one of the safety pins that are through her other ear.
-
Their handlers are waiting down the street when they emerge, and neither seems surprised by the time they took on their tour of the facilities. Madeline doubts either truly has any idea what's going on, but then, they are young enough to have their minds firmly in the gutter.
It's not something she ever plans on asking them, though.
She walks back towards the taxi stand where they'll each catch a cab. Margaret to the train into Paris, and Madeline to the hotel two villages down.
Life will continue on, the world will continue to run, and in four weeks, they'll both be back through the tiny village. After all, they love the food at the tiny bistro, and their conversations are so useful to fostering good relations between the United States and Great Britain.
At least, that's what their itineraries will claim.
-finis-
Warning: Real People Fic, Femslash. If either of these squick you, run the other way.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Madeline Albright/Margaret Thatcher.
Length: 1,000+
Notes: I blame
kali921 entirely for this pairing, not to mention the fic. Yes, granted, I am still fandom's bitch sometimes when it comes to accepting prompts and being inspired but. Really. This wasn't supposed to be this long.Champagne
by ALC Punk!
France is warm, this time of year, and Madeline wants to enjoy it, but she's got a flutter in her stomach. She's faced down world leaders, brokered treaties that gave political geniuses cold sweats, and been threatened for being a woman more times than she cares to remember. And the upcoming meeting is making her want to turn and run.
She's a grown woman, she should really have more control over this sort of reaction.
The small bistro isn't exactly obscure, but it's not really the sort of place her retinue expects her to go. She waves them off with a random excuse they'll buy, and enters.
The maitre'd smiles at her, and settles her in a corner at a table for two. She has a view of the kitchen and the front door, and blames the slight paranoia on too many years in this business. It's been a long time since she's dealt with the sort of under the table deals that require more than one escape route, but sometimes she has nightmares about them.
A black-eyed girl of about sixteen brings her a serving of bread and the tea she requested with a bright smile.
Watching the girl bounce away, light on her feet despite obviously having been up with the dawn, Madeline feels wistful. Not that she was ever that young, even when she was that age.
Two minutes after her tea appears, she opens her small laptop and begins working. Either the person she's planning to meet will show up shortly, or it could be a long wait. Madeline doesn't exactly begrudge her, but she also isn't one to waste the time she's been given.
Proofing reports takes time and fogs her mind with concentration. Her tea grows cold twice before the chair across from her is pulled back and occupied.
It takes her almost a minute to retrieve her mind from the clauses and wherefores of Henderson's proposal regarding Lockheed-Martin and the current Russian space program. "Order tea," she suggests as she looks across at her companion.
Margaret laughs softly, and then, her poise unflustered, orders coffee and biscuits.
"You're going to want more than that," suggests Madeline, and then almost has to blush at the forwardness of the words.
Eyebrows arching, Margaret's eyes twinkle, "Quite. But I find the need for a slight appetizer before I take in the main course."
Now, Madeline's blushing.
Really, she's getting entirely too old for this sort of reaction. Nevertheless, she has to look down and busy herself with her laptop while Margaret orders.
-
The cookies and tea pass into dinner, and the conversation remains far removed from the reason they're there. Both women have decided opinions on the events of the world around them and neither is likely to give gracefully, until the little waitress blushes and asks if they would mind keeping it down. Madeline makes a note to leave the poor thing a decent tip, and then changes the subject mid-sentence.
Horses, cats, dogs and children aren't exactly verboten, but neither is all that fond of certain sub-groups. Madeline hasn't liked horses since one stepped on her as a small child, and Margaret claims the cats continually destroy her suits on purpose.
That conversation is traded for a discussion of dessert, the impact of ad campaigns on young women and a sidebar into the politics of pink versus blue.
The waitress has to ask them to keep it down a second time.
-
Madeline gets the check before Margaret, but there's no real argument about it. Somewhere, there's probably a feminist rolling in her grave.
-
Two people follow them at a discreet distance, and Madeline is careful of her movements. Her hands stay at her sides, and there's a correct amount of space between them as they walk, talking about whatever comes to mind--in this case, the American habit of feeding people when things are down. Madeline grew up with it, Margaret grew up simply pretending there wasn't anything wrong.
Conversation changes as they wend their way through tiny streets and almost-alleyways. There are shops and people whom they pass, but not much catches their interest.
Madeline's feet begin to hurt after a while, and she mocks herself for her habit of always wearing heels of some sort. If she were in sneakers, she'd be fine. Margaret isn't quite so formal, and is wearing sneakers, a practical move Madeline can't help but approve of.
Their handlers stop to converse at the street corner, and Madeline takes the moment to duck into a doorway and raise her eyebrows at Margaret.
Margaret is almost impish when she grins back.
-
The hostel is full of politically-minded young people, adults in all sorts of ages who simply don't have that much money, and two honeymooning couples who aren't quite certain why they've ended up where they are. It's easy to barter for one of the rooms, and Madeline leads the way up the stairs, ignoring the few disinterested looks they get.
A purple-paneled door opens into a blue-lacquered room, with bunk beds covered in stripes and polka dots. Margaret closes the door and moves to help Madeline shift the beds together.
-
Neither of them brought a change of clothing, so they freshen up afterwards as well as they can, borrowing soap from one of the young women. She has three tattoos on her face and a line of rings down her left ear that look like they were painful to acquire. The sight of two rather flushed and smiling business-women doesn't phase her in the least. She even offers a little bit of advice, and fixes the rip in Margaret's skirt with one of the safety pins that are through her other ear.
-
Their handlers are waiting down the street when they emerge, and neither seems surprised by the time they took on their tour of the facilities. Madeline doubts either truly has any idea what's going on, but then, they are young enough to have their minds firmly in the gutter.
It's not something she ever plans on asking them, though.
She walks back towards the taxi stand where they'll each catch a cab. Margaret to the train into Paris, and Madeline to the hotel two villages down.
Life will continue on, the world will continue to run, and in four weeks, they'll both be back through the tiny village. After all, they love the food at the tiny bistro, and their conversations are so useful to fostering good relations between the United States and Great Britain.
At least, that's what their itineraries will claim.
-finis-
no subject
LYSSIE IS AWESOME.
THAT IS ALL.
no subject