A Situation, Andy/Toby, R
Title: A Situation
Pairing: Andy/Toby
Fandom: West Wing
Rating: R
Spoilers: takes place post-show.
Warnings: topics of assassination and adultery arise herein.
Disclaimer: Not mine! These characters remain the creative property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC, John Wells Productions and anyone else relevant. I'm just borrowing and will put them back in one piece. No profit is being made.
Summary: Andy and Toby stay in each other's orbit, even when the galaxy itself seems completely redefined. Written for the writetherest prompt: "I thought you'd be nicer to me now that I'm the President."
He finds her, of all places, on the Truman balcony.
The Secret Service don't like his all-access pass, that's for damn sure, and every few weeks they make a song and dance over re-checking his credentials. He expects this though, even after all this time. A lot of these guys are ex-military, or at follow the same sort of code. Tonight though, there's a slight panic in the blue eyes of the blond gym bunny with a gun protecting the private sitting room: he badly wants this to be someone else's problem.
Toby pats the breast pocket of his dinner jacket, considers for a moment retrieving the cigar he confirms is there. It's nice being able to smoke a fine Cuban cigar now without reprisal, but he's not sure it's worth the risk of another lecture about throat cancer from his Commander-in-Chief.
"Hey," is all he says from the open doorway. She's a silhouette to him now, the lighting set to show off the building and not to illuminate this space. Even in total darkness, he knows he would find her instantly.
She doesn't respond, leaning on the balustrade and looking out over the South Lawn. Toby walks a few steps closer, his fancy and uncomfortable shoes (an argument lost many years and a thousand formal dinners ago) that echo on the smooth cement of the balcony floor. For all the solid surface beneath him, this still feels like a high-wire act and she has him, as ever, just a little off-balance.
"Iran?" He asks, when he's close enough to breathe in her perfume. It's not one he's familiar with--no doubt another gift she's worn out of obligation--but it smells as enticing as ever.
Andy turns to him at the mention of the word, and her perfectly-styled hair has a few errant strands falling around her face. There's silver streaking that vibrant red now, but Toby sees her as he always has, because somehow she's always twenty-eight and bursting with life in his mind.
"Yeah," she breathes, and though her upset is obvious to him, her voice is as steady as ever. Steel runs through her blood just like the silver in her hair, and Toby's struck dumb just one more time at her magnificence. That this woman should ever have agreed to marry him, that she should have borne his children is still something of a miracle that he can't begin to understand.
"How many?" It's an inevitable question, but he feels her full-body wince even as she gestures towards the uncomfortable deck chairs that populate the space.
"Twelve dead; they're still counting the injured. Kate's letting me know as the numbers come in."
She sits opposite him, distracted by the illumination of her phone--no doubt an update on those numbers. It won't be long before she's summoned back (to the Sit Room, not the reception on the first floor) and Toby knows his chance to counsel her is limited.
"This is what happens when you wade into a country and overthrow their government, Andy."
Andy's head snaps up at that, and her eyes narrow in a familiar warning sign of his imminent doom. He's giddy at the thought that she might call him on not using the title. After all, he only ever used 'Congresswoman' or 'Governor' to make sarcastic little digs, why change the habit of a lifetime?
"The Iranian government is a myth. They were torturing the rebels in the streets--were we supposed to stand back and let them? Or maybe take a leaf from my predecessors' book and sell them the weapons to torture them with?"
She's breathing heavier already, her chest moving more noticeably under the dark blue silk gathered over it. No doubt that's a $9000 creation of some (American, of course) millionaire designer, but it's not until he sees these things on his ex-wife that Toby understands the insanity of paying money like that for a dress to be worn maybe once.
But already she's moved from depression to anger, and there's nobody on the planet who can speed her through the process quicker than Toby. It might be something to be proud of, if it didn't so frequently compromise his physical safety and his overwhelming need to always be right.
"I know that. Those kids they're beating and killing aren't any older than Huck and Molly. I wanted to make sure you still knew that." He lays a conciliatory hand on her forearm, and her skin is cool to the touch from the night air. "You did the right thing; there was always going to be a cost."
"This wasn't supposed to be my call, Toby," she says, hanging her head just a little.
And he feels some guilt in that moment, of being one of so many to tell her that the Vice-Presidency made a nice career bump without having to do much more than give a few speeches. He wouldn't wish this pain on someone he loves so much (and he does love her, no matter how often he tries to not) but they're all still grieving the President they lost.
What he should say, but never quite finds the words for, is that there's also practically no one else that he would trust more than her to handle this. Despite her quick-firing temper, Andrea Wyatt is one of the fairest and most intelligent people he's ever met. Toby has seen the end of this journey: the extra wrinkles on the face, the stooped shoulders and graying hair that spell out every shattering blow that a Presidency can land, but he can't save her from it now.
She wouldn't want him to, either, and in the morning when the families are called and the business of government moves on in its relentless way, she'll remember that.
"But it was your call. You called it right, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Her phone lights up again, and he can see her tense slightly in anticipation of leaving. This is one dance between them that he's never forgotten the steps to, and so he stands up first to make it just a little easier. She looks grateful as she rises to join him.
"Go on," he says, and she's standing just a little too close somehow. "Just try not to blow up Turkey by accident. Aim for France, if you can."
"I thought you'd be nicer to me now that I'm the President," Andy teases, though he can see in her face that her mind is already three steps ahead of this conversation, thinking of the calls to make and the people to thank or console.
It's just sheer, dumb habit that makes him lean in to kiss her cheek, but it drags her straight back to the present. Maybe it's habit that makes her wrap her arms around his neck and pull him close, but he goes willingly and without a single complaint.
"Your husband?" He can't help it, the question murmured against the side of that elegant neck.
"Is in Argentina," she finishes.
And they cannot be having this conversation again, not somewhere so semi-public with Secret Service lurking in the shadows. They cannot be discussing another stolen moment while the First Gentleman (he asked me to marry him, Toby; I can't run if I'm divorced from a felon) is out of the country and avoiding the loveless business arrangement that his marriage has become.
He wants to say no, quite emphatically, because Toby has his pride. (So marry the felon; that felon is the father of your children) He wants to shake his head in refusal when the next words out of her mouth are about how she's had the guest bedroom made up, just in case. He could ask about tonight's visiting dignitaries, but they're staying at Blair House and both Andy and Toby know it. Well, damn, but he knows when he's defeated.
"When will you be done?" He tries not to sound needy as he asks, though it's probably obvious because part of him is stirring against her through the light wool of his pants and the silk of her dress.
"An hour? Maybe two? I left you the new Truman biography on the nightstand."
By which, Toby knows, Andy means that some staffer left the book there, and it'll no doubt be trussed up in the trappings of an official White House gift. This is a dangerous game they're playing, and still he can't find it in him to walk away.
He's saved from a decision by Andy's quick return of the kiss on his cheek, the soft pressure of her lips just grazing the upper edge of his beard. From that alone, he's on fire, and she's already sweeping back inside to save the world.
Breathing deeply, he takes a moment to enjoy the view. It's something he couldn't conceive of all those years ago in Brooklyn, and to stop appreciating this access, these moments, would be to betray that kid for good. No matter what how he's conducting himself lately, Toby knows he can't ever lose sight of that.
Before long, a steward appears. They have that weird soundless way of walking that never fails to unnerve Toby, like serving coffee requires some kind of ninja training.
"Will you require a drink, sir?" There's no judgment in the man's eyes, or maybe his professional mask is too good to slip.
"I'll take a Lagavulin," Toby replies, because he knows that these days they always have it. "If someone could bring it up to my room?"
"Very well, sir."
Scrubbing his face with his hands, Toby's painfully aware of the wedding band that he finally took off a few months ago. No point risking questions, because a President's ex-husband is far more high-profile than a Vice-President's. He doesn't ever look at Andy's left hand now, if he can avoid it, knowing that the rings there belong to another man. (She keeps her plain gold band on a necklace, wears it whenever her clothes allow it to go unseen. Maybe he'll ask her to wear it tonight, give him the additional thrill of it swinging gently between them when they fuck. No more making love, because that's just a risk too far.)
With the usual impeccable service, his drink awaits him by the time he climbs the stairs to the third floor. The agents on this level give him a cursory glance, but soon he's safe behind the closed door and away from prying eyes. Toby swirls the glass thoughtfully, before shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair in the corner.
He's nine chapters in when she appears, breezing through the door like he's just the next meeting on her overly-packed agenda. Toby might take the time to protest, or even to have his feelings hurt, if it weren't for the way she greets him with a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.
When she pulls away and he sees the ring glinting, just under the base of her throat, he's a goner.
Pairing: Andy/Toby
Fandom: West Wing
Rating: R
Spoilers: takes place post-show.
Warnings: topics of assassination and adultery arise herein.
Disclaimer: Not mine! These characters remain the creative property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC, John Wells Productions and anyone else relevant. I'm just borrowing and will put them back in one piece. No profit is being made.
Summary: Andy and Toby stay in each other's orbit, even when the galaxy itself seems completely redefined. Written for the writetherest prompt: "I thought you'd be nicer to me now that I'm the President."
He finds her, of all places, on the Truman balcony.
The Secret Service don't like his all-access pass, that's for damn sure, and every few weeks they make a song and dance over re-checking his credentials. He expects this though, even after all this time. A lot of these guys are ex-military, or at follow the same sort of code. Tonight though, there's a slight panic in the blue eyes of the blond gym bunny with a gun protecting the private sitting room: he badly wants this to be someone else's problem.
Toby pats the breast pocket of his dinner jacket, considers for a moment retrieving the cigar he confirms is there. It's nice being able to smoke a fine Cuban cigar now without reprisal, but he's not sure it's worth the risk of another lecture about throat cancer from his Commander-in-Chief.
"Hey," is all he says from the open doorway. She's a silhouette to him now, the lighting set to show off the building and not to illuminate this space. Even in total darkness, he knows he would find her instantly.
She doesn't respond, leaning on the balustrade and looking out over the South Lawn. Toby walks a few steps closer, his fancy and uncomfortable shoes (an argument lost many years and a thousand formal dinners ago) that echo on the smooth cement of the balcony floor. For all the solid surface beneath him, this still feels like a high-wire act and she has him, as ever, just a little off-balance.
"Iran?" He asks, when he's close enough to breathe in her perfume. It's not one he's familiar with--no doubt another gift she's worn out of obligation--but it smells as enticing as ever.
Andy turns to him at the mention of the word, and her perfectly-styled hair has a few errant strands falling around her face. There's silver streaking that vibrant red now, but Toby sees her as he always has, because somehow she's always twenty-eight and bursting with life in his mind.
"Yeah," she breathes, and though her upset is obvious to him, her voice is as steady as ever. Steel runs through her blood just like the silver in her hair, and Toby's struck dumb just one more time at her magnificence. That this woman should ever have agreed to marry him, that she should have borne his children is still something of a miracle that he can't begin to understand.
"How many?" It's an inevitable question, but he feels her full-body wince even as she gestures towards the uncomfortable deck chairs that populate the space.
"Twelve dead; they're still counting the injured. Kate's letting me know as the numbers come in."
She sits opposite him, distracted by the illumination of her phone--no doubt an update on those numbers. It won't be long before she's summoned back (to the Sit Room, not the reception on the first floor) and Toby knows his chance to counsel her is limited.
"This is what happens when you wade into a country and overthrow their government, Andy."
Andy's head snaps up at that, and her eyes narrow in a familiar warning sign of his imminent doom. He's giddy at the thought that she might call him on not using the title. After all, he only ever used 'Congresswoman' or 'Governor' to make sarcastic little digs, why change the habit of a lifetime?
"The Iranian government is a myth. They were torturing the rebels in the streets--were we supposed to stand back and let them? Or maybe take a leaf from my predecessors' book and sell them the weapons to torture them with?"
She's breathing heavier already, her chest moving more noticeably under the dark blue silk gathered over it. No doubt that's a $9000 creation of some (American, of course) millionaire designer, but it's not until he sees these things on his ex-wife that Toby understands the insanity of paying money like that for a dress to be worn maybe once.
But already she's moved from depression to anger, and there's nobody on the planet who can speed her through the process quicker than Toby. It might be something to be proud of, if it didn't so frequently compromise his physical safety and his overwhelming need to always be right.
"I know that. Those kids they're beating and killing aren't any older than Huck and Molly. I wanted to make sure you still knew that." He lays a conciliatory hand on her forearm, and her skin is cool to the touch from the night air. "You did the right thing; there was always going to be a cost."
"This wasn't supposed to be my call, Toby," she says, hanging her head just a little.
And he feels some guilt in that moment, of being one of so many to tell her that the Vice-Presidency made a nice career bump without having to do much more than give a few speeches. He wouldn't wish this pain on someone he loves so much (and he does love her, no matter how often he tries to not) but they're all still grieving the President they lost.
What he should say, but never quite finds the words for, is that there's also practically no one else that he would trust more than her to handle this. Despite her quick-firing temper, Andrea Wyatt is one of the fairest and most intelligent people he's ever met. Toby has seen the end of this journey: the extra wrinkles on the face, the stooped shoulders and graying hair that spell out every shattering blow that a Presidency can land, but he can't save her from it now.
She wouldn't want him to, either, and in the morning when the families are called and the business of government moves on in its relentless way, she'll remember that.
"But it was your call. You called it right, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Her phone lights up again, and he can see her tense slightly in anticipation of leaving. This is one dance between them that he's never forgotten the steps to, and so he stands up first to make it just a little easier. She looks grateful as she rises to join him.
"Go on," he says, and she's standing just a little too close somehow. "Just try not to blow up Turkey by accident. Aim for France, if you can."
"I thought you'd be nicer to me now that I'm the President," Andy teases, though he can see in her face that her mind is already three steps ahead of this conversation, thinking of the calls to make and the people to thank or console.
It's just sheer, dumb habit that makes him lean in to kiss her cheek, but it drags her straight back to the present. Maybe it's habit that makes her wrap her arms around his neck and pull him close, but he goes willingly and without a single complaint.
"Your husband?" He can't help it, the question murmured against the side of that elegant neck.
"Is in Argentina," she finishes.
And they cannot be having this conversation again, not somewhere so semi-public with Secret Service lurking in the shadows. They cannot be discussing another stolen moment while the First Gentleman (he asked me to marry him, Toby; I can't run if I'm divorced from a felon) is out of the country and avoiding the loveless business arrangement that his marriage has become.
He wants to say no, quite emphatically, because Toby has his pride. (So marry the felon; that felon is the father of your children) He wants to shake his head in refusal when the next words out of her mouth are about how she's had the guest bedroom made up, just in case. He could ask about tonight's visiting dignitaries, but they're staying at Blair House and both Andy and Toby know it. Well, damn, but he knows when he's defeated.
"When will you be done?" He tries not to sound needy as he asks, though it's probably obvious because part of him is stirring against her through the light wool of his pants and the silk of her dress.
"An hour? Maybe two? I left you the new Truman biography on the nightstand."
By which, Toby knows, Andy means that some staffer left the book there, and it'll no doubt be trussed up in the trappings of an official White House gift. This is a dangerous game they're playing, and still he can't find it in him to walk away.
He's saved from a decision by Andy's quick return of the kiss on his cheek, the soft pressure of her lips just grazing the upper edge of his beard. From that alone, he's on fire, and she's already sweeping back inside to save the world.
Breathing deeply, he takes a moment to enjoy the view. It's something he couldn't conceive of all those years ago in Brooklyn, and to stop appreciating this access, these moments, would be to betray that kid for good. No matter what how he's conducting himself lately, Toby knows he can't ever lose sight of that.
Before long, a steward appears. They have that weird soundless way of walking that never fails to unnerve Toby, like serving coffee requires some kind of ninja training.
"Will you require a drink, sir?" There's no judgment in the man's eyes, or maybe his professional mask is too good to slip.
"I'll take a Lagavulin," Toby replies, because he knows that these days they always have it. "If someone could bring it up to my room?"
"Very well, sir."
Scrubbing his face with his hands, Toby's painfully aware of the wedding band that he finally took off a few months ago. No point risking questions, because a President's ex-husband is far more high-profile than a Vice-President's. He doesn't ever look at Andy's left hand now, if he can avoid it, knowing that the rings there belong to another man. (She keeps her plain gold band on a necklace, wears it whenever her clothes allow it to go unseen. Maybe he'll ask her to wear it tonight, give him the additional thrill of it swinging gently between them when they fuck. No more making love, because that's just a risk too far.)
With the usual impeccable service, his drink awaits him by the time he climbs the stairs to the third floor. The agents on this level give him a cursory glance, but soon he's safe behind the closed door and away from prying eyes. Toby swirls the glass thoughtfully, before shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair in the corner.
He's nine chapters in when she appears, breezing through the door like he's just the next meeting on her overly-packed agenda. Toby might take the time to protest, or even to have his feelings hurt, if it weren't for the way she greets him with a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.
When she pulls away and he sees the ring glinting, just under the base of her throat, he's a goner.