Title: "Zero" (Powers of Ten Series)
Author: Marissa
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Summary: Sometimes one word is all it takes.
Disclaimer: I love them, but I don't own them.
Archive: Great, just let me know where it's going.
Feedback: So, so sweet.
Author's Note: Ten to the zero power is one. That was for all of you who forgot algebra the minute you left school. ;)
There are some things that are inevitable. Summer follows spring; two bodies are attracted to each other with a force directly proportional to their masses and inversely proportional to the distance separating them; people die. In some part of my mind, I know that what Josh is about to do would have happened at some point, yet I am still woefully unprepared. Our dynamic is precarious -- that's what makes it interesting and exciting.
It is eleven at night on October 22, 2002, exactly two weeks before the presidential election. Josh is staring at the polling numbers in his hands in despair, trying to make them something they are not. He is trying to give himself some hope for the future, but he finds no solace in the numbers.
Instead, he tries to find it in me.
He's sitting at his desk, and I'm sitting across the room in a chair, reading up on the history of lame duck presidents. His voice is startling in the quiet of the room. "We can't lose, can we?"
The way he looks at me tears at my heart. He looks like a child pleading with his mother, debating the reality of the Tooth Fairy. I stare back at him evenly, controlling my own rising emotions. "Of course we can."
"But will we?"
"I don't know, Josh."
"Dammit," he says softly. "I love this place too much to leave it."
"I love this job," I agree.
"That's part of it," Josh replies, "but it's also the building itself. Knowing that some of the greatest men and women of history have worked here -- and at the same frenzied pace that we affect every day." He chuckles a little. "At the heart of this place are decisions made at the speed of light. That's what I love."
"You're just impatient," I joke. "You hate having to wait."
And then he says it. "I've waited for you."
I am struck silent by the quiet force of his voice. Normally by this time I would have launched a verbal assault on him, but there is no mistaking what he means.
"I think . . ." he starts slowly. "Maybe this is wrong of me to say -- no, it's not wrong. I know it's not. It can't be. This is the time. I have to do this now. I have to."
He rises from his chair and walks across the room, crouching down in front of me and taking my hand. It is too obvious to me that he is gathering all the courage he has ever had in order to say what he is about to say. I have never seen him like this. It's always been so easy for him to say whatever's on his mind. But now -- now, he is struggling for words, and I am speechless.
He takes a deep breath and begins: "I think that you have feelings for me. I mean, romantic feelings." His speech is faltering, leaving plenty of time for responses that I do not offer. "Not duty, not friendship, not pity. I think you're attracted to me. I think you dream about me. I think -- oh, God, am I right? Please just tell me if I'm right!"
One word from my lips would end his pain. But I am in shock and my pride is wounded. He had to wait until the eleventh hour to confront me with this? Why? I'm not worth the risk to him?
"If I'm right -- oh please, let me be right -- I feel the same way. Oh, God, you don't know! You just don't know! I've never loved anyone the way I love you. You're my equal in every way!" He is beginning to break down, but I don't give him the one word that is threatening to fall from my lips. "You're gorgeous, and funny, and kind. Do you feel it? Do you? Say something!"
I do not speak or look him in the eye, choosing instead to remain aloof like a goddess. It hurts me more, I think, than it is hurting him, my not speaking. But I have to hear everything he has to say, and I know what will happen the moment I open my mouth.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know this has been hurting you for years. I know. I know, believe me, I know. I know I've always pushed you away, and I'm sorrier than I can say. You think that I've taken you for granted. You think I'm taking your affection for granted. But that's not it at all.
"I couldn't lose you. You and Sam are my only real friends, and I couldn't lose that. But I love you so much. I don't want to lose you next January. More importantly, I don't ever want to lose you. The thought of not seeing you every day is unbearable to me. I'm doing this now just in case -- in case my ego is even bigger than I thought it was." Bitterness creeps into his tone. "Just in case I'm wrong, and you never dream about me. Then you can take off in January, and everything will be all right for you. You can move on.
"I waited so I could protect you from me. I'm demanding. I'm difficult. I'm bad as a boss, but I'm worse as a lover. I wanted you to have an exit. I waited all this time to keep you safe. I love you too much to punish you. Do you believe me? Can you?"
He studies my face, and finds it impassive. He waits a moment, his boundless optimism getting the better of him, then, surrendering to his worst fears, drops his head. "I was wrong, then," he whispers. Something in his voice smites my heart, and the pain is almost physical. "But please, say something. Anything."
"Josh," I whisper.
One word.
I put my free hand on the back of his head and pull him to me. My lips meet his, and for a moment he doesn't react. He remains still as a statue, perhaps in disbelief, perhaps in transitory retribution for my similar behavior.
But the moment passes, and soon we are standing, I am in his arms, and we are kissing each other with ferocity born of long-buried passion. My hands are everywhere -- his face, his neck, his chest, his hips. He's mine. He is mine. He loves me.
The proof is that his lips are all over my face, and he is whispering in my ear: "Donna, Donna, Donna."
It is one word, but it means the world to me.
"Do we expect these things to change
By waking up, and suddenly there they are?
And all I need's a starting place,
And nothing ever seemed so hard."
-- Toad the Wet Sprocket, "Whatever I Fear"
Author: Marissa
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Summary: Sometimes one word is all it takes.
Disclaimer: I love them, but I don't own them.
Archive: Great, just let me know where it's going.
Feedback: So, so sweet.
Author's Note: Ten to the zero power is one. That was for all of you who forgot algebra the minute you left school. ;)
There are some things that are inevitable. Summer follows spring; two bodies are attracted to each other with a force directly proportional to their masses and inversely proportional to the distance separating them; people die. In some part of my mind, I know that what Josh is about to do would have happened at some point, yet I am still woefully unprepared. Our dynamic is precarious -- that's what makes it interesting and exciting.
It is eleven at night on October 22, 2002, exactly two weeks before the presidential election. Josh is staring at the polling numbers in his hands in despair, trying to make them something they are not. He is trying to give himself some hope for the future, but he finds no solace in the numbers.
Instead, he tries to find it in me.
He's sitting at his desk, and I'm sitting across the room in a chair, reading up on the history of lame duck presidents. His voice is startling in the quiet of the room. "We can't lose, can we?"
The way he looks at me tears at my heart. He looks like a child pleading with his mother, debating the reality of the Tooth Fairy. I stare back at him evenly, controlling my own rising emotions. "Of course we can."
"But will we?"
"I don't know, Josh."
"Dammit," he says softly. "I love this place too much to leave it."
"I love this job," I agree.
"That's part of it," Josh replies, "but it's also the building itself. Knowing that some of the greatest men and women of history have worked here -- and at the same frenzied pace that we affect every day." He chuckles a little. "At the heart of this place are decisions made at the speed of light. That's what I love."
"You're just impatient," I joke. "You hate having to wait."
And then he says it. "I've waited for you."
I am struck silent by the quiet force of his voice. Normally by this time I would have launched a verbal assault on him, but there is no mistaking what he means.
"I think . . ." he starts slowly. "Maybe this is wrong of me to say -- no, it's not wrong. I know it's not. It can't be. This is the time. I have to do this now. I have to."
He rises from his chair and walks across the room, crouching down in front of me and taking my hand. It is too obvious to me that he is gathering all the courage he has ever had in order to say what he is about to say. I have never seen him like this. It's always been so easy for him to say whatever's on his mind. But now -- now, he is struggling for words, and I am speechless.
He takes a deep breath and begins: "I think that you have feelings for me. I mean, romantic feelings." His speech is faltering, leaving plenty of time for responses that I do not offer. "Not duty, not friendship, not pity. I think you're attracted to me. I think you dream about me. I think -- oh, God, am I right? Please just tell me if I'm right!"
One word from my lips would end his pain. But I am in shock and my pride is wounded. He had to wait until the eleventh hour to confront me with this? Why? I'm not worth the risk to him?
"If I'm right -- oh please, let me be right -- I feel the same way. Oh, God, you don't know! You just don't know! I've never loved anyone the way I love you. You're my equal in every way!" He is beginning to break down, but I don't give him the one word that is threatening to fall from my lips. "You're gorgeous, and funny, and kind. Do you feel it? Do you? Say something!"
I do not speak or look him in the eye, choosing instead to remain aloof like a goddess. It hurts me more, I think, than it is hurting him, my not speaking. But I have to hear everything he has to say, and I know what will happen the moment I open my mouth.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know this has been hurting you for years. I know. I know, believe me, I know. I know I've always pushed you away, and I'm sorrier than I can say. You think that I've taken you for granted. You think I'm taking your affection for granted. But that's not it at all.
"I couldn't lose you. You and Sam are my only real friends, and I couldn't lose that. But I love you so much. I don't want to lose you next January. More importantly, I don't ever want to lose you. The thought of not seeing you every day is unbearable to me. I'm doing this now just in case -- in case my ego is even bigger than I thought it was." Bitterness creeps into his tone. "Just in case I'm wrong, and you never dream about me. Then you can take off in January, and everything will be all right for you. You can move on.
"I waited so I could protect you from me. I'm demanding. I'm difficult. I'm bad as a boss, but I'm worse as a lover. I wanted you to have an exit. I waited all this time to keep you safe. I love you too much to punish you. Do you believe me? Can you?"
He studies my face, and finds it impassive. He waits a moment, his boundless optimism getting the better of him, then, surrendering to his worst fears, drops his head. "I was wrong, then," he whispers. Something in his voice smites my heart, and the pain is almost physical. "But please, say something. Anything."
"Josh," I whisper.
One word.
I put my free hand on the back of his head and pull him to me. My lips meet his, and for a moment he doesn't react. He remains still as a statue, perhaps in disbelief, perhaps in transitory retribution for my similar behavior.
But the moment passes, and soon we are standing, I am in his arms, and we are kissing each other with ferocity born of long-buried passion. My hands are everywhere -- his face, his neck, his chest, his hips. He's mine. He is mine. He loves me.
The proof is that his lips are all over my face, and he is whispering in my ear: "Donna, Donna, Donna."
It is one word, but it means the world to me.
"Do we expect these things to change
By waking up, and suddenly there they are?
And all I need's a starting place,
And nothing ever seemed so hard."
-- Toad the Wet Sprocket, "Whatever I Fear"