Fandom: politician RPF
Pairing: Hillary Clinton/Barack Obama
Word count: 946
Summary: They don't talk politics when they're alone together like this, because they do enough of it in front of the cameras, arguing until their voices are rubbed raw, but it seeps in, at the edges.
Disclaimer: I made this all up. It's really, really fake.
Notes: I think I'll blame fandomsecrets, zulu, and leiascully for this. In that order. zulu gets extra blame for also poking at it and making it better
.Before the South Carolina Democratic debate, she shakes his hand. It's a familiar motion. They've done it many times before. His hand is firm and warm in hers, his smile wide and earnest in a way she might even believe.
"Senator Clinton," he says, polite as always.
"Senator Obama," she says back with a nod of her head, letting her fingers linger a moment longer than necessary.
They meet again, after the debate, just the two of them, their respective campaigns waiting outside the door.
She's still smarting from Iowa, but she's comfortable enough with New Hampshire and Nevada that she figures it doesn't hurt to acknowledge him as a rival, someone who could challenge her in this race.
They make some small talk, and it's surprising, the way he can sound just as openly honest here as he does out there, even as she knows how precisely calculated it is.
"How's Bill?" he asks, just more small talk, but something shifts in his expression, something unreadable.
"Back in New York at the moment," she says. "He can't take the stress of a presidential campaign."
That gets a chuckle out of him, and he reaches out, holds her hand, the touch shockingly intimate. His hands are bigger than hers, the fingers long and slender. Bill has thicker fingers, though they're just as long, and he likes to squeeze her hands just this side of too tight when he's tense.
"Michelle's been busy, too," Barack says, tightening his hand around hers. It's not a threat, she realizes. It's an offer.
She decides to take him up on it, because she wants to, because he's handsome and willing, because campaigning takes so much out of her that it's nice to have the release.
It's not exactly a regular thing, mostly because they're almost never in the same place at the same time, but when they are, they usually end up together in someone's hotel room.
She likes the way he kisses her, gentle, almost sweet, likes the way likes the way he laughs when she licks his belly button, from somewhere deep in his chest, likes the way he gasps her name as he comes.
He never lets down his guard when they're together, but that makes sense, because she doesn't either.
He wins a clean victory in South Carolina, and the next time she sees him, the crowd of their campaigns swarming around them, she says, "Congratulations."
"Thank you," he says, and she knows they're both just waiting for Super Tuesday.
"What about Bill?" he asks her, once, a hand drifting over her breastbone, her shoulder, as she pushes him back against the soft hotel bed.
"Bill doesn't care," she says, because he really wouldn't, even if he knew.
The hand drifts down her back, over her shoulder blades. His expression is quiet, thoughtful. "I'd always wondered why you stayed with him, after the scandal."
She wants to say that she's not stupid, that she knows her husband well enough to know his vices, but she unbuttons his shirt instead, smoothing a hand across his bare chest. "What about Michelle?" she asks, waiting for his reaction.
He kisses her without answering her question.
Super Tuesday has them all tense and waiting, her in her headquarters, him in his.
After the results come in, she calls him up. "Congratulations on your wins, Senator Obama," she says.
"And yours, Senator Clinton," he says back, his voice tiny and far away, still flush with victory.
After she hangs up, she starts planning for her next moves, her next strategy. Losing is not an option.
They don't talk politics when they're alone together like this, because they do enough of it in front of the cameras, arguing until their voices are rubbed raw, but it seeps in, at the edges.
After Virginia, she take her frustrations out on his body, biting at his neck, his shoulders, where no one will see, fingers digging into his skin. He lets her, doesn't ask her about it, but there's an edge to the smile she can't quite wipe off his face.
It only eggs her on.
She keeps losing, and they say she doesn't have a chance.
Then she makes a comeback with Ohio and Texas and Rhode Island, and it's like the most perfect 'fuck you' ever invented.
He looks so young sometimes, even though she knows he's really not. He's older than she was, that first time Bill ran for president, older than Bill was, even.
He looks like that now, spread out on the hotel bed, his skin dark against the cream-colored sheets. He watches her get dressed, and the question is there in his eyes before he speaks.
"How far are you going to take this?" he finally says. She can hear the deliberate way he chooses his words, and the lawyer in her can respect his skill in it. It's true he's in the lead. It's true that she needs to win by large margins, that she needs to sway more superdelegates to her side.
"How far would you take it," she says, buttoning up her blouse, "if you were in my position?"
To his credit, he considers it for a moment before the barest hint of a smile crosses his face. "All the way," he says. "I'd take it all the way."
"I think you have your answer, then," she says, pulling on her shoes.
"Fair enough," he says. "I'll see you in April, then, Senator Clinton."
She acknowledges him with a nod of her head. "Until then, Senator Obama."
She kisses him on the cheek, before she leaves.