A/N: Credit where credit is due: the original plot idea belongs to Lara, and I just couldn't keep my hands off. When I read "Russian Roulette", I was amazed for two reasons: it is bloody amazing, and even though it is the same story, and even uses many similar lines, the mood and the tone are totally different. So here we go; same story, same beginning, similar outcome, different way of getting there.

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In the end, she decided to blame it all on the vodka.

As the hour got later, the guests had left one after another, and somehow the shot glasses had reappeared.

The Presidential ice had broken somewhere around the third dance, and now only the two Leaders, a few senior members of their staffs and the band remained.
The Russian First Lady had tried to get her husband home when he had made moves to do a Russian folklore dance of some sorts, but he had only looked at her in indignation, slapping Mac on the shoulder in a boozing-mate kind of way, exclaiming that "the American girl needed to learn how to celebrate properly", and that only a Russian and a few more shots could teach her this vital skill. Sighing in frustration and silently preparing the earful the staff was going to get for letting either one of them get so drunk, she left.

About an hour later, Mac, who could no longer deny feeling a little woozy, pointed out that everyone else seemed to have left. "Actually, Dimitri, I think I should go home as well." A soft giggle escaped her. "Loyalty, that's what this staff lacks. To just leave when the party is about to get started!"

"Allow me to walk you home. It's a shame that a woman like you is not used to Russian vodka."

And so they had walked out onto the south lawn towards the Rose Garden, deciding that a bit of fresh air was just the thing.
Mac felt the cool night air blow the befuddlement away, leaving her with a not unpleasant sense of surrealism. Her feet seemed to be floating several inches above the ground, and her voice seemed somewhere far off as she laughed at Dimitri telling jokes in Russian. She didn't get a word of it, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It was just the two of them, their newfound comradeship, and the feeling that something was actually right in this world. Even the traffic had died down at this time of the night.

"So, wanna come inside for a cup of coffee?" She had no idea where that had come from, seeing as they were now standing directly in front of the Oval, and there definitely was no coffee in there. Not as long a Vince wasn't around.

"Sure."

Their conversation stopped as they stepped inside the room, suddenly conscious of where they were again. Mac headed for the little group of sofas, she didn't want her desk to get in the way of the relaxed, friendly mood. They let themselves plop down unceremoniously like teenagers, and she couldn't help giggling again as she heard the delicate piece of furniture almost scream in protest. He joined her just for the sake of laughing, and together they laughed until the tears were coming from their eyes, for no real reason at all.

"No coffee at this time of the day, I'm afraid", Mac finally wheezed.

Dimitri was gasping for air just as much as she was. "May … may I tell you something?"

She nodded, still fighting off the last waves of giddiness.

"Wearing that dress tonight was a mistake. A serious mistake."

Mac frowned. "And why would that be, Dimitri? Do you mean to tell me that blue isn't my colour?"

"No. I mean to tell you that by tomorrow every person in Washington that is worth talking to will know that the Russian President has a shoulder fetish." And he leaned forward and brushed her shoulders with his lips, drawing a slow, warm line to her neck and up to her ear.

Had it been any other time, or in fact any other place, she would have stopped him. But she didn't. It was not real enough, sitting in the most powerful office of the world, with the leader of a country so much bigger than the USA letting his hands wander where the whim might take them. It was a dream, a game, a play, a scene out of someone else's life. And she silently watched it unfold.

They did not kiss. Their kisses belonged to someone else, this was not about love. It was not about passion either. There were no sparks flying, no ragged breath, no excuse of blindly following ancient animal instincts.

He insisted that she kept her gloves on, and the fabric created cool traces as she ran her hand over his chest, the warmth of him reaching her hand only seconds after she had touched him.

Neither of them spoke. It would have given the act an unwelcome sense of reality. In the distance, they could hear a police siren howl.

It ended as unspectacularly as it had begun. At some point he felt her shudder, and when it was over they just remained still, waiting for the time to pass again.

After a while, he heard her whisper and leaned closer to understand.

"Don't think you're gonna get away with this . When I come to Moscow, I'll bring some decent whisky."