Mamma Mia 2/3
Title: Mamma Mia! (part 2 of 3)
Summary: One drabble for every ship on the West Wing, inspired by one song on the Mamma Mia OST.
Spoilers: Entire series
Disclaimer: Not mine. No money.
Rating: Up to NC-17
Pairings: Jed/Abbey, CJ/Danny, Leo/Jordan, Zoey/Jean-Paul (what? you try coming up with 15 canon couples on West Wing), Will/Kate
Notes: Parts of this were an extraction, not gonna lie. Leo/Jordan FTW though.
i. lay your love on me
“It’s lucky I’m not a jealous man,” Jed remarks, smirking down at her as she crawls into bed in checkered pajamas, a smudge of the night’s mascara still on her cheekbone. Abbey wraps the covers around her body and savors the feeling of the two of them, sniping at each other about British royalty attempting to grasping her breasts, with the air, finally, cleared between them.
“You are a jealous man,” she reminds him, grinning.
“That’s right,” Jed smirks in fake astonishment, pulling off his necktie, “I am. Although even if I wasn’t, I would seriously be objecting to-”
“Oh, just say it already!” She rolls her eyes affectionately, fingers searching for her reading glasses on the clutter of her nightstand. “You just don’t like British royalty appreciating my-”
“Damn straight I don’t,” Jed grumbles, unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s why I got married, so no else gets to appreciate those.”
Abbey laughs, and it’s such a wonderful feeling, to be laughing with her husband again. “What are you going to, bomb his castle? You were the one who invited-”
“He’s the British Ambassador! We couldn’t not invite him, but I thought we could hide the women!” Jed exclaims. “And we needed him for a thing. Have you seen my pajamas?”
“What am I, your mother?”
“I’d never think that. I’ve tasted your cooking and it’s nothing like-”
“You keep that up and I’m giving Lord John a call,” Abbey chives, though mildly.
“You wouldn’t. You’re too classy for him.”
“I’m not that classy.”
“I’ll say.”
“Shut up, Jethro.”
“I’ve told you not to call-” He breaks off, shaking his head in amusement. She watches in silence as he goes off in search of his pajamas and her fingers, still absent-mindedly scanning the nightstand for her glasses, knock over a small silver frame. She picks it up, and finds herself staring at her twenty one year-old self, in a lacy, white-dress and a radiant smile, shyly holding hands with one Josiah Bartlet. God, they were young. Both of them. And if she’d known, then, where life at his side would lead her, into the White House and a courtroom… Abbey shrugs, knowing the answer. She can’t kid herself, now. Now that anger and self-righteousness have been extinguished, she’s forced to admit herself, once again, that she’s bound to this man, truly until death do them part.
She hears the porch door creak open. “Don’t smoke!” She yells out of habit.
“You know, the fact that you’ve revoked your medical license sort of means you don’t get to treat me like one of your patients anymore,” he calls back.
“I’m still your wife, aren’t I?” She calls back. “Haven’t revoked that. Yet.”
Jed sticks his head back into their bedroom. “Don’t joke about that,” he says, seriously.
Abbey smiles, ruefully. “Come to bed, jackass.”
ii. super trouper
“So,” she asks him, a few days after Christmas, sprawled between his sheets and trying to fish her bra out from under his bed single-handedly, “you back for good, mister?”
Danny walks his fingers over her bare back slowly, agonizingly, one hand caressing her lower back. “CJ…”
She gives a low, soft shudder as his fingertips are replaced by his lips, moving towards her shoulder blades. “I was asking…”
“Just relax, okay?” He mutters into her collarbone, and then, thoroughly out of nowhere, flips her around to face him. They both burst into laughter at the look on the other’s face, and she pulls herself into a half-sitting position to kiss him. “I’m relaxing,” she mutters, one hand raking through his hair. “This is very relaxing.”
“Good,” Danny hums, fingers caressing her shoulders, and then he drops his head to her chest. The sudden tickle of beard against skin makes her giggle, but it’s quickly replaced by a moan as his tongue traces her nipples, kissing them to hard points. CJ shudders, and lifts up his face to kiss him, hungrily, and he lets her, slipping a finger between her thighs, lightly teasing as she grows hot and wet under his touch, until neither of them can stand it, and she mutters something than sounds suspiciously like, “God, Danny, just-” and that’s all the invitation he’ll ever need. They groan and gasp at the contact as he slides inside her, a messy, sweaty tangle of bodies, sheets and sounds as they rock each other over the edge, and cry out together in the gray light of a December morning.
“You know,” she mumbles, later, still draped lazily around him, and addressing the ceiling, “I was serious before.”
“Serious about what?” Danny mutters, his hands raking through her hair, soft kisses raining down on her temple, and she wishes they could just stay like this for ever, naked and undefined, without the world intruding.
“Are you back for good?”
Danny heaves a sigh, arranges his body to look at her, and she turns towards him. They just stare at each other. “I don’t know,” he admits, finally. “I’m back for now.”
CJ nods. “You coming to my briefings?”
He smirks. “I was looking forward to that, yeah.”
Despite herself, she feels herself beam as she scoots closer into his arms. “Good.” And whispers into his chest, where he surely can’t hear it, “Because I kind of missed you.”
And when she walks into the briefing room for the first time in the New Year, she finds herself scanning the crowd for him, and when he’s there, needling her, smiling at her, eyes dancing, egging her on and flirting with her so blatantly it nearly makes her blush, she finds herself enjoying herself so thoroughly that, not for the first time, she finds herself forced to entertain the possibility that she might really be in love with this man.
iii. gimme, gimme, gimme (a man after midnight)
Jordan Elaine Kendall flicks off the television at exactly eleven-thirty, because she loves Jon Steward but can’t stand Stephen Colbert, wanders out of her living room, because she was brought up that only slobs have a television in their bedroom and get to watch TV in bed, flicks off the lights in her kitchen and gets ready for bed. She takes her silky midnight-blue pajamas out from under the pillow where she placed them this morning, methodically replaces the pillow. In her bathroom, she carefully brushes her teeth, flosses, gives herself exactly three minutes to deal with her face, make-up remover, cold cream and all, because more time would just be an exercise in vanity, and finally, she slips under her covers.
There she lies, wide awake, heart pounding, mind reeling. The enormity of what she’s learned to day, what she’s decided -or really, been ordered- to do today, creeps in out of the shadows of her orderly bedroom. Sits on the side of her bed, and waits. She turns away, resolutely, towards the wall, and waits for sleep.
Sleep doesn’t come. Instead, she becomes restless, agitated, because on top of everything else that she needs to consider- that must be considered, neatly sorted into pro/con piles in her mind- there’s also the issue of Leo to be considered in this- Leo, who makes her feel like she’s in her twenties again, and she know, she’s been taught, that she’s supposed to be beyond feeling like this, but when he smiles at her, tells her she looks sensational (his words!), she forgets that. She forgets a lot of things.
It’s been too long since anyone has told her she looks sensational.
She crawls out of bed, unable to stand it under the covers, and walks towards the wide French windows overlooking her neat, manicured garden bathed in moonlight, thinking about Leo. He’s the kind of man she thought they didn’t make anymore. They’ve had dates, flirtations, one shy kiss shared on Christmas Eve on her doorstep, out of sentimentality more than anything else, and all of that just makes it all that harder to not give in to his advances completely and allow him to sweep her up, if only for a little while.
But the truth is that when she thinks of Leo, what she thinks of is a force of nature. A heavy gust of wind blowing her well-ordered life out of shape, uprooting her and then, inevitably, dropping her in some unfamiliar territory where she’d be forced to fend for herself.
Jordan knows this. She’s someone who has arranged herself with being alone very comfortably, she has a Weimeraner named Abigail, and the neighbors’ kids to borrow whenever she feels the need for it. She’s got girlfriends she goes on vacation with, she tutors kids in English and Social Studies at a Middle School in Douglass twice a week and goes to Yoga classes every Thursday morning. Yes, Jordan is the kind of person who as arranged herself very comfortably with being alone.
And she’ll stay that way.
iv. voulez-vous
She couldn’t even tell you what it is she sees in him.
They meet in a bar, he sends a bottle of Veuve Cliqout over to her and her friends like it’s a keg, and not much later, he’s dancing with her, and she’s having way too much fun to realize that this is not something she does, letting some stranger feel her up in a dingy club in Columbia Heights she’s already forgotten the name of.
He texts her, they go out to dinner, and she’s dazzled and somehow ends up at his place, and that’s when things really start getting out of control because she’s in that state of reckless drunkenness that only champagne can induce, but still she can think to herself that she doesn’t do any of this, especially not on what’s technically the first date. But it feels good, and he feels good, and so she goes with it. But still, she really has yet to figure out what it is about him she likes, exactly.
Sure, he’s rich and cute and lives in a castle, he’s carefree and funny and his last name’s even more impressive than hers, in a way, but that’s not it. She does realize he’s a little ridiculous, with his accent (when she knows perfectly well he’s been going to school in England since he was ten) and his polo and the incessant partying which quite frankly is starting to get on her nerves, because no matter how hard she tries to fight it, she’s still her Dad’s daughter and would rather spend the night with a big book than almost anything else.
And her friends kind of hate him, and she knows her family hates him -she doesn’t think Ellie’s talked to her this much since she was twelve-, and it’s not like she can blame them. There are times when she thinks to herself, what the hell are you doing with this guy, he’s basically Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.
But he takes her to Paris and buys her things, things no-one else has ever even though of buying her, 300 dollar sunglasses and lingerie, and she’s sold. It’s kind of not-okay, she knows, and kind of not-her, or so she’s told, but this is part of the draw: he brings out a new part in her, someone who drinks cocktails, goes to fashion shows, goes shopping with her boyfriend’s credit card and gives said boyfriend a blowjob in an airplane bathroom, not caring just how bad it would be if word got out. She’s always been the good kid, her father’s little girl, the one who could do no wrong, and she’s having way too much fun testing how much wrong she actually can get away with to stop it, now.
When she finds out what wrong actually looks like that May, it’s too late for regrets.
v. s.o.s
They sit next to each other in an empty movie theater save for Charlie a few seats over, and Will’s having a hard time concentrating on National Treasure: Book Of Secrets. In the heady combination of Kate, next to him, smelling irresistably like herself and the sneaky feeling that he’s about to lose her to his own stupidity, the exploits of the likes of Nicolas Cage are just not that interesting to him. An hour into the movie, he’s eaten all his popcorn and come to the conclusion that he can’t stand this any longer.
“Kate,” he mutters. “Can you come with me for a sec?”
She stares at him, a what the hell expression on her face that reminds him so violently of a teenage girl that it’d be funny, if it weren’t so endearing, so her, so one of the reasons he fell for her in the first place.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispers. “It’s kind of… urgent.”
He shuffles out of the row, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she follows him out into the deserted mid-day lobby of a DC multiplex.
“What the…”
“I’m not moving to Oregon,” he blurts out. “I’m not doing it. I refuse to. I’m putting my line in the sand. I’m not moving to Oregon. I don’t want to be a Congressman! I don’t even like Congress!”
She’s staring at him with a curious expression- almost pity. “Will, come on…”
“No,” he interrupts, “no, now I get to talk. I’ve figured this out. You’ve been pushing me away, to freaking Oregon, for two weeks, but I’ve got your read now. You’re just as freaked out by this as I am, and you’re thinking to yourself, hey, if I get him to move away, I won’t have to beak up with him, because cross-country relationships never last!”
“I-”
“I’m a good guy, Kate,” he tells her, imploringly. “I’m not a marine, when the Airforce calls me in it’s because they need a lawyer, but I’m a good guy. I’m decent, and I’m kind, and I’d be nice to you, and we could really make this work, but only if you stop trying to push me to Oregon.”
“Will-”
“It’s not fair,” he tells her, seriously, slowing down, breathing. This is the most honest thing he’s said to a woman, ever. “I want us to work, and if you don’t, you should at least have the courage to tell me that to my face.”
Kate blushes, looks down. “I know,” she whispers.
His heart sinks through his body, right down into the DC sewage. He stands their, frozen. “Oh.”
“Will, no, I-”
“I get it.” He heaves a sigh. “I guess I’m moving to Oregon after all.” And he walks away.
Summary: One drabble for every ship on the West Wing, inspired by one song on the Mamma Mia OST.
Spoilers: Entire series
Disclaimer: Not mine. No money.
Rating: Up to NC-17
Pairings: Jed/Abbey, CJ/Danny, Leo/Jordan, Zoey/Jean-Paul (what? you try coming up with 15 canon couples on West Wing), Will/Kate
Notes: Parts of this were an extraction, not gonna lie. Leo/Jordan FTW though.
i. lay your love on me
“It’s lucky I’m not a jealous man,” Jed remarks, smirking down at her as she crawls into bed in checkered pajamas, a smudge of the night’s mascara still on her cheekbone. Abbey wraps the covers around her body and savors the feeling of the two of them, sniping at each other about British royalty attempting to grasping her breasts, with the air, finally, cleared between them.
“You are a jealous man,” she reminds him, grinning.
“That’s right,” Jed smirks in fake astonishment, pulling off his necktie, “I am. Although even if I wasn’t, I would seriously be objecting to-”
“Oh, just say it already!” She rolls her eyes affectionately, fingers searching for her reading glasses on the clutter of her nightstand. “You just don’t like British royalty appreciating my-”
“Damn straight I don’t,” Jed grumbles, unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s why I got married, so no else gets to appreciate those.”
Abbey laughs, and it’s such a wonderful feeling, to be laughing with her husband again. “What are you going to, bomb his castle? You were the one who invited-”
“He’s the British Ambassador! We couldn’t not invite him, but I thought we could hide the women!” Jed exclaims. “And we needed him for a thing. Have you seen my pajamas?”
“What am I, your mother?”
“I’d never think that. I’ve tasted your cooking and it’s nothing like-”
“You keep that up and I’m giving Lord John a call,” Abbey chives, though mildly.
“You wouldn’t. You’re too classy for him.”
“I’m not that classy.”
“I’ll say.”
“Shut up, Jethro.”
“I’ve told you not to call-” He breaks off, shaking his head in amusement. She watches in silence as he goes off in search of his pajamas and her fingers, still absent-mindedly scanning the nightstand for her glasses, knock over a small silver frame. She picks it up, and finds herself staring at her twenty one year-old self, in a lacy, white-dress and a radiant smile, shyly holding hands with one Josiah Bartlet. God, they were young. Both of them. And if she’d known, then, where life at his side would lead her, into the White House and a courtroom… Abbey shrugs, knowing the answer. She can’t kid herself, now. Now that anger and self-righteousness have been extinguished, she’s forced to admit herself, once again, that she’s bound to this man, truly until death do them part.
She hears the porch door creak open. “Don’t smoke!” She yells out of habit.
“You know, the fact that you’ve revoked your medical license sort of means you don’t get to treat me like one of your patients anymore,” he calls back.
“I’m still your wife, aren’t I?” She calls back. “Haven’t revoked that. Yet.”
Jed sticks his head back into their bedroom. “Don’t joke about that,” he says, seriously.
Abbey smiles, ruefully. “Come to bed, jackass.”
ii. super trouper
“So,” she asks him, a few days after Christmas, sprawled between his sheets and trying to fish her bra out from under his bed single-handedly, “you back for good, mister?”
Danny walks his fingers over her bare back slowly, agonizingly, one hand caressing her lower back. “CJ…”
She gives a low, soft shudder as his fingertips are replaced by his lips, moving towards her shoulder blades. “I was asking…”
“Just relax, okay?” He mutters into her collarbone, and then, thoroughly out of nowhere, flips her around to face him. They both burst into laughter at the look on the other’s face, and she pulls herself into a half-sitting position to kiss him. “I’m relaxing,” she mutters, one hand raking through his hair. “This is very relaxing.”
“Good,” Danny hums, fingers caressing her shoulders, and then he drops his head to her chest. The sudden tickle of beard against skin makes her giggle, but it’s quickly replaced by a moan as his tongue traces her nipples, kissing them to hard points. CJ shudders, and lifts up his face to kiss him, hungrily, and he lets her, slipping a finger between her thighs, lightly teasing as she grows hot and wet under his touch, until neither of them can stand it, and she mutters something than sounds suspiciously like, “God, Danny, just-” and that’s all the invitation he’ll ever need. They groan and gasp at the contact as he slides inside her, a messy, sweaty tangle of bodies, sheets and sounds as they rock each other over the edge, and cry out together in the gray light of a December morning.
“You know,” she mumbles, later, still draped lazily around him, and addressing the ceiling, “I was serious before.”
“Serious about what?” Danny mutters, his hands raking through her hair, soft kisses raining down on her temple, and she wishes they could just stay like this for ever, naked and undefined, without the world intruding.
“Are you back for good?”
Danny heaves a sigh, arranges his body to look at her, and she turns towards him. They just stare at each other. “I don’t know,” he admits, finally. “I’m back for now.”
CJ nods. “You coming to my briefings?”
He smirks. “I was looking forward to that, yeah.”
Despite herself, she feels herself beam as she scoots closer into his arms. “Good.” And whispers into his chest, where he surely can’t hear it, “Because I kind of missed you.”
And when she walks into the briefing room for the first time in the New Year, she finds herself scanning the crowd for him, and when he’s there, needling her, smiling at her, eyes dancing, egging her on and flirting with her so blatantly it nearly makes her blush, she finds herself enjoying herself so thoroughly that, not for the first time, she finds herself forced to entertain the possibility that she might really be in love with this man.
iii. gimme, gimme, gimme (a man after midnight)
Jordan Elaine Kendall flicks off the television at exactly eleven-thirty, because she loves Jon Steward but can’t stand Stephen Colbert, wanders out of her living room, because she was brought up that only slobs have a television in their bedroom and get to watch TV in bed, flicks off the lights in her kitchen and gets ready for bed. She takes her silky midnight-blue pajamas out from under the pillow where she placed them this morning, methodically replaces the pillow. In her bathroom, she carefully brushes her teeth, flosses, gives herself exactly three minutes to deal with her face, make-up remover, cold cream and all, because more time would just be an exercise in vanity, and finally, she slips under her covers.
There she lies, wide awake, heart pounding, mind reeling. The enormity of what she’s learned to day, what she’s decided -or really, been ordered- to do today, creeps in out of the shadows of her orderly bedroom. Sits on the side of her bed, and waits. She turns away, resolutely, towards the wall, and waits for sleep.
Sleep doesn’t come. Instead, she becomes restless, agitated, because on top of everything else that she needs to consider- that must be considered, neatly sorted into pro/con piles in her mind- there’s also the issue of Leo to be considered in this- Leo, who makes her feel like she’s in her twenties again, and she know, she’s been taught, that she’s supposed to be beyond feeling like this, but when he smiles at her, tells her she looks sensational (his words!), she forgets that. She forgets a lot of things.
It’s been too long since anyone has told her she looks sensational.
She crawls out of bed, unable to stand it under the covers, and walks towards the wide French windows overlooking her neat, manicured garden bathed in moonlight, thinking about Leo. He’s the kind of man she thought they didn’t make anymore. They’ve had dates, flirtations, one shy kiss shared on Christmas Eve on her doorstep, out of sentimentality more than anything else, and all of that just makes it all that harder to not give in to his advances completely and allow him to sweep her up, if only for a little while.
But the truth is that when she thinks of Leo, what she thinks of is a force of nature. A heavy gust of wind blowing her well-ordered life out of shape, uprooting her and then, inevitably, dropping her in some unfamiliar territory where she’d be forced to fend for herself.
Jordan knows this. She’s someone who has arranged herself with being alone very comfortably, she has a Weimeraner named Abigail, and the neighbors’ kids to borrow whenever she feels the need for it. She’s got girlfriends she goes on vacation with, she tutors kids in English and Social Studies at a Middle School in Douglass twice a week and goes to Yoga classes every Thursday morning. Yes, Jordan is the kind of person who as arranged herself very comfortably with being alone.
And she’ll stay that way.
iv. voulez-vous
She couldn’t even tell you what it is she sees in him.
They meet in a bar, he sends a bottle of Veuve Cliqout over to her and her friends like it’s a keg, and not much later, he’s dancing with her, and she’s having way too much fun to realize that this is not something she does, letting some stranger feel her up in a dingy club in Columbia Heights she’s already forgotten the name of.
He texts her, they go out to dinner, and she’s dazzled and somehow ends up at his place, and that’s when things really start getting out of control because she’s in that state of reckless drunkenness that only champagne can induce, but still she can think to herself that she doesn’t do any of this, especially not on what’s technically the first date. But it feels good, and he feels good, and so she goes with it. But still, she really has yet to figure out what it is about him she likes, exactly.
Sure, he’s rich and cute and lives in a castle, he’s carefree and funny and his last name’s even more impressive than hers, in a way, but that’s not it. She does realize he’s a little ridiculous, with his accent (when she knows perfectly well he’s been going to school in England since he was ten) and his polo and the incessant partying which quite frankly is starting to get on her nerves, because no matter how hard she tries to fight it, she’s still her Dad’s daughter and would rather spend the night with a big book than almost anything else.
And her friends kind of hate him, and she knows her family hates him -she doesn’t think Ellie’s talked to her this much since she was twelve-, and it’s not like she can blame them. There are times when she thinks to herself, what the hell are you doing with this guy, he’s basically Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.
But he takes her to Paris and buys her things, things no-one else has ever even though of buying her, 300 dollar sunglasses and lingerie, and she’s sold. It’s kind of not-okay, she knows, and kind of not-her, or so she’s told, but this is part of the draw: he brings out a new part in her, someone who drinks cocktails, goes to fashion shows, goes shopping with her boyfriend’s credit card and gives said boyfriend a blowjob in an airplane bathroom, not caring just how bad it would be if word got out. She’s always been the good kid, her father’s little girl, the one who could do no wrong, and she’s having way too much fun testing how much wrong she actually can get away with to stop it, now.
When she finds out what wrong actually looks like that May, it’s too late for regrets.
v. s.o.s
They sit next to each other in an empty movie theater save for Charlie a few seats over, and Will’s having a hard time concentrating on National Treasure: Book Of Secrets. In the heady combination of Kate, next to him, smelling irresistably like herself and the sneaky feeling that he’s about to lose her to his own stupidity, the exploits of the likes of Nicolas Cage are just not that interesting to him. An hour into the movie, he’s eaten all his popcorn and come to the conclusion that he can’t stand this any longer.
“Kate,” he mutters. “Can you come with me for a sec?”
She stares at him, a what the hell expression on her face that reminds him so violently of a teenage girl that it’d be funny, if it weren’t so endearing, so her, so one of the reasons he fell for her in the first place.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispers. “It’s kind of… urgent.”
He shuffles out of the row, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she follows him out into the deserted mid-day lobby of a DC multiplex.
“What the…”
“I’m not moving to Oregon,” he blurts out. “I’m not doing it. I refuse to. I’m putting my line in the sand. I’m not moving to Oregon. I don’t want to be a Congressman! I don’t even like Congress!”
She’s staring at him with a curious expression- almost pity. “Will, come on…”
“No,” he interrupts, “no, now I get to talk. I’ve figured this out. You’ve been pushing me away, to freaking Oregon, for two weeks, but I’ve got your read now. You’re just as freaked out by this as I am, and you’re thinking to yourself, hey, if I get him to move away, I won’t have to beak up with him, because cross-country relationships never last!”
“I-”
“I’m a good guy, Kate,” he tells her, imploringly. “I’m not a marine, when the Airforce calls me in it’s because they need a lawyer, but I’m a good guy. I’m decent, and I’m kind, and I’d be nice to you, and we could really make this work, but only if you stop trying to push me to Oregon.”
“Will-”
“It’s not fair,” he tells her, seriously, slowing down, breathing. This is the most honest thing he’s said to a woman, ever. “I want us to work, and if you don’t, you should at least have the courage to tell me that to my face.”
Kate blushes, looks down. “I know,” she whispers.
His heart sinks through his body, right down into the DC sewage. He stands their, frozen. “Oh.”
“Will, no, I-”
“I get it.” He heaves a sigh. “I guess I’m moving to Oregon after all.” And he walks away.