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Sep. 18th, 2007 09:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helsinkibabyTitle: Comfort
Fandom: West Wing
Characters: Will/Kate
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Election Night and everything up to it.
Word count: 1417
Notes: I’ve had this in my head for months. After looking at season seven again I finally wrote it.
I look up, smiling gratefully as Will hands me a mug of hot chocolate. He grins when I have to extricate my hands, having pulled the cuffs down low over them, and the smile I give him in return is mostly embarrassed, but it turns into something else when I look down into the mug and see little marshmallows floating inside. He didn’t have marshmallows when we got here, went out specially to the all night store around the corner to get some, only because out of the pantheon of drink options he offered me, hot chocolate was the one to make me smile.
Before he left, he handed me one of his old sweatshirts to wear, and a pair of jogging bottoms. I’d never usually wear something like this in front of him – I’m not sure if we’re in a relationship, but whatever we’re in, it’s still in the full-make-up-and-good-underwear stage – but I almost snatched his hand off. Tonight, I need comfort clothes and comfort food, and these fit the bill nicely. They also smell like him, which I’m finding oddly comforting.
He sits down beside me, in the Will version of comfort clothes – no tie, shirt sleeves rolled up, stocking feet – and somehow that makes me feel even better. Funny, this should be the perfect romantic night – the two of us, roaring fire within, cold November without – but romance is the furthest thing from both of our minds.
Not with the election still too close to call and obituaries for Leo McGarry warring with polling data and expert opinion.
It’s been a weird day for us, starting with him talking nostalgically about California, continuing with me confessing – sort of – that I voted for Vinick.
But all of that was forgotten when we arrived separately at CJ’s office to find Margaret crying silently at her desk.
The rest of the day is a blur, until Will came to find me at one in the morning, all put dragging me into a cab, back to his place. Not that I put up much resistance; I was ready to get out of there, ready to forget. Or so I thought. Because once I got into that cab, I was reminded of another car, a lifetime ago and ninety miles away. Of too high heels and too black wig, and a secret deal that could never go through, and how I was under orders to go to any lengths – any lengths – to stop it.
Not that the CIA would ever confirm what exactly that meant, but I knew.
I was just thankful it hadn’t come to that, especially years later when I walked into the West Wing and came face to face with my past.
He didn’t recognise me, of course, and I pretended not to know him. Couldn’t pretend that I trusted him, not when I smelled booze every time I looked at him – memory’s a funny thing. But he’d changed, and if I didn’t know it for sure, I found out during the Camp David peace accords.
Cuba was a lifetime ago, for both of us.
But tonight, it’s all I can think about.
“Hey.” Will’s voice is quiet beside me. “Where are you?”
“Cuba.” The word is out before I can think about it, and when I look over at him, he’s looking at me curiously. I need to explain, but don’t know how to, because the truth isn’t an option, and I don’t know if a lie will do it this time. If the California conversation this morning proved anything, it’s that he knows me well, and isn’t afraid to press me if he thinks I’m hiding something. “Will…”
He hears the hesitation in my voice, and he smiles, with no malice or rancour behind it. I’m getting to know him pretty well too, and I know a genuine smile when I see one. “Don’t tell me,” he teases. “Classified.” I smile into my hot chocolate as he chuckles. “You’ve been quiet all night,” he continues. “Is it just general everything, or anything in particular?”
In what I recognise as a classic delaying tactic, I take a sip of my drink, closing my eyes as warmth slips down my throat. I don’t think I realised until now how cold I’ve been. “Does it ever bother you?” Once again, I’m talking without engaging my brain, but I can’t stop myself. The funny thing is, I can’t seem to bring myself to care about that tonight. “That there are parts of my life I can’t tell you anything about?”
He blinks, then frowns, staring hard at me. His lips form the words “Cuba,” as his head swivels towards the television screen. I can almost hear the pieces falling into place in his head, and when he looks back at me, there is an expression of amazement there. It vanishes as quickly as it arrived though, and I’m sure, in that instant, that that’s it for us. If he’s worked out that I met Leo in Cuba, if he suspects what could have – hell, would have – happened between us, he’ll never want to have anything to do with me again.
“Does it matter?”
Those are not the words I was expecting him to say, and it takes me a good half minute to process them, realise what he’s said. “What?” I hear myself say dumbly, and I want to kick myself. That’s hardly the kind of erudite, classy comment I want to hear myself make.
Smiling, he lays his mug of hot chocolate on the table, takes mine and places it beside it. “Does it matter?” he asks again, taking my hands in his. “Kate, we’ve all got things in our past that we can’t talk about, or won’t talk about… maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe all that matters is that we’re here now. Together. Maybe what’s happened isn’t as important as what’s going to happen.” He rolls his eyes, shakes his head a little. “I’m a speechwriter, you’d think I’d able to do better than this.”
“You’re doing fine,” I tell him, and I mean it. I’m feeling warmer again, and it’s nothing to do with the fire, or the hot chocolate.
“I don’t really care what you did before I knew you,” he tells me, and strangely enough, I believe him. “I can guess at some of it… but you were doing your job… what you had to do. That’s enough for me. And I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week or next month… but I know that this is good. We’re good. I know that. I think you know that.”
He pauses, and I find myself nodding. Weirdness earlier today notwithstanding, I like this man. Really like this man, in a way I haven’t let myself like anyone in way too long. I wasn’t looking for it, and I certainly didn’t expect it to happen as quickly as it did, but he’s right. Our first official date – I don’t count Ellie Bartlet’s wedding – was dinner in his office looking at the VP debate, and though I don’t often do it, I went home with him that night. And the next one, and the one after that. I’ve spent more time in this house in the last few weeks than I have at my own apartment, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I’ve enjoyed being with him, and it scares me a little, how used to it I am, how much I’d miss it.
“I do,” I say. “I do know that.”
“So maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe today… the election, Leo… it’s not the day to make any decisions. Maybe it’s enough to just be together.” He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Smiling, I lean towards him, brushing my lips across his. “Thank you,” I whisper, before standing up, holding out my hand. “Come on… take me to bed.”
He blinks, looks at the television. “Don’t you want to wait for the result?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “No.”
For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to argue, but then he takes my hand. “I’m feeling very tired all of a sudden…”
His eyes are twinkling, lips twitching, and I shrug, keeping my face perfectly straight. “I’m not,” I tell him, and enjoy the way his mouth opens slightly, the way his eyes grow wide.
Cuba and the past are suddenly the last things on my mind.
“Take me to bed Will,” I order.
And he does.
Fandom: West Wing
Characters: Will/Kate
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Election Night and everything up to it.
Word count: 1417
Notes: I’ve had this in my head for months. After looking at season seven again I finally wrote it.
I look up, smiling gratefully as Will hands me a mug of hot chocolate. He grins when I have to extricate my hands, having pulled the cuffs down low over them, and the smile I give him in return is mostly embarrassed, but it turns into something else when I look down into the mug and see little marshmallows floating inside. He didn’t have marshmallows when we got here, went out specially to the all night store around the corner to get some, only because out of the pantheon of drink options he offered me, hot chocolate was the one to make me smile.
Before he left, he handed me one of his old sweatshirts to wear, and a pair of jogging bottoms. I’d never usually wear something like this in front of him – I’m not sure if we’re in a relationship, but whatever we’re in, it’s still in the full-make-up-and-good-underwear stage – but I almost snatched his hand off. Tonight, I need comfort clothes and comfort food, and these fit the bill nicely. They also smell like him, which I’m finding oddly comforting.
He sits down beside me, in the Will version of comfort clothes – no tie, shirt sleeves rolled up, stocking feet – and somehow that makes me feel even better. Funny, this should be the perfect romantic night – the two of us, roaring fire within, cold November without – but romance is the furthest thing from both of our minds.
Not with the election still too close to call and obituaries for Leo McGarry warring with polling data and expert opinion.
It’s been a weird day for us, starting with him talking nostalgically about California, continuing with me confessing – sort of – that I voted for Vinick.
But all of that was forgotten when we arrived separately at CJ’s office to find Margaret crying silently at her desk.
The rest of the day is a blur, until Will came to find me at one in the morning, all put dragging me into a cab, back to his place. Not that I put up much resistance; I was ready to get out of there, ready to forget. Or so I thought. Because once I got into that cab, I was reminded of another car, a lifetime ago and ninety miles away. Of too high heels and too black wig, and a secret deal that could never go through, and how I was under orders to go to any lengths – any lengths – to stop it.
Not that the CIA would ever confirm what exactly that meant, but I knew.
I was just thankful it hadn’t come to that, especially years later when I walked into the West Wing and came face to face with my past.
He didn’t recognise me, of course, and I pretended not to know him. Couldn’t pretend that I trusted him, not when I smelled booze every time I looked at him – memory’s a funny thing. But he’d changed, and if I didn’t know it for sure, I found out during the Camp David peace accords.
Cuba was a lifetime ago, for both of us.
But tonight, it’s all I can think about.
“Hey.” Will’s voice is quiet beside me. “Where are you?”
“Cuba.” The word is out before I can think about it, and when I look over at him, he’s looking at me curiously. I need to explain, but don’t know how to, because the truth isn’t an option, and I don’t know if a lie will do it this time. If the California conversation this morning proved anything, it’s that he knows me well, and isn’t afraid to press me if he thinks I’m hiding something. “Will…”
He hears the hesitation in my voice, and he smiles, with no malice or rancour behind it. I’m getting to know him pretty well too, and I know a genuine smile when I see one. “Don’t tell me,” he teases. “Classified.” I smile into my hot chocolate as he chuckles. “You’ve been quiet all night,” he continues. “Is it just general everything, or anything in particular?”
In what I recognise as a classic delaying tactic, I take a sip of my drink, closing my eyes as warmth slips down my throat. I don’t think I realised until now how cold I’ve been. “Does it ever bother you?” Once again, I’m talking without engaging my brain, but I can’t stop myself. The funny thing is, I can’t seem to bring myself to care about that tonight. “That there are parts of my life I can’t tell you anything about?”
He blinks, then frowns, staring hard at me. His lips form the words “Cuba,” as his head swivels towards the television screen. I can almost hear the pieces falling into place in his head, and when he looks back at me, there is an expression of amazement there. It vanishes as quickly as it arrived though, and I’m sure, in that instant, that that’s it for us. If he’s worked out that I met Leo in Cuba, if he suspects what could have – hell, would have – happened between us, he’ll never want to have anything to do with me again.
“Does it matter?”
Those are not the words I was expecting him to say, and it takes me a good half minute to process them, realise what he’s said. “What?” I hear myself say dumbly, and I want to kick myself. That’s hardly the kind of erudite, classy comment I want to hear myself make.
Smiling, he lays his mug of hot chocolate on the table, takes mine and places it beside it. “Does it matter?” he asks again, taking my hands in his. “Kate, we’ve all got things in our past that we can’t talk about, or won’t talk about… maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe all that matters is that we’re here now. Together. Maybe what’s happened isn’t as important as what’s going to happen.” He rolls his eyes, shakes his head a little. “I’m a speechwriter, you’d think I’d able to do better than this.”
“You’re doing fine,” I tell him, and I mean it. I’m feeling warmer again, and it’s nothing to do with the fire, or the hot chocolate.
“I don’t really care what you did before I knew you,” he tells me, and strangely enough, I believe him. “I can guess at some of it… but you were doing your job… what you had to do. That’s enough for me. And I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week or next month… but I know that this is good. We’re good. I know that. I think you know that.”
He pauses, and I find myself nodding. Weirdness earlier today notwithstanding, I like this man. Really like this man, in a way I haven’t let myself like anyone in way too long. I wasn’t looking for it, and I certainly didn’t expect it to happen as quickly as it did, but he’s right. Our first official date – I don’t count Ellie Bartlet’s wedding – was dinner in his office looking at the VP debate, and though I don’t often do it, I went home with him that night. And the next one, and the one after that. I’ve spent more time in this house in the last few weeks than I have at my own apartment, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. I’ve enjoyed being with him, and it scares me a little, how used to it I am, how much I’d miss it.
“I do,” I say. “I do know that.”
“So maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe today… the election, Leo… it’s not the day to make any decisions. Maybe it’s enough to just be together.” He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Smiling, I lean towards him, brushing my lips across his. “Thank you,” I whisper, before standing up, holding out my hand. “Come on… take me to bed.”
He blinks, looks at the television. “Don’t you want to wait for the result?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “No.”
For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to argue, but then he takes my hand. “I’m feeling very tired all of a sudden…”
His eyes are twinkling, lips twitching, and I shrug, keeping my face perfectly straight. “I’m not,” I tell him, and enjoy the way his mouth opens slightly, the way his eyes grow wide.
Cuba and the past are suddenly the last things on my mind.
“Take me to bed Will,” I order.
And he does.
