Chapter Text
That chowderhead Lincoln just can't see it without some bozo makeover.
The two of them sat in uncharacteristic silence. JFK shifted every so often, avoiding looking in her direction, while she mulled over his words.
Hearing that put so plainly, well it was obvious, she knew Abe had suddenly paid more attention to her after her "makeover" and she knew why but-
It hurt to think about what that meant. She didn't really, truly, think he was that shallow- or didn't want to admit it. Gandhi wouldn't say it to her face and she wouldn't let herself accept that Abe would never be the guy she wanted him to be. But JFK... he was at least honest.
"I, er uh, guess we both got screwed over by the guy." He says, voice soft in a way she's still getting used to. It's so much different than the voice he puts on in public, and it commands her attention. She turns to see the frown on his face, his eyes averted. Right, him and Cleo . It feels like that happened decades ago.
"Yeah."
She lets out a bitter laugh.
Suppose he's right, though it took her a long time to realize he cared about her for more than her body, cared about her just like she cared about Abe. If... in a deeply dysfunctional and misogynistic way that was definitely unhealthy. But still. Regardless, It wasn't her place to judge unhealthy relationships given she had wasted years of her life on a man who cared so little about her. A man who hurt her again and again, because she let him. Who was fucking someone else right now.
The reality of it had finally sunk in and the clarity was jarring.
She feels his eyes on her at the same time she feels a warm tear slip down her face, then another.
He immediately scoots closer and awkwardly puts a hand on her shoulder,
"I'm sorry, I uh ain't great at saying the right things." He sounds so odd when he says it, and she realizes its because this is the first time he's ever sounded remorseful.
She wipes at her eyes in annoyance. She's not even sure if she's crying over Abe, or over the cruel irony that JFK of all people was fulfilling the one thing she always wanted- someone that honestly liked the real her. Probably both. Teenage emotions be damned.
"No, you-," she pauses to sigh, "-you know just what to say." His eyebrows go from knitted with concern to slightly quirked.
He extends an arm in a silet invitation and shifts so she can tuck herself against him with little effort. And she accepts it without thinking. How he makes room for her to bury her head in the crook of his neck makes something finally click together in her mind like a puzzle peice.
"Thank you."
He stiffens, then relaxes, and puts a hand at the small of her back.
There's another long pause. All they can hear is eachothers breaths, crickets and the faraway music and chatter of prom. The night air is cool and a sudden gust of wind sends her skin breaking out in goosebumps. When he feels the resulting shiver he envelops her tighter. His broad chest is warm and he's wearing cologne that surprisingly isn't overbearing or repulsive like she'd expected.
She can feel his heart thumping in his chest and she swears its fast.
He's not so bad after all.
This is not even vaguely how she planned the night going but somehow it feels right . After spending so long pining for someone and imagining and aching, this was something uncharted and new. Freeing.
"I can take you home now, if you want," he leans back to look her in the eyes and give her a lopsided smile, "put an end to this shitty night?"
She's oddly disappointed there isn't an ounce of suggestiveness in his voice. For once. Only after he'd been pursuing her for weeks does she finally allow herself to consider it, for a moment. And that's enough.
"Kennedy." She says softly and his eyes go wide. "What I want is for you to kiss me."
"But I, er uh, you -?" he splutters incoherently for a moment while Joan, just to drive the point home, swings a leg over and maneuvers herself until she's straddling his lap and inches away from his face.
The high-pitched, strangled noise he makes in reply is nothing short of endearing.
She brings a hand up to cup one of his cheeks and lets her thumb graze against his jawline. His eyes dart from hers, to her lips, and back again as if he's not quite sure if she’s being serious.
But it's ultimately him who lurches forward and captures her lips in a kiss. One that's soft and hesitant, maybe because he really doesn't feel like getting slapped in the face again. Or because he's been thinking of this moment for weeks, and now that it's happening he's not sure what to do with himself.
All her muscles go lax with something like relief. She returns it with urgency, and the way he smirks against her lips sends a bolt of warmth right into the pit of her stomach. It wasn't full of the practiced skill or eagerness she'd expected, it was sweet and careful and it didn’t feel like he'd done this hundreds of times.
His hands shake as he pulls her hips closer to his, but he wouldn't ever acknowledge it.
When they both pull back to catch their breath, his pupils are blown wide and he's got the stupidest triumphant grin on his face.
"I got-" she pauses to snicker and wipe a finger against the corner of his mouth in a vain attempt to remove a splotch of maroon there, "-lipstick on you." But she only ends up smudging it more.
That only makes his grin grow wider.
"Hot."