Work Text:
[…] laughing in silk pajamas
and the grains of sugar
on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I’m sorry
it’s such a lousy story.
Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out - Richard Siken
She wakes up to the absence of an alarm, a dearth of ringing phones.
Andy rolls onto her back, hair falling across her face until she sweeps it aside. The hint of silver glints in the glare of sunlight, and she sighs at the thought of another conversation about not dyeing it, of reclaiming a few precious hours from vanity, now that the world isn’t watching quite so closely.
Well, eventually it won’t be. A few last-minute pardons will generate a few more weeks of churning opinion from the bloggers and columnists who love or hate her in roughly equal measure. She sighs, rubbing sleep from her eyes and sitting up.
“Morning,” he says, from the chair by the fireplace. A breakfast tray is already laid out, her iPad in its case beside it, the actual paper already separated into sections as he sighs at Sports.
“You’ve settled in quickly,” she says, voice a little rough. The speeches weren’t really her business yesterday, but the thanks and the goodbyes took it out of her.
“You forget all my adventures in decorating,” Toby reminds her. “This is not my first night in the new and improved Presidential pad.”
“Ex-Presidential,” Andy reminds him, unfolding her legs from under the sheets and padding through into the bathroom. She remembers, of all things, the first place they officially shared, down in Baltimore. The apartment’s only bathroom had been the en suite, barely enough room to turn around in the shower and a cracked mirror that was more funhouse than something Martha Stewart (or Caroline, for that matter) might have approved of. She looks at the coordinated bottles and soaps, the muted lighting and smiles a little at how far they’ve come.
Toby’s moved on to the Politics pages when she reemerges, helping herself to the granola and yogurt that’s become a staple. Fresh peach slices on the side suggest this is something of a personal gift.
“I thought the staff didn’t start until Monday,” Andy says, settling into the other armchair, one leg folded beneath her.
“They don’t,” Toby replies easily, eyes flickering towards her over the top of his glasses. “You ready for your obituaries?”
“Later,” she says, because they’ll be clipped and waiting on her computer like always, highlighted and sorted and a hundred other tricks to keep her from thinking about anything a second longer than necessary. “Did you eat?”
“Not yet,” he says. “Coffee, though.”
He’s still throwing off the habits of the bachelor life, she knows. It’s one thing to have your every meal and snack catered, but Toby’s been living along and writing for too long not to have fallen into bad habits, skipping meals chief among them.
“You should eat,” she says, leaning over the small space between them, largely because she can and laying a hand on where his forearm peeks out from under the navy silk robe. It looks good on him, almost regal.
“What’s the plan, Madam President?” He counters, nudging her back to order and responsibility for things other than his wellbeing.
“Quiet until the weekend,” she admits. “Apparently it’s the done thing, to just disappear.”
“Worse places to disappear in,” he suggest, nodding towards the huge window and the sunlight streaming through it. Of course, it’s January and it’s freezing, but Andy can already feel the twinge in her legs that says a walk is needed. Time to explore the Bay for the first time in years, decades even. “You can even rope me into one of these walks that you Amazons are so fond of using your legs for.”
“Thank you,” she says, and it’s strange to say it so sincerely. She doesn’t have the words, not yet, to express the emptiness she’s feeling. It’s a grief without a body, a funeral only she’s attending. She’s mourning her sense of purpose, the countless years of knowing where she needed to be and what had to be done.
“The kids are coming down late tonight,” he reminds her. “Mer said we can go there for lunch, if you don’t mind the drive.”
“I’d like to stay put,” Andy tells him, after a moment’s consideration. It’s an adjustment, making it not sound quite like an order. “I’m sure we won’t starve.”
“No,” he agrees with her. “We won’t.”
“You’ll really come for a walk?” She asks, sipping at the fruit tea that just makes her miss coffee even more.
“Sure,” he says, folding the paper and putting it down. “Unless you’d rather go alone.”
“Not like I’d be alone anyway,” she points out, nodding at the door. There’s at least one agent stationed in the house right now, and the team will be swarming the grounds. That will reduce sharply, and soon, but Andy can’t quite get used to the idea of losing them.
“C’mere,” he says after a moment, and they both set their mugs down in perfect unison. She doesn’t have to think about it, folding into his lap, it’s a move as natural as breathing even after all this time. “You okay? Re-entry is a bitch, so no brave facing it, okay?”
“Okay,” she lies, kissing his forehead and squeezing his shoulder with her right hand. “You sure you’re ready for all this?”
“Been waiting a while,” he says lightly, and she vows to stop questioning it.
“It’s really over,” she says quietly. “Even as the Chief Justice swore him in, part of me wanted to volunteer for another four.”
“That’s Stockholm Syndrome,” Toby scolds her. “And if you wanted it badly enough you’d have amended the 22nd. Amateur.”
“So I didn’t change the Constitution,” she snarks back. “I did okay in six years.”
“You sure did,” he admits. “You want to get dressed?”
“You want to go back to bed? I didn’t like waking up alone,” she murmurs as he presses a kiss to her clavicle, nosing her silk pajama top aside.
“Whatever you want,” he says, and this time, for maybe the first time in thirty-and-change years, she actually believes him.