FF: You Think
Title: You Think
Author: cantbesilent
Rating: G
Category: Future FLUFF
Spoiler Info: Nothing specific mentioned, but assumed to be after Transition
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: This is total fluff. I haven't written a fic in like, 5 years, and this is my first for these characters and this show. It was mostly an exercise to get the feel for it and get my creative juices flowing, but I thought I'd post it anyway.
Comments would make my day.
You think she’s beautiful.
She’s standing in the kitchen in red plaid pajama pants that are a little too baggy for her and a faded Harvard sweatshirt you’ve had since the stone age. The sweatshirt’s too big, and the sleeves bunch up in a cute little way around her wrists, so only her long slender fingers are visible. If she turns the right way her hand catches the light and shimmers from the ring you still can’t believe you put there.
She’s making coffee. She shakes the sugar packet more times than necessary and pours the last of the cream into your cup. You can practically see the post-it in her head reminding her to buy more. Her hair is pulled back hastily, and she works unsuccessfully to keep the loose strands behind her ear. You think you’d gladly spend the rest of your life watching her fight that battle with her blonde tresses. Then you smile when you realize you already are.
You think she smells like home.
Like shampoo and lilacs and home. She wraps her arms around you at the end of the day and you bury your head in her hair. Its like silk against your skin and smells of spring, and suddenly you relax. You wonder how you went all those years without the relief of her embrace and the floral scent of her hair.
You think she’s sexiest right before she goes to bed.
You watch her wash the day off her face. She pulls her heals off with a grateful sigh and inspects her pantyhose for runs. If there is one you listen to her half-sarcastic/half-serious rant about how the administration should commit itself to run-free pantyhose in the next two years. That would lock up the women’s vote for sure. You say you’ll bring it up at the next senior staff and that it’ll be on the to-do list, right after world peace. She hits you playfully.
She gets into her mixed-matched pajamas and scrubs the stress and make-up off. The freckles she got while in Florida with the First Lady are now visible, and you think how cute and natural they make her look. You can see the tired under her eyes, but her smile doesn’t show it. She tells you about the First Lady’s new pet project, the email and pictures she got from CJ, the slight desire she has to get a dog and name it William Jennings Bryan. It has to be Henry Cabot Lodge, you tell her. It just sounds cooler.
And she climbs into bed, scrubbed clean and tired. But she smiles at you and her gorgeous eyes glow, and you think there’s no where in the world you’d rather be. This is a version of her no one gets to see but you, and you think for a moment how lucky you are.
You think she’s cute when she’s mad.
She can narrow her eyes and furrow her brow and give you the sternest look possible, but you just end up smiling cause she looks so cute. She obsesses over the little stuff. Why do you just leave your wet towels on the floor? You can’t leave the milk out, its gonna go bad. Seriously, how hard is it to put the cap back on the toothpaste? She huffs and she puffs about being able to get the wife of the Argentine President to calm down and attend a state dinner, but she can’t, for the life of her, get her Fulbright scholar husband to throw out the coffee filter. You genuinely try to correct your bad habits, but sometimes you just like watching her freak out. She just looks so cute.
You think she’s a whiz at domestic life.
With what little free time you both have, you expected your home to be neglected and messy, as it often had years before. But she manages to swirl around the place, making it, for the first time in your life, an actual home. She has a place for everything and everything in its place. There are cute pictures of you together, with family and friends, of all the elections going back to when you met. The refrigerator is covered in gentle reminders, important dates, and the latest snapshot she found of the two of you and felt the need to display.
Your shower curtain matches your bathmat and your sheets match the drapes. Why this is necessary, you don’t know, but you remember the satisfied look she had on her face when she stood back and admired how the nightstands were perfectly symmetrical and you think that her huge grin was the sole importance of the endeavor. You never thought in your life that your bookcase would be organized by subject, let alone have a wedding picture on it. But you love it. You love it cause its her.
You think her mashed potatoes are too lumpy.
You eat them because a home cooked meal you both enjoy together, without interruption or hurry, is as rare as a solar eclipse, and you don’t want to do a single thing that could ruin the quiet moment. So you gobble them down and try to ignore the rough texture in your mouth that is one of your biggest peeves. You think this is probably the only quirk you’ve ever had that she is not aware of, and you are in no hurry for her to find out. You wonder sometimes how, after a decade, she doesn’t know about your mashed potato pickiness. Its not that they taste bad, you reason. They’re just too lumpy. You anticipate that any mashed potatoes you made would be twice as lumpy and taste like soot. So you wisely say nothing and wash the dishes because she worked so hard and you’re so grateful for her. You can keep this up for the rest of your life, no problem. She hums while she clears off the table and you join in at the chorus.
You think she’d be an incredible mother.
You can practically see her standing over a bassinet, grinning ear to ear, with a tiny hand grasped around her elegant fingers. You can see her picking out wallpaper with teddy bears on it and coming up with a list of potential names sorted alphabetically, by meaning, and by preference. You can see her sitting in a rocking chair late at night, with the moon illuminating her smiling face, and singing ever so gently to the soft bundle in her arms.
You can see her throwing themed birthday parties and making pilgrim costumes for the school thanksgiving play. You think she’d make you be a girl scout camping trip chaperon and tell you lovingly that your daughter loves the outdoors, so be a good sport and put on some bug spray. You doubt you would protest for more than a moment.
The thought of this use to scare you. It doesn’t anymore.
You think, as you watch her stir the last bit of sugar into the coffee, that you might actually be making her happy. That this might be all that she wants. That you, that this life, might really be everything. She’s told you this many times, but sometimes you find it all so hard to believe. She’s so amazing and you’re so you, and after all these years and all the drama it can still be so surreal that you often wake up in the morning afraid its all been a dream.
She leans over and gives you a quick kiss before handing you your coffee and flashing you a smile. And you think that at this moment, here with you and two cups of coffee and the simple elegance of the evening, that she is happy.
You know for certain you are.
Author: cantbesilent
Rating: G
Category: Future FLUFF
Spoiler Info: Nothing specific mentioned, but assumed to be after Transition
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: This is total fluff. I haven't written a fic in like, 5 years, and this is my first for these characters and this show. It was mostly an exercise to get the feel for it and get my creative juices flowing, but I thought I'd post it anyway.
Comments would make my day.
You think she’s beautiful.
She’s standing in the kitchen in red plaid pajama pants that are a little too baggy for her and a faded Harvard sweatshirt you’ve had since the stone age. The sweatshirt’s too big, and the sleeves bunch up in a cute little way around her wrists, so only her long slender fingers are visible. If she turns the right way her hand catches the light and shimmers from the ring you still can’t believe you put there.
She’s making coffee. She shakes the sugar packet more times than necessary and pours the last of the cream into your cup. You can practically see the post-it in her head reminding her to buy more. Her hair is pulled back hastily, and she works unsuccessfully to keep the loose strands behind her ear. You think you’d gladly spend the rest of your life watching her fight that battle with her blonde tresses. Then you smile when you realize you already are.
You think she smells like home.
Like shampoo and lilacs and home. She wraps her arms around you at the end of the day and you bury your head in her hair. Its like silk against your skin and smells of spring, and suddenly you relax. You wonder how you went all those years without the relief of her embrace and the floral scent of her hair.
You think she’s sexiest right before she goes to bed.
You watch her wash the day off her face. She pulls her heals off with a grateful sigh and inspects her pantyhose for runs. If there is one you listen to her half-sarcastic/half-serious rant about how the administration should commit itself to run-free pantyhose in the next two years. That would lock up the women’s vote for sure. You say you’ll bring it up at the next senior staff and that it’ll be on the to-do list, right after world peace. She hits you playfully.
She gets into her mixed-matched pajamas and scrubs the stress and make-up off. The freckles she got while in Florida with the First Lady are now visible, and you think how cute and natural they make her look. You can see the tired under her eyes, but her smile doesn’t show it. She tells you about the First Lady’s new pet project, the email and pictures she got from CJ, the slight desire she has to get a dog and name it William Jennings Bryan. It has to be Henry Cabot Lodge, you tell her. It just sounds cooler.
And she climbs into bed, scrubbed clean and tired. But she smiles at you and her gorgeous eyes glow, and you think there’s no where in the world you’d rather be. This is a version of her no one gets to see but you, and you think for a moment how lucky you are.
You think she’s cute when she’s mad.
She can narrow her eyes and furrow her brow and give you the sternest look possible, but you just end up smiling cause she looks so cute. She obsesses over the little stuff. Why do you just leave your wet towels on the floor? You can’t leave the milk out, its gonna go bad. Seriously, how hard is it to put the cap back on the toothpaste? She huffs and she puffs about being able to get the wife of the Argentine President to calm down and attend a state dinner, but she can’t, for the life of her, get her Fulbright scholar husband to throw out the coffee filter. You genuinely try to correct your bad habits, but sometimes you just like watching her freak out. She just looks so cute.
You think she’s a whiz at domestic life.
With what little free time you both have, you expected your home to be neglected and messy, as it often had years before. But she manages to swirl around the place, making it, for the first time in your life, an actual home. She has a place for everything and everything in its place. There are cute pictures of you together, with family and friends, of all the elections going back to when you met. The refrigerator is covered in gentle reminders, important dates, and the latest snapshot she found of the two of you and felt the need to display.
Your shower curtain matches your bathmat and your sheets match the drapes. Why this is necessary, you don’t know, but you remember the satisfied look she had on her face when she stood back and admired how the nightstands were perfectly symmetrical and you think that her huge grin was the sole importance of the endeavor. You never thought in your life that your bookcase would be organized by subject, let alone have a wedding picture on it. But you love it. You love it cause its her.
You think her mashed potatoes are too lumpy.
You eat them because a home cooked meal you both enjoy together, without interruption or hurry, is as rare as a solar eclipse, and you don’t want to do a single thing that could ruin the quiet moment. So you gobble them down and try to ignore the rough texture in your mouth that is one of your biggest peeves. You think this is probably the only quirk you’ve ever had that she is not aware of, and you are in no hurry for her to find out. You wonder sometimes how, after a decade, she doesn’t know about your mashed potato pickiness. Its not that they taste bad, you reason. They’re just too lumpy. You anticipate that any mashed potatoes you made would be twice as lumpy and taste like soot. So you wisely say nothing and wash the dishes because she worked so hard and you’re so grateful for her. You can keep this up for the rest of your life, no problem. She hums while she clears off the table and you join in at the chorus.
You think she’d be an incredible mother.
You can practically see her standing over a bassinet, grinning ear to ear, with a tiny hand grasped around her elegant fingers. You can see her picking out wallpaper with teddy bears on it and coming up with a list of potential names sorted alphabetically, by meaning, and by preference. You can see her sitting in a rocking chair late at night, with the moon illuminating her smiling face, and singing ever so gently to the soft bundle in her arms.
You can see her throwing themed birthday parties and making pilgrim costumes for the school thanksgiving play. You think she’d make you be a girl scout camping trip chaperon and tell you lovingly that your daughter loves the outdoors, so be a good sport and put on some bug spray. You doubt you would protest for more than a moment.
The thought of this use to scare you. It doesn’t anymore.
You think, as you watch her stir the last bit of sugar into the coffee, that you might actually be making her happy. That this might be all that she wants. That you, that this life, might really be everything. She’s told you this many times, but sometimes you find it all so hard to believe. She’s so amazing and you’re so you, and after all these years and all the drama it can still be so surreal that you often wake up in the morning afraid its all been a dream.
She leans over and gives you a quick kiss before handing you your coffee and flashing you a smile. And you think that at this moment, here with you and two cups of coffee and the simple elegance of the evening, that she is happy.
You know for certain you are.