All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. The title's from a David Gray song. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback.
Gathering Dust
Violet
Her mother used to say you should always dust on rainy Sundays. Or maybe it was that you should wash your delicates on Sundays; maybe it had nothing to do with the rain. But it's showering, it's Sunday, and she allows herself the luxury of sending her laundry to a service. So she finds a lonesome can of Pledge and a bedraggled washcloth and attacks the flat surfaces with a vengeance.
The drops are streaking down faster, and the corner of her eye catches a flash of lightning. She counts silently. The thunder comes on the fifth beat. The rain hits harder, and maybe the splash and trickle masks his footsteps as he walks in. She doesn't hear him enter. He stands by the wall, watching this burst of domesticity with amusement and wonder.
Dusting the windowsill, she glimpses his reflection in the glass and turns with a jump. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to figure out what you're doing," he counters.
"Painting a protest mural." She holds the dustcloth out like a badge. "I'm thinking of sending photographs to Better Homes And Gardens. I'm dusting."
"You're very funny today. I meant, why are you dusting?"
"I don't want the dust to stage a coup d'etat and take over."
He chuckles uncomfortably. "Abbey..."
"Don't say my name like my mother, please."
"Abbey," he repeats, more softly. "We have people who do that."
She lowers her hands, tapping the spray bottle lightly against her hip. "Well, those people can take it easy on Monday."
He takes a step toward her. "As I remember it, you once called dusting 'the most inefficient activity invented by man.' You used to make the girls do it as a punishment."
"Well, it's not like I'm doing it for fun."
"No, you're not. And you're not doing it out of necessity, because we have people who do that. So I'm curious as to why..."
"Sometimes I like to do things for myself," she interrupts him.
"I've noticed that about you."
"It doesn't have to be something I enjoy. I just don't like living in someone else's--"
"Shadow?" he offers.
She scowls at him. "House."
"I see."
"These aren't our walls, Jed. It's an extended stay in a really nice hotel." She shakes her head. "But if we're going to be here a while, I have to start feeling at home, don't I?"
He looks at her for a long moment. "This is about that," he surmises.
"Right." She cranes her neck to look out the window. "I can't believe it's still raining so hard."
"We had a discussion," he reminds her gently.
"I remember. I was there."
"You said something."
"I said I was okay with it." She crosses her arms. "I am. I'm okay. I can deal with it."
He nods fractionally. "And the Mary Poppins routine?"
She gives him the tiniest possible smile. "I may take a Swiffer Sweeper to the Lincoln Bedroom next."
"You're a terrifying woman."
The mirth in her smile dissipates. "You're a terrifying man."
"I know," he says seriously.
"Don't you have someplace you're supposed to be right now?" she wonders, and swipes the dustcloth at the shelf to her left.
"Sure." He glances at his watch. "On the way to Indiana."
"Well?"
"Maybe if I'm late they'll decide to leave without me," he says, with more irony than she likes to hear in his voice.
She turns away, reaching high to run the cloth along the wood that frames the top of the window. "And then what would you do all day?"
"Read a book," he suggests, his gaze moving appreciatively over her body. "Broker a peace agreement. Something like that."
She feels him watching her and turns back around. "You mean to tell me you can't do those things on board Air Force One?"
"You could find a cure for the common cold up there," he tells her. "But you'd probably rather do it on the ground."
"And the in-flight movie is always CNN," she adds.
"Yeah. It's not always, not often, how I thought things would be." He sighs, and his face seems shockingly boyish to her. It makes her feel old, and it makes her feel angry.
"Well, God," she snaps. "I'm sorry if it's lonely at the top."
He registers her anger, but his eyes return an almost childish sadness. "It is."
"Shut up," she says wearily. He does, and is quiet until she speaks again. "It was Liz."
"What was?"
"It was Liz I used to have dust when she was in trouble."
"I remember. When she was a teenager, it was enough to keep the house clean."
"Like the time she snuck in through the kitchen window at four in the morning."
He raises his eyebrows. "When did that happen?"
"When she was sixteen." She chuckles softly. "I didn't tell you because I figured it would freak you out."
"It does freak me out," he says decidedly. "I'm going to have to look into that the next time I talk to her."
"You can't do anything about it now," she points out.
"I hate Ellie's boyfriend."
"You can't do anything about that either."
"No," he says. There is lightning, then, and thunder two seconds later. "It's been a rainy summer."
She grits her teeth in frustration. "This is all we can talk about now? Our kids and the weather?"
He shrugs. "Josh thinks we're going to swing this, somehow."
"Does Josh believe in the Easter Bunny?" she asks, her tone swinging between wry and bitter. She sets the spray can down on the windowsill.
He lets it pass. "Josh thinks we can win. Leo wants me to think we can win. C.J. is convinced it's already lost. So is Toby."
"That's crap," she says. "They all think you'll win. They just don't know how yet. But each and every one of them believes you'll be elected, even if you have to walk over their backs to do it."
"This isn't how I thought it would be."
"No." She inhales, holds her breath for a long moment, and lets it out gradually. "But sometimes it is."
"Sure."
"Sometimes it's how you thought it would be." She runs the dustcloth through her fingers, thinking. "And those are the best times."
She's always been amazed that his face can change so quickly. He does not look boyish now, or sad, or teasing. He looks like something she has not seen in a long time. He looks certain, and he sounds it. "Yes."
"Then I'd better get comfortable."
"Abbey," he says.
"You really do sound like my mother when you do that." She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, then looks back up at him earnestly. "You're supposed to be on your way to Indiana."
"You could come with me."
"No, I couldn't."
"Sure you could." He inclines his head toward the door. "I'm out there, I'm talking to retired teachers and car racing aficionados. You come with me, I can point to you and say, 'look, I did something right.' And I'll even make sure they give you those little peanuts on the plane."
"As enticing as it sounds--"
"Enticing is my middle name," he deadpans. "Didn't I ever tell you what the E stood for?"
"I have the thing in Georgetown tonight."
"Blow it off."
She cocks her head. "Why don't you blow Indiana off?"
"Do you want me to?" he asks seriously.
"No."
His face clears, and his smile illuminates everything. "If I've driven you to dusting, I really don't think I ought to leave you alone."
"Come here," she says.
He crosses to her, stands close and rocks back on his heels a little. She reaches for his hand. He takes hers, draws her close, breathes in the smell of her and the dust and the polish. The washcloth dangles from her hand, against his shoulder. The rain splashes hard against the windows. And she feels him grinning into her hair and smiles in response before she thinks.
"Peanuts on the plane," he says, as she draws back.
She shakes her head. "Go."
Without taking his eyes away from hers, he steps slowly toward the door. "We're okay."
"Yes," she says. And then, more firmly, trying to be sure, "We're okay."
He crosses the rest of the distance to the door, then turns back once more. "If this cleaning impulse continues you, there are some windows in the East Room--"
"Don't push your luck," she says sternly. "And take a coat this time, would you?"
He nods, looks at her just a moment longer, and is gone. The smile stays on her face for a while, and even when it fades her eyes are bright, brighter than the electricity in the sky. As she wipes the end-table, leaving it clean and clear and smooth, she counts. The thunder comes on the fourth beat. It is not over yet, but she knows the rain is receding.
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