TWW FIC: When the Suit Comes Off and the Sun Goes Down
Title: When the Suit Comes Off and the Sun Goes Down
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Josh/Amy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. Make love, not lawsuits.
Summary: She can't always be as strong as she wants to be.
Author's Note: Please read my thoughts about cross-posting found in my profile. Post-Posse Comitatus (3.22). 265 words. For the Small Fandom and Rare Pairing Drabbleathon. Feedback and concrit is love.
As soon as she arrives home, Amy trades her suit for a tank top and a pair of shorts. She rolls the tension out of her shoulders as she leans down to fill Henry's dish. An interminable interview with Senator Wiley had tied her muscles into knots and numbed her brain with a ridiculous pipe dream of a third-party candidate--the fourth she'd heard (and dismissed) this week.
With a half-glass of dark rum, she sinks onto the couch in time to catch the end of the Democratic convention and the President's speech. Eloquent and spirited, but predictable. Still, she thinks, Bartlet'll pummel Ritchie into the dirt.
She tips the tumbler to her mouth as she searches the screen for Josh. Josh, who has flown stealth--off her radar--since their last encounter. Their last battle.
As she swallows, her eyes scan the crowd behind the podium. The First Lady. Leo. CJ--
Fury swirls in her stomach. "Stop it," she hisses as she sweeps her free hand across the couch for the remote.
Her loud, scratchy breaths fill her ears when she kills the power. She pushes her hand into her hair and squeezes, desperate to silence the echoes of Josh's voice, full of boisterous, told-you-so passion or laced with shy affection. To crush memories of his smile, his exasperation after a Mets loss, his company on Sunday morning rides. His touch. His kiss.
She berates herself when she retreats to her bedroom, her anger displaced by the sharp ache in her chest. She hates herself when she buries her face into his pillow and cries.
Author: shutterbug_12
Characters: Josh/Amy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Only borrowing. Make love, not lawsuits.
Summary: She can't always be as strong as she wants to be.
Author's Note: Please read my thoughts about cross-posting found in my profile. Post-Posse Comitatus (3.22). 265 words. For the Small Fandom and Rare Pairing Drabbleathon. Feedback and concrit is love.
As soon as she arrives home, Amy trades her suit for a tank top and a pair of shorts. She rolls the tension out of her shoulders as she leans down to fill Henry's dish. An interminable interview with Senator Wiley had tied her muscles into knots and numbed her brain with a ridiculous pipe dream of a third-party candidate--the fourth she'd heard (and dismissed) this week.
With a half-glass of dark rum, she sinks onto the couch in time to catch the end of the Democratic convention and the President's speech. Eloquent and spirited, but predictable. Still, she thinks, Bartlet'll pummel Ritchie into the dirt.
She tips the tumbler to her mouth as she searches the screen for Josh. Josh, who has flown stealth--off her radar--since their last encounter. Their last battle.
As she swallows, her eyes scan the crowd behind the podium. The First Lady. Leo. CJ--
Fury swirls in her stomach. "Stop it," she hisses as she sweeps her free hand across the couch for the remote.
Her loud, scratchy breaths fill her ears when she kills the power. She pushes her hand into her hair and squeezes, desperate to silence the echoes of Josh's voice, full of boisterous, told-you-so passion or laced with shy affection. To crush memories of his smile, his exasperation after a Mets loss, his company on Sunday morning rides. His touch. His kiss.
She berates herself when she retreats to her bedroom, her anger displaced by the sharp ache in her chest. She hates herself when she buries her face into his pillow and cries.