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Story Notes:
Not my characters. Just a little drabble about one of my favorite characters at the moment. 




Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


He knew if it was going to happen, it would happen in her office. Lately they’ve been meeting there after hours—going over last minute changes to the new issue when the offices are empty and quiet. It affects them somehow—switches off their instinct to resent one another and lulls them into a quiet truce. The work is what matters then—the bitching and sniping can wait until morning.

He’s started to notice how dark the circles under her eyes have gotten (her concealer long since faced by that time of night) and the tired way she speaks to him. He isn’t sure if it’s the baby or something else but he doesn’t ask because it’s not what they do. Instead he asks if she wants take-out (which she doesn’t) or if she’s thirsty (which she usually is) or whether she thinks the cover works this time (her concepts yes—his probably not). She answers easily—growing more comfortable as the night wears on. By the end he’s forgotten why he hates her. By morning, she’s done something else that reminds him he still does.

It happened when he’d forgotten again—had relaxed into a slight buzz from the beer they’d shared along with a taco salad he was shocked to see her eat. She’d just gotten back from Florida and was unusually quiet—barely responding when he suggested an equestrian theme for July. After she inhaled the chips and beans, slathered with some cheese product she’d have flushed down the toilet the day before—the curiosity got the better of him and he asked if there was something wrong.

She hesitated which he’d expected. He’d broken their unspoken rule. There was no getting around that question—it reeked of things they’d carefully avoided before (compassion, interest, friendship) but he let it stand—holding her eyes until she looked away. Then it all came tumbling out---her feelings for Conner, her manipulation of his schedule—the attempted seduction and his humiliating rejection. Her jaw became tighter as she spoke and he watched her nails scrape the skin of her bare knee. She’d probably regret telling him in the morning—and truthfully he’d probably regret asking. But right now all he could think about were her nails how much her knee probably hurt.

He reached out and grabbed her hand.

He made his own confession—his feelings for Molly and how he hated himself for having them. How lonely he’d felt since the thing with Renee and how much it scared him to be so wrong about someone he thought he loved. By then end they were both so depressed he called and had another bottle of wine delivered—the good stuff this time, as a reward for surviving their pathetic love lives. It was a dry merlot that stained their lips and was gone in less than half an hour. She asked if he was tipsy and he said no, but truthfully wasn’t sure. He couldn’t stop thinking about her in that hotel room—leaning in to kiss his friend and the strength it must have taken Conner to pull away. Then he was jealous—wondering why she’d never tried it with him.

"Why Conner—why not me?"

The words were out before his brain could comprehend them. He put his glass down—the wine suddenly too bitter. Wilhelmina touched her hair and stared at him so intently he had the urge to move away.

"Well," she said. "I just—never thought of you that way."

She was placating him ---it was irritating.

"Why not?" He moved towards her, sliding his arm across the back of the couch. He noticed the shift of her body—the flicker of something across her face. Now she was the one on edge.

"Well you’re not really my type Daniel."

"And Conner is?"

"Yes, he is."

"Oh come on. You don’t really buy into all that do you? There’s no such thing as a type---you can’t help who you fall for." She shifted again and he was aware of how close she was. The couch was warm where his arm lay---inches from her shoulder.

"You actually believe that?" Her voice rose with the question.

"You don’t?"

"No." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I don’t wait for things to happen to me, I make them happen. I fell for Conner because he’s strong, capable and driven---like me. You chose Molly because she’s bland, needy and doe eyed like you." She shrugged. "No irresistible force there---just two people choosing to go after what they want." She lifted one eyebrow. "Or doing nothing in your case."

"You really think I’m bland?"

"Yes." She shook her head. "But I’m sure it’s just side effect of faux-fatherhood so don’t beat yourself up about it."

She was back to her usual self—poking at his ego as much as she could. But the wine was doing his thing and it made him reckless instead of angry. "You don’t know me like you think you do Wilhelmina."

"I knew you’d respond with some vague, tired cliché, so maybe we should agree to disagree Daniel."

"What if I kissed you," he said. "Right now." There it was—the thing that had been building inside him for weeks. It was cathartic to put it out there—watch the shock freeze her expression for a moment.

"You won’t," she said. The shock slipped away and she shrugged. "You may want to but you won’t."

He leaned forward, intent on proving her wrong. He wanted to kiss her—had wanted to for longer than he cared to admit. But a few inches from her lips something stopped him. It all came back---the shit she pulled, her affair with his father, the way she’d pushed him out of MODE more times than he could count. He leaned back and let it wash over him, the familiar loathing more comfortable than the lust that gripped him minutes before.

She smirked when he moved away and shook her head with a soft tsk. "Daniel," she said. "Just accept who you are. You like your life simple---everything in easy categories—bitches on the right and ingénues on the left. And there’s nothing wrong with that." Her fingers scraped absently on the couch cushion—a small distance from his leg. He stared at the red tips—wondering how they’d feel on his back. "It’s actually kind of—"she tilted her head, her eyes falling to his lips. "Sweet."

She moved as though she were about to stand but placed both hand on either side of his body and leaned to press her lips against his. He was too stunned to kiss her back at first—but was pulled into the moment when her tongue slid across his bottom lip. He gripped her waist and deepened the kiss, sucking the remnants of wine from her lips before exploring further. She moved her hand up his thigh to rest at his belt—teasing him with the possibility she’d explore further.

She leaned back and smiled. "Unfortunately, I don’t like easy," she said. Her fingers snaked to the left—inches away from his erection. "So like I said---you’re not my type." She removed her hand and stood up. "Too bad," she sighed. Wilhelmina turned towards the door, lifting the corner of her mouth in a small smile. "That kiss made me horney as hell."

She left him there without looking back.

The next day she calls him an idiot and rejects his equestrian theme as a prepubescent yuppie wet dream. He waits for the familiar loathing but it never comes. It’s too predictable. He’d rather get over it all—throw out the categories and be the man he thought he was before that night. And next time----when it’s the work that matters and they’re back to that quiet truce—he wants to prove her wrong.

The End










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