West Wing - Gal Pal ficathon
Title: We don't notice time pass
Author: pene
Rating: G. also there's abortion.
Request Answered: The West Wing: Ainsley Hayes and Mrs. Landingham. Kind of.
Recipient: leadensky (!!!)
Summary: "I'd no idea you'd even met her."
Author Notes: Turns out it's immeasurably hard to write stories without romance. But I did.
**
Mrs. Landingham dies. The next morning Ainsley carefully reads Leo's message to all staff. She's not surprised no one told her. Sometimes she thinks they've simply forgotten she's down there, locked away for democracy and America.
She spends the suggested minute of silence in her office, seated in her chair with her hands folded together in her lap. She's silent, of course, but it's still a trunk distribution venue and the pipes clang. For the rest of the day her newish oyster suit seems out of place among the black and charcoal clad staff.
In the afternoon she says to Sam, "I didn't know." Her voice shakes a little.
He looks concerned. "I'd no idea you'd even met her," he says. "I'm sorry."
Ainsley starts, "Well, on my third day here-" and stops. President Bartlet is mourning a colleague and friend of decades standing; Ainsley is mourning peanut butter cookies and maybe four real conversations.
"She was kind to me," she says.
*
On the second Tuesday of third grade Ainsley says in a rush, "I told Mommy you're my best friend."
She'd actually sat across the kitchen bench from her mother and said, without drawing breath, "Her name's Ada and she's in my group for math and spelling and she's funny and really pretty and she can climb the Homestead Elm and she's going to show me how and she's got a brother and she knows all about outer space and beetles."
Her mother had said, "Ada's a sweet name, princess. Do you want another cookie or shall I pack them away?" Ainsley had taken another cookie.
Ada says, "You're my best friend too." They grin at each other across the jungle gym. Ada has dark braids and hundreds of freckles.
"Now," says Ainsley, "this time I'm the pilot and also the navigator. You're security and chief exploration officer so you get to be the boss when we land on Mars." She glances at her bare left wrist. "Goshdarn we're running behind schedule, Officer. You'd better check the hatches."
Ada hangs by one arm and one leg to lean from the structure and comply. "They're sealed, sir."
"Ready for take-off?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Ten!" they shout in unison as Ainsley keys a complicated pattern on the metal bars. "Nine! Eight! Seven!" The jungle gym shudders and rattles as they take off.
That afternoon Ainsley's kitchen is a space restaurant. Ada mixes creaming soda with Kool Aid and pink ice cream. Ainsley adds currants. It's disgusting. They laugh and can't stop. When alien drink comes out of Ainsley's nose they laugh more.
*
Mrs Landingham sticks her head around the trunk distribution door frame. She's brought a cookie on a napkin. "They've left you a bit alone down here, haven't they?"
"Oh, I don't really mind at all," Ainsley says around the cookie. "They're worried that if I have an office with a window I might start to feel at home in the administration. I think it's better for everyone if I'm kept in my place. That cookie was delicious."
Mrs Landingham says, "In that case, I'll let you know when I've made more."
*
On the second last day of Junior year Ada waits for Ainsley outside homeroom and says, "You free at lunch, A?"
Ainsley's not but she looks at Ada's face and says, "Of course." She's known Ada for nearly ten years. They've held hands in a tent as a raccoon or a bear snuffled through their food; they've shared books about puberty and sex; they've mailed eighteen page letters handwritten on both sides. Ainsley knows when to skip a yearbook meeting.
"What's up?" Ainsley asks when Ada's perched on the bench with her in the memorial garden. "And please don't tell me Jono wants you back. I just, he's so-"
"I'm pregnant, A."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Right." Ainsley wonders if she's going to make it to some better words. "Okay, so."
Ainsley looks at Ada and reaches out her hand. Ada's hand is shaking. Ainsley says, "This, it's going to be okay, A. It's going to be okay. There're options. There's some kind of pregnant girls' place my mother always talks about. There's people who'll help you. And you can adopt it out or, maybe your mom would like-" But Ada's mom just married the church organist. Probably Ada's mom wouldn't like anything to do with this.
"I think," says Ada carefully, "that I'm going to get an abortion."
"Right," says Ainsley and feels sicker than before. "Right."
"Will you come with me?" Ada asks. She looks terrified.
Ainsley once wrote a speech about taking responsibility for your actions, about making moral choices even when they seem unbearable. She has another speech in her head about the fact that there's a child who won't get to say her first word or take her first bow or invent some world-changing means of space transportation. But Ada's heard all Ainsley's speeches, even the ones Ainsley hasn't written yet.
"Sure I'll come with you," says Ainsley.
*
It's fall in DC and someone's installed a series of posters between the fences and sidewalk along Ainsley's street - photographs of dead children in war torn countries, mostly, next to photographs of aborted foetuses. Ainsley ignores the protestors and forces herself to look at the photographs. She can't help but notice that the statistics set beneath the photographs are either unsupported or out of date by about two years.
Still, the posters read "Genocide" and "Butchered children". The protestors have signs saying, "Pro child - Pro choice," and "Every child a wanted child."
Ainsley thinks, "I was a part of a murder."
When she gets to her trunk distribution office the little green light on her phone is blinking. Ada's voice says, almost calmly, "I know it's a bit early but looks like I'm in labour. And Deb's still in Saudi and right now I have to get to hospital. So you'll be a godmother soon, A, and I'll be a mom."
Ainsley looks at the boxes on her desk, at the papers on her floor. She's buried in depositions for yet another Senate Oversight Committee. Josh Lyman is expecting a paper outlining a union issue in Minnesota. The Barlow trial starts tomorrow and she hasn't uncovered the latest precedent Tribbey swears exists.
"I worried when you didn't come straight up," says Mrs. Landingham, dropping a three cookie stack on Ainsley's desk. "Here you are though."
"Here I am," says Ainsley and blinks at the cookies. She looks up at Mrs Landingham. "Can I just put something forward here? My best friend in the whole world, a girl I've known since I was eight, is this very second having a baby in Baltimore. She's alone and I'm supposed to be there. But she's having it two weeks early and I'm buried in this Barlow matter and the Oversight Committee and the thing is, I mean, this is the White House-"
Mrs Landingham sighs. "Yes, dear, it's the White House. And everything you do is enormously important. But do you know what you people forget? Here, as anywhere, everyone's replaceable. Even you. Even the President himself, as I keep reminding him."
"So I should go," Ainsley says.
"You should go. Because you're replaceable here. But to your friend, you're probably not."
*
Ainsley wants to thank her, to say, "You were right, Mrs Landingham, I had to be there. I loved being there. I've never seen anything like it in my life." But it's not cookie day today so she leaves it.
And soon afterwards Mrs. Landingham dies.
At Mrs. Landingham's funeral a woman called Rose Dudgeon stands. "I knew Dolores when I was nine years old," she says. "She was opinionated and stubborn and generous and funny. She was irreplaceable." Which seems, to Ainsley, like an ending.
When she gets home she calls Ada.
*
Author: pene
Rating: G. also there's abortion.
Request Answered: The West Wing: Ainsley Hayes and Mrs. Landingham. Kind of.
Recipient: leadensky (!!!)
Summary: "I'd no idea you'd even met her."
Author Notes: Turns out it's immeasurably hard to write stories without romance. But I did.
**
Mrs. Landingham dies. The next morning Ainsley carefully reads Leo's message to all staff. She's not surprised no one told her. Sometimes she thinks they've simply forgotten she's down there, locked away for democracy and America.
She spends the suggested minute of silence in her office, seated in her chair with her hands folded together in her lap. She's silent, of course, but it's still a trunk distribution venue and the pipes clang. For the rest of the day her newish oyster suit seems out of place among the black and charcoal clad staff.
In the afternoon she says to Sam, "I didn't know." Her voice shakes a little.
He looks concerned. "I'd no idea you'd even met her," he says. "I'm sorry."
Ainsley starts, "Well, on my third day here-" and stops. President Bartlet is mourning a colleague and friend of decades standing; Ainsley is mourning peanut butter cookies and maybe four real conversations.
"She was kind to me," she says.
*
On the second Tuesday of third grade Ainsley says in a rush, "I told Mommy you're my best friend."
She'd actually sat across the kitchen bench from her mother and said, without drawing breath, "Her name's Ada and she's in my group for math and spelling and she's funny and really pretty and she can climb the Homestead Elm and she's going to show me how and she's got a brother and she knows all about outer space and beetles."
Her mother had said, "Ada's a sweet name, princess. Do you want another cookie or shall I pack them away?" Ainsley had taken another cookie.
Ada says, "You're my best friend too." They grin at each other across the jungle gym. Ada has dark braids and hundreds of freckles.
"Now," says Ainsley, "this time I'm the pilot and also the navigator. You're security and chief exploration officer so you get to be the boss when we land on Mars." She glances at her bare left wrist. "Goshdarn we're running behind schedule, Officer. You'd better check the hatches."
Ada hangs by one arm and one leg to lean from the structure and comply. "They're sealed, sir."
"Ready for take-off?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Ten!" they shout in unison as Ainsley keys a complicated pattern on the metal bars. "Nine! Eight! Seven!" The jungle gym shudders and rattles as they take off.
That afternoon Ainsley's kitchen is a space restaurant. Ada mixes creaming soda with Kool Aid and pink ice cream. Ainsley adds currants. It's disgusting. They laugh and can't stop. When alien drink comes out of Ainsley's nose they laugh more.
*
Mrs Landingham sticks her head around the trunk distribution door frame. She's brought a cookie on a napkin. "They've left you a bit alone down here, haven't they?"
"Oh, I don't really mind at all," Ainsley says around the cookie. "They're worried that if I have an office with a window I might start to feel at home in the administration. I think it's better for everyone if I'm kept in my place. That cookie was delicious."
Mrs Landingham says, "In that case, I'll let you know when I've made more."
*
On the second last day of Junior year Ada waits for Ainsley outside homeroom and says, "You free at lunch, A?"
Ainsley's not but she looks at Ada's face and says, "Of course." She's known Ada for nearly ten years. They've held hands in a tent as a raccoon or a bear snuffled through their food; they've shared books about puberty and sex; they've mailed eighteen page letters handwritten on both sides. Ainsley knows when to skip a yearbook meeting.
"What's up?" Ainsley asks when Ada's perched on the bench with her in the memorial garden. "And please don't tell me Jono wants you back. I just, he's so-"
"I'm pregnant, A."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Right." Ainsley wonders if she's going to make it to some better words. "Okay, so."
Ainsley looks at Ada and reaches out her hand. Ada's hand is shaking. Ainsley says, "This, it's going to be okay, A. It's going to be okay. There're options. There's some kind of pregnant girls' place my mother always talks about. There's people who'll help you. And you can adopt it out or, maybe your mom would like-" But Ada's mom just married the church organist. Probably Ada's mom wouldn't like anything to do with this.
"I think," says Ada carefully, "that I'm going to get an abortion."
"Right," says Ainsley and feels sicker than before. "Right."
"Will you come with me?" Ada asks. She looks terrified.
Ainsley once wrote a speech about taking responsibility for your actions, about making moral choices even when they seem unbearable. She has another speech in her head about the fact that there's a child who won't get to say her first word or take her first bow or invent some world-changing means of space transportation. But Ada's heard all Ainsley's speeches, even the ones Ainsley hasn't written yet.
"Sure I'll come with you," says Ainsley.
*
It's fall in DC and someone's installed a series of posters between the fences and sidewalk along Ainsley's street - photographs of dead children in war torn countries, mostly, next to photographs of aborted foetuses. Ainsley ignores the protestors and forces herself to look at the photographs. She can't help but notice that the statistics set beneath the photographs are either unsupported or out of date by about two years.
Still, the posters read "Genocide" and "Butchered children". The protestors have signs saying, "Pro child - Pro choice," and "Every child a wanted child."
Ainsley thinks, "I was a part of a murder."
When she gets to her trunk distribution office the little green light on her phone is blinking. Ada's voice says, almost calmly, "I know it's a bit early but looks like I'm in labour. And Deb's still in Saudi and right now I have to get to hospital. So you'll be a godmother soon, A, and I'll be a mom."
Ainsley looks at the boxes on her desk, at the papers on her floor. She's buried in depositions for yet another Senate Oversight Committee. Josh Lyman is expecting a paper outlining a union issue in Minnesota. The Barlow trial starts tomorrow and she hasn't uncovered the latest precedent Tribbey swears exists.
"I worried when you didn't come straight up," says Mrs. Landingham, dropping a three cookie stack on Ainsley's desk. "Here you are though."
"Here I am," says Ainsley and blinks at the cookies. She looks up at Mrs Landingham. "Can I just put something forward here? My best friend in the whole world, a girl I've known since I was eight, is this very second having a baby in Baltimore. She's alone and I'm supposed to be there. But she's having it two weeks early and I'm buried in this Barlow matter and the Oversight Committee and the thing is, I mean, this is the White House-"
Mrs Landingham sighs. "Yes, dear, it's the White House. And everything you do is enormously important. But do you know what you people forget? Here, as anywhere, everyone's replaceable. Even you. Even the President himself, as I keep reminding him."
"So I should go," Ainsley says.
"You should go. Because you're replaceable here. But to your friend, you're probably not."
*
Ainsley wants to thank her, to say, "You were right, Mrs Landingham, I had to be there. I loved being there. I've never seen anything like it in my life." But it's not cookie day today so she leaves it.
And soon afterwards Mrs. Landingham dies.
At Mrs. Landingham's funeral a woman called Rose Dudgeon stands. "I knew Dolores when I was nine years old," she says. "She was opinionated and stubborn and generous and funny. She was irreplaceable." Which seems, to Ainsley, like an ending.
When she gets home she calls Ada.
*