fic: change is upon us (the president's daughter, meg/preston)
Title: change is upon us
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way, shape, or form.
Fandom/Characters: The President's Daughter, Meg/Preston
Word Count: 1,224
Requested By: hondagirll
On her last night in the White House, Meg couldn't sleep. She tossed and she turned, well, as much as anyone with lingering injuries can toss and turn without causing themselves immense amounts of pain, anyway. She tried counting sheep and listening to music, and she even considered calling the overnight staff for a glass of warm milk, just for old times sake and because, starting tomorrow, she wouldn't be able to.
Starting tomorrow, her permanent address would revert to Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, not 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Starting tomorrow, she would be an ex-President's daughter. Starting tomorrow, it would all go back to the way that it used to be.
It would never go back to the way it used to be.
With a sigh, Meg pushed back her covers and reached for the knee brace on her nightstand. It was smaller than it had been six years ago. It was never going to be small enough for her liking. She strapped it on, the fingers on her bad hand trembling as they always did when she first woke and hadn't had time to properly stretch the battered bones and tendons. She braced herself against her cane; she stood.
Day by day, week by week, and year by year, it felt like less of an accomplishment just to be able to do that. But then Meg would look at her mangled hand and her still broken knee, and know that she would never be able to completely forget what it felt like to stand for the first time after.
She wouldn't forget. She couldn't forget.
Meg let herself out of her bedroom, trying to be as quiet as possible. She wasn't worried about waking her brothers, but she sincerely hoped her mother was getting her first good night's sleep in eight years, even if Meg suspected she was as wakeful as Meg was. She was at the elevator's before she even knew where she was going, but as soon as she pressed the button she knew.
There would be other people saying goodbye tonight. Meg only cared about one of them.
Guards trailing behind her, Meg made her way over to the West Wing, weaving her way through the maze of hallways and cubicles until she was at his office. The light was burning bright overhead, just like she'd known it would be, and Preston stood at the windows, looking out into the night.
Meg leaned against the door frame and knocked on the open door with her good hand. "Buy a sailor a drink?"
Preston turned. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he waved her in, moving a stack of boxes from a chair to the floor. "I should have known I'd see you tonight," he said, taking the opposite chair for himself.
"You should have," Meg agreed, sitting down as gracefully as she could manage. She would have liked to have been able to blame that on the never ending surgeries, too, but even before, grace had never been her strong suit. And now, no one would ever comment on something as trivial as that ever again. It was a small blessing. Meg had learned to take those where she could. "I wasn't kidding about the drink, you know."
Preston didn't say a word, just reached down into one of the open boxes and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He set it down on the desk, the glass bottle thudding solidly against the wood, the sound seeming to echo through the silent room.
Preston looked at her. Meg looked back at him.
He stood and crossed back behind his desk, opening a desk drawer and rummaging through it. Meg craned her neck to see what he was looking for, to no avail. He straightened, a row of dixie cups with pastel flowers on them in his hand. Meg felt herself start to laugh, but at the expression on Preston's face she turned it into a cough instead.
"Good call," Preston said wryly, returning to his chair and opening the bottle. "I don't have to share with you."
"I didn't say a word," Meg protested, frowning at him. The frown deepened when Preston laughed, pouring the alcohol into the ridiculous paper cups. So he was allowed to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation but she wasn't? That hardly seemed fair.
He passed her the first one and Meg held it in her good hand, waiting for him to pour his own drink. He set the bottle back down and raised his glass.
"What are we drinking to?" he asked, and Meg's answer was instant.
"To the President," she said, tapping her cup against his.
"To the President," he echoed, and they both drank.
Preston poured them both another. "We can't do this too many times," he warned. "You have to look pretty for the cameras tomorrow."
"Pfft," Meg said, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand. "No one is going to be looking at me. No one looks at the outgoing President's kids."
"How many of those kids ended up being regular features in the tabloids?" Preston asked, his eyes dancing with laughter. Meg resisted making a face at him. Preston was one of two people allowed to tease her about that. Thankfully, there wasn't much cause for it these days.
"That doesn't happen anymore. Much, anyway," she corrected. "That doesn't happen much anymore." She picked up her glass from the desk. "It's your toast."
"Changing the subject, I see," Preston said. "Coward." Meg opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his glass again and there was a serious look on his face. "To you, Meg."
She shook her head, flustered. "I can't drink to that."
"I can," he said. He nudged the edge of his glass against hers. "Come on."
She raised her glass to her lips, waiting until he'd done the same to drink. It burned against her throat, and she could feel that warmth radiate throughout her body. She shook her head. If two shots of whiskey were having this kind of effect, law school truly had made a teetotaler of her.
Preston lifted the bottle again, but Meg just shook her head. She didn't want her head to get any hazier for what she was going to say next. A little liquid courage was fine, but she didn't want to say it because she was drunk. It mattered too much for that. Preston mattered too much for that.
"Preston," Meg said.
He looked at her. She looked at him. The look in his eyes told her that he already knew what she was going to say.
One of them moved, or maybe they did. She leaned left and he leaned right, and their lips brushed against each other. It was a soft kiss, a tentative kiss. The kind of kiss that is so full of intentions that it can't be anything more.
Meg drew back first, and saw the dazed look on his face. She knew that if she looked in the mirror she'd see the same look reflected back at her. She leaned forward once more and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek.
She stood. He stood too.
"Good night," she said.
"Good night," he answered.
When Meg crawled back into bed, this time, she dreamed sweet dreams.
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way, shape, or form.
Fandom/Characters: The President's Daughter, Meg/Preston
Word Count: 1,224
Requested By: hondagirll
On her last night in the White House, Meg couldn't sleep. She tossed and she turned, well, as much as anyone with lingering injuries can toss and turn without causing themselves immense amounts of pain, anyway. She tried counting sheep and listening to music, and she even considered calling the overnight staff for a glass of warm milk, just for old times sake and because, starting tomorrow, she wouldn't be able to.
Starting tomorrow, her permanent address would revert to Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, not 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Starting tomorrow, she would be an ex-President's daughter. Starting tomorrow, it would all go back to the way that it used to be.
It would never go back to the way it used to be.
With a sigh, Meg pushed back her covers and reached for the knee brace on her nightstand. It was smaller than it had been six years ago. It was never going to be small enough for her liking. She strapped it on, the fingers on her bad hand trembling as they always did when she first woke and hadn't had time to properly stretch the battered bones and tendons. She braced herself against her cane; she stood.
Day by day, week by week, and year by year, it felt like less of an accomplishment just to be able to do that. But then Meg would look at her mangled hand and her still broken knee, and know that she would never be able to completely forget what it felt like to stand for the first time after.
She wouldn't forget. She couldn't forget.
Meg let herself out of her bedroom, trying to be as quiet as possible. She wasn't worried about waking her brothers, but she sincerely hoped her mother was getting her first good night's sleep in eight years, even if Meg suspected she was as wakeful as Meg was. She was at the elevator's before she even knew where she was going, but as soon as she pressed the button she knew.
There would be other people saying goodbye tonight. Meg only cared about one of them.
Guards trailing behind her, Meg made her way over to the West Wing, weaving her way through the maze of hallways and cubicles until she was at his office. The light was burning bright overhead, just like she'd known it would be, and Preston stood at the windows, looking out into the night.
Meg leaned against the door frame and knocked on the open door with her good hand. "Buy a sailor a drink?"
Preston turned. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he waved her in, moving a stack of boxes from a chair to the floor. "I should have known I'd see you tonight," he said, taking the opposite chair for himself.
"You should have," Meg agreed, sitting down as gracefully as she could manage. She would have liked to have been able to blame that on the never ending surgeries, too, but even before, grace had never been her strong suit. And now, no one would ever comment on something as trivial as that ever again. It was a small blessing. Meg had learned to take those where she could. "I wasn't kidding about the drink, you know."
Preston didn't say a word, just reached down into one of the open boxes and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He set it down on the desk, the glass bottle thudding solidly against the wood, the sound seeming to echo through the silent room.
Preston looked at her. Meg looked back at him.
He stood and crossed back behind his desk, opening a desk drawer and rummaging through it. Meg craned her neck to see what he was looking for, to no avail. He straightened, a row of dixie cups with pastel flowers on them in his hand. Meg felt herself start to laugh, but at the expression on Preston's face she turned it into a cough instead.
"Good call," Preston said wryly, returning to his chair and opening the bottle. "I don't have to share with you."
"I didn't say a word," Meg protested, frowning at him. The frown deepened when Preston laughed, pouring the alcohol into the ridiculous paper cups. So he was allowed to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation but she wasn't? That hardly seemed fair.
He passed her the first one and Meg held it in her good hand, waiting for him to pour his own drink. He set the bottle back down and raised his glass.
"What are we drinking to?" he asked, and Meg's answer was instant.
"To the President," she said, tapping her cup against his.
"To the President," he echoed, and they both drank.
Preston poured them both another. "We can't do this too many times," he warned. "You have to look pretty for the cameras tomorrow."
"Pfft," Meg said, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand. "No one is going to be looking at me. No one looks at the outgoing President's kids."
"How many of those kids ended up being regular features in the tabloids?" Preston asked, his eyes dancing with laughter. Meg resisted making a face at him. Preston was one of two people allowed to tease her about that. Thankfully, there wasn't much cause for it these days.
"That doesn't happen anymore. Much, anyway," she corrected. "That doesn't happen much anymore." She picked up her glass from the desk. "It's your toast."
"Changing the subject, I see," Preston said. "Coward." Meg opened her mouth to protest, but he raised his glass again and there was a serious look on his face. "To you, Meg."
She shook her head, flustered. "I can't drink to that."
"I can," he said. He nudged the edge of his glass against hers. "Come on."
She raised her glass to her lips, waiting until he'd done the same to drink. It burned against her throat, and she could feel that warmth radiate throughout her body. She shook her head. If two shots of whiskey were having this kind of effect, law school truly had made a teetotaler of her.
Preston lifted the bottle again, but Meg just shook her head. She didn't want her head to get any hazier for what she was going to say next. A little liquid courage was fine, but she didn't want to say it because she was drunk. It mattered too much for that. Preston mattered too much for that.
"Preston," Meg said.
He looked at her. She looked at him. The look in his eyes told her that he already knew what she was going to say.
One of them moved, or maybe they did. She leaned left and he leaned right, and their lips brushed against each other. It was a soft kiss, a tentative kiss. The kind of kiss that is so full of intentions that it can't be anything more.
Meg drew back first, and saw the dazed look on his face. She knew that if she looked in the mirror she'd see the same look reflected back at her. She leaned forward once more and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek.
She stood. He stood too.
"Good night," she said.
"Good night," he answered.
When Meg crawled back into bed, this time, she dreamed sweet dreams.