NOTES:
Author: Yana
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through S6 Freedonia.
Disclaimer: The West Wing and its characters are not my creations
and do not belong to me. I am not making any material profit from this story.
Archive: Please ask.
AN: Exceptional only for being the fastest postep I've ever
written.
She supposed it was to be expected, and the part of her that had begun to think more critically about the mechanics of campaigning observed that it was a good sign. Their team was starting to build rapport. Camaraderie. Unity, beyond policy issues.
Still, stepping on a full carton of eggs left on the floor outside her hotel room door, hearing the crunch and the cracking and the sick squelchy squishing, was a greater price than she'd really been looking to pay for team cohesion.
Slowly, unwillingly, she looked down at her shoes, then let out a groan. Yolk had spurted out everywhere and covered not only her sneakers but the bottom of her pant leg as well. "Damn!" She slammed her hand against the doorframe.
Then the door across the hall opened, and her humiliation was complete. Josh's tousled head popped out to see what was going on. "Hey," he said, as if startled to see her.
She didn't say anything. His gaze followed hers to the ground, where she was still standing in the yellow, gooey wreckage.
He nodded understandingly. "Right." Then he disappeared again, shutting the door behind him.
And now she was going to be late.
She took a large step backwards into her room and shut the door in front of her, bent over and stripped off her shoes, then her pants.
In other circumstances, she'd make them all pay, especially since this wasn't the first gag. The first gag had been the can of peanut brittle yesterday, which had been packed not only with a spring-loaded exploding snake but also with feathers. The snake had sprung, making her shriek, and then the little downy motes had fluttered down and settled all over her hair and sweater. Plus someone had stolen her lint brush.
Then the KFC coupons slipped in amongst papers in every file folder in her briefcase.
Then the little marshmallow Peeps started turning up, seemingly innocuous, sitting next to her on the tables where she worked, on the armrest of her seat on the campaign bus, and finally and most insidiously, in her hotel room on her bathroom counter, nightstand, bedstead, and windowsill.
Yes, in other circumstances she'd make them all pay, but she wasn't sure exactly who was doing what and she didn't have allies--friends--this time, not like she'd had on previous campaigns.
The hotel laundry service would do her clothing, but not her footwear, and she grumbled out loud as she ran the sneakers under the bathroom tap, rinsing off the worst of the yolk. With luck, she'd get it all and the shoes would dry while she was out.
When she'd changed and stepped carefully over the mess outside her door, the hall was deserted. She jogged down to the elevator, hoping she wasn't too late.
*************
It was very late when she finally staggered back into the hotel that night. Russell seemed to be listening to her more often in meetings now, and they hadn't made any mistakes today, unlike other campaigns she could mention, and whoever had been doing the thing with the Peeps had apparently run out. She should be feeling good as well as exhausted, but for some reason she just felt exhausted. Maybe Will was rubbing off on her--his edgy, energetic spark seemed to have dimmed since his last stop-in at the White House.
She missed the West Wing too, she admitted to herself as she nodded to the hotel desk clerk. She missed her friends and she missed the work. Nothing she was doing now compared to it. The clerk handed her a sheaf of messages and faxes and a small sealed cardboard box. Sighing, she took them, struggling to hang on to everything as she maneuvered into the elevator. Or maybe she was just really, really tired and prone to self-pity. Sleep, she thought. Sleep and everything will be fine in the morning.
She glanced briefly at Josh's door while she fumbled for her door key, but couldn't tell if anyone was there. Stepping past the dark patch on the carpet where the egg carton had been, she sighed as she slipped inside her room. The next six hours were hers.
Then she dumped the faxes and box onto the bed and stared at them for a few seconds. Maybe she did have some work to do before she slept.
Picking up the box, she squinted at it and shook it once, but didn't hear anything. It was sealed with duct tape, so she retrieved her nail scissors from the bathroom to slit through it. She sat down on the bed and tugged the flaps free, then peered inside.
It was yellow, it was fluffy, it was soft and squeezable, and it was wearing a t-shirt with a big red heart on the front. There was no card.
She knew exactly who'd sent it. None of the campaign staff had tried anything today, not since she'd been bumped from the news cycle.
She turned it over and over in her hands, and it looked so cuddly that she hugged it close for a moment. Then she looked down at it and shook her head.
"Chicken," she said.
END