fic: a life ever after (the proposal)
yuletide ficathon: qatesh requested margaret/andrew and fluffy schmoop.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: For better or worse.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Margaret/Andrew
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
WORDS: 1,135
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2010.
* * * * *
A Life Ever After by anr
* * * * *
The partners take her deportation-engagement-deportation-engagement whirlwind far better than she would have had their positions somehow been reversed. They change her reluctant resignation into three month's leave and, while that was about fifteenth of her list of positive outcomes, it's still probably better than being unemployed. She thinks.
She's told to get her affairs in order -- properly, this time -- and to take some time. Time to do what they're not exactly clear on (and their expression when she asks for clarification makes her feel like she's the one not thinking sensibly), so she forces a small laugh, and thanks them, and leaves Jack's office before they can decide she needs even longer.
Andrew's not waiting outside, like she'd maybe thought he would be, and she can feel the floor staff staring unashamedly as she heads for the elevators.
She ignores them all.
*
There's something strange about leaving the office in the middle of the day for no good reason whatsoever. Strange and foreign -- with the exception of a couple of very specific days each year, she hasn't not worked since she left the home.
Her cell phone rings as she's flagging a taxi. "What."
"Twenty-five minutes. If I didn't know you any better, I'd think that was a brand new record for emotional whiplash."
Andrew. Lowering her arm, she closes her eyes and takes a quick breath. "Andrew," she says in a quieter tone, if not exactly a pleasanter one.
"Margaret."
"Andrew," she repeats, irritation fast returning.
Dialtone. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she stares at it blankly. Did he just --
"Yeah, that game was gonna get old fast," he says behind her, and she turns to see him standing not five feet away, smiling. "Hi."
She shoves her phone into her purse and turns back to the traffic. "Don't you have work to do?"
"Not in a happy place, gotcha," he says. "Maybe this'll cheer you up."
Unlikely, she thinks, but she turns around again anyway. "Wha--"
*
Andrew proposing in the middle of their office? Surprisingly less shocking, she realises with the benefit of hindsight, than the sight of him holding out a diamond engagement ring as they stand on a street corner.
"What is with you and very public displays of affection?"
Shaking his head, he slides the diamond onto her finger. "It'll be okay, Margaret," he says, taking her hand and holding it tight. "I promise. Just channel a normal person and breathe."
She stares at the ring.
"Margaret?"
She stares at the ring and doesn't know what to think, much less what to say. Her childhood daydreams and fairytales have been faded for so long; the idea of an engagement ring never even occurred to her.
"Mar--"
Some form of autopilot kicks in. Looking up, she raises an eyebrow. "What, no decoupage bo--"
He rolls his eyes and tugs her closer. Kisses her in front of the Ruick & Hunt Publishing building and god knows how many New Yorkers and tourists. "Shut up, Margaret."
*
Here's what she's not going to do:
She's not going to let Andrew think he can win their arguments by kissing her (because he can't, no matter how much proof he thinks he might be getting to the contrary).
She's not going to do nothing for the next three months (she has about a dozen manuscripts she can work on from home, and Andrew can always bring her more from the office).
And, most importantly, she's not going to suddenly become this whole other strange pod-person who wants to do things like bake cookies and play house and raise tiny little Alaskan babies that sing kumbaya beneath rainbows and --
"Are you on crack?!" Leaning over, Andrew pays the taxi driver and follows her out onto the street. "In what alternate dark mirror universe did you hear me ask you to do any of that?"
She busies herself with finding her keys. "I'm just trying to ensure we're on the same page here."
"Of what? 'Post-engagement freak-out's for Dummies'?"
"Andrew, dear?"
"Yes, pumpkin?"
"Shut up."
*
This isn't the first time Andrew's been to her place -- he's dropped off manuscripts and book reports several times over the last three years; had even worked out of her lounge room for four long, aching days when she had the flu a few months ago -- but it is the first time he's been here like, well, like this.
Shucking off his coat, he hangs it up behind the door and then heads into her kitchen. She can hear him opening cupboards, and the fridge, doing godknowswhat, and she's about to ask who the hell he thinks he is waltzing around her place like he owns it, when she looks down and sees her ring.
Her engagement ring. From Andrew. Who loves her. Whom she, quite very possibly, lov--
"What happened to that bottle of Krug Grand Cuvee the board gave you for your birthday?" he calls out from the other room. "We should celebrate."
"Were you raised in that barn?" She follows him into the kitchen. "You're supposed to wait for someone to offer you a drink, not just ransack their personal stores of very, very expensive champag-- give me that!"
*
While she freshens up, Andrew cancels her flight back to Canada and opens the champagne. He insists, however, that she be the one to call Gilbertson.
"If you really loved me," she says carefully, watching him, "you'd do it."
"Ha!" He slides the cordless phone across the kitchen bench towards her. "Nice try, sweetums. Get dialling."
She crosses her arms. "I don't know the number."
From his pocket he pulls out a business card, holding it out to her.
She snatches it from him. "I hate you," she says, and he laughs.
She dials Gilbertson's extension and drums her fingernails on the benchtop, watching Andrew pour the champagne. "Really, really hate--" Gilbertson answers the phone and she switches conversations. "It's Margaret Tate," she says, cutting off his greeting. "And I'm not leaving. The wedding's back on."
There's wordless spluttering on the other end. While she waits for Gilbertson to get a grip, Andrew hands her a flute of champagne and she takes it with her left hand, her ring clicking softly against the glass.
"Look," manages Gilbertson eventually, "Ms Tate --"
She does look -- at Andrew. He smiles at her. "He loves me," she says simply. "And why, I don't know, but for better or worse, he wants me to stay." She takes a breath, lets it out. Maybe smiles a little herself. "So I will."
She will.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: For better or worse.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Margaret/Andrew
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
WORDS: 1,135
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2010.
* * * * *
A Life Ever After by anr
* * * * *
The partners take her deportation-engagement-deportation-engagement whirlwind far better than she would have had their positions somehow been reversed. They change her reluctant resignation into three month's leave and, while that was about fifteenth of her list of positive outcomes, it's still probably better than being unemployed. She thinks.
She's told to get her affairs in order -- properly, this time -- and to take some time. Time to do what they're not exactly clear on (and their expression when she asks for clarification makes her feel like she's the one not thinking sensibly), so she forces a small laugh, and thanks them, and leaves Jack's office before they can decide she needs even longer.
Andrew's not waiting outside, like she'd maybe thought he would be, and she can feel the floor staff staring unashamedly as she heads for the elevators.
She ignores them all.
*
There's something strange about leaving the office in the middle of the day for no good reason whatsoever. Strange and foreign -- with the exception of a couple of very specific days each year, she hasn't not worked since she left the home.
Her cell phone rings as she's flagging a taxi. "What."
"Twenty-five minutes. If I didn't know you any better, I'd think that was a brand new record for emotional whiplash."
Andrew. Lowering her arm, she closes her eyes and takes a quick breath. "Andrew," she says in a quieter tone, if not exactly a pleasanter one.
"Margaret."
"Andrew," she repeats, irritation fast returning.
Dialtone. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she stares at it blankly. Did he just --
"Yeah, that game was gonna get old fast," he says behind her, and she turns to see him standing not five feet away, smiling. "Hi."
She shoves her phone into her purse and turns back to the traffic. "Don't you have work to do?"
"Not in a happy place, gotcha," he says. "Maybe this'll cheer you up."
Unlikely, she thinks, but she turns around again anyway. "Wha--"
*
Andrew proposing in the middle of their office? Surprisingly less shocking, she realises with the benefit of hindsight, than the sight of him holding out a diamond engagement ring as they stand on a street corner.
"What is with you and very public displays of affection?"
Shaking his head, he slides the diamond onto her finger. "It'll be okay, Margaret," he says, taking her hand and holding it tight. "I promise. Just channel a normal person and breathe."
She stares at the ring.
"Margaret?"
She stares at the ring and doesn't know what to think, much less what to say. Her childhood daydreams and fairytales have been faded for so long; the idea of an engagement ring never even occurred to her.
"Mar--"
Some form of autopilot kicks in. Looking up, she raises an eyebrow. "What, no decoupage bo--"
He rolls his eyes and tugs her closer. Kisses her in front of the Ruick & Hunt Publishing building and god knows how many New Yorkers and tourists. "Shut up, Margaret."
*
Here's what she's not going to do:
She's not going to let Andrew think he can win their arguments by kissing her (because he can't, no matter how much proof he thinks he might be getting to the contrary).
She's not going to do nothing for the next three months (she has about a dozen manuscripts she can work on from home, and Andrew can always bring her more from the office).
And, most importantly, she's not going to suddenly become this whole other strange pod-person who wants to do things like bake cookies and play house and raise tiny little Alaskan babies that sing kumbaya beneath rainbows and --
"Are you on crack?!" Leaning over, Andrew pays the taxi driver and follows her out onto the street. "In what alternate dark mirror universe did you hear me ask you to do any of that?"
She busies herself with finding her keys. "I'm just trying to ensure we're on the same page here."
"Of what? 'Post-engagement freak-out's for Dummies'?"
"Andrew, dear?"
"Yes, pumpkin?"
"Shut up."
*
This isn't the first time Andrew's been to her place -- he's dropped off manuscripts and book reports several times over the last three years; had even worked out of her lounge room for four long, aching days when she had the flu a few months ago -- but it is the first time he's been here like, well, like this.
Shucking off his coat, he hangs it up behind the door and then heads into her kitchen. She can hear him opening cupboards, and the fridge, doing godknowswhat, and she's about to ask who the hell he thinks he is waltzing around her place like he owns it, when she looks down and sees her ring.
Her engagement ring. From Andrew. Who loves her. Whom she, quite very possibly, lov--
"What happened to that bottle of Krug Grand Cuvee the board gave you for your birthday?" he calls out from the other room. "We should celebrate."
"Were you raised in that barn?" She follows him into the kitchen. "You're supposed to wait for someone to offer you a drink, not just ransack their personal stores of very, very expensive champag-- give me that!"
*
While she freshens up, Andrew cancels her flight back to Canada and opens the champagne. He insists, however, that she be the one to call Gilbertson.
"If you really loved me," she says carefully, watching him, "you'd do it."
"Ha!" He slides the cordless phone across the kitchen bench towards her. "Nice try, sweetums. Get dialling."
She crosses her arms. "I don't know the number."
From his pocket he pulls out a business card, holding it out to her.
She snatches it from him. "I hate you," she says, and he laughs.
She dials Gilbertson's extension and drums her fingernails on the benchtop, watching Andrew pour the champagne. "Really, really hate--" Gilbertson answers the phone and she switches conversations. "It's Margaret Tate," she says, cutting off his greeting. "And I'm not leaving. The wedding's back on."
There's wordless spluttering on the other end. While she waits for Gilbertson to get a grip, Andrew hands her a flute of champagne and she takes it with her left hand, her ring clicking softly against the glass.
"Look," manages Gilbertson eventually, "Ms Tate --"
She does look -- at Andrew. He smiles at her. "He loves me," she says simply. "And why, I don't know, but for better or worse, he wants me to stay." She takes a breath, lets it out. Maybe smiles a little herself. "So I will."
She will.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*