Work Text:
I remember when I was a little girl
Our house caught on fire
I'll never forget the look on my father's face as he
Gathered me up in his arms and
Faced through the burning building out on the pavement
And I stood there
Shivering in my pajamas and
Watched the whole world go up in flames
And when it was all over
I said to myself
Is that all there is to a fire?
Peggy Lee, "Is That All There Is"
Sunday. October 28th, 1962
The staticy sound of the television thrummed after Fran’s finger slipped on the dial– the abject shock of what she’d just heard was still sitting heavily in her throat. She blinked, as if the black and white image of Walter Cronkite would return and he would simply say, ‘Gotcha!’ in that low tone of his. The one that usually lulled Fran to sleep, rather than piercing an awful sort of fear straight into her chest.
It was a Sunday night. The air was cool and crisp. Maxwell and the kids had gone upstate to visit his parents while Fran decided to stay back and catch up on shopping on Fifth Avenue.
Her appointment had gone well, as it normally did during their seasonal shift– a massive pile of woolen dresses still sat in their paper bags by the doorway waiting to be put away. Niles was off on a little vacation of his own, visiting a friend of his who had landed somewhere in Greenwich Village.
All of these things, things that had been planned weeks in advance, felt like the universe was spitting on her. Leaving her alone to deal with the goddamn threat of a nuclear armageddon alone and–
She stood up, laughing nervously. Shook her head. “You’re goin’ crazy. Who said anythin’ about a nuclear armageddon-?” She hiccupped suddenly, a sort of desperate squeak that only meant she was about to break down into tears. “Oh, hell.” She scrambled towards the phone, picking up the receiver so suddenly, she knocked her cheek with the thing.
Fran’s manicured fingers shakily poked and prodded at the rotary until she managed to dial her mother’s number.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up–” A dull dial tone sounded, rather than the usual ringing tone. She put the phone down on the receiver. “No–” She picked it up again, dialling for an operator, only to hear the same tone.
She stood there, allowing the receiver to fall from her hand. Were the lines out? Had something cut Manhattan off from the rest of the city already? No- she would've heard it, wouldn't she?
Pressing a hand to her brow she swayed slightly, feeling nauseous at the feeling of being alone. Not even able to reach her mother on the phone. The screeching of a car followed by a crash sounded outside on the street and a pang of fear smoldered through Fran's body.
Could everything she had, everything she'd ever worked for, loved, just go up in a cloud of smoke?
Was it really over?
Was this her last night? And would it really be spent alone-?
The quick rapping of knuckles against the front door interrupted Fran's spiral. Almost as if the person darkening the opaque glass of the front door could hear her thoughts. It couldn't be Maxwell– she knew it wasn't him. He had a key and she'd normally be able to hear the kids bickering by now. No– no. This form, this shape, Fran knew.
Slowly she crept across the living room and rested her hand on the latch on the door. She opened it a sliver, blinking slightly at the sight of her husband's business partner– Miss Babcock– shifting from foot to foot impatiently. Suddenly, their eyes met and Fran felt as if she couldn't breathe.
It made no sense for the woman to be here, to be dressed in her damned slacks, damned dress shirt– But before she knew it, Fran's hands had wound around the burgundy tie that adorned the woman's neck, pulling her in, shutting the door, pressing cold lips fervently against her own.
Tuesday. October 23rd, 1962
“I don't really see what the fuss is about.” Maxwell said, stretching his neck from side to side as his eyes skimmed the morning paper. His hair was still damp from the shower he took, smelled more strongly of his usual aftershave. A small piece of a napkin was pressed against a drying red divot on his chin, where he had inevitably cut himself.
Fran shrugged, looking back over at him from the other side of the table as she took a sip from her orange juice. It was freshly squeezed, oranges imported from Florida in October, and yet she still sat here yearning for the frozen block of concentrate her mother would mix into some tap water.
“I dunno. Maybe Khrushchev’s got some sort of death wish.” She bit the inside of her cheek distractedly, “Maybe Kennedy, too– I mean, what's the use of having any power if your whole population’s just,” She made a zipping sound between her teeth, “Kaput.”
Maxwell hummed, paging over the paper to look over the stock prices, “I'm not sure Kennedy has a death wish– If anyone's got it coming, it's that lot.”
That lot.
As if Fran wasn't descended from that lot.
But she let the words wash over her, as she always did, with a sigh.
A floral smell wafted over to her and she relaxed back into her chair, looking at Niles bemusedly, “You didn't actually have to wear the perfume I got you for your birthday. That was the gag gift.”
Niles tilted his head to the side as he slid an egg onto Fran's empty plate, “And let this perfectly good scent go to waste? I think not.”
“Why not give it to a lady friend of yours?” Maxwell asked, nose still buried in his paper.
Fran and Niles exchanged a glance.
“Of course, how silly of me.” Niles said dryly before dropping an egg onto Maxwell's plate, the egg yolk breaking as he did so.
Maxwell thumbed through the last few pages in the paper, eyes scanning over the headlines. “Honestly, can anyone talk about anything other than the Soviets?”
Fran snorted. “Look in the mirror, hon, that’s all you've been talkin’ about this morning, too.”
He looked at her, seemingly dazedly, “I have, haven't I?” The paper crinkled as he folded it over. “Apologies.” He sniffed slightly, before handing the paper over to Niles. “Ah, Niles, you broke my yolk again.”
“He didn't break mine.” Fran said over a bit of toast.
“I think he forgets who pays his salary.” Maxwell said, affixing a pointed look at Niles, before his eyes shifted over to the entryway of the dining room. “Oh, Miss Babcock, I didn't hear you come in.”
Fran swallowed, back straightening at the sound of the low responding chuckle. “Perhaps it'd do you well to lock the front door.” She said before sitting casually in the seat beside Fran, the fabric of her slacks brushing against her nylons.
“Sometimes I forget we're not at the Cape anymore.” Maxwell responded. He took a light sip of his tea thoughtfully, “You're right though, Miss Babcock. We should be locking the doors more thoroughly.”
CC hummed, slouching forward to take a bite of a piece of toast, her tie coming loose from the clip she used secure to her shirts. Her hand reached for the butter knife at the same time Fran did– their skin touching for one burning second, only for Fran to wrench her hand away quickly.
The odd look the other woman cast at her left Fran sweating at the base of her neck, but she continued to look down at her breakfast.
Maxwell cleared his throat, “So, what do you think about the whole Soviet–”
“Oh, spare me.” CC said with a roll of her eyes. “Work goes on, or it doesn't–”
“What, you don't care if we all die in a nuclear blast?” Fran snapped, despite herself, “Don't you have people you care about?”
CC’s eyes narrowed, meeting her own with an icy focus that almost felt penetrating. Like she was laid out on a table, guts out on display for CC to rifle though with surgical precision. “Do I have people I care about?” Her jaw moved from side to side as she considered her next words. “What if I said no? Would you hold that against me, Mrs. Sheffield?”
Fran opened her mouth before snapping it shut. “You're just sayin’ this to get a rise out of me.”
The smile that graced CC’s lips was unsettling. Her hands raised upwards, exposing her pale wrists to the sharp lighting of the dining room. The men's wristwatch adorning her right arm glinted a cold silver. “Guilty as charged.”
But Fran doubled down, now angry for being played, “You aren't worried? I mean, what do you think of all this?”
The expression on CC’s slowly morphed into one of disbelief. “It doesn't matter what I think– Do you want to know the truth, Mrs. Sheffield?”
“And what's that?” Fran said, crossing her arms tightly across her body.
“It doesn't matter what you think either. It doesn't matter what any of us think. It'll happen and we won't wake up one morning, or we're going to get vaporized while scooping grounds into a coffee machine, or,” She brushed a strand of flaxen hair from her face, “Or, everything will just keep moving along. Someone in a war room is going to make a decision and we're just going to have to live with it. Or die with it.”
“And you're okay with that?” Fran was nearly yelling now, chest heaving with anxiety.
“We don't have a choice! We live in this country–”
Maxwell winced, “Now, now–”
The scraping of CC’s chair against the linoleum stopped everyone in their tracks. “There's no point in arguing over this.” She brushed a hand through her hair again, before buttoning the top button of her jacket, “At least not with me.”
“I didn't take you for a nihilist, Miss Babcock.” Niles said, the amused lilt in the tone of his voice breaking the tension of the room.
CC snorted, scrubbing her face with the palm of her hand. “Didn’t take you for a pansy–” She paused, glancing at Maxwell. “Well.” She glanced down at her watch. “I’ve got the car pulled out front, Maxwell.”
Maxwell dusted his hands off, standing up from his chair, just as the sounds of the children stomping down the stairs could be heard. “I’ll just say goodbye to the children, and then we can go.”
Brighton was the first in, smacking his hand on the dining table. “Do we really have to visit Nanna and Pop this weekend? Maggie said–”
“Brighton! I told you not to–” Maggie groaned, “You swore–”
“Hon, what is it?” Fran asked, ignoring the fact that she had keenly noticed when CC had slipped out from the room after Grace entered
“Nothing–”
“Maggie thinks they smell bad.” Brighton said smugly, only to immediately get whacked on the side of the head by Maggie.
“Children!” Maxwell’s voice rose over the bickering. “I don’t want to hear another word on this subject. We’re going to Rochester–”
“But what if we stayed with Fran while you and Gracie visited.” Brighton tried, rubbing the side of his head. “Plus, I’ve got a paper and I don’t want to write it by hand.”
Fran laughed, “You’re acting like it’d be the end of the world if you don’t have access to type on your Smith whatsit–”
“Smith-Corona, Fran.” He groaned in exasperation, “And don't say it's not that bad– last time it broke, my hand was cramped for days! For days!” He held up his hand but the wrist, wringing it in front of her dramatically.
“Nothing wrong with a limp wrist, sir.” Niles muttered just loud enough for Fran to hear him. She could barely stifle the bark of laughter that was bubbling up at his words. She reached out to smack the man's arm.
“Well, I'm off.” Maxwell said, picking his jacket up from the back of his chair.
“Say goodbye to your father, kids.” Fran said, standing as well, hands brushing along the front of her dress to smooth down any untoward wrinkles.
Brighton groaned, but gave his father a quick hug before running out of the room with a piece of toast. Maggie and Grace followed suit, but Grace turned to look at Fran seriously. “Fran, do you really think the world's going to end? Imogene told me that Kennedy wants to hurt the Russians.”
Fran winced, wondering where Grace really heard that, before kneeling as far as her dress allowed her to. “Aw, hon, Imogene is just–” She looked up at Niles helplessly.
“She's catastrophizing.” He supplied after a moment of thought.
“Oh.” Grace blinked, “Yes, that sounds like her.”
Fran and Niles shared another look before Fran stood up straight once more. She watched as Grace flounced out of the room behind Maggie.
“I'll see you tonight, Fran.” Maxwell said, bending forward to brush his lips against her cheek. She smiled at him slightly, before plucking the piece of napkin from his chin. The front door closed behind him and the children as they went to catch their bus.
She let out a sigh, rifling through one of her handbags to see if she'd left a pack of cigarettes behind.
“Looking for one of these?” Niles asked, brows raised, a cigarette proffered in her direction between his fingers.
She snatched it from him, taking the heavy brass table lighter from the dining table and lighting the end. “Does smugness just run through your blood or somethin’?”
“Or something.” Niles responded before taking a rag from his back pocket to wipe down the table.
“If you've got something to say, spit it out.” Fran took a deep drag of the cigarette, not quite sure what exactly had left her feeling so out of sorts.
“That little scene between you and Miss Babcock–”
“The woman hates me. I don't understand why you keep harping on this subject–”
“Because I have eyes, Mrs. Sheffield. Or shall I say; she has eyes, and you have eyes, and those eyes meet and do dirty, dirty things in plain view of others.”
“Khrushchev really ought to blow us up right now, I can't listen to this bullshit–”
“Oh, you mean so that the good ol’ Americans can get back at that lot?”
Fran angrily stubbed her cigarette into the amber ashtray on the side hutch. “Where do you get off?” She brushed a lock of stiff hair from her cheek in exasperation, “You– what–? You want me to step out on Maxwell? Is that what you want?”
Niles blinked at her, a crease forming beneath his left eye in the way it always did when he heard something that irritated him immensely. “When did I say that?”
“Don't play dumb with me.”
He dropped the rag, turning so that his body faced Fran completely. “What I want,” He rubbed at the side of his face with the back of his hand as he paused in thought, “What I want is for you to stop lying to yourself.”
Sunday. October 28th, 1962
Fran's back hit the door with a thump as CC spun them around, pushing against her, lips trailing down to her neck. Biting down on a spot that never failed to make her shudder, with what seemed to be absolute precision. As if the other woman knew what would happen when she bit down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
The absurdity of the situation was not lost on Fran, even as her hand remained wound around CC’s tie– pulling her back up for another searing kiss.
She was married.
She loved Maxwell. Loved the children– loved her life.
And well, that seemed to be the crux of it.
Her life, everyone's life, possibly over before the sun rose the next day. New York would undoubtedly be a primary target for those A-Bombs. And, goddamn it, Fran wanted to live.
She wanted to grow old. See Maggie and Brighton and Gracie grow old too.
Live life the way she was meant to; full of joy and unabashed pleasure.
She wanted–
“Fuck-” Fran gasped when CC pulled the buttons on the back of her dress open, one of the brass buttons coming loose and knocking against a vase full of flowers by the door with a clunk.
Their lips met again, pressing together. A well aimed bite from CC wrenched the seam of Fran's mouth open, as if to be devoured.
Her head hit the door again with the force of the kiss, but strong arms held her in place. Short nails scraped at the base of her neck, just below her hairline, catching the shorter strands that refused to remain in her hair clip. The groan that escaped Fran's throat propelled the other woman to grab at the hair at the back of her head, pulling lightly enough to prise her from their embrace.
For a moment, it seemed as though CC would say something. Her lips parted slightly as her blown pupils took in the disheveled sight of her business partner's wife. Their eyes met again and a steeliness passed before her expression as her head tilted to the side minutely. Cold fingers left goosebumps at their wake as CC’s hands pulled the sleeves of Fran's dress down her arms.
Exposing her undergarments to the dim lighting of the foyer.
A burning sensation dropped into the pit of Fran's stomach at the way CC’s expression morphed into one she didn't recognize.
It wasn't soft, by any means. The moment was anything but romantic, with this threat of annihilation looming over them. But it felt–
The closest approximation that Fran could make for what was being conveyed on CC’s face was a mix of reverence and a striking sort of fear.
Something one would see on a devout believer’s face.
Fran’s hand reached upwards to cup CC’s cheek, watching as the normally acrid woman leaned into the touch. Her cold hand circled Fran’s wrist and Fran shivered at the sensation. Every nerve ending feeling as if it were on fire from the simple touch.
A feeling she had never experienced in her easy courtship with Maxwell; a man keen to find a replacement mother for his children as soon as socially acceptable.
She traced CC’s lip with her thumb, catching some of the waxy red lipstick she had left in the wake of her kiss. CC’s lips were usually bare– as was the rest of her face. It showed this infuriating lack of self-awareness that Fran constantly envied from the first moment she had laid eyes on her. Fran, who was poked and prodded into proper form by her mother, the heavily accented tongue telling her to be the right kind of girl. One a rich man would want to marry.
Not the type of girl who’s first kiss had been with a gangly girl she’d met in Hebrew school. A girl who took torah readings too seriously and who Fran had caught staring at her more than once.
But, of course, that meant that she'd been staring back.
Cold hands cupped the sides of her neck, stroking downwards until barely touching the lacy tops of her brassiere. Fran could feel CC’s pulse thundering beneath her palm; the only indication that this was affecting the other woman as much as it was affecting Fran.
But Fran wanted more, needed more, so it was almost inevitable, the way her hands reached to the center of her back to unclip her brassiere.
The small responding gasp was all she needed to propel her forward to catch the other woman's lips between her teeth.
Monday. October 22nd, 1962
CC slammed a hand on her television set, watching as the image of President Kennedy wavered across the glass screen, before flickering rapidly.
She slammed her hand down again, watching with satisfaction as the picture recentered itself on the screen. Only for her smile to drop as the words that were coming from his mouth filtered into her ears.
“-policy of this nation- regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring full retaliatory response upon the–”
“Jesus Christ.” CC muttered, not even paying mind to the way the picture flickered across the screen again. She turned the power dial after a moment.
Her apartment, a newer post-war addition to Manhattan, still smelled like paint. Still needed furniture. All she had was a mattress and a half-broken television set.
To be fair to herself, it wasn't as if she had much time to get her meager belongings out of the storage locker she rented. All she had needed thus far had been her clothing, which she picked up as soon as she needed a particular item. But, most days, CC cycled between the same three pairs of trousers and jackets. Expensive things that she got dry cleaned weekly.
Niles had given her the contact information for a lovely interior designer– though, not without a cheeky wink. Someone she would be interested in, he said.
She was half tempted to dig up the card in the pile she kept by her matches, but decided against it. If the world really were to go up in flames, the last thing she wanted to do was spend her final moments awkwardly trying to pretend she was interested in someone’s hobbies.
The phone she had sitting atop a little nightstand shrilly began ringing, and she sighed heavily. Automatically, she reached for her pack of cigarettes, before propping the receiver between her shoulder and ear. “What?”
“Is that any way to address your friend?” Niles already sounded a bit too smug for comfort.
“Friend is quite the stretch.” CC said, striking a cheap hotel match against the knurled table edge. She lit the end, watching as white-blue smoke floated up to the ceiling.
“You wound me.” CC could hear the sound of a pot clattering in the background.
“Are you cooking?” She asked and took another drag.
“No, I'm manning the Berlin Wall.” The faint chatter of the small television he kept on while he cooked filtered over the line.
She huffed out a laugh. “I'm assuming you saw the address.”
Niles hummed in affirmation, “Going to call that decorator before the end of the world? Or has all this talk of nuclear disaster gotten you flaccid?”
“If anything, it's probably gotten everyone harder than a rock.” She unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, moving the starched collar away from her neck with her finger. “Doesn't the threat of no tomorrow make you want to go all in? Gamble it all away on that bridal shop owner you've been ogling for years.”
“Didn't you hear?” Niles barked out a laugh, “That dream’s over. Turns out he was Fran’s last beau.”
CC’s teeth ground together at the sound of the other woman's name. “Huh.”
“Huh.” Niles echoed. The sound of him stirring something came over the line, staticy but still recognizable. They'd done enough of these after work calls for CC to recognize the quick double tap on his wooden spoon against the edge of a steel pot.
She didn't envy him, his work lasting much longer than hers did– but it seemed as though she received the brunt of Maxwell's anxieties while Niles received Fran's.
It bled over though, it always did.
“Any words of wisdom for these trying times?” She asked after a moment. The ashtray that sat on the table was perilously full, but she still squeezed the butt in between a tightly packed stack.
“None at all.” Niles replied, “The whole thing's rotten. Fran's gotten into a tizzy– this address won't do us any good.” She could hear him tap his spoon with more force. “Do you ever feel like we're wasting our time?”
CC sucked in a breath between her teeth, sharp and whistling. “I can't do this right now.”
“Then when, Chastity?”
“Don't–” The pack of cigarettes crushed underneath the palm of her hand, “Don't call me that.”
Sunday. October 28th, 1962
In all honesty, CC had forgotten that Maxwell wasn't home. She could have pretended that this had been the moment she pounced– couldn't stop herself from finding Fran in the wake of finding that there might not be a tomorrow. Something passionate, something firey. She could have lied to herself–
But the truth was much more mundane.
She'd forgotten her briefcase.
CC hadn't been watching the news, hadn't been tuned in to Walter Cronkite’s somber tones. The truth was that she'd been tearing apart her storage unit for her briefcase in the hopes she'd accidentally left it behind a day earlier when she went to pick up another shirt.
It hadn't been there, of course.
So, she'd try ringing the Sheffield residence, body tightly pressed into a phone booth right outside of the building. Only to find an unsettling dial tone greet her as soon as she tried to get to an operator.
Normally, she'd wait to drop in until the morning– slip through the rear entrance with the key that she kept in that briefcase. But she had a contract to deliver– a needlessly tempestuous actor who required that she hand deliver all of his paperwork.
Which is how she found herself, slightly out of breath, on the doorstep of the Sheffield residence– taxis occupied, the subway stop out of order. Needing to make haste before it became too unreasonably late to knock on the front door.
And knock she did– her knuckles rapping softly, as if not to disturb. As if she was hoping no one would hear and she would have to return in the morning.
But the door did open.
Wednesday. October 24th, 1962
“You look hungry.”
CC looked up from her notepad, hand cramped beyond belief, stretching it out as she took in the blonde woman standing across from her.
“Mrs. Fine.” CC drawled, “To what do I owe this pleasure?” She put her pen down on the bar height counter she was using as a makeshift desk.
Sylvia let out a scoff, “Pleasure! What do you know about pleasure, being skin and bones as you are.” The woman's voice still carried a heavy accent, one that belied a difficult life in Eastern Europe.
CC’s thumb curled the paper at the edge of her notepad, tilting her head at the woman expectantly.
A twin expression flitted across Sylvia's face before she rolled her eyes. “I'm cooking something for you. I'm hungry anyways.”
When was she not? But CC knew when to hold her tongue– there was a reason for this, in the way that most things like that had a reason.
The smell of oil heating on a steel pan began to bleed into the air, the sounds of Sylvia furiously chopping stopped CC from doing anything except watch.
The woman moved with ease in a kitchen that was not her own. It could be that she spent more time in the Sheffield residence, than her own, but a part of CC knew that wasn't the whole truth. Sylvia was much too skilled, much too quick to have been a simple housewife. CC could picture the woman in a canvas tent, feeding hoards of soldiers effortlessly.
“How come you dress the way you do, a pretty girl like you?” Sylvia asked, glancing over her shoulder as she continued to chop.
CC’s lips tightened in dissatisfaction– this was not a line of questioning she was unused to. Comments about her hiding her figure behind tailored suits were a dime a dozen. “I'm comfortable like this.” She settled on after a moment, jaw still steeled.
Sylvia hummed as she scraped the onions into the pan with her knife. “You remind me of someone I knew.” Her expression downturned slightly, brow furrowing, as if this memory was painful.
“Do I, now?”
“Yes. And all this– hm.” She paused, as if searching for the right words, “All this death in the air made me realize something I didn't realize back then.”
“And what's that?”
“Be comfortable.” Sylvia shrugged a single shoulder, “No one should tell anyone what to do.”
They remained in a companionable silence for a while, CC sitting with the words, sitting with the implications of what was said. Sylvia continued cooking, humming to herself as she poured what seemed to be chicken stock into the steaming pot.
CC leaned back in her seat. “Are you making soup?”
“Of course.” Sylvia glanced back over her shoulder at CC before turning back. “I remember thinking to myself, ‘If I’m going to die, I hope it’s with chicken soup in my stomach’.”
Friday. October 26th, 1962.
“Are you sure you can’t stay back this weekend? Try visiting them next week when it’s actually your mother’s birthday?” Fran was trying not to break down– do something ridiculous like fall to her knees to keep Maxwell and the kids from going up to Rochester. Fran would go, she really would, but she preferred not to spend time with people who abjectly hated her guts.
Maxwell’s parents had made it abundantly clear that just because she was married to Maxwell now, it didn't change her from the secretary she once was.
Some cheap floozy, or something along those lines.
“Darling, you know I can't change it. Mother and Father have plans to set off on that cruise on Wednesday and I'd like to see them off.” He tightened his tie against his throat slightly, “Niles will be here for you in the meantime.”
Fran huffed out a breath, more irritated at herself for hoping he'd remember anything, than his forgetfulness in general. “Hon, don't you remember? Niles is takin’ the next few days off."
Maxwell blinked at her. “Oh. Right.” Confused, as if Niles having a life of his own was a surprise. He, of course, didn't know that it'd be to play tour guide to a long-time pal from Niles’ boarding school days. “In any case, I'm sure you have someone who could, erm…” He trailed off in thought, “Help you through these times?”
And god the way he wrote her off. As if finding the threat of nuclear disaster unsettling was some sort of deficiency. Some sort of feminine hysteria. God forbid anyone threaten Maxwell Sheffield with a change in his routine.
Fran took a sharp breath from her nose, pressing a finger to the bridge in order to try to stop an oncoming headache. “Fine. Alright. Sorry I even asked.”
“Oh, don't be like that, Fran.” Maxwell's brows furrowed together. She used to love this expression on him; the innocently confused face when he just couldn't quite understand what she meant. Now she knew it wasn't exactly so innocent. “I can– I'll cancel the whole thing. Phone Mother now–”
“Oh, don't be ridiculous.” Her tone had soured. He was playing the martyr and they both fucking knew it. “Go on. Celebrate your mother's almost birthday with the kids.”
He eyed her suspiciously, “If you're quite sure…”
Fran sighed, “Yeah. I am.”
Saturday. October 27th, 1962.
The cold autumnal air wasn't exactly pleasant as it blasted through CC’s, admittedly, thin blazer. If she'd had the foresight to bring her overcoat on this excursion she'd have worn it, but it was a bit late for that now.
The bell jingled over the glass door of the flower shop and the attendant’s gaze snapped to meet her own from across the store. A look of recognition flitted over the woman's features after a brief moment.
“Oh, you're here for Mr. Sheffield's order, aren't you?”
CC grit her teeth together. “Yes.”
His fucking order for his fucking ex-secretary of a wife. The order she actually made under his name because he couldn't remember her favorite flowers for the life of him.
The woman shuffled towards the back wall behind her desk, where large bouquets stood proudly, waiting to be picked up by harried secretaries and assistants for their male bosses. CC was not Maxwell’s assistant, but once upon a time, years ago, she had been. And well, old habits die hard. So when he looked at CC expectantly when he got off the phone with Fran, CC simply knew to dig out the florist's card from her rolodex and dial the number.
“Here you go.” The woman said, after hefting the large bouquet over onto the checkout counter. “A dozen lilies with lavender mixed in.”
A ridiculous bouquet, if you asked CC. But she'd stumbled upon this combination of flowers accidentally when two overlapping orders came through for Fran that she'd forgotten she'd made. The mishmash of bouquets had somehow left the other woman absolutely breathless– and for some reason that image had been seared into CC’s mind for the last two years.
“Great.” CC said, dropping a crisp twenty dollar bill onto the table. The florist blinked at the bill. “Keep the change.”
Sunday. October 28th, 1962.
The hand she had carded though Fran's hair tugged backwards, dislodging CC from Fran's lips. She eyed the woman in question, trying to understand what exactly was happening– but, of course, came up empty. CC couldn't quite parse the expression on Fran's face and a bolt of fear passed through her.
Was this some kind of set up–?
But Fran's hand reached upwards to cup her cheek, and fuck, CC couldn't do anything except lean into the scant affection. Like she was some sort of dog at Fran's beck and call.
Fran's thumb brushed against her lower lip, her eyes focused with an intense singularity on the way the red lipstick she'd left behind coated her thumb. The very same woman who flinched away from CC if their elbows so much as touched at the breakfast table.
Lips found her own again, Fran's warm body urging her backwards, backwards, backwards, and crashing against the very vase of flowers that CC had brought to the house just yesterday morning.
Saturday. October 27th, 1962.
Before CC’s knuckles could touch down on the wood to knock a second time, the door swung open. She shifted the large vase of flowers in her arms and blinked at Fran.
“Oh– it's you.” Fran wrung her hands anxiously, “Miss Babcock. I wasn't–” She brushed a wayward strand of her usually meticulously styled updo from her face, “I wasn't expecting you.”
CC cleared her throat lightly, “Sorry I didn't ring you. I picked these–” She bit down on her tongue, not wanting to reveal that it had been her doing that these flowers were here, “Maxwell had me pick these up before I went into the theater for the day.”
“Oh,” Fran sighed more than uttered, seeming besotted suddenly at the sight of the flowers in CC’s arms. “He remembered the arrangement I liked.”
“Right. Yes–” CC had been smiling tightly, but froze at the sight of Fran's eyes meeting her own. A shimmer that had lit her expression died out as soon as CC’s terse words left her lips.
No, Maxwell hadn't remembered. Perhaps didn't even know.
CC stepped forward slightly when the silence stretched for a beat too long. “Here.” She offered the vase to Fran, who shook her head.
“Could you, uh,” The woman dabbed the corner of her eye with the back of her wrist, “Put that on the table right by the door?”
Nodding, CC immediately acquiesced. Averted her gaze from Fran's slight bleeding of emotion. Her tears. She gently placed the large vase on the table, straightening it in order to give Fran a moment to compose herself.
Normally, she didn't give a damn– would have left the flowers on the ground between them as soon as Fran had sniffled. But there was something in the air. Something tense, something heavy.
CC didn't want to disturb it.
Sunday. October 28th, 1962.
They didn't make it to a bed– they didn't even make it ten feet from the closed front door. Fran's fingers had dug into CC’s back, clawed upwards into her hair, and refused to let go as soon as their lips touched once again.
It didn't matter that there was broken glass scattered on the floor, water seeping into the carpet just beyond the foyer steps. It didn't matter that the edge of Fran's dress soaked in that water up as soon as CC pushed her down onto the ground and settled atop of her.
What mattered was that their bodies were pressed together. That the garters in the way of CC gaining full access to what was under that pretty floral dress were completely out of the way.
She had torn the hose down Fran's legs; the fine silk of them tearing with nearly no effort. Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings of the complicated shapewear at Fran's bust, only to be pulled back beneath the damp hemline with a desperation that was only fit for the end of the world.
And when CC’s fingers brushed against the warmth at the juncture between Fran's thighs, the responding groan only made her burn further with need. Press her lips hungrily against the woman beneath her.
“-fuck–” Fran panted, nails digging into the wool of CC’s blazer.
With wild eyes, CC took in the sight of Fran beneath her. Her dress pulled down to her abdomen Her lipstick smudged across her face and down her neck to where CC had dragged her lips. Her mouth was open, panting, another groan released when CC managed to pry her fingers underneath the girdle Fran wore and into her undergarments.
“Oh my God–” Fran's voice was high and keening. A voice that normally irritated CC beyond a reasonable amount, struck her in the lower abdomen.
Her fingers pressed in before she could stop herself, the wet heat that was Fran surrounding her.
How did Maxwell continue living like this? Not touching this woman every moment he could. CC felt as though she had ascended some higher level of spirituality, despite her steadfast agnosticism.
Fucking Fran felt like she'd died and gone to heaven.
“Miss Babc– fuck–” Fran jolted when CC’s fingers curled inward, “God fucking–”
CC licked a stripe up Fran's neck– she couldn't stop herself from tasting the briny sweat that was gathering there even if she tried. Her breath puffed against the shell of Fran's ear as she bore down on her even harder, pressing another finger in. “CC– call me CC–”
Fran stiffened beneath her, spine shivering, hips stuttering as she came, “Fuck, fuck, fuck– CC–” She crushed their lips together, almost as if she couldn't help herself. And CC couldn't do anything except accept the passionate embrace.
It was too much– it was not enough. CC wanted more, needed more. She pulled the dress further down Fran’s body.
“CC– what–?” Fran said, before gasping when CC managed to finally unfasted the row of clips on the girder fastened across her hips.
“Fucking–” CC grunted, throwing the offending garment onto the wet ground, “Finally.” She ducked her head down, intent on settling her face between Fran's thighs, hissing suddenly when a sharp sting seared across the palm of her right hand.
“What–?” Fran sat upwards suddenly, “Oh, hell.” Her eyes widened when she saw the streak of blood form on CC’s palm and trail down her wrist.
“Do you–” CC pulled her sleeve up with her other hand, damp fingers and all, “Fuck– do you have a towel?”
“Y-yes.” Fran scrambled onto her feet, her knees scraping against much smaller pieces of glass as she stood.
“Be careful– Jesus.” CC huffed, watching as Fran winced.
“I'm trying.” Fran said, putting her hands on her hips.
CC swallowed, taking in the sight of Fran looking so utterly defiled– brassiere askew, make-up smudged, stockings ripped cleanly down her legs. Small pinpricks of blood were bubbling at the skin of her knees, much to CC’s horror. It looked like she'd been ravaged completely.
“What?” Fran snapped, after throwing a clean hand towel she'd gotten from the half-bath beneath the stairs. “You've been fuckin’ starin’ at me– what?”
The pale green of the towel stained a worrying red when CC pressed the terrycloth against the cut on her palm. “You–” She cleared her throat, “You look good.”
Fran blanched, seemingly not expecting those words to fall from CC’s lips. “I–?” Her brows furrowed as she looked down at her rumpled appearance. She barked out a laugh, “You're joking.”
CC flushed. Her embarrassment always slanted into an ugly anger when she was being made fun of. “Oh, fuck you.” She spat, standing from where she'd been hunched on the ground. The seat of her slacks had dampened with the spilled water of the broken vase. She kicked at one of the wilted lilies on the ground when it tangled with her leg as she stood.
“You're so fuckin’-” Fran let out a strangled scream. “Fuck me? Fuck me? I can't wait for the goddamn earth to blow up.” She rubbed a hand across her make-up smudged face. When her eyes became visible to CC again, she startled at the intensity of Fran's gaze.
“What?”
Fran blinked slowly, before she rolled her eyes lightly. Her lips upturned into a smile that she seemed to be directing at CC. “Are you done bleeding?”
CC glanced down at the wound on her hand, lifting the towel from her skin. Blood was still trickling slowly from the cut, but nowhere near as rapidly as when it first happened. “Almost.”
Fran turned back towards the half-bath, removing the last few articles of clothing as she did so, much to CC’s surprise.
“What are you doing–?” CC could feel a hot flush rise up her neck at the sight of Fran dropping her undergarments onto the floor.
Her head tilted to the side, as if in consideration. She laughed slightly, shaking her head in what seemed to be amusement. “I'm gonna bandage you up and then you're gonna finish fucking me like you were tryin’ to earlier.”
Monday. October 29th, 1962.
“You broke my yolk again, Niles– my god, what has gotten into you?” Maxwell huffed, fork and knife dropping onto the table in his unhappiness.
Niles, for his part, looked like he'd been dragged into work by a stray dog. His suit was askew, tie lopsided, hair completely ruffled. “Oh, nothing, sir. Nothing at all.” He simpered after a moment, breaking a new egg onto the searing hot pan with more force than necessary.
Maxwell turned to share a laugh with Fran, when with a suddenness, he'd noticed that she seemed similarly ragged. His brows rose high up his forehead. “Did you get into the same poisoned well as Niles, darling?”
Fran’s fork scraped against the fine china as she jolted upwards. Her gaze turned to meet his, “What?”
“You look tired.” Maxwell tried again after a moment.
“Oh,” Fran slumped forward in her seat, “Yeah. Didn't sleep too good.”
“Don't tell me you were afraid–”
The kitchen door flung open, interrupting Maxwell mid-sentence. He turned to glare at the intrusion, relaxing slightly when he saw that it was only CC. “Oh, Miss Babcock–”
Fran's knees hit the bottom of the table as if she were surprised to hear CC was there. Maxwell glanced at her in concern before turning back to look at his business partner.
“I thought we'd be meeting at the theater today.”
CC grimaced, “I forgot.” Her right hand slumped out of her trouser pocket, revealing a rather serious looking gauze wrapping around her palm.
“Good lord!” Maxwell stood up, “What the hell happened to your hand?”
CC looked down at the wrapping as if she were surprised it was there. “Oh.”
“Oh?” He echoed.
Maxwell watched as she swallowed before shifting from foot to foot, the leather of her soles creaking against the linoleum floor. “Cooking accident.”
“Since when do you cook?” Maxwell asked, feeling an odd sense of foreboding pressing on the back of his neck as CC avoided his gaze.
She shrugged one of her shoulders. “Trying something new.” CC’s body angled away from him and Fran as she slunk down into her usual seat at the end of the table.
“Right.” He swayed slightly, before slowly sitting down once again. His eyes automatically shifted to look at Fran, who seemed absolutely frozen in her seat. “Darling-?”
Fran stood up, chair clattering behind her. “I've got to– I'm gonna call my Ma.” She muttered, hand fluttering up to touch her sweat-dampened brow.
Maxwell's eyes took in the sight of his flustered wife, not quite understanding what it was that was happening until his eyes dropped down to her legs.
She had foregone her stockings.
And speckled on her knees were small cuts, ones that bore a striking similarity to the ones that dabbled just above the gauze that wrapped CC’s hand.
Monday. October 29th, 1962.
Immediately, as consciousness touched CC’s sleep riddled brain, she knew that something was off. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense that the lighting was different; coming in from her left side, rather than above her headboard, where the window was situated in her apartment. The smells that surrounded her were musky– some sort of combination of sex and a faint hint of men's aftershave.
Her eyes opened, and she realized that her cheek was pressed against what was normally Maxwell's pillow.
And in front of her, was the smooth, nude back of his fucking wife.
CC sat up with a jolt, the blanket that had been tucked up to her chin, falling down onto her thighs with the movement. Revealing that she too was just as naked as the woman in the bed.
“Fuck.” Wasn't the world supposed to end? Wasn't Russia supposed to bomb the hell out of the eastern seaboard before the sun rose? She wasn't supposed to wake up– deal with the fucking repercussions of fucking her business partner's wife in his own bed.
“CC?” Fran mumbled in her sleep, turning over and revealing her breasts, littered with bite marks, to the light of day. Fran yawned, “It's too early.” Her hands soothed against the naked skin of CC’s abdomen.
She was acting as if this was normal.
Like they woke up every morning, tangled together–
“You don't want me to leave?” CC said before she could stop herself.
Fran's eyes squinted open, brows furrowed as her focus adjusted to the light. “Now, why would I want that?” She brushed a hair away from her face, “Maxwell and the kids aren't back until nine.”
CC glanced at the clock at the bedside table. “That's in three hours.”
“So,” Fran yawned again, stretching her arms over her head, revealing more of her naked body to CC’s wide eyes, “That gives us a good two hours before you should get home and change before coming back to have breakfast.”
“You've really thought this through, haven't you?” CC leaned back against the headboard with a sigh. She'd honestly expected to be thrown out on the curb as soon as Fran opened her eyes.
“As if you haven't.” Fran laughed lightly. “Showing up at the door like that.”
CC flushed, “I forgot my briefcase!”
“Uh huh.” Fran said, rolling over and situating herself atop of CC, legs bracketing her thighs as she straddled her. “You forgot your briefcase and had to go and fuck me about it.”
“Jesus– Fran–”
“C’mon. Humor me.” She bent forwards, her lips hovering right beside CC’s ear. “How good are you at acting?”
CC turned to look at Fran in surprise, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I wanna see if he can put two and two together.”
“You want Maxwell to find out?” CC spluttered.
Fran's hand skimmed up her shoulder to cup the back of her neck as she smiled serenely at CC. “Sure I do. The end of the world puts a lot of shit into perspective.”