fic: times are hard (they're making us crazy) (TWW, Sam/Ainsley)
It is reelection time, and they are tired. They are all tired. It’s buses and planes and playing musical states instead of musical chairs and juggling being away from the White House and in the White House. It’s not knowing where or when they are going to sleep next. It’s not having the time to care.
It’s reelection time, and they are in Georgia. Georgia is insignificant in that the state has not been blue for years. They are not campaigning here. Georgia is a pit stop and is significant in that they are stuck, flights grounded because of a violent storm system moving through the area.
Sam rides the elevator down to the lobby of the hotel. He’s reached the stage of exhaustion where you can’t sleep because you don’t remember what sleep is like and his brain won’t shut off long enough for him to fall asleep. There's a familiar blonde head that is just visible over the back of one of the lounge couches.
“Ainsley,” he says quietly when he comes to stand next to her.
“Sam,” she responds, just as soft as he had been.
“What are you doing?” He asks. They're the only two downstairs except for the concierge. The man looks bored behind the front desk, idly rearranging the brochures that offer enticements of Atlanta and the surrounding areas.
“Watching the storm.” She pats the cushion next to her, eyes glancing up at him.
He joins her and instead of looking outside he looks at her. She’s changed from her earlier suit into sweats and a Harvard shirt that is too loose around her shoulders. He can see her collarbone, sharp against the pale skin. Her face is thin too, thinner than normal, and he knows that if he were to look in the mirror he would see the same reflected back. No one said that getting a second term was easy and the stress eats away at them sometimes.
“Are you hungry?” Sam’s struck with the sudden urge to feed her. He cannot take care of himself, but he can take care of her.
She turns to look at him, corners of her mouth pulling up like parentheses. “It’s two in the morning, Sam. Where are we going to get food?”
He thinks for a minute. The hotel doesn’t have room service and there are no places open close by, not normally and not with the storm. “Vending machines,” he declares.
“Will your dentist forgive you for that?” Her smile is wide now, teeth glinting in the low light from the room.
He doesn’t dignify her teasing with a response. He stands, pulls her up with him, and slides his hand down her wrist to curl his fingers around hers. Together they produce enough change to raid the machines on the end of their hall.
They go back to her room. She eats chocolate covered pretzels while he snacks on trail mix, her head half on the pillow and half on his hip as he sits up against the headboard. After bickering over the TV stations, they finally settle on C-SPAN and make fun of the Representative on the loop from days before.
Sam wakes in the morning to blonde hair and clear blue skies outside.
It’s reelection time, and they are in Georgia. Georgia is insignificant in that the state has not been blue for years. They are not campaigning here. Georgia is a pit stop and is significant in that they are stuck, flights grounded because of a violent storm system moving through the area.
Sam rides the elevator down to the lobby of the hotel. He’s reached the stage of exhaustion where you can’t sleep because you don’t remember what sleep is like and his brain won’t shut off long enough for him to fall asleep. There's a familiar blonde head that is just visible over the back of one of the lounge couches.
“Ainsley,” he says quietly when he comes to stand next to her.
“Sam,” she responds, just as soft as he had been.
“What are you doing?” He asks. They're the only two downstairs except for the concierge. The man looks bored behind the front desk, idly rearranging the brochures that offer enticements of Atlanta and the surrounding areas.
“Watching the storm.” She pats the cushion next to her, eyes glancing up at him.
He joins her and instead of looking outside he looks at her. She’s changed from her earlier suit into sweats and a Harvard shirt that is too loose around her shoulders. He can see her collarbone, sharp against the pale skin. Her face is thin too, thinner than normal, and he knows that if he were to look in the mirror he would see the same reflected back. No one said that getting a second term was easy and the stress eats away at them sometimes.
“Are you hungry?” Sam’s struck with the sudden urge to feed her. He cannot take care of himself, but he can take care of her.
She turns to look at him, corners of her mouth pulling up like parentheses. “It’s two in the morning, Sam. Where are we going to get food?”
He thinks for a minute. The hotel doesn’t have room service and there are no places open close by, not normally and not with the storm. “Vending machines,” he declares.
“Will your dentist forgive you for that?” Her smile is wide now, teeth glinting in the low light from the room.
He doesn’t dignify her teasing with a response. He stands, pulls her up with him, and slides his hand down her wrist to curl his fingers around hers. Together they produce enough change to raid the machines on the end of their hall.
They go back to her room. She eats chocolate covered pretzels while he snacks on trail mix, her head half on the pillow and half on his hip as he sits up against the headboard. After bickering over the TV stations, they finally settle on C-SPAN and make fun of the Representative on the loop from days before.
Sam wakes in the morning to blonde hair and clear blue skies outside.