West Wing Fic: the blade of a carving knife
the blade of a carving knife
sam/donna (josh/donna)- pg-13
951 words
general season four spoilers
for falseeeyelashes
His collar is sloppy and, out of habit, her fingers curl with the need to straighten the edges. Some things are too internal as it is.
Turn yourself around, you weren’t invited
Good good things happen in bad towns.
yeah yeah yeahs| honeybear
-
Sam is drunk.
Sam is drunk, his eyes wide and his grin cocked into a lop-sided reform of his mood. He’s got California in scraps across his mouth, still managing to dash into Shakespearean metaphors. It would be funny, cute even, but she’s too tired. She shakes her head as she steps back, letting him into her apartment.
“Hi!”
Donna’s lips curl slightly, her fingers tightening around her robe. “Hey.”
His feet scuff against the carpet. There’s a moan, a purr, and the roommate’s cats are up again, third time that night, and locked in the laundry room. She rubs her eyes, but manages to keep her gaze steady as he looks around.
“Where’s Josh?”
She blinks. “Not here.”
His collar is sloppy and, out of habit, her fingers curl with the need to straighten the edges. Some things are too internal as it is. She bites back a laugh as Sam wobbles and she steps forward, her hand wrapping around his wrist as she tugs him to the couch.
She forces him to sit. It’s too easy.
“Donna.” He looks up, grinning.
She ignores him, moving into the kitchen and grabbing the first bottle of water she finds, warm, but it’ll do. She returns to the living room, dropping to the edge of the coffee table and sighing softly.
“Donna.”
She shakes her head in amusement, ignoring the magazines that crack underneath her when she shifts. “Yeah?”
His hands brush against his thighs, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his trousers. He sighs softly.
“I don’t- don’t- know if I should go.”
Rational, laced with an edge of childish sense of awe, Sam looks at her and nods like she should understand what he’s talking about. And maybe she does, she thinks, the vicious sense of confusion that latches onto her thoughts every now and then. A restlessness- it’s the most frightening sense of self, a definitive moment that forces a take charge urge.
“You should go,” she says quietly. She looks away. “You earned it. You should go.”
He sighs. “I’m drunk!”
Her lips curl.
She knows they’re all preparing themselves for a faithless drive of support. Josh, CJ, Toby- Sam, like her, looks up to all of them and while she’s still stuck in uncomfortable awe, Sam seems to persist in devotion.
“You should go.”
He frowns. “Where’s Josh?”
“Not here.”
She wants to say it again and again. Not here- it’s more and more clear to her that she’s starting to be defined by Josh, just by Josh. It’s not that she isn’t grateful, far from it, it’s that she’s Donna and his Josh and they’re very close to becoming a slur of names and chance is starting to disappear. She’s getting to close to ready.
Sam’s shoulders slump. “He should be,” he declares. “You’re in love with him. Josh. You’re in love with Josh.”
She shakes her head.
“No,” she pauses thoughtfully. She stills his hand as he continues picking at his pants. “I’m not in love with Josh.”
It’s so strange how far from a lie that it tastes like. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t move. It simple settles and fades. She turns the statement in her head, watching lazily as he slides forward and drops his hands to her thighs.
“Pink pajamas.”
Her lips curl. “Purple.”
He shrugs carelessly. “Same thing.”
Her gaze drops to his hands against her thighs, over the tapered ends of her terrycloth robe. A Christmas gift from her parents, the obligatory you don’t visit enough accusation- Josh thinks it’s hysterical. She almost did.
But she keeps watching Sam’s hands, his palms flat against the flannel. She’s always had somewhat of a romantic perception of writer’s- Toby’s more of the prototype, ink-stained fingers and paper cuts; his office littered with crumpled yellow pages, books, as Ginger or Bonnie struggles with the task to keep him sane. Sam’s much more of a classic with quiet hands, clean and steady, always pushing her towards the inclination to ache.
See curiosity, she thinks.
“I’m not in love with Josh,” she repeats for the third time, uncertainty etching monotony.
He shrugs. “I don’t know if I should go- go.”
She breathes slowly and he reaches for her, his hands slipping against her neck into her hair. He grins, then frowns, but kisses her all the same. His mouth slips against the corner of her mouth and she laughs softly, the sound stilled as he kisses her hard.
Sam tastes like Sam and cheap beer and there’s no inclination to push beyond that: Sam, warm and calm, seems to equate some sort of craving that she doesn’t understand.
Her hands drop to the coffee table, over the glossy covers of magazines, as her lips part open. It’s been awhile and her flush is understandable, it’s the sudden curiosity that bothers her. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, but her reaction is tentative, seeking, as Sam pushes to take control.
His teeth scrape her bottom lip and she moans softly, drifting.
“It is at moments- after I have?” He shifts back, his knees grazing hers. His brows furrow. “After I have dreamed.”
He shrugs. “I forget.”
She breathes, flushing a little. She looks off to the side, his fingers curled in her hair as they stay unmoving.
“It’s okay.”
He nods. “Okay.”
They say nothing and his hands drop, leaving her to wonder if she should stand. But her arms cross over her chest still the same.
“I should go,” Sam murmurs.
She watches him as he tries to stands, stumbling back. She sighs, standing and guiding him back to her couch.
She grabs a blanket, “In the morning.”
He tries to smile.
end.
note: it is at moments after i dreamed| e.e. cummings
sam/donna (josh/donna)- pg-13
951 words
general season four spoilers
for falseeeyelashes
His collar is sloppy and, out of habit, her fingers curl with the need to straighten the edges. Some things are too internal as it is.
Turn yourself around, you weren’t invited
Good good things happen in bad towns.
yeah yeah yeahs| honeybear
-
Sam is drunk.
Sam is drunk, his eyes wide and his grin cocked into a lop-sided reform of his mood. He’s got California in scraps across his mouth, still managing to dash into Shakespearean metaphors. It would be funny, cute even, but she’s too tired. She shakes her head as she steps back, letting him into her apartment.
“Hi!”
Donna’s lips curl slightly, her fingers tightening around her robe. “Hey.”
His feet scuff against the carpet. There’s a moan, a purr, and the roommate’s cats are up again, third time that night, and locked in the laundry room. She rubs her eyes, but manages to keep her gaze steady as he looks around.
“Where’s Josh?”
She blinks. “Not here.”
His collar is sloppy and, out of habit, her fingers curl with the need to straighten the edges. Some things are too internal as it is. She bites back a laugh as Sam wobbles and she steps forward, her hand wrapping around his wrist as she tugs him to the couch.
She forces him to sit. It’s too easy.
“Donna.” He looks up, grinning.
She ignores him, moving into the kitchen and grabbing the first bottle of water she finds, warm, but it’ll do. She returns to the living room, dropping to the edge of the coffee table and sighing softly.
“Donna.”
She shakes her head in amusement, ignoring the magazines that crack underneath her when she shifts. “Yeah?”
His hands brush against his thighs, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his trousers. He sighs softly.
“I don’t- don’t- know if I should go.”
Rational, laced with an edge of childish sense of awe, Sam looks at her and nods like she should understand what he’s talking about. And maybe she does, she thinks, the vicious sense of confusion that latches onto her thoughts every now and then. A restlessness- it’s the most frightening sense of self, a definitive moment that forces a take charge urge.
“You should go,” she says quietly. She looks away. “You earned it. You should go.”
He sighs. “I’m drunk!”
Her lips curl.
She knows they’re all preparing themselves for a faithless drive of support. Josh, CJ, Toby- Sam, like her, looks up to all of them and while she’s still stuck in uncomfortable awe, Sam seems to persist in devotion.
“You should go.”
He frowns. “Where’s Josh?”
“Not here.”
She wants to say it again and again. Not here- it’s more and more clear to her that she’s starting to be defined by Josh, just by Josh. It’s not that she isn’t grateful, far from it, it’s that she’s Donna and his Josh and they’re very close to becoming a slur of names and chance is starting to disappear. She’s getting to close to ready.
Sam’s shoulders slump. “He should be,” he declares. “You’re in love with him. Josh. You’re in love with Josh.”
She shakes her head.
“No,” she pauses thoughtfully. She stills his hand as he continues picking at his pants. “I’m not in love with Josh.”
It’s so strange how far from a lie that it tastes like. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t move. It simple settles and fades. She turns the statement in her head, watching lazily as he slides forward and drops his hands to her thighs.
“Pink pajamas.”
Her lips curl. “Purple.”
He shrugs carelessly. “Same thing.”
Her gaze drops to his hands against her thighs, over the tapered ends of her terrycloth robe. A Christmas gift from her parents, the obligatory you don’t visit enough accusation- Josh thinks it’s hysterical. She almost did.
But she keeps watching Sam’s hands, his palms flat against the flannel. She’s always had somewhat of a romantic perception of writer’s- Toby’s more of the prototype, ink-stained fingers and paper cuts; his office littered with crumpled yellow pages, books, as Ginger or Bonnie struggles with the task to keep him sane. Sam’s much more of a classic with quiet hands, clean and steady, always pushing her towards the inclination to ache.
See curiosity, she thinks.
“I’m not in love with Josh,” she repeats for the third time, uncertainty etching monotony.
He shrugs. “I don’t know if I should go- go.”
She breathes slowly and he reaches for her, his hands slipping against her neck into her hair. He grins, then frowns, but kisses her all the same. His mouth slips against the corner of her mouth and she laughs softly, the sound stilled as he kisses her hard.
Sam tastes like Sam and cheap beer and there’s no inclination to push beyond that: Sam, warm and calm, seems to equate some sort of craving that she doesn’t understand.
Her hands drop to the coffee table, over the glossy covers of magazines, as her lips part open. It’s been awhile and her flush is understandable, it’s the sudden curiosity that bothers her. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, but her reaction is tentative, seeking, as Sam pushes to take control.
His teeth scrape her bottom lip and she moans softly, drifting.
“It is at moments- after I have?” He shifts back, his knees grazing hers. His brows furrow. “After I have dreamed.”
He shrugs. “I forget.”
She breathes, flushing a little. She looks off to the side, his fingers curled in her hair as they stay unmoving.
“It’s okay.”
He nods. “Okay.”
They say nothing and his hands drop, leaving her to wonder if she should stand. But her arms cross over her chest still the same.
“I should go,” Sam murmurs.
She watches him as he tries to stands, stumbling back. She sighs, standing and guiding him back to her couch.
She grabs a blanket, “In the morning.”
He tries to smile.
end.
note: it is at moments after i dreamed| e.e. cummings