fic: all behind the smiles (TWW, Amy)
Looking back at what could have been is not the same as regretting.
It’s not.
This is a common misconception amongst people, usually accompanied with pitying looks of their supposed understanding.
It really isn’t the same.
--
Director of Legislative Affairs.
It has a nice ring to it. This time there are no falling diplomas or doors that smash to the floor. There are glass houses and throwing stones from the inside.
Amy doesn’t work completely with this President, but it’s not like the last time when she was trying too hard against him. This time, this administration, she’s working for the President; still serving her own agenda, mind you.
She’s learned how to play this game better.
--
That’s the thing about Amy Gardner.
She has always been who she is. Since she was a little girl, she had been obstinate and sure of her place, unwilling to let anyone or anything deter her. She is who she is. There are no apologies for it, you can either handle her or not. She’s one of those women that men are afraid of and women label a bitch but secretly wish they could be more like her.
Amy couldn't care less.
This doesn’t mean she’s incapable of change, of adapting; people also don’t understand that. Rather, she is good at change, shifting to the mood of what the situation calls for. It’s how she’s been so successful.
It’s how she’s made D.C. hers.
--
Sometimes, when Amy sees Josh, in meetings, in passing, in briefings, and only when she’s in that mood, she thinks about what could have been.
These are rare moments. Usually her mind is too occupied with what needs to be done versus what’s actually being done to think about this. But sometimes she will see him in the halls, assuming his new role of Chief of Staff, and she will stop. Her face will rearrange into an odd look, corners of her mouth pulling down for a second before she realizes what she’s doing.
She entertains the thought of what they could have been. The old cliche and whisperings of power couple of the city. She’s not jealous, as some would assume, of him and Donna. She’s proud of the other woman, in a way, not for him but for her growing into something more than his assistant.
It’s not regret.
Amy doesn’t regret anything in her life. She’s made every choice with deliberation and intent. There’s no room for regret there.
These thoughts only last for a short time, and then they’re gone. They’re fun, that’s all.
--
Amy sits behind her desk.
Josh is across from her. He’s come to her, not the other way around. He sighs, runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. “Look, Amy, it’s not--”
Her jaw is set as she leans forward. “No, Josh, it’s bullshit. I know it, you know it, and the President knows it.”
They’re talking about the budget crisis, and the fact that abortion funding is being used as a bargaining chip like it’s not important to the millions of women in the country. She’s throwing all the stones at the glass walls today.
She can tell that he’s about to speak again and cuts him off, “This shouldn’t be on the table at all. Tell him to grow a backbone. Is he the President or not?”
Amy’s not saying this to be mean or disrespectful. She’s saying this because someone has to, because she’s right.
He leaves, glint in his eyes.
Later, she doesn’t try hiding her smile of satisfaction during the briefing when she’s told to take her message to Congress.
--
She sits on her bed, glass of chardonnay dry and tart in her mouth, flips idly through a magazine. The TV is on, and she listens to the broadcaster failing to talk about the recent legislation. The ineptness makes her lip curl back over her teeth.
Henry whines next to her; he’s getting old and rarely moves from her bedroom. She pets his ears and has to agree.
Tomorrow, she will go do battle on the Hill. She will wear her favorite black suit and tall heels that will click along the polished floors. And she will win.
--
Look forward.
Look back.
She is here where she has carved out her own place, staked it firmly with sharp words and a name known for getting things done.
Amy finds she’s content with that.
It is, after all, what's she's made.