girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes
Victims of time and place; they’re the kids that can’t sit still for long.
The West Wing (minor crossover with CSI: Miami) Ainsley Hayes & Sam Seaborn (feat. Calleigh Duquense)
1401. pg. set between end of season 4 and end of season 7.
[For Mia - utterblissikins - who, forever ago, requested some Sam/Ainsley fic. Not quite what you wanted, but this is what my muse insisted upon. Title taken from Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by The Beatles.]
Her suitcase is packed before she decides to leave; her resignation a whisper and a thought.
They’ll shake their heads and shrug their shoulders, we didn’t expect anything less! Their raised eyebrows were declaration enough; be on your merry way!
It’s not that simple, she’ll shrug back, no longer nervous. And it’s not. It’s not about being in enemy territory or the lion’s den or whatever worn metaphor you want to stamp on it.
There’s a party and friendly farewells that she thinks some people might actually mean.
(It’s enough.)
If they ask (and they won’t) she’ll tell them the truth. That this was never the ‘end’. Merely a chapter, coming to a close.
She books a plane ticket and with a wave of finality, turns the page.
She decides Florida. For obvious reasons.
Private law, for the less.
($500 000 a year makes her government salary look like loose change. But it was never about the money, let’s get this straight.
It was about getting her dues, tenfold and then some.)
Ainsley toasts to harbour views and changes and working out what goes next.
For the record, she never told Sam.
(But he never told her -)
Oldest argument in the book.
( - and it’s not like he doesn’t have her number. Or whatever.)
The defence rests its case.
Daddy taught her how to shoot. Rifles and tin cans on fences; and so the stereotype prevails.
Calleigh was in the science club. She did debate. There was Glee, of course, but we’ll kindly disregard that, won’t we.
Point is, you’ll find no homecoming crown here.
There’s wine and westerns and show tunes and reminiscing about matching dresses and gap toothed smiles. Calleigh was always the quiet one.
(These days, Ainsley’s oddly silent.)
She takes more pro bono work than she should. The partners frown and she’s spread thin, but, oddly enough, she’s content.
(She wins, naturally. Seems that being white house counsel gives you some clout, funny enough.)
Sister dearest reads the paper over lunch.
“The President’s position on gun control is all wrong,” she clucks, badge glinting in the light.
“Don’t I know it.” Ainsley smiles wryly. They both have court in half an hour.
(The busboys make a crack about angels with blonde hair and southern accents and the sisters share a smile.)
Miami starts to feel like home.
She works a case for a women’s charity group and gets her picture in the paper.
Sam calls her the next day.
Didn’t know there was a DAR branch over at Miami Dade...
Ainsley holds back a smile.
(She fails miserably.)
The facts were these:
(Let’s get this straight, shall we?)
She never dated Cliff Calley. Sure, he’s cute and funny, but it’s no fun debating with someone whose ideals you share. (She likes to argue.)
Sister with the scientific sensibilities and apolitical mind; he likes that. Likes that a lot. And there are picket fences and children and political ambition and rings and no’s. Towns with too much history; she casts her eye to the ocean and beyond.
(Calleigh Calley sounds ridiculous anyway.)
Ainsley consoles both parties with equal understanding. Cliff shrugs and Calleigh says nothing and she decides to forge her own path.
(Washington, ho!)
It starts with phone calls every other week and before she knows, it’s emails every days, text messages galore.
Sister smiles secretive smiles, detective instincts second nature.
So, you and Sam Seaborn. Daddy would have your head.
For what it’s worth (not much, Calleigh grins), there’s no ‘her and Sam Seaborn’. Merely (sometimes)good-natured arguments debates on drug control/gun control/government control.
“How’s California?”
“Sunny. How’s Miami?”
“Sunny.”
(And so the story goes.)
There’s more pro bono work and less high profile cases and the firm isn’t happy.
Do you want this? he asks and she doesn’t. She quits her job (and six-figure salary), abandons waterfront views for a more modest condo and returns to her political roots.
“So you’re going back to the enemy, huh?”
There’s an eye roll on her end and a smirk on his and some days, when there’s an unusual winter chill in the air and the blinds are drawn she feels like she’s still in the Steampipe Distribution venue, arguing with him.
“Can’t go back when you never left, Sam. And if we’re going to get into technicalities here-”
“Ainsley.”
“Sam?”
“You happy there?”
She pauses because she doesn’t really know. She has her sister and a job she likes and works with people who don’t hate her. But there’s something that doesn’t feel right and the fact she can’t place it doesn’t sit right with her.
So she lies.
“Yeah, I am.”
The words are bitter as they leave her mouth.
Little girls with big dreams; she dreamt of cities and buildings that reached the sky. Mama taught civility and manners as best she could, scolding excessive curiosity and talking out of turn.
Let them question, let them speak, daddy laughs over his newspaper, blonde twins with matching dresses and gap toothed smiles playing at his feet. Let them find their voice.
Mama talks debutants and white gloves, daddy watches silently, not missing a thing. Calleigh’s quietly curious and Ainsley’s full of loud questions and instead of dwelling on sons and legacies he vows to make their dreams come true.
Calleigh gets a chemistry set (Mama frowns behind closed doors). Eldest daughter on his knee, they watch the news in silence.
What do you want to do, angel?
Ainsley points to the television. The White House, to be exact.
Daddy chuckles wistfully. (The legacy lives on.)
He arrives into town along with a hurricane, a bad omen if ever she saw one. You can see the waves crashing on the shoreline from my room, he tells her over lunch. She stares at the rain pelting against the window.
Is that so?
(It is.)
Dinner means too much wine and lively discussion about health care reforms and she eats half his dessert. Payback, she calls it and his eyes shine with laughter. His hair falls in his eyes (it’s slightly longer now) and she resists the urge to push it away.
There’s the inevitable invitation (that she accepts without hesitance). Separate sides of elevators; they dance around one another awkwardly until they reach his room. It’s quiet, save for the patter of rain against glass.
Sam. She drawls and his lips are on hers and her hands are around his neck and she’s not letting go.
(He’s not either.)
There’s a storm in Miami tonight. It’s been a long time coming.
They don’t have a label, yet. Calleigh knows better, but holds her tongue. He visits her, she visits him and so the story goes.
(Most of the time, there’s not a lot of talking. But when she catches her breath and her thoughts aren’t quite so hazy, her mind turns to defining the undefinable.)
What is this? She asks him, via phone. It’s safer this way; she can hide the nervousness in her voice, but not in her eyes.
There’s a pause that’s too long and she holds her breath. She takes no comfort in the silence.
I don’t know.
(Wrong answer.)
The ride back to his place is too quiet, the Beatles song on the radio is too loud and she hums nervously. Hand in his; they walk to his door and for a spell, whatever problems they have cease to exist.
Morning comes and she makes pancakes and tells him that this isn’t working.
And it isn’t. Victims of time and place; they’re the kids that can’t sit still for long. Neither are willing to make a sacrifice, make a stand, make a move and it ends with a ride to the airport and a sad hug goodbye. There’s no movie moment (the lightings harsh and the music sucks), just them and a plane ticket.
So this is it? He asks with a whisper.
(Yes. No. Maybe. She has a thousand different answers and no right one.)
She shrugs and he says nothing. They continue to forge their own paths.
She takes comfort in the symmetry; circles becoming whole and phone numbers she can’t forget.
He calls, she answers; the silence never lasted long. (They still don’t have the answers).
It will work out one day, this they know for sure (opposing idealisms be damned).
A storm front builds over the Atlantic -
This is not the end.
Victims of time and place; they’re the kids that can’t sit still for long.
The West Wing (minor crossover with CSI: Miami) Ainsley Hayes & Sam Seaborn (feat. Calleigh Duquense)
1401. pg. set between end of season 4 and end of season 7.
[For Mia - utterblissikins - who, forever ago, requested some Sam/Ainsley fic. Not quite what you wanted, but this is what my muse insisted upon. Title taken from Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by The Beatles.]
Her suitcase is packed before she decides to leave; her resignation a whisper and a thought.
They’ll shake their heads and shrug their shoulders, we didn’t expect anything less! Their raised eyebrows were declaration enough; be on your merry way!
It’s not that simple, she’ll shrug back, no longer nervous. And it’s not. It’s not about being in enemy territory or the lion’s den or whatever worn metaphor you want to stamp on it.
There’s a party and friendly farewells that she thinks some people might actually mean.
(It’s enough.)
If they ask (and they won’t) she’ll tell them the truth. That this was never the ‘end’. Merely a chapter, coming to a close.
She books a plane ticket and with a wave of finality, turns the page.
She decides Florida. For obvious reasons.
Private law, for the less.
($500 000 a year makes her government salary look like loose change. But it was never about the money, let’s get this straight.
It was about getting her dues, tenfold and then some.)
Ainsley toasts to harbour views and changes and working out what goes next.
For the record, she never told Sam.
(But he never told her -)
Oldest argument in the book.
( - and it’s not like he doesn’t have her number. Or whatever.)
The defence rests its case.
Daddy taught her how to shoot. Rifles and tin cans on fences; and so the stereotype prevails.
Calleigh was in the science club. She did debate. There was Glee, of course, but we’ll kindly disregard that, won’t we.
Point is, you’ll find no homecoming crown here.
There’s wine and westerns and show tunes and reminiscing about matching dresses and gap toothed smiles. Calleigh was always the quiet one.
(These days, Ainsley’s oddly silent.)
She takes more pro bono work than she should. The partners frown and she’s spread thin, but, oddly enough, she’s content.
(She wins, naturally. Seems that being white house counsel gives you some clout, funny enough.)
Sister dearest reads the paper over lunch.
“The President’s position on gun control is all wrong,” she clucks, badge glinting in the light.
“Don’t I know it.” Ainsley smiles wryly. They both have court in half an hour.
(The busboys make a crack about angels with blonde hair and southern accents and the sisters share a smile.)
Miami starts to feel like home.
She works a case for a women’s charity group and gets her picture in the paper.
Sam calls her the next day.
Didn’t know there was a DAR branch over at Miami Dade...
Ainsley holds back a smile.
(She fails miserably.)
The facts were these:
(Let’s get this straight, shall we?)
She never dated Cliff Calley. Sure, he’s cute and funny, but it’s no fun debating with someone whose ideals you share. (She likes to argue.)
Sister with the scientific sensibilities and apolitical mind; he likes that. Likes that a lot. And there are picket fences and children and political ambition and rings and no’s. Towns with too much history; she casts her eye to the ocean and beyond.
(Calleigh Calley sounds ridiculous anyway.)
Ainsley consoles both parties with equal understanding. Cliff shrugs and Calleigh says nothing and she decides to forge her own path.
(Washington, ho!)
It starts with phone calls every other week and before she knows, it’s emails every days, text messages galore.
Sister smiles secretive smiles, detective instincts second nature.
So, you and Sam Seaborn. Daddy would have your head.
For what it’s worth (not much, Calleigh grins), there’s no ‘her and Sam Seaborn’. Merely (sometimes)good-natured arguments debates on drug control/gun control/government control.
“How’s California?”
“Sunny. How’s Miami?”
“Sunny.”
(And so the story goes.)
There’s more pro bono work and less high profile cases and the firm isn’t happy.
Do you want this? he asks and she doesn’t. She quits her job (and six-figure salary), abandons waterfront views for a more modest condo and returns to her political roots.
“So you’re going back to the enemy, huh?”
There’s an eye roll on her end and a smirk on his and some days, when there’s an unusual winter chill in the air and the blinds are drawn she feels like she’s still in the Steampipe Distribution venue, arguing with him.
“Can’t go back when you never left, Sam. And if we’re going to get into technicalities here-”
“Ainsley.”
“Sam?”
“You happy there?”
She pauses because she doesn’t really know. She has her sister and a job she likes and works with people who don’t hate her. But there’s something that doesn’t feel right and the fact she can’t place it doesn’t sit right with her.
So she lies.
“Yeah, I am.”
The words are bitter as they leave her mouth.
Little girls with big dreams; she dreamt of cities and buildings that reached the sky. Mama taught civility and manners as best she could, scolding excessive curiosity and talking out of turn.
Let them question, let them speak, daddy laughs over his newspaper, blonde twins with matching dresses and gap toothed smiles playing at his feet. Let them find their voice.
Mama talks debutants and white gloves, daddy watches silently, not missing a thing. Calleigh’s quietly curious and Ainsley’s full of loud questions and instead of dwelling on sons and legacies he vows to make their dreams come true.
Calleigh gets a chemistry set (Mama frowns behind closed doors). Eldest daughter on his knee, they watch the news in silence.
What do you want to do, angel?
Ainsley points to the television. The White House, to be exact.
Daddy chuckles wistfully. (The legacy lives on.)
He arrives into town along with a hurricane, a bad omen if ever she saw one. You can see the waves crashing on the shoreline from my room, he tells her over lunch. She stares at the rain pelting against the window.
Is that so?
(It is.)
Dinner means too much wine and lively discussion about health care reforms and she eats half his dessert. Payback, she calls it and his eyes shine with laughter. His hair falls in his eyes (it’s slightly longer now) and she resists the urge to push it away.
There’s the inevitable invitation (that she accepts without hesitance). Separate sides of elevators; they dance around one another awkwardly until they reach his room. It’s quiet, save for the patter of rain against glass.
Sam. She drawls and his lips are on hers and her hands are around his neck and she’s not letting go.
(He’s not either.)
There’s a storm in Miami tonight. It’s been a long time coming.
They don’t have a label, yet. Calleigh knows better, but holds her tongue. He visits her, she visits him and so the story goes.
(Most of the time, there’s not a lot of talking. But when she catches her breath and her thoughts aren’t quite so hazy, her mind turns to defining the undefinable.)
What is this? She asks him, via phone. It’s safer this way; she can hide the nervousness in her voice, but not in her eyes.
There’s a pause that’s too long and she holds her breath. She takes no comfort in the silence.
I don’t know.
(Wrong answer.)
The ride back to his place is too quiet, the Beatles song on the radio is too loud and she hums nervously. Hand in his; they walk to his door and for a spell, whatever problems they have cease to exist.
Morning comes and she makes pancakes and tells him that this isn’t working.
And it isn’t. Victims of time and place; they’re the kids that can’t sit still for long. Neither are willing to make a sacrifice, make a stand, make a move and it ends with a ride to the airport and a sad hug goodbye. There’s no movie moment (the lightings harsh and the music sucks), just them and a plane ticket.
So this is it? He asks with a whisper.
(Yes. No. Maybe. She has a thousand different answers and no right one.)
She shrugs and he says nothing. They continue to forge their own paths.
She takes comfort in the symmetry; circles becoming whole and phone numbers she can’t forget.
He calls, she answers; the silence never lasted long. (They still don’t have the answers).
It will work out one day, this they know for sure (opposing idealisms be damned).
A storm front builds over the Atlantic -
This is not the end.