the time you wait subtracts the joy - TWW, josh/amy - last resort
Title: the time you wait subtracts the joy
Summary: "Girls don't like to be a last resort, Joshua." Josh/Amy, Drought Conditions, written for shutterbug_12 's prompt at the last things prompt meme. Hope you like it, bb!
Rating: pg
Pairings: Josh/Amy (sort of)
Her Blackberry buzzes as she's puttering around in her kitchen making cookies for breakfast (What? It's Saturday morning on a holiday weekend, and they're the pre-made-dough kind you just have to slice, and if feminism isn't about empowering women to eat cookies hot from the oven whenever they damn well please, she's pretty sure that's a movement she no longer wants to be part of), she angles for it without looking as Washington rain falls thick and fast outside her window, and it takes her a second to place the voice that says "So're you going to that thing tomorrow?"
"Josh?!" Amy asks, surprised. They haven't spoken since the snowy night in New Hampshire a few weeks ago, when she knew that sitting in an airport Starbucks reading the New Yorker, waiting for a flight she'd known was delayed when she got in the cab in Nashua, was the only way she'd stop herself from following him to his hotel room because she felt sorry for him. And she knows that if there's something neither of them will stand for, it's pity, even if there's sex attached to the end of it.
"Yeah," Josh says, "Hi. So are you-"
"What thing?" Amy asks, peering at the cookies in her oven.
"The gala thing."
"At the White House?" Amy laughs. "I'm simple girl, Josh."
"So I've experienced. Are you-"
"Yeah, I'm going." She pulls her cookies out of the oven and hoists herself up on the kitchen counter next to them, cradling her phone between her neck and shoulders and pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee. "Why?"
"Well, I was gonna, you know..." his voice trails away.
"I really don't, actually."
"I was thinking we could go together, you know."
Amy smiles, a little befuddled. "Really?" She's almost touched. "J, are you asking me out?"
She can hear him let out a low breath. "I just thought it might be fun, you know, for old time's sake."
"That's... surprisingly gallant of you."
"I can be quite the charmer."
"Indeed." Amy reaches for a cookie, burns her hand, swears under her breath. "Well, I'm flattered, but..." she pauses, unsure of how to phrase this. Josh is not exactly Mr. In-Touch-With-His-Feelings. "First of all, I'm afraid I'm spoken for, seeing as the thing's tomorrow-"
"Are you dressing Henry in a tux again?" Josh teases. "You know he hates-"
"Shut up," she's laughing now, despite herself."And second of all, Josh-"
He cuts over her, his voice fast and desperate now without a hint of teasing. "Amy, seriously, I am begging you, please don't make me go back there alone. It's going to be weird and Toby's going to yell and..."
"J, seriously, man up." She's waving one of her cookies around in the air to cool it, wishing she could shake him just as vigorously. "You made the decision to quit for your Latino Wonderboy, own up to it. You don't need me to hide behind. Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm not the one you want to roam through the White House with for old times' sake."
There's silence for a very long, very tense moment, during which Amy takes a bite of her cookie. "Josh?" She swallows. "Are you still there?"
Josh lets out a frustrated little sigh. "Yeah. I'm here. I..." His voice trails away.
"It'll be fine," she says, firmly. "Hey, and if it's not, I promise I will ditch my date and get spectacurlarly wasted with you, okay?"
She can almost hear his smile crack in his recently-lined face. "It's a date."
And it is. When he catches her eye at the coat-check the next night with a brown paper bag and a bruised face, she winks at him, tells the surprisingly handsome cultural affairs attaché from the German embassy she came with she has a headache but would like to see him for dinner next week, and fifteen minutes later, he's pouring stiff vodka martinis for both of them as she attempts to put a bandaid on his cheek.
"It has Elmo on it," Josh complains.
"My nephews were here last week. Stop touching it, it'll get infected." Josh hands her a glass and they toast. "To old friends?" Amy ventures.
Josh snorts. "To some old friends." He drains half his glass in one. "I still feel like all of this could have been avoided if you'd just come with me."
Amy shakes her head, sipping her drink, not bothering to admit that if she'd known how badly the night was going to end for him yesterday, she probably would have relaxed her no-pity-and-no-pity-sex standards just a little bit. "Girls don't like being a last resort, Joshua," she tells him, sagely. The words hang in the air for a moment, an elephant named Donna-The-Constant-Last-Resort growing in the room that they both chase away by clinking glasses silently as sleet gathers in the yellowish glow of the street lamps outside.
He falls asleep on her couch four drinks later, and wakes up the next morning to the smell of fresh cookies and Amy humming along with The Doors. "Morning," he mumbles, sounding amazed. "I think I slept for like, more than six hours."
"Seven," she calls, cheerfully, appearing in the living room doorway with a mug full of coffee and still in her pajamas. They look at each other, and there's a moment where she seriously considers just kissing him, because he's bed-heady and sweet and vulnerable and in her apartment, but instead, she hands him his coffee and the moment passes, as Jim Morrison dolefully sings on her kitchen stereo about how good they could be together.
Summary: "Girls don't like to be a last resort, Joshua." Josh/Amy, Drought Conditions, written for shutterbug_12 's prompt at the last things prompt meme. Hope you like it, bb!
Rating: pg
Pairings: Josh/Amy (sort of)
Her Blackberry buzzes as she's puttering around in her kitchen making cookies for breakfast (What? It's Saturday morning on a holiday weekend, and they're the pre-made-dough kind you just have to slice, and if feminism isn't about empowering women to eat cookies hot from the oven whenever they damn well please, she's pretty sure that's a movement she no longer wants to be part of), she angles for it without looking as Washington rain falls thick and fast outside her window, and it takes her a second to place the voice that says "So're you going to that thing tomorrow?"
"Josh?!" Amy asks, surprised. They haven't spoken since the snowy night in New Hampshire a few weeks ago, when she knew that sitting in an airport Starbucks reading the New Yorker, waiting for a flight she'd known was delayed when she got in the cab in Nashua, was the only way she'd stop herself from following him to his hotel room because she felt sorry for him. And she knows that if there's something neither of them will stand for, it's pity, even if there's sex attached to the end of it.
"Yeah," Josh says, "Hi. So are you-"
"What thing?" Amy asks, peering at the cookies in her oven.
"The gala thing."
"At the White House?" Amy laughs. "I'm simple girl, Josh."
"So I've experienced. Are you-"
"Yeah, I'm going." She pulls her cookies out of the oven and hoists herself up on the kitchen counter next to them, cradling her phone between her neck and shoulders and pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee. "Why?"
"Well, I was gonna, you know..." his voice trails away.
"I really don't, actually."
"I was thinking we could go together, you know."
Amy smiles, a little befuddled. "Really?" She's almost touched. "J, are you asking me out?"
She can hear him let out a low breath. "I just thought it might be fun, you know, for old time's sake."
"That's... surprisingly gallant of you."
"I can be quite the charmer."
"Indeed." Amy reaches for a cookie, burns her hand, swears under her breath. "Well, I'm flattered, but..." she pauses, unsure of how to phrase this. Josh is not exactly Mr. In-Touch-With-His-Feelings. "First of all, I'm afraid I'm spoken for, seeing as the thing's tomorrow-"
"Are you dressing Henry in a tux again?" Josh teases. "You know he hates-"
"Shut up," she's laughing now, despite herself."And second of all, Josh-"
He cuts over her, his voice fast and desperate now without a hint of teasing. "Amy, seriously, I am begging you, please don't make me go back there alone. It's going to be weird and Toby's going to yell and..."
"J, seriously, man up." She's waving one of her cookies around in the air to cool it, wishing she could shake him just as vigorously. "You made the decision to quit for your Latino Wonderboy, own up to it. You don't need me to hide behind. Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm not the one you want to roam through the White House with for old times' sake."
There's silence for a very long, very tense moment, during which Amy takes a bite of her cookie. "Josh?" She swallows. "Are you still there?"
Josh lets out a frustrated little sigh. "Yeah. I'm here. I..." His voice trails away.
"It'll be fine," she says, firmly. "Hey, and if it's not, I promise I will ditch my date and get spectacurlarly wasted with you, okay?"
She can almost hear his smile crack in his recently-lined face. "It's a date."
And it is. When he catches her eye at the coat-check the next night with a brown paper bag and a bruised face, she winks at him, tells the surprisingly handsome cultural affairs attaché from the German embassy she came with she has a headache but would like to see him for dinner next week, and fifteen minutes later, he's pouring stiff vodka martinis for both of them as she attempts to put a bandaid on his cheek.
"It has Elmo on it," Josh complains.
"My nephews were here last week. Stop touching it, it'll get infected." Josh hands her a glass and they toast. "To old friends?" Amy ventures.
Josh snorts. "To some old friends." He drains half his glass in one. "I still feel like all of this could have been avoided if you'd just come with me."
Amy shakes her head, sipping her drink, not bothering to admit that if she'd known how badly the night was going to end for him yesterday, she probably would have relaxed her no-pity-and-no-pity-sex standards just a little bit. "Girls don't like being a last resort, Joshua," she tells him, sagely. The words hang in the air for a moment, an elephant named Donna-The-Constant-Last-Resort growing in the room that they both chase away by clinking glasses silently as sleet gathers in the yellowish glow of the street lamps outside.
He falls asleep on her couch four drinks later, and wakes up the next morning to the smell of fresh cookies and Amy humming along with The Doors. "Morning," he mumbles, sounding amazed. "I think I slept for like, more than six hours."
"Seven," she calls, cheerfully, appearing in the living room doorway with a mug full of coffee and still in her pajamas. They look at each other, and there's a moment where she seriously considers just kissing him, because he's bed-heady and sweet and vulnerable and in her apartment, but instead, she hands him his coffee and the moment passes, as Jim Morrison dolefully sings on her kitchen stereo about how good they could be together.