Prompt #3. Ends
Title: Cutting through the heat.
Fandom: West Wing.
Characters: Andy, implied Toby.
Prompt:#3 Ends.
Word Count: 609
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Author's Notes: Set pre-Season 1, but makes reference to Season 4 so be warned.
Everything about the room is suffocatingly hot, including the couch on which she is lying. The black vinyl is warm and clammy and she can feel it sticking to her where the gown doesn't meet in a strip down her back. The heat wave has caught everyone unawares, bearing down for five days now, leaving a trail of headaches and bad tempers in its wake.
She is afflicted by neither of these things, but instead seems, to all intents and purposes, her usual cool and collected self.
"You okay over there?" the voice drifts across the room to her.
"Sure." She smiles slightly, although it never quite reaches her eyes.
"There's no rush; we can give him another five minutes."
"No, it's fine - something must have come up. And I have to get back anyway...”
"You sure? It's not a problem to wait."
"No, let's just get on with it-" she stops swallowing the words back as quickly as she can. "I didn't mean it like that, I just..."
He smiles reassuringly at her. "It's okay. I know. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't blame you. I know it's been hard, coming back each time, trying again..." He crosses over to her, squeezes her hand. "Maybe today we'll get lucky."
She nods and smiles, her game day face back on.
He reclines the couch, lifting her feet onto the stirrup cups and she tries to clear her mind of all her jumbled thoughts; to settle and regain control.
His gloved hand is cool against her thigh as he parts her legs, and though his touch was expected, she jumps slightly.
"Breathe steady, Andy. You know the score."
She closes her eyes and exhales slowly. She remembers the first time; Toby's face paling at the sight of the needle, her merciless mocking of his sensibilities. After that experience he always perched on the edge of the bed facing her long before the procedure began.
She winces slightly, causing him to look up for a second. "Sorry...there was resistance. You're pretty tense. We're almost done, okay?"
For a split second she considers telling him to stop, that they can't have a baby today. But she just nods and tries to relax. She begins to count. She taught herself to do this the first week he was away on the campaign, unable to sleep without his weight next to her. She works her way through Congress, Senate first, then House, all in alphabetical order. She smiles when she reaches herself; she likes being penultimate.
"We're done." He moves back, lowering her legs back onto the couch. "Need anything?" he asks, as he clears the instruments away. He sees he shake of her head and adds, "sit tight. I'll be back. Just yell if you need me." He knows her well enough to be sure that neither scenario will occur.
She opens her eyes and looks at the fan rotating overhead. She cannot feel the slightest movement of air from it and she can almost taste the heat in her mouth. Afterward, they would always get pie and ice-cream and she almost wishes he would burst through the door now carrying some, hot and irritable and apologetic for his lateness. But she knows he will not come now. She can taste the ice cream, cold and smooth, sliding down easily, cutting through the heat. She thinks how ironic it would be if it were to work, today of all days. Conceived in a tropical heat wave when her heart feels ice cold.
Take or fail, she will not do this again. She knows they have reached the end of the line.
Fandom: West Wing.
Characters: Andy, implied Toby.
Prompt:#3 Ends.
Word Count: 609
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Author's Notes: Set pre-Season 1, but makes reference to Season 4 so be warned.
Everything about the room is suffocatingly hot, including the couch on which she is lying. The black vinyl is warm and clammy and she can feel it sticking to her where the gown doesn't meet in a strip down her back. The heat wave has caught everyone unawares, bearing down for five days now, leaving a trail of headaches and bad tempers in its wake.
She is afflicted by neither of these things, but instead seems, to all intents and purposes, her usual cool and collected self.
"You okay over there?" the voice drifts across the room to her.
"Sure." She smiles slightly, although it never quite reaches her eyes.
"There's no rush; we can give him another five minutes."
"No, it's fine - something must have come up. And I have to get back anyway...”
"You sure? It's not a problem to wait."
"No, let's just get on with it-" she stops swallowing the words back as quickly as she can. "I didn't mean it like that, I just..."
He smiles reassuringly at her. "It's okay. I know. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't blame you. I know it's been hard, coming back each time, trying again..." He crosses over to her, squeezes her hand. "Maybe today we'll get lucky."
She nods and smiles, her game day face back on.
He reclines the couch, lifting her feet onto the stirrup cups and she tries to clear her mind of all her jumbled thoughts; to settle and regain control.
His gloved hand is cool against her thigh as he parts her legs, and though his touch was expected, she jumps slightly.
"Breathe steady, Andy. You know the score."
She closes her eyes and exhales slowly. She remembers the first time; Toby's face paling at the sight of the needle, her merciless mocking of his sensibilities. After that experience he always perched on the edge of the bed facing her long before the procedure began.
She winces slightly, causing him to look up for a second. "Sorry...there was resistance. You're pretty tense. We're almost done, okay?"
For a split second she considers telling him to stop, that they can't have a baby today. But she just nods and tries to relax. She begins to count. She taught herself to do this the first week he was away on the campaign, unable to sleep without his weight next to her. She works her way through Congress, Senate first, then House, all in alphabetical order. She smiles when she reaches herself; she likes being penultimate.
"We're done." He moves back, lowering her legs back onto the couch. "Need anything?" he asks, as he clears the instruments away. He sees he shake of her head and adds, "sit tight. I'll be back. Just yell if you need me." He knows her well enough to be sure that neither scenario will occur.
She opens her eyes and looks at the fan rotating overhead. She cannot feel the slightest movement of air from it and she can almost taste the heat in her mouth. Afterward, they would always get pie and ice-cream and she almost wishes he would burst through the door now carrying some, hot and irritable and apologetic for his lateness. But she knows he will not come now. She can taste the ice cream, cold and smooth, sliding down easily, cutting through the heat. She thinks how ironic it would be if it were to work, today of all days. Conceived in a tropical heat wave when her heart feels ice cold.
Take or fail, she will not do this again. She knows they have reached the end of the line.