She never wore shoes when she was in his quarters. He noticed her bare feet on the first day (and every day after). Stepping through the hatch and out of her shoes seemed to be one liquid movement for her, a gentle flow from President to Laura. He was always surprised for a second when he stood next to her, that she was not as tall as he expected her to be.
Her toes would curl into the rug and she would allow herself the comfort of pulling her legs under herself when she sat down. He'd asked her once why her heels were always discarded when she was there. She had replied that shoes were for when you had someplace to be, someplace to go. When she was there, with him (or waiting for him) she had no need for shoes (she was already at her destination). It had been an almost childish reasoning on her part a why would I need my shoes when I'm already at home? stance. And he had grinned, oh how his face had lit up.
He could gauge her mood now by how far into his (their) quarters her shoes were abandoned. By the hatch and he knew she'd be smiling (flirting) having abandoned the President by the door. By the couch and he knew she was still working (reluctantly) and had almost sat down but forced herself on. By the desk and he knew she had been pacing (storming, thinking) and he knew to leave her be until she was ready to talk. Shoes by the bed were a sight that caused a sharp pain in his chest, shoes by the bed and she had not stopped until she had reached it (too tired to even stop for fear of never making it).
In her most relaxed moments, in those (too) few times when she was almost entirely at ease she would dance barefoot into their home. On days when he was lucky, she would not notice his presence immediately and would continue to sway and twirl herself with elegant carefree motions, unaware of her rapt audience. Her closed eyes, her serene expression, hips moving, fingers playing as they drummed to some beat that only she could hear. He could watch her for hours (forever).
As he walked in today he grinned to himself, her shoes where practically in the corridor outside . He stopped at the entrance. She was spinning ridiculously on her toes, lost to herself, smiling smiling smiling as she danced and danced and danced. Her shirt was untucked and unbuttoned from the bottom to just below her chest. The skin of her stomach flashed at him as her movements continued, her hair flying free and wild. He drank in the sight of her, intoxicated.
So lost in the vision of her , he almost failed to notice that she had stilled. He dragged his eyes from where they had latched onto the view of her navel to meet hers. Her body stopped but her eyes were still dancing, her face glowing with silent music.
"Good day?"
"Yes." The word was drawn out and sultry, luring him forward. His hands found a home on her waist, beneath her shirt, atop her skin, slowly slowly slowly urging her to sway again, with him . The hum that she made, that hum that made her her, that hum he swore existed in no other woman's throat rose up through her and pulled her up on her toes so that his nose bumped hers. "Very good day." The words were a whisper across his mouth; hers a shadows width away.
"Did...you airlock someone?" His fingertips gripping tighter on her hips accentuated his teasing tone.
"Fuuuuuunny." She kissed him, and he could hear the music in her in that moment, hear the beat that pulsed in her as her tongue played scales across his. She had kissed him goodbye once as she fled in a hurry out to work; accidently (purposely, at the goodbyes that followed). He had kissed her one morning in the bathroom, a hello of sorts to the feelings they shared. This was still new for them. He still slept on the couch, she still let him. These kisses were more than hellos and goodbyes; they were all the time in between.
The hum the hum the hum drove him to distraction, his mouth desperate to find the source of the vibrations source as it searched down the plane of her neck. If it came from lower...
"Cottle..." He halted his search abruptly at her words, and a laugh escaped her throat. "Sorry, I am not calling out Jack's name while we're..." she dissolved into giggles, her forehead coming to rest against his. He felt her fingers clutching at the front of his uniform as she regained her composure. She was swaying with him again. "He says I'm responding well to the diloxin, and that I can take a bit longer between treatments."
He barely allowed her to finish the sentence before he was kissing her again, the words rolling off her tongue and into his mouth, into him. He passed his "How long?" into her mouth, into her.
"A week." The sound from her echoed straight back to him. A week. A respite. For her (for him, for them). A longer time between hellos and goodbyes. He knew that for a week, he wouldn't have to look; her shoes would be by the door.