We May Be Better Strangers, Andy/Toby, NC17
Title: We May Be Better Strangers
Pairing: Andy/Toby
Fandom: West Wing
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: only for season 1, vaguely.
Disclaimer: I disclaim this fic and all who sail in her! Belongs to Sorkin, Wells, NBC etc. Title from Shakespeare's 'As You Like It'.
Summary: A wedding ring: its past, and its future.
He's been writing the proposal for weeks now, on napkins and beer mats and in the margins of speeches that the candidate keeps screwing up. Not so much going off in the 'D' section as stumbling like a drunken toddler through every section that Toby carefully writes for him.
The campaign is already lost and so Toby looks ahead. He only looks with one eye, screwed up against the glare of potential disappointment, but it's forward and there's only one person to blame for that.
As his candidate makes a concession speech--outdoors, in an unexpected rainstorm--Toby sees the jeweler's store and takes his first step in walking away. He hears the disinterested jeers from rivals and the press as he crosses the street, but nobody cares about the guy who writes the speeches.
Maybe she's worth thousands of dollars of debt, maybe she deserves the kind of family heirloom that's long since been plucked from his family tree, but Toby knows that the one way to not screw things up is to keep it simple.
He counts out the tens and twenties from his wallet, a week's wages and the last he can count on for now. The elderly woman sneers a little when he points out the modest gold bands, but she sells them to him anyway. The crowd has dispersed when he steps back out into the rain and, knowing he's unemployed again, Toby walks the rest of the way home.
*
(He asks, without either speech or preamble, when they're lying naked in her unstable bed. 'Marry me,' he challenges, and she meets him right there with a smile.)
*
It looks like it won’t come off at first.
She’s yelling at him, in that way she has of landing the tone more than the words, because she knows he isn’t really listening. This is a fight they’ve been having for nearly two years, and the details never matter.
She wants a baby. He wants to work. She wants to work too, and doesn’t seem to care that for once Toby backed a winner, for once Toby has a real job to do-the bit that comes after the campaigning. They’re angry, if not bitter, and it isn’t ever getting better.
So Andy’s tugging at the ring, and on the third try it slides past the knuckle. It’s so final Toby could swear he heard a faint ‘pop’ from the other side of the room. They stop-mid-sentence-in their overlapping complaints. Silence reigns for a moment, the ring glints dully in the lamplight.
“No,” Toby warns. “Don’t you-“
And fuck, but she’s goading him. She takes the ring between thumb and index finger, inspecting it with mock interest, some kind of theatrical appraisal of their vows and whatever the hell they were worth.
“Don’t what?” Andy asks, her eyes gleaming with anger and that goddamn mischief that pervades her every waking thought.
“Put the ring back on, Andrea!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but she’s getting to him. They dance around this twice a week and sometimes a third time on Sundays, but it’s never been serious enough to warrant rings coming off. The next step involves paperwork, they both know, and Toby doesn’t want to be there yet.
What the hell is the point in never talking about it if they end up in the same place anyway?
“Make me,” she teases, deadly serious all the same. Her hand goes slack, like she might just drop the ring on the floor and something in Toby snaps just a little.
It’s two strides to reach the battered coffee table, and another three until he’s standing in front of her. Frustrated, he grabs for the ring, but she jerks it out of his grasp at the last possible second.
“Andrea,” he warns again, taking her wrist instead. She twists under his fingers, ready to break free.
He tightens his grip and walks her back until her shoulders make contact with the living room wall. Her smile is defiant now, but there’s less anger charging the air between them. He’s halfway to hard, predictable and not entirely unwelcome. This, they can do. This, they can still be good at.
She hisses as he presses against her, his erection now a fact for her too. It’s not a threat, exactly, but it is a promise. They’ve been making (and breaking) promises for too long-it’s just one drink after work, I won’t stay too late, that dress looks fine-so why stop now?
“Toby,” she threatens (just a little) in return. But her voice is low, almost husky, and they both know that the conversation has shifted somewhere far less verbal. For two people whose very subsistence depends on talking and writing respectively, they do a hell of a lot better by taking words out of the equation altogether.
Andy rocks her hips just a fraction, cocking one eyebrow in that frustrating way she was. Toby responds by raising her arm above her head, effectively pinning it against the wall. Since his left hand is occupied, he slides his right along her bare thigh, up and under her skirt without waiting for an invitation.
She’s oh-so-pleasantly warm to the touch, biting down on her bottom lip to deny him the satisfaction of making any noise. Toby is relentless in his pursuit, rewarded by greater heat through the satin of her panties, and no small amount of dampness that suggests she’s still as turned on by fighting as he is.
The damn ring is dangling loosely from her index finger, and it wobbles just a little-almost falling-as he slips one determined finger beneath her underwear. She’s as wet as he might have hoped, slick to the touch as he grazes her clit. This won’t be prolonged, not after a half-hour of shouting as foreplay. Andy closes her eyes as Toby strokes at a deliberately slow pace, her head hitting the wall with a dull thud as he teases around her entrance.
“You want this?” Toby asks, but he kisses her throat instead of waiting for an answer. He feels the ‘yes’ more than he hears it.
“So you’ll keep the damn ring on?” He punctuates the question by yanking hard at the material of her panties, letting them slip the rest of the way to the floor. She kicks one ankle free without instruction, knowing the steps of the dance just as well as he does; but he doesn’t answer.
“Well?” He asks, impatient now as he twists two fingers back inside her, drawing a gasp from her previously closed mouth.
“Fine,” she snarls, her free hand grabbing his shoulder for leverage. He twists his fingers a little more forcefully in response, letting his thumb slide fleetingly over her clit. “Fine,” she says again, apparently to convince herself.
It takes no more than a moment to slide those fingers out and unzip his pants. A moment of undignified shuffling later and he’s bare too, his dick rock hard as it slips between her thighs. Unable to wait, Toby grabs one of her elegant legs and pulls it roughly up around his hip. There’s barely a moment to tease her with the head of his shaft before sliding gratefully into the welcoming warmth; no matter how pissed Andy gets with him, at least one part of her always seems to want him.
Rhythm is hard to establish since they’re too mad at each other to slow down, and like hell is either one of them going to let the other lead. But Toby persists, drowning in sensation and need as they hurtle on, and he’s slamming almost hard enough to bruise when he hears the ragged cry that says she got there (that her got her there). It’s all he needs to fall blindly over the edge himself, and there’s a roaring in his ears until he comes back to himself, spent and gasping for air.
They separate slowly, a little sticky and awkward in a way that feels like the old days. Andy yanks her skirt back down in a belated attempt at modesty, blowing sweat-dampened strands of hair from her face.
“Christ, Toby,” she mutters, but the venom is gone from her words. He releases her wrist at last, flexing his fingers and watching the blood flow to whitened digits. Andy hesitates a moment, pursing her lips as she rakes her eyes over him. Whatever she sees in his exhausted, unguarded expression must be enough because-without ceremony-she slips the simple gold band back onto the finger where it belongs.
His pager shatters the silence, and he pulls up his pants and boxers before checking it.
“I have to-“
“Yeah,” she nods. This is their life now, the payoff for all those years of running.
“It won’t take long. There’s a problem with Josh…”
She waves it away with a half-hearted smile. It’s past the point of explanation, really. Toby presses a kiss to her forehead and starts in the direction of the bathroom.
“We’ll talk, later,” he promises.
“Later,” Andy sighs, her thoughts already elsewhere.
He washes up quickly, smoothing out the wrinkled shirt and fixing his loosened tie. It’s only when he leaves the apartment and the door slams behind him that he feels like something might still be wrong.
*
Eight hours later, in the wee small hours, he crawls into bed with his eyes already closing. Josh might lose his job and the Religious Right are about to declare hunting season on the entire Administration. He reaches blindly for Andy, drawn to the idea of comfort before sleep claims him.
She isn’t there.
Pairing: Andy/Toby
Fandom: West Wing
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: only for season 1, vaguely.
Disclaimer: I disclaim this fic and all who sail in her! Belongs to Sorkin, Wells, NBC etc. Title from Shakespeare's 'As You Like It'.
Summary: A wedding ring: its past, and its future.
He's been writing the proposal for weeks now, on napkins and beer mats and in the margins of speeches that the candidate keeps screwing up. Not so much going off in the 'D' section as stumbling like a drunken toddler through every section that Toby carefully writes for him.
The campaign is already lost and so Toby looks ahead. He only looks with one eye, screwed up against the glare of potential disappointment, but it's forward and there's only one person to blame for that.
As his candidate makes a concession speech--outdoors, in an unexpected rainstorm--Toby sees the jeweler's store and takes his first step in walking away. He hears the disinterested jeers from rivals and the press as he crosses the street, but nobody cares about the guy who writes the speeches.
Maybe she's worth thousands of dollars of debt, maybe she deserves the kind of family heirloom that's long since been plucked from his family tree, but Toby knows that the one way to not screw things up is to keep it simple.
He counts out the tens and twenties from his wallet, a week's wages and the last he can count on for now. The elderly woman sneers a little when he points out the modest gold bands, but she sells them to him anyway. The crowd has dispersed when he steps back out into the rain and, knowing he's unemployed again, Toby walks the rest of the way home.
*
(He asks, without either speech or preamble, when they're lying naked in her unstable bed. 'Marry me,' he challenges, and she meets him right there with a smile.)
*
It looks like it won’t come off at first.
She’s yelling at him, in that way she has of landing the tone more than the words, because she knows he isn’t really listening. This is a fight they’ve been having for nearly two years, and the details never matter.
She wants a baby. He wants to work. She wants to work too, and doesn’t seem to care that for once Toby backed a winner, for once Toby has a real job to do-the bit that comes after the campaigning. They’re angry, if not bitter, and it isn’t ever getting better.
So Andy’s tugging at the ring, and on the third try it slides past the knuckle. It’s so final Toby could swear he heard a faint ‘pop’ from the other side of the room. They stop-mid-sentence-in their overlapping complaints. Silence reigns for a moment, the ring glints dully in the lamplight.
“No,” Toby warns. “Don’t you-“
And fuck, but she’s goading him. She takes the ring between thumb and index finger, inspecting it with mock interest, some kind of theatrical appraisal of their vows and whatever the hell they were worth.
“Don’t what?” Andy asks, her eyes gleaming with anger and that goddamn mischief that pervades her every waking thought.
“Put the ring back on, Andrea!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but she’s getting to him. They dance around this twice a week and sometimes a third time on Sundays, but it’s never been serious enough to warrant rings coming off. The next step involves paperwork, they both know, and Toby doesn’t want to be there yet.
What the hell is the point in never talking about it if they end up in the same place anyway?
“Make me,” she teases, deadly serious all the same. Her hand goes slack, like she might just drop the ring on the floor and something in Toby snaps just a little.
It’s two strides to reach the battered coffee table, and another three until he’s standing in front of her. Frustrated, he grabs for the ring, but she jerks it out of his grasp at the last possible second.
“Andrea,” he warns again, taking her wrist instead. She twists under his fingers, ready to break free.
He tightens his grip and walks her back until her shoulders make contact with the living room wall. Her smile is defiant now, but there’s less anger charging the air between them. He’s halfway to hard, predictable and not entirely unwelcome. This, they can do. This, they can still be good at.
She hisses as he presses against her, his erection now a fact for her too. It’s not a threat, exactly, but it is a promise. They’ve been making (and breaking) promises for too long-it’s just one drink after work, I won’t stay too late, that dress looks fine-so why stop now?
“Toby,” she threatens (just a little) in return. But her voice is low, almost husky, and they both know that the conversation has shifted somewhere far less verbal. For two people whose very subsistence depends on talking and writing respectively, they do a hell of a lot better by taking words out of the equation altogether.
Andy rocks her hips just a fraction, cocking one eyebrow in that frustrating way she was. Toby responds by raising her arm above her head, effectively pinning it against the wall. Since his left hand is occupied, he slides his right along her bare thigh, up and under her skirt without waiting for an invitation.
She’s oh-so-pleasantly warm to the touch, biting down on her bottom lip to deny him the satisfaction of making any noise. Toby is relentless in his pursuit, rewarded by greater heat through the satin of her panties, and no small amount of dampness that suggests she’s still as turned on by fighting as he is.
The damn ring is dangling loosely from her index finger, and it wobbles just a little-almost falling-as he slips one determined finger beneath her underwear. She’s as wet as he might have hoped, slick to the touch as he grazes her clit. This won’t be prolonged, not after a half-hour of shouting as foreplay. Andy closes her eyes as Toby strokes at a deliberately slow pace, her head hitting the wall with a dull thud as he teases around her entrance.
“You want this?” Toby asks, but he kisses her throat instead of waiting for an answer. He feels the ‘yes’ more than he hears it.
“So you’ll keep the damn ring on?” He punctuates the question by yanking hard at the material of her panties, letting them slip the rest of the way to the floor. She kicks one ankle free without instruction, knowing the steps of the dance just as well as he does; but he doesn’t answer.
“Well?” He asks, impatient now as he twists two fingers back inside her, drawing a gasp from her previously closed mouth.
“Fine,” she snarls, her free hand grabbing his shoulder for leverage. He twists his fingers a little more forcefully in response, letting his thumb slide fleetingly over her clit. “Fine,” she says again, apparently to convince herself.
It takes no more than a moment to slide those fingers out and unzip his pants. A moment of undignified shuffling later and he’s bare too, his dick rock hard as it slips between her thighs. Unable to wait, Toby grabs one of her elegant legs and pulls it roughly up around his hip. There’s barely a moment to tease her with the head of his shaft before sliding gratefully into the welcoming warmth; no matter how pissed Andy gets with him, at least one part of her always seems to want him.
Rhythm is hard to establish since they’re too mad at each other to slow down, and like hell is either one of them going to let the other lead. But Toby persists, drowning in sensation and need as they hurtle on, and he’s slamming almost hard enough to bruise when he hears the ragged cry that says she got there (that her got her there). It’s all he needs to fall blindly over the edge himself, and there’s a roaring in his ears until he comes back to himself, spent and gasping for air.
They separate slowly, a little sticky and awkward in a way that feels like the old days. Andy yanks her skirt back down in a belated attempt at modesty, blowing sweat-dampened strands of hair from her face.
“Christ, Toby,” she mutters, but the venom is gone from her words. He releases her wrist at last, flexing his fingers and watching the blood flow to whitened digits. Andy hesitates a moment, pursing her lips as she rakes her eyes over him. Whatever she sees in his exhausted, unguarded expression must be enough because-without ceremony-she slips the simple gold band back onto the finger where it belongs.
His pager shatters the silence, and he pulls up his pants and boxers before checking it.
“I have to-“
“Yeah,” she nods. This is their life now, the payoff for all those years of running.
“It won’t take long. There’s a problem with Josh…”
She waves it away with a half-hearted smile. It’s past the point of explanation, really. Toby presses a kiss to her forehead and starts in the direction of the bathroom.
“We’ll talk, later,” he promises.
“Later,” Andy sighs, her thoughts already elsewhere.
He washes up quickly, smoothing out the wrinkled shirt and fixing his loosened tie. It’s only when he leaves the apartment and the door slams behind him that he feels like something might still be wrong.
*
Eight hours later, in the wee small hours, he crawls into bed with his eyes already closing. Josh might lose his job and the Religious Right are about to declare hunting season on the entire Administration. He reaches blindly for Andy, drawn to the idea of comfort before sleep claims him.
She isn’t there.