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Jan. 12th, 2005 11:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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multifandom1000 posted a songfic challenge last week, and the day that it went up, I heard a certain song on the radio and I remembered how I always loved the first line of the song... the notion for the following swiftly followed. It's not a songfic, as that's the only lyric I used, so I've not posted it at the community, which means you all get to suffer it here!
Title: Would You Dance?
Fandom: West Wing
Pairing: Will/Donna
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Very brief for events in Faith Based Initiative
Will starts with surprise when the napkin he’s scribbling on is yanked unceremoniously from the table, but he’s not a bit surprised when he looks up to see who is now holding it. Donna’s eyes sparkle with amusement, but her mouth is set in a firm line, and he knows if he looks down, he’ll see that she’s tapping her foot. “Stop working Will,” she commands, crumpling up the napkin into a ball, and he sighs with frustration.
“We have a big speech on Thursday-” he begins, and Donna rolls her eyes as she sits down beside him.
“Which is already locked,” she reminds him, dropping into the chair beside his, putting a bottle of beer down on the table in front of him. “So put it away, have a drink and enjoy the party.”
Will does as he’s told, because seven years of working with Josh Lyman have instilled in Donna the ability to have grown men following her slightest command, sighing as he does so in an effort to let her know that he’s not entirely happy about it. “I don’t know why you insisted we come here,” he mutters, looking across the bar at their entire campaign staff, all of whom are laughing, talking, in some cases dancing.
“Because,” Donna tells him, a touch of impatience entering her tone. “It’s Scott’s birthday… and everyone’s been working hard and need to let off a little steam.”
“Scott’s twenty-one,” Will tells her flatly. “So are the rest of them. I feel like a chaperone at a high school dance.”
“It’s good that you’re here.” Donna tries again, but he’s still not buying it. “You’re showing good leadership, making everyone feel equal and important…”
“Right.” He raises the bottle to his lips, takes a long swallow, but the alcohol doesn’t do a think to make him feel any more comfortable. Then he looks over at Donna, sees a strange kind of smile playing about her lips, and he knows that something’s not right here. “What aren’t you telling me?” he demands.
Donna looks at him, then out at the rest of the party, then back to him again. “That you’re more in need of this party than anyone else on the campaign,” she says, and there’s not a hint of humour in her face. “I mean, no offence, but have you looked at you lately?”
In point of fact, Will has looked in the mirror recently, and he knows exactly what he looks like; gaunt, pallid, with dark circles under his eyes, he’s definitely feeling the strain of running his first national campaign. “I didn’t know it was that obvious,” he says, and she laughs, shaking her head in clear astonishment.
“Which is why the Vice-President took me aside to make sure you came tonight,” she says, not unkindly, and Will’s jaw drops in surprise. He’s trying to formulate an appropriate response to that when Donna bites her lip, looks heavenward. “I’m not so sure I was supposed to tell you that.”
“Is everyone in on it?” Will wonders, because nothing would surprise him where Donna is concerned, especially not after hearing that.
“No… just me.” Donna lays down her drink on the table then, but Will holds his, fingers picking idly at the label, even as he doesn’t take his eyes away from Donna’s face. “Which means that when Cassie came up to ask you to dance? That was all her.”
She’s teasing him, and a dull flush of red makes its way up his cheeks, because his former intern, now a staffer on the campaign, had been more than a little insistent. “I didn’t think it was the best image,” he says, looking down, because he remembers the sidelong glances and hushed whispers from a couple of years ago, the remarks about the “Boiler Room Girls” and the importance of appearances.
“Because she’s younger than you are.”
“Partly.”
“And because you’re her boss.”
“Definitely.” He sounds confident, but suddenly, Will gets the feeling that he’s missed something, because there’s something different about the way she’s looking at him, about the look in her eyes.
“But you’re not my boss,” she says, and now he knows he’s definitely missing something, because she tilts her head, gives him a hesitant half-smile that he’s only ever seen on Donna’s face once before – standing in a snowy Washington street on Inauguration Day, when she was listening to Josh talk her into going to a ball.
“No,” he says slowly, just as slowly putting his bottle of beer on the table. “No, I’m not your boss.”
“So…” Donna draws the word out, as if she’s making up her mind, and that notion is further supported when her next words are preceded by a deep intake of breath. “Would you dance… if I asked you to dance?”
Will smiles, stands up and holds out a hand to her. “I would.”
Donna’s hand is warm as it slips into his, and she lets him lead her out onto the dance floor, where there is more than one curious look in their direction, but more than one smile and nod as well. And as one dance turns into two, and two turns into three, he stops thinking about how things look, about the campaign and the speech and everything else except the woman he’s dancing with.
Because for the first time in a long time, he’s feeling, not thinking, and this feels good.
multifandom1000 posted a songfic challenge last week, and the day that it went up, I heard a certain song on the radio and I remembered how I always loved the first line of the song... the notion for the following swiftly followed. It's not a songfic, as that's the only lyric I used, so I've not posted it at the community, which means you all get to suffer it here!Title: Would You Dance?
Fandom: West Wing
Pairing: Will/Donna
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Very brief for events in Faith Based Initiative
Will starts with surprise when the napkin he’s scribbling on is yanked unceremoniously from the table, but he’s not a bit surprised when he looks up to see who is now holding it. Donna’s eyes sparkle with amusement, but her mouth is set in a firm line, and he knows if he looks down, he’ll see that she’s tapping her foot. “Stop working Will,” she commands, crumpling up the napkin into a ball, and he sighs with frustration.
“We have a big speech on Thursday-” he begins, and Donna rolls her eyes as she sits down beside him.
“Which is already locked,” she reminds him, dropping into the chair beside his, putting a bottle of beer down on the table in front of him. “So put it away, have a drink and enjoy the party.”
Will does as he’s told, because seven years of working with Josh Lyman have instilled in Donna the ability to have grown men following her slightest command, sighing as he does so in an effort to let her know that he’s not entirely happy about it. “I don’t know why you insisted we come here,” he mutters, looking across the bar at their entire campaign staff, all of whom are laughing, talking, in some cases dancing.
“Because,” Donna tells him, a touch of impatience entering her tone. “It’s Scott’s birthday… and everyone’s been working hard and need to let off a little steam.”
“Scott’s twenty-one,” Will tells her flatly. “So are the rest of them. I feel like a chaperone at a high school dance.”
“It’s good that you’re here.” Donna tries again, but he’s still not buying it. “You’re showing good leadership, making everyone feel equal and important…”
“Right.” He raises the bottle to his lips, takes a long swallow, but the alcohol doesn’t do a think to make him feel any more comfortable. Then he looks over at Donna, sees a strange kind of smile playing about her lips, and he knows that something’s not right here. “What aren’t you telling me?” he demands.
Donna looks at him, then out at the rest of the party, then back to him again. “That you’re more in need of this party than anyone else on the campaign,” she says, and there’s not a hint of humour in her face. “I mean, no offence, but have you looked at you lately?”
In point of fact, Will has looked in the mirror recently, and he knows exactly what he looks like; gaunt, pallid, with dark circles under his eyes, he’s definitely feeling the strain of running his first national campaign. “I didn’t know it was that obvious,” he says, and she laughs, shaking her head in clear astonishment.
“Which is why the Vice-President took me aside to make sure you came tonight,” she says, not unkindly, and Will’s jaw drops in surprise. He’s trying to formulate an appropriate response to that when Donna bites her lip, looks heavenward. “I’m not so sure I was supposed to tell you that.”
“Is everyone in on it?” Will wonders, because nothing would surprise him where Donna is concerned, especially not after hearing that.
“No… just me.” Donna lays down her drink on the table then, but Will holds his, fingers picking idly at the label, even as he doesn’t take his eyes away from Donna’s face. “Which means that when Cassie came up to ask you to dance? That was all her.”
She’s teasing him, and a dull flush of red makes its way up his cheeks, because his former intern, now a staffer on the campaign, had been more than a little insistent. “I didn’t think it was the best image,” he says, looking down, because he remembers the sidelong glances and hushed whispers from a couple of years ago, the remarks about the “Boiler Room Girls” and the importance of appearances.
“Because she’s younger than you are.”
“Partly.”
“And because you’re her boss.”
“Definitely.” He sounds confident, but suddenly, Will gets the feeling that he’s missed something, because there’s something different about the way she’s looking at him, about the look in her eyes.
“But you’re not my boss,” she says, and now he knows he’s definitely missing something, because she tilts her head, gives him a hesitant half-smile that he’s only ever seen on Donna’s face once before – standing in a snowy Washington street on Inauguration Day, when she was listening to Josh talk her into going to a ball.
“No,” he says slowly, just as slowly putting his bottle of beer on the table. “No, I’m not your boss.”
“So…” Donna draws the word out, as if she’s making up her mind, and that notion is further supported when her next words are preceded by a deep intake of breath. “Would you dance… if I asked you to dance?”
Will smiles, stands up and holds out a hand to her. “I would.”
Donna’s hand is warm as it slips into his, and she lets him lead her out onto the dance floor, where there is more than one curious look in their direction, but more than one smile and nod as well. And as one dance turns into two, and two turns into three, he stops thinking about how things look, about the campaign and the speech and everything else except the woman he’s dancing with.
Because for the first time in a long time, he’s feeling, not thinking, and this feels good.
