uninvited (succession | marcia/shiv)

[fiachairecht]

uninvited. succession, marcia/shiv. on the plane, closer to the beginning. 503w, rated t. for cleo in femflash february 2020.

Marcia becomes an inevitability on the jet the same way she became a part of the household: silently, and with alarming speed. Sometimes Shiv doesn't even figure out she's there til they're well past cruising altitude — just looks up and suddenly Marcia's sitting in the chair across from her, wanders through the galley in search of more coffee and almost trips over her, standing there with tea and a small collection of fancy French flavour syrups that Shiv wants to smash over her feet.

"You know," she says, one of the first times — one of those days when Marcia's face is still a little bit open, like she thinks affection can be bought with affection. "I almost wonder what you did to buy your place up here."

Marcia's mask flickers, just the smallest bit, but her hands remain steady as she fixes the kettle. "Really, Siobhan," she says. "I may not be your mother, but I am your father's wife."

And, Jesus, Shiv's never hated her more than she has in that moment, because there's no way the woman could possibly be that stupid. "And? I'm his daughter. You think that automatically got me on the family plane?"

Marcia's silent for just long enough to tell Shiv that yeah, she absolutely did believe that Logan Roy's children were just as much fixtures on his plane as they were in his speeches, his photos, whatever else he needed to prove to the watching world, or maybe just to himself, that they were a family.

"Yeah," Shiv says. Forces the words out past the memory of dinnertime debates and interview prep. "I don't care if you earned it on your knees or with your wallet, but don't pretend you're better than me."

Marcia's eyebrows climb, and Shiv can't fucking read her expression but she knows she wants to slap it off her face. Kiss it off. Fuck it off. Whatever. "Are you calling me a slut?"

Shiv crowds forward a little further into her space, trails a finger across the neckline of her blouse towards her cleavage and is gratified to see Marcia's gaze follow her. "Are you denying it?"

She's fucked plenty of peoples' girlfriends, kissed nearly as many peoples' wives. She's not sure whether she wants Marcia to give her an excuse to add to that number, and that too makes her angry.

"I thought you were smart enough that you wouldn't feel the need to say it."

And that tone, that one she doesn't need any help reading: disappointment, like she's heard from so many people who matter more. "Guess you'll just have to live with that."

But Marcia doesn't say anything when Shiv steals a kiss, hard and close-lipped and with their noses bumping together not close enough to the edge of pain to be fun. When Shiv pulls back, Marcia's mask is there again, impenetrable.

Maybe she's made a fool of herself. As she grabs a wine bottle and heads back to the couches, she can't bring herself to care.