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She says “my turn” and no one knows what’s coming next, no one knows whether she’ll wreak as much havoc as her husband had, no one knows if she’ll pardon him, no one knows if this war against ICO will lead to her destruction or someone else’s. What she doesn’t know, she realises, is exactly what Jane Davis wants. She doesn’t know if she just wants to be close to the president, if she wants to integrate herself into her team, doesn’t know what “I like you” means. The country keeps on and so does she, and Francis barely gets a look in, Doug is gone, LeAnn is dead, Seth is on standby, Cathy is still healing. Her team is entirely new, the people that she surrounds herself with unknowns, and Jane warns her but she still wants to hide, to make everything her own, to not let anyone in. She says it’s up to her, whether she feels it or not, whether Jane is the person that she can trust, but she also sticks around, and it’s not that long before she stops reporting to Frank, before she makes herself indispensable, and Claire wonders how much of her haphazardness is an act, how much she knows that that makes her seem trustworthy. She wonders if she knows that her low position within the administration does the same, and if that’s why she would rather not be in her cabinet. She gets clearance for everything anyway, and it’s not even Claire that has to give it to her.
They have breakfast together now, sometimes, in that same kitchen where Jane had told Claire that she couldn’t do her job properly, because she liked her too much. Claire’s met many people who have said the same thing to her, or something along those lines, but none with the lack of agenda that she had had, and that made her question it, made her question what, exactly, Jane had meant. She doesn’t ask, because she’s not sure she needs to know, and Jane gets more and more competent as time goes on, gets more and more results regardless of however much Petrov tries to block them from any sort of action. They have breakfast, and they get interrupted by phone calls or secret service agents at least five times throughout, and then they end up attending several meetings together, and sometimes Claire smokes in the office during the day and Jane appears, steals it from her hand, monopolises it, and Claire always wants to light up another one but she doesn’t, because she never smokes a whole one, because that’s how she convinces herself that she’s still mostly given up.
She spends more time in the situation room, even more than Francis had, and the safe room downstairs gets a couple more uses too. She gets to hear from Jane how ugly the Hoover building is, gets to witness more of her quirks and passed more of her remedies, and she learns that her coffee truly is the best instant coffee that she’s ever had (sometimes she calls for Jane just so that she can steal one, and Jane’s started leaving sachets around her kitchen). She offers her an office in the White House, sure they can make space for her, and Jane turns her down, tells her with a smile that it would be a shame to waste the opportunity to take up space in the Oval. Claire laughs, smiles, and doesn’t say anything when Jane ends up working in there, papers spread across one of the sofas and drinks across the low table, her heels kicked underneath. She quietly listens as Jane takes phone calls in a variety of languages, and fights her curiosity about what, exactly, this woman wants.
“How many languages can you speak?” she asks, impulsively, one morning while Jane’s making them coffee and Claire’s glad she doesn’t even have to think about getting out the French press.
“A few,” she says modestly, smiling, as she sets down their mugs.
“How many is a few?”
“Well, I can manage pleasantries in at least ten,” she shrugs. “Mandarin and Arabic are my strongest, after English, of course.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard you answer the phone in English while you’ve been in the office.”
“I didn’t think you were paying attention while I was in the office,” Jane says, smiling just slightly, and Claire laughs.
“I’m not, usually.”
“Usually?”
“Sometimes I try to see if I can guess which language you’re speaking,” she admits, leaning forward, like she’s telling her a secret.
“Next time you should volunteer a guess,” Jane smiles.
She doesn’t guess, for long enough that Jane has almost entirely forgotten about that conversation, or at least Claire thinks she has.
“Russian?” she tries, eventually, because she’s sure, and she only ever guesses when she’s sure.
“You’re close; Polish.” Jane turns as she drops her phone back onto the table, and Claire sighs.
“I wouldn’t have expected Polish to have been the most helpful language.”
“Sometimes the most surprising ones are ones that you find you have in common with people. And I couldn’t really have the president eavesdropping on my call, could I?”
“But you can eavesdrop on the president?” she asks, eyebrow raising as Jane just laughs.
“Of course, why do you think I spend so much time here?”
“And here I was just thinking that you enjoyed my company.”
“There can be more than one reason,” Jane smirks and then Claire’s phone rings, and the look she gives her as she picks up is warning, chiding, almost, but it’s indulgent, fond, too.
She wonders if Jane would think any less of her if she knew about Tom, if she knew about Zoe, about Russo, and then she realises that that was her primary mistake with Tom, that she can get close to someone without telling them all of the things that she’s done to get to where she is. She also thinks that she doesn’t care, that it doesn’t matter, that Jane must have been involved in something too if she’d been willing to get on board, she thinks that Jane knows, that Jane believes that Frank has done the things he’s been accused of, and she thinks that that means that this, whatever it is, can continue. She thinks that she can let Jane see the ruthless side of her, the side that doesn’t smile for the cameras, the side that isn’t worried about things for humanitarian reasons. People see her as the more reasonable side of the Underwoods, even as they view her as cold and distant, she’s still smiling and not quite as evil as Francis, and she knows that that is not true, not anymore. People think that they can trust her and she knows that they are wrong, that she will even throw Francis under the bus for this, for the highest office in the land, for the power that she now wields.
The first time they have dinner together it’s in her office, while everyone in the situation room is taking a quick break to grab a sandwich and go for a cigarette, and it’s not any sort of personal affair. They sit at her desk and eat quickly, and they continue to talk about another crisis that Russia has engineered, another problem that they’re going to have to convince some other country to solve for them, and Jane takes another three phone calls, each one in a different language. The next three times they have dinner it happens like this, with papers strewn across her desk and their phones ringing and messages brought to them in that way that has never managed to be discreet.
The fourth time, it’s upstairs, at the small table in the kitchen where she once sat with Francis and Tom, where her and Jane have had breakfast dozens of times. It’s late, nearing 1am, and Claire thinks about how to ask if she wants to stay without it being… misconstrued. They get burgers and fries brought up from the kitchen, and Claire doesn’t think about going for a run immediately after. They’re mostly quiet, because it’s been a long day, and Claire thinks about how long it’s been since she just sat quietly with a person that she thinks she can almost trust, or something along those lines, and Jane thinks about much she’d like a drink. Claire pours them both a bourbon, and they don’t nurse them, don’t take their time, and when she’s on the dregs of her third she realises that maybe they should have taken it slow. Jane laughs when she doesn’t manage to stand up with as much poise as they’re both used to, and they both move to the sofa and try not to think about work in the morning, about the diplomatic crisis that will probably be waiting for them by the end of the day.
“What do you do for fun?” Jane asks, out of the blue, and it startles a laugh from Claire, who has to think for far too long.
“I run.”
“Running isn’t fun, try again,” Jane shakes her head and Claire rolls her eyes, smiling.
“I take long, too hot baths. Sometimes I turn my phone off for an hour.”
“We’re going to have to get you a hobby.”
“I don’t have time for a hobby,” she pauses, tilts her head to the side. “Don’t tell me you knit or something.”
“I also don’t have a hobby, but that’s because I actually turn my phone off for an entire night once a week, and that gets me through.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Exactly, so you need a hobby.”
“Francis built a miniature replica of one of the battles from the civil war,” she offers, and wonders if maybe it’s time to get into video games.
“It’s still in his study, isn’t it?” Jane asks, and Claire thinks that she shouldn’t know that, shouldn’t have been exploring without her permission.
“How did you know that?”
“I’m nosy,” she shrugs. “Like I know that you have cigarettes hidden in a variety of places and I wouldn’t mind one right now.”
Claire eyes her, mostly impassively, and then she gets up, retrieves two, and a lighter, from a box by the window. “I’m not sure I like that you’ve quite obviously been looking around places you shouldn’t have been.” She passes her one, lights it for her, and tries not to think about how intimate it feels, leaning forward with Jane’s hand around hers, holding the lighter steady, their eyes meeting.
“If you really minded I’m sure you would have told me to get out, or threatened to expose me on something that I’m sure you’ve managed to dig up.”
“Does that mean you have something to expose?” Claire asks, almost smiling, lighting her own cigarette, finding an ashtray before she sits back down next to Jane.
“Everyone has something to expose, especially when you’ve been alive and in office for as long as I have.”
“Did you cheat on a Math test in sixth grade?” Claire asks, and Jane laughs, a surprised laugh that is undeniably infectious, and Claire doesn’t think about the low, gravelly quality of her voice, the huskiness of her laugh. It’s a cliché, she knows, and she hates clichés.
“That’s it, that’s the one thing I was worried the public will find out about. Don’t worry, I’m not about to spill my deepest, darkest secrets to you, I’ll never know when you’ll offer them up instead of your own.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“And that is why we have an understanding,” Jane laughs, and pours them both another drink.
“To understandings,” Claire says, and they clink glasses, holding eye contact as they both take a prolonged sip. She thinks that this might be some kind of inevitable, this whatever it is with Jane, and that thought doesn’t worry her, merely makes her sit back, makes her want to draw out this tension for a little while longer, like she wants to see if she can make Jane squirm even though she knows she won’t, even though she knows she can match her play for play.
Jane finishes her drink, stands, and Claire is surprised to note that she doesn’t appear any kind of wobbly, doesn’t seem to have drank anything at all, but her gaze is different, is looser.
“I’m going to head home before you entice me into another drink and I sleep through an international crisis.”
“You can stay here if you’d like?” Claire offers, face impassive, and Jane gives her a look that is too warm for her intentions, but Claire refuses to blush, refuses to react.
“God no, I never sleep this close to where I work. There’s a car waiting for me downstairs, anyway.”
“I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning then,” she smiles, stands up to show her out, and Jane just waves her off.
“You don’t need to show me out, you need all of the sleep you can get.” She collects her things, smiles at Claire, one last look that Claire notices and files away, nods, murmurs “good night” and she’s gone, leaving Claire to put the glasses in the kitchen, even though someone else will put them in the dishwasher, will make sure they’re tidied away by the time she makes coffee in the morning. Leaves Claire alone with her staff and a bed that she had briefly thought she wouldn’t share with anyone else ever again.
There’s a dinner. It’s not a party, not quite, just some fancy thing in a hotel ballroom that will have some of the most powerful people in the US present, and Claire really doesn’t want to go by herself. She can, she will, but that doesn’t mean she’ll enjoy it. She got used to Francis always being present at events with her, got used to his ability to make small talk for days, got used to having someone by her side, on her side, at all times. So she does the logical thing; she asks Jane to accompany her, she asks Jane to actually attend something when she knew that she normally wouldn’t.
“I hate parties,” is all she says, at first, and Claire sighs.
“It would be a favour to me. I’ll owe you,” she almost laughs to herself at how much Francis would hate to hear her say that to anyone, but this is not the kind of favour that Jane can use to gain political acumen. It’s a personal favour, a friendly one, the kind that no one expects to be held against them.
“Owe me what?” Jane asks, and there’s a smile on her face already, and Claire thinks that she’s already decided what it’ll be.
“What do you want?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” she says, and Claire knows that she’s pretending to think, acting as though she doesn’t have something in mind.
“Well, you can collect any time. So long as you attend tonight, and don’t disappear on me before it’s time to leave.”
“You just ruined my plan,” Jane laughs, and Claire rolls her eyes.
“I know. It’s black tie, I hope you have something to wear.”
“I’ll be there, appropriately attired.”
Claire is fashionably late, because of course she should be the last to arrive, but Jane is even later, rolling up at least half an hour late, and she’s wearing a suit, which almost makes Claire drop her clutch. It’s so different from the loose skirts she’s used to her wearing around the office, straight leg with a white shirt and brogues instead of heels. It makes her even shorter next to Claire, and she almost smiles at that, almost laughs at how much she enjoys Jane having to look up at her.
“I’m thinking of rescinding my favour, considering how late you are,” is the first thing she says, after the customary air kisses and introductions, muttered against her ear so those that have gathered in a loose circle can’t hear.
“You didn’t say I had to be on time,” she just smiles, and disappears to get a drink, and Claire wishes that they’d spent most of the night complaining about everyone together but she flits about, barely staying still, not indulging in the political motions of schmoozing that seemed to make up so much of Claire’s job. Claire finds her at the bar on her way out, and they end up heading back to the White House together, a few drinks down at barely 10pm. They end up on the balcony, passing a cigarette back and forth, and Claire thinks that she should quit, again, reminding herself that it’ll kill her. She thinks that there’s a lot of other things that will kill her first, like Jane’s open collared white shirt and how her brogues click on the tile, like her throaty laugh and the way that she looks at Claire sometimes, when she thinks Claire isn’t looking. She pours them drinks, and they go back to the sofa they sat on last time, and Jane smiles.
“I like this,” she says, approving, pulling on the scarf part of Claire’s jumpsuit lightly.
“The suit was… unexpected.” Claire replies with a smile, sipping her drink.
“I didn’t have a dress ready,” she says, smiling. “We don’t all have a vast array of designer dresses hidden in our wardrobes.”
“Most of them aren’t in my wardrobe, my stylist drops them off,” Claire almost laughs at the look on Jane’s face, settles on a mostly neutral slight smile, settles on eye contact and her usual brand of few words.
“You sure are a piece of work, huh?” The way Jane says it is teasing, is somehow fond, and Claire shrugs, takes another sip of her drink to cover her smile.
“So are you. And you like that about me.”
“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you weren’t, and you like that about me too.”
Claire’s leaning forwards without realising, her shoes long discarded and her arm slung across the back of the sofa, Jane’s hair tickling the inside of her elbow, Jane’s knees pulled up so they’re facing each other, squashed in the middle of the sofa. Claire considers taking the glass from her and putting it on the table, so she can kiss her without worrying about the White House’s upholstery, but she wonders if Jane will make the first move, if she wants this as much as Claire thinks she does.
“I do like that about you,” she admits, voice soft and low, quiet like she’s telling a secret, knuckles white against her glass, like she’s trying to stop herself from reaching out, and Claire wishes that she wouldn’t stop herself, almost reaches out to unwrap her hands from around her glass. “I like that you’re every bit as ruthless as I am, that every word you say is thought out for maximum impact, that you’re prepared to do whatever it takes,” she pauses, and Claire, for the first time, finds that she wants to look away, wants to break eye contact first. Jane looks up into her eyes and she sees something that makes her reach up, up to cup her jaw, to slide her hand underneath her hair to the nape of her neck, pulling just slightly at her hair, smirking at the way that Claire half gasps. A phone rings and they ignore it, gazes locked, hanging, suspended in the moment, until Jane pulls again and Claire gasps loud enough that she can’t pretend it didn’t happen and Jane’s phone starts ringing and Claire’s starts vibrating on the table and one of her aides slides into the living room.
“You’re needed in the situation room, Madam President,” is all she says before she slides back out, and Jane’s hand is already gone, she’s already standing up, smoothing down the lapels of her suit jacket, pulling her phone from her pocket.
“I’m needed too,” she says, looking at Claire, who doesn’t meet her gaze for a moment but doesn’t blush either, not even when she finally looks up, standing as she scoops her phone up off the table, nodding at her.
“Are you coming to the situation room or are you needed elsewhere?”
“I have a few calls to make, but then I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you in there,” she says, and leads the way downstairs, and they don’t say anything else.
It takes them a week to resolve this Petrov created problem, and Claire doesn’t invite Jane to breakfast and Jane doesn’t invite herself or show up in the Oval and they don’t speak privately within that time. Claire, oddly, finds herself at somewhat of a loose end without Jane’s constant erratic presence, but she doesn’t want to break the silence, she wants to see if Jane will snap if she pretends like nothing happened for long enough. She wants Jane to storm into the office, to yell at her for ignoring her, but she doesn’t even send her a passive aggressive email, and she thinks that maybe Jane had just had more drinks that night than she’d realised, that she regretted what happened, and she’s disappointed, more disappointed than she’d expected to be.
Jane leans over, while they’re in the middle of a meeting with several people that are arguing amongst themselves while they watch.
“Are we gonna talk about the other night?”
“This is not the time or the place,” Claire almost hisses back, surprised, defensive.
“No I think we should talk about this now,” Jane replies, tone light and conversational, although she is at least appropriately quiet.
“We’re in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs, and you want to talk about this now?”
“Yes,” she doesn’t even look perturbed by Claire’s response, doesn’t look as though she much cares about the situation they’re in.
“Gentlemen,” Claire claps her hands together. “I’m so sorry but it looks like I double booked myself, so could we pick this up maybe tomorrow?”
They nod, and shuffle out, and she turns to Jane, stalks towards her, almost, but she doesn’t shrink, doesn’t even look slightly threatened, and Claire is glad, glad that she can still stand up to her. These days too many people bow to her will, and she misses the resistance, sometimes.
“You didn’t have to get rid of them, they weren’t going to stop talking amongst themselves for at least another ten minutes.”
“You wanted to talk about this, so talk,” she says, and crosses her arms, stopping just out of reach, ignoring that Jane is leaning on her desk, the Resolute desk, a desk that had a legacy that the two of them could only dream of.
“I think I’d like to get your opinion on it before I do,” she paused, looking down at her hand tracing the edge of the desk, not meeting Claire’s eyes. “Since I would be overstepping, and you are the president.”
“Now’s not the time for diplomatic negotiation, Jane,” her voice is curt and her gaze sharp, and now’s maybe not the time for it, for her shields to come crashing right back up, but it’s happening. Jane just raises her eyebrow, waits.
“Why didn’t you approach me sooner?”
“I thought that you would reach out. I was mistaken.”
Claire steps forward, slowly, steadily crowding her against the desk. “What did you want me to say? That I wanted you to pull my hair again? That I wanted you to kiss me?”
“That would have been a good start,” Jane says, composed, hands still flat on the desk, but Claire sees her swallow, sees her gaze flick down to her lips. “If that is what you want, I am happy to provide.”
“It is,” Claire all but whispers it, her gaze on Jane’s mouth and her arms still folded, until Jane reaches out, slips a hand around her hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there, Claire’s arms unfolding as she reaches up to bury her hand under her hair, against the heat of her neck, and she pulls her forward, pulls her down, kisses her fiercely, and Claire doesn’t know why she’s surprised, why she almost lets a noise escape the back of her throat. She throws herself into the kiss, arms circling her as she pushes her back against the desk, and Jane smiles against her lips.
“I should have stayed, that first night you offered,” Jane says, later, when Claire’s torn herself away because she has another meeting in less than five minutes, because she doesn’t want one of her aides to walk in and see them.
“But then you might not be able to say that you had your first kiss with the president in the Oval office.” Claire’s smiling, but it’s dangerous, somehow, as she wipes the sides of her mouth in an attempt to remove Jane’s darker colour of lipstick, as she fusses her hair back into place, her eyes shining and her gaze sharp.
“And what a shame that would be,” Jane says, tucking her shirt back into her skirt, her hands only shaking an infinitesimal amount, meeting Claire’s gaze.
“Dinner? Tonight?” Claire offers, and she’s nodding before she’s even finished, collecting her bag, carefully keeping out of reaching distance of Claire, knowing that if she doesn’t leave now they’ll both miss their next meetings.
“I look forward to it.”
Jane leaves her leaning against her own desk, in a mirror of her earlier position, hands pressed flat against the surface, until she snaps back into her usual impassive mode, until she picks up her briefing and buries herself in it, ignoring the way her mouth almost hurts from the force of her kiss.