All Wet
By Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com

Fandom: Pre-RENT (movie)
Pairing/characters: Joanne/Maureen, Joanne/Other
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Joanne Jefferson's defined, in control life is turned upside down when she comes across one Maureen Johnson.

--

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"I'll get you sick," she warned, a soft, delicate croak, eyelid fluttering with exhaustion, minutes after Maureen had crawled into the bed, settling her head against the pillow.

"So I'll get sick," Maureen answered matter-of-factly, and scooted closer, until they were curled toward each other, one hand entangled, forehead tilting, eyes closed.

--

Joanne's fever broke in the middle of the night. The irony that it happened so soon after her spirit had been broken was not lost on a woozy Joanne, who, even in her sickly state, would later ponder on the significance.

When the darkness from her window began to lighten into morning, and the sounds from outside changed from birds chirping to the heavy sound of traffic, Joanne's attention was only on Maureen.

Despite the aches of her body, the chills that ran rampant, just before she broke out in sweat, she could only concentrate on the dark curls that fell across the angular face, the expression on the sleeping woman. Maureen wasn't smiling, but the corners of her mouth were turned up, and the intense hardness that she had seen on her earlier at her performance space was gone in the favor of something else.

Maureen actually looked peaceful. And exhausted.

It was a curious revelation, to look upon the striking features and realize that whatever trauma had been inflicted on Joanne because of all this, had hit her lover just as hard. Maureen slept like the dead, and her hand had reached forward during the night and wrapped around Joanne's bicep, as if to somehow keep her from leaving.

Joanne shifted on the bed, falling into her back, and almost immediately, her wayward lover crept forward, until her cheek was resting on her shoulder, her nose buried into her throat, settling herself in unconscious sleep. It was unexpectedly tender, and Joanne fingertips slid delicately over Maureen's shoulder, soothing.

--

An hour later, she had come to a decision.

"I have to go to work," she said, in a gravely and rough tone, as the figure beside her stirred, allowing her to pull her captive hand away from her lover and massage it back to life with a series of painful tingles.

Maureen's curls were flattened slightly from her long nap, and the big green eyes that had captivated Joanne before were no less intoxicating, as she curled into the pillow and stared at her, processing the sentence.

"You're sick," Maureen reminded her, flat and even.

Joanne wasn't the cheesy type, but the momentary awareness of her own feelings had her suddenly smiling, reaching over to tug on a slightly smushed curl. "Actually I don't think I've ever felt better."

Maureen made a face, teasing, before turning her head and hiding her expression into the pillow. "God," Joanne heard, a pretend irritated mumble. "That's mushy."

"You might have to get used to it, honeybear." The casual endearment threw even her, and she blinked at the slip, before Maureen's mouth curled into a veiled smile, and she shook her head, letting it go. "I need to go to work," she repeated, her voice a little more firm, more clear, the old Joanne rushing back to the surface. "And face what I need to. Fix it."

Maureen shifted her body, spilling onto her back, so at home on Joanne's bed that the mere act made her ache just a little bit. "Fix what?"

Joanne smiled wryly. "For a neat nick, I've left myself quite a mess to clean up, Maureen. My firm has probably lost one of it's biggest clients. I've thrown the case, and probably lost my job. But I'm not afraid to go in and face that. Not anymore."

Head tilting at an odd angle, Maureen studied her, the expression in her eyes deep and mysterious. Joanne waited a second, then another, before Maureen pushed to her elbows, and regarded her evenly. "You know, there are times when I really don't think I'll ever get you."

Joanne considered that, and felt a small smile tug at the corners of her lips. "And others?" she prompted.

Maureen shrugged, and stared up at the ceiling, as if pondering the very question herself. "And other times I feel like I've never known any one better. You're weird, Joanne. You're the weirdest person I've ever met." Chin jutting in her direction, Maureen's perfectly arched brow lifted into her forehead. "But God help me, I am fucking crazy about you."

And suddenly Joanne was flattened, barreled over by the other woman, on her back and pinned underneath a warm, supple body.

"You're well enough to work," Maureen breathed, "You're well enough to make love to me". And then lips descended hotly, possessively over hers. Maureen was dominating and unforgiving, and Joanne succumbed immediately, eyes closing and tongue plunging into Maureen's mouth, shuddering at the sensation.

Before the words sunk in and fingers tangled into Maureen's curls. Shivering, Joanne pulled on the thick mane, blinking away the haze of lust to stare in astonishment at the panting woman above her.

"What?" Maureen asked, green eyes darting.

"Did you just say 'make love'?" Joanne reiterated, and Maureen blinked, the phrasing sinking in, her lover's mouth opening and then closing like a fish.

"I... shut up."

The unexpected joy, coupled with her own amusement at Maureen's obvious befuddlement, caused a rip of laughter, as Joanne once again pulled Maureen lower, and whispered gently, "I love you," before sinking into the velvety lips.

A sigh against her mouth, and Maureen seemed to liquefy, plastering against her body, arms wrapping tightly around her. "Say that again.," Maureen begged, in an dark, desperate voice, that reminded Joanne all too well how hard she had tried to deny the feelings.

Slipping fingers underneath a sweaty shirt, eyes closed, reveling in the complicated wonder that was her lover, Joanne mumbled the words against Maureen's mouth, aware that for the first time in her life, she had the faith she could say it forever to this woman and mean it.

--

When the elevator opened, Joanne took a moment for herself: to straighten her shoulders, inhale deeply, and remember who she was.

Her fingers closed around her briefcase, and standing there, staring into the corridor that would lead her to her office and ultimately, decide the fate of her career, Joanne's uncertainty came back to haunt her.

Her whole life, Joanne had defined herself by her actions: her categories. She was a lawyer. She was black. She was gay. If she wasn't a lawyer, exactly who was she?

She began to tremble, and she closed her eyes, breathing in sharply, determined to pass her nerves off as remnants of her cold.

She was the woman who had somehow made Maureen love her. Beautiful, intoxicating, maddening, insane Maureen, who had come into her life and disrupted everything about it, and made her come alive.

At the end of all things, was Maureen, and in that, was a life outside her work, a cause, outside her work.

Pushing away the lump of emotion with a harsh swallow, Joanne stepped into the hallway, determined to reclaim her poise and her life.

--

Mr. Finch's movements were deliberate and overblown. The file folder clapped open with a sharp twang that pierced through the uncomfortable silence, and his forehead seemed permanently wrinkled, as he clicked and clacked his Mont Blanc, tapping the end on the file that may have held her whole livelihood.

Joanne cleared her throat, an effort to quench her own nerves, as she crossed her legs and let her hands settle on top of her knees.

Removing his old fashioned spectacles, Mr. Finch finally stopped the heavy handed intimidating, settling for a long glare and a dramatic sigh.

"I know why I'm here," Joanne said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence with her own interruption, straightening and looking at him.

Fingers knitted together, Mr. Finch settled into his chair, brow arching almost ridiculously into his head. "Do you?"

"I made a mistake," she answered quickly. "I'll be frank, I made several." The frown on her boss' face only deepened. "But I still stand by my former client's wishes. Hector Suddelson did not want this taken to court. In that, he was firm, and had I allowed it go any further, the case would have been a severe detriment to this company, and a public relations disaster."

"How so?"

"He would have ended this one way or another. Getting in the middle of a familial power struggle aside, Antonia Suddelson was doing this for her own purposes, not her brother's. With that kind of miscommunication, it would only been a matter of time before Hector would have taken this into his own hands. At the very least, he trusted me to handle it before the situation could escalate further."

Mr. Finch looked away, reaching for a large cup of lukewarm coffee and raising it to his lips. An audible gulp later, he set it back down, and once again began to shake his head. "And you slept with this woman?"

A flicker of embarrassment colored her face a faint blush. "Yes, I did. It was a mistake. A bad one."

The older man fiddled with his glasses, pushing back on the arms of his plush leather chair and staring her down hard. "Jefferson, that was probably the main reason I convinced the partners to keep from firing you."

The statement was so far out of left field, Joanne could only respond with an imitation of a gaping fish.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

Reaching into the file folder, he pulled out a legal document. "Your lawyer has dutifully informed that, that if in fact you're fired for sleeping with a woman, it could be interpreted as an act against your sexual preference, and grounds for a suit."

"My lawyer?" Joanne repeated, suddenly befuddled.

"Mmmm," he responded, staring down at the paper as if it were covered in worms, "A woman by the name of Cindy Waters?" Joanne's eyes widened and he harrumphed in reaction. "Sound familiar?"

Her mouth opened, and then closed again. "Mr. Finch-"

"It was the excuse I gave them, and I'm glad for it." Bringing down the paper, Mr. Finch leaned over the desk. "Joanne, if I had to fire every employee of mine who slept with a client, I wouldn't have a roster left. Nicky alone has three sexual harassment lawsuits filed against him."

Joanne's smile was muted, as she lowered her head and sucked in her breath. "Honestly sir, it doesn't surprise me."

"It shouldn't," he responded, voice still stern. But the anger behind it was fading fast, and Mr. Finch seemed to deflate. "Quite, frankly, Jefferson, you're a damned good lawyer. And you seem to be in it for the right reasons. The firm needs lawyers like Nicky, but we need lawyers like you. It certainly helps our image."

It was a surprising turn of events, and not quite up to her usual sharpness, Joanne was completely thrown.

"Mr. Finch""

"It doesn't excuse what happened. The firm has to set an example, and the partners want it to be made clear that you're not to head the higher profile cases around here." Joanne lowered her head, an appropriate response. Closing her eyes for a moment, she wondered if it was altogether appropriate, the relief that had flushed over her now. "I'm sure you're crushed," Finch added dryly.

Joanne's head lifted. "No, sir-"

"Unfortunately, Hector Suddelson has also made clear that you were indeed acting in his interests, and despite the fact it is his sister writing the check, the case is his to drop. You're allowed one fuck up, Jefferson. But just one. Do you understand me?"

"I do, sir."

A moment of quiet, and then Mr. Finch shook his head, letting the pen tip from his hand and roll onto the desk. "I suppose it would be too much to ask to keep this lesbian thing to yourself?"

"It just might be," she responded, oddly unoffended.

He made an odd sort of choking sound in his throat, before he shrugged and swiveled in his chair. "Your father wouldn't have either," he said. "Truthfully, I don't respect people who don't stand up for what they believe in." He stared at the desk, thinking the statement through, and then said, "I know a lesbian."

"Good for you," she stuttered, because she could think of no other way to respond to the statement.

"Her name's Nicole. She's a nice one. Works in Finance. You need a good woman, Joanne. One that will settle you. Like my Nikki."

It took nearly all of Joanne's composure not to burst out into inappropriate laughter.

--

Stepping out of Frederick Finch's office, Joanne's heels sunk into the lush carpet of the office floor, fingers flexing over her briefcase distractedly. The entire situation was just beginning to sink in, and Joanne still found herself dazed, unsure how it had somehow seemed to have knit itself back together, repaired on it's own while she lay sick and broken in her own bed.

Joanne didn't believe in luck, and she had a harder time believing in fate, but she wasn't one to question good fortune, as she took a moment once she rounded the corner to rest her dizzy body against the corridor wall, close her eyes and breathe out slowly.

Her life remained precariously, oddly intact.

It was enough to make her uncharacteristically giddy, and true to form, the discipline in Joanne warned her against losing control. There were things to consider. While her job was secure, her reputation had taken quite the dive. Now was the time for treading water. Playing it safe.

It wasn't the time to dwell on the woman she knew was still in her apartment, the enigma that had somehow landed in Joanne's life and wormed her way into her soul.

She had Maureen. Joanne clenched her teeth and shook her head slowly, the idea beginning to permeate itself deeper. She had Maureen.

Now that she had her, what the hell was she supposed to do with her?

There was so much to discuss, and Joanne, not used to having question marks blotting her life, didn't know the answers. She didn't know if Maureen was living with her, or how the hell they were going to get Maureen's wardrobe over if she was. She barely knew Maureen's last name, and hell, she didn't even know what the hell Maureen did when she wasn't being an over-the-top performance artist.

Lifting her head, she dug trepidly into her pocket and pulled out 'the brick', as she had decided to term the odd mechanical device that Steve had given to her. Flipping it open, she studied it staring at the digits that obediently lit up in anticipation.

Her heart hammering oddly, she began to punch in her home number, holding the phone to her ear as she began to make her way to her office. The line was fuzzy, but it was her machine that picked up, her voice that greeted her, and Joanne slowed, overtaken by the mere idea that it wasn't enough anymore.

"Maureen," she said haltingly, after the machine beeped and the recording had played, "It's Joanne."

She wasn't aware that she was holding her breath until the phone clicked and she heard Maureen's voice. Her eyes closed and her shoulders slumped, insides fragile as spun glass, as Maureen greeted her with a simple, "Are you fired?"

Pressing her lips together, flushed and suddenly happier than she had ever been, Joanne straightened. "No. I'm not fired."

"Yay. Score one for the lesbians."

Joanne grinned to herself, head shaking in morose agreement. "That's not exactly what it means."

"Whatever, you still have a job. Come home and let's celebrate."

She let out a disbelieving chuckle, suddenly exasperated that for a second, the possibility was entirely too feasible. "Honey, considering my less than stellar track record the last month and a half, I think it might be asking a little too much to skip out of the office merely an hour after I've gotten here."

She could almost see the disappointed pout on her lover's face. "You know I'd make it up to you."

Closing her eyes at the connotation, Joanne repressed a delirious shudders. "Save it for tonight. I promise, I'll make it up to you."

"Deal."

The smile on her face faded when a figure rose from the chair beside Steve's desk. Hector Suddelson looked pale and sick, in grey slacks and a white t-shirt, like a faded copy of the vibrant original.

"Baby, I gotta go," she said into her phone, and didn't give Maureen time to protest. "I'll see you tonight."

"Joanne."

"I have to work," she said, firm but gentle, as Hector's lids lowered and fingers slid into his pockets. "I love you."

It was enough to appease Maureen, at least for the moment, and Joanne, snapped closed her cell phone quickly, before her lover could continue the argument.

"Hi."

Hector face was curiously closed. "Hi." Hands shoved into his jeans, he looked younger than before eyeing her with a flat expression. "Was that Maureen?"

It wasn't the name, but the way he said it - with a coldness that told her he had been told the story of Maureen's place in her life. The judgment in his eyes wasn't undeserved, and Joanne smiled grimly, ignoring Steve's blatant stare from his desk to tilt her head to her office. "Yes, it was. Come in," she added, ready to take him into his office, work this out.

"No thanks." Hector's bangs shook and he reached up, threading into them with his fingers to push them out of his eyes. "I have to get going. I just"" Stepping forward, his adam's apple bobbed up and down, and he rubbed at his chest, as if he was experiencing pain. "I want to let you know everything was okay now. I worked it out with Antonia."

She couldn't say much to that – it was a final statement, her chapter and involvement in their saga had come to a close. "I'm glad."

"Yeah." Nodding in automatic reaction, he began an awkward shuffle. "We're starting a foundation. Dedicated to AIDS awareness in the gay community. Gives her a cause, you know?"

The enormity of the idea wasn't lost on her, and her eyes instantly began to stink. "That's" that's amazing, Hector."

His smile didn't match his eyes, as he crossed his arms, and shrugged. "Despite all this" I don't think I've ever seen someone screw up so badly and still be quite as" kind as you." Joanne's mouth twitched, and a ragged breath escaped her. "I guess, none of us are perfect."

"No," she agreed. "But we love and we live, despite that. Because of it."

The smile that flashed on the handsome features was genuine, and Joanne's own heart ached with genuine longing, for her friend, lost and found.

"Thanks," he said, and he moved forward on his loafers, as she let him pass, eyes fluttering closed in hidden emotion as he squeezed on her shoulder, as much affection as he would allow.

Joanne turned, eyes moist as she watched him go, memorizing him, knowing she would never forget.

--

"Only you," mused Megan. The pretty brunette's eyes were wide and her smile was demure, but the satisfaction on her face was very real. Sitting back in her comfortable chair, she twirled the straw in her water delicately, blazer shrugged off and looking the picture of a beautiful young socialite. "I don't know how on earth these things happen to you."

Swallowing around the sore lump in her throat with a grimace, Joanne shivered into her coat and held her tea to her nose, nostrils flaring at the acrid smell. "This has never happened to me," she corrected her, and shuddered at the bitter taste. "This tea is horrible. It's like I'm drinking stewed weeds."

"Drink it," Megan ordered, and when Joanne arched a defiant brow, her friend only glared. "It wasn't me that told you to go running around the middle of the frigid city in the pouring rain to go and find an insane Bohemian actress. Who I'm sure is perfectly lovely," she added, when Joanne's mouth twitched.

"She's not lovely," Joanne said, because it wasn't the word she could use to describe Maureen. Maureen was magnetic, and insane and driven and aggressive and timid and fragile and yes, she was hauntingly beautiful, but lovely? Lovely was too gentle a word to pin down a maelstrom like the woman in her bed.

Megan looked perplexed, but true to form, didn't pry. Instead, her friend simply shrugged, placing her water down on the napkin provided, hands folding into her lap primly. "So what happens now?"

"What do you mean?" Joanne asked, even if she knew exactly what Megan was hedging at.

"You're a woman of action, Joanne," Megan reminded her, as if it was her patron duty. Joanne sighed, concentrating on the horrible smell of Megan's prescribed tea, the liquid seeping down her throat and warming her insides. "And she's left him for you. So what happens now?"

"I don't know," she admitted, because it was true. Her eyes lifted and she held the soft brown eyes with an even, unapologetic gaze. "I don't know what happens now. She's still the same girl. She's the girl who seduced my girlfriend to prove a point. She's the girl who flirted with the bartender at my mother's party, and I still don't know what the hell she does for a living." Megan's lips curved downward, almost amused. "But you know what? It doesn't matter. For once, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with her, and that's okay. I love her. That's all I need to know."

"Well, heaven's to betsy, the grinch grew a heart." The statement made her hitch in her breath, features freezing in exaggerated exasperation as Cindy dropped her purse into the vacant seat, unwrapping her scarf from around her neck and studying Joanne from below her expensive sunglasses. "If you start spouting love sonnets and poetry or burst out into song, we're not friends anymore."

Megan's face betrayed a quick smile, and Joanne couldn't fight her own loving bemusement as she waited for her friend to settle into her seat.

"So you're my lawyer, huh?"

Folding her glasses carefully, Cindy arched an eyebrow. "You think you could do better?"

It had been an intense week, and Joanne exhaled slowly, unsure what to think as she stared at her beautiful friend who she had never quite loved like she deserved.

With a smile, she shook her head gently, and reached forward to gently curl her hand on top of her friends. Pressing a gentle kiss atop the knuckle, she was genuinely sincere when she replied, "No, I really don't think I could."

Cindy stared at her in startled silence, until she blinked and jerked her hand out of her grasp. "Shut up and drink your tea," she said, shuddering. "You're freaking me out."

Megan snorted into her water, and Joanne closed her eyes and shook her head. "I love you too, baby."

--

In an attempt at discretion, Joanne had arrived at Hector's funeral and not made herself known. She slipped into the back of the church, and listened with a grim expression as the preacher went on and on about Hector's life and subsequent death being a lesson in moral ethics.

The life lesson given by the preacher in that condescending tone, while her beautiful friend lay so close, eyes closed, pale faced and rosy cheeked, was enough to disgust her into leaving, push her way out of the hall and into the cold, trenchcoat wrapped around her, breath misting in puffs.

The gardens around her were beautiful in a sterile way, and it didn't seem to fit somehow, that Hector's vibrant life would end so quietly, in suffocating silence.

Doors pushing open behind caused a sudden rush of heat, and glancing at the exiting intruder, Joanne was surprised to look upon the frustrated expression of a hazel eyed woman, the dead man's twin.

Already fussing with a long, thin cigarette, Antonia was nearly startled into dropping it, gaze locked on Joanne like a misguided missile.

"Hi," Joanne said, civil and tired, when Antonia didn't move.

Stiffly, her former lover let out an estranged sigh. "Hi."

Joanne nodded, not kindly, not meanly, but politely, before turning her attention back to the stone sculptures that marked the gravestones of the people rich enough to afford them. Splotches of white on a green landscape. When Antonia stepped up beside her, Joanne didn't move.

"Couldn't stand it either, could you?" Antonia said, voice quiet and low. When Joanne glanced at her, she held up the tiny little death stick. "Do you mind?" When she shook her head minutely, the other woman pulled out an expensive looking lighter, inserting the cigarette between her lips. "It was weird," she continued, although Joanne had yet to respond. "While Father McNamara kept talking, all I thought about was that life support meeting and what you said."

Joanne's mouth quirked.

"You don't remember?" Antonia asked, in response to Joanne's questioning expression,voice husky from the cold and the smoke, the smell of burning tobacco permeating the cool, crisp air. "It's about living with the disease," she repeated, like a script. "Not dying from it." Joanne glanced at the stairs. "They should be in there celebrating his life," Antonia finished, dropping the half smoked cigarette to the floor and stomping on it, actual disdain dripping into her tone. "Not condemning it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Joanne asked. It wasn't said in a hostile manner, and eyes catching her own, Antonia didn't seem to take offense. The beautiful face merely broke into a sad smile.

"Because you're the only one who understands." Brunette curls were constricted tightly in a conservative bun, and it occurred to Joanne that she looked" older. "Maybe it was because I met you when it first happened" but there was an experience that was shared that no one else can comprehend. You saw Hector for who he was, you didn't just see his disease."

"Stereotypes and prejudice can only take you so far," Joanne answered, a beat later. "I learned that the hard way."

There was a moment of silence, as if Antonia was letting that sink in, before she turned toward her, attention completely on Joanne and not the scenery around them. "How's Maureen?"

The question was so out of the blue Joanne was almost stunned, eyes widening and then narrowing, until she looked deep into Antonia's face and saw nothing but sadness, as if Antonia was so overwhelmed with grief she had no room for petty emotion.

"Maureen's fine," she said, carefully. "She sends her condolonces."

"I bet," came the bitter answer, and as Joanne blinked, Antonia winced, shuddering as if she were trying to shake her mood. "Sorry."

"You're entitled to still be angry," Joanne answered stiffly, ignoring the jolt up her own spine, a painful reminder of the delicate intricacies of the situation.

"I'm not, though." Hazel eyes locked with her own. "Look, what I did was wrong." Joanne hitched in her breath, glanced away, not wanting to dwell on the situation. "It didn't make what you did anymore right, but" I was too hurt to really see things clearly-"

"I'm not here to talk about that, Antonia," she cut in, sharp and to the point. "I'm here to pay my respects to your brother."

That, it seemed, was enough to ground her ex-lover. With a shiver, she turned away from Joanne, and buried herself further in her expensive black coat.

"Good luck with your foundation," Joanne said, and nodded her head, stepping away from Antonia. "And my condolences."

"Joanne." Pausing, Joanne tried to maintain her composure, turning to study the other woman. Antonia wore a grim smile. "For what it's worth, thank you for your loyalty to my brother. I didn't need it as much as he did."

Choked up on emotion and memories, Joanne simply stared, before she offered a soft, gentle smile. It was all she could give, and for Antonia, it finally seemed to be enough.

--

Coming home to her lover, Joanne had been overwhelmed with a bout of romantiscm. She had purchased a box of chocolates and a dozen red roses, and while she was sure Maureen would arch a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at both and call the tokens almost too sentimental, they still made Joanne grin as she carried them.

It was a odd feeling: euphoric and careful, a sort of disconnected disbelief that this was really how it had all turned out, that a woman who she had been disgusted with at first glance was now the woman who owned her soul.

Still, she wore a smile, ignoring the remnant tickle at the back of her throat that came from her sickness, and opened the door to her apartment, expecting loud music, the smell of food, the overwhelming presence of Maureen.

Silence is what greeted her, and in the desolate darkness, Joanne's high spirits took a decidedly devastating turn.

"Maureen?"

No answer, and Joanne hand fell, flowers crinkling in her palm as she searched the apartment, looking for a clue, a note, any sign that her lover had not changed her mind, running scared like before.

She stepped further into the apartment, the tightness in her chest nearly unbearable, until something caught her eye that nearly took her breath away.

The glimmer of the light from her bedroom was faint, but it was enough to move her in that direction. Joanne's footsteps were light, and heart in her throat, she opened the door slowly.

In her bed was a lump of blankets, sprouting a curtain of brown curls.

"Maureen?"

Slowly, the lump moved, until Joanne caught sight of a miserable, pale face.

"I'm sick," came the raspy tone, and Joanne's relief immediately slid into guilty sympathy, as the roses and chocolates came down, and she settled into the bed, one hand reaching for her lover.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry."

"You got me sick," Maureen sniffled, eyes shut as she nuzzled into Joanne's thigh. "I missed work and I missed acting class and I've been snuffly and runny and sweaty."

"I know"" Palm against the fevered forehead, Joanne sighed raggedly, attention on the beautiful mess below her. "I'll take care of you."

"You better"" Maureen cradled her thigh like a child, almost desperate. In that quiet, intimate moment, she seemed delicate, fragile, not at all the wanton mistress first impression had so blatantly presented. "Joanne?"

"Yeah, honeybear."

"I'm a singing telegram girl." Joanne blinked, the words not registering until one eye opened and focused blearily on her. "That's what I do."

Joanne's finger stilled. "You mean, you go to offices dressed like a rabbit and sing?"

"Not a rabbit," Maureen sniffled indignantly. "Well, once a rabbit once. Only on Easter. You think it's stupid, don't you?"

"No," Joanne said immediately. "No, I don't. I think it's perfect."

She received an odd look in return, but Maureen shifted, and Joanne obediently lay down beside her, lovingly caressing Maureen's hot cheek as her lover moaned grumpily.

"What am I going to do with you?" she wondered out loud, as the figure, long torso and strong arms, shapely defined legs, curled into her own body.

She wasn't sure she'd ever figure out the answer.

She had a lifetime to try.

- end chapter