TITLE: Tomorrow
AUTHOR: Katrina McDonnell
EMAIL: mcdonnem@tpg.com.au
SPOILERS: None really.
RATING: M-Rish (sexual references)
DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and its characters are the property of
Aaron Sorkin, Warner Brothers, and NBC. No Copyright Infringement
is intended. I will put them back slightly disheveled. "Will You Love
Me Tomorrow?" belongs to Carole King.
ARCHIVE: Sure, but please ask first.
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated...as long as it doesn't involve red pen
and lots of notes (that's my postgrad supervisor's territory).
ORIGINALLY POSTED: 24 June, 2001.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: While editing my thesis, I was listening to Carole
King's 'Tapestry'. "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" jumped out and thumped
me around the head a couple of times. The story quickly took form, more
interesting and a few pages shorter than 'Statistical Prediction of Tropical
Cyclogenesis'. Though I have considered renaming the thesis and submitting
my fanfic instead: 'From Tropical Cyclones to West Wing in One Easy
Step'. Wouldn't my supervisor be thrilled!
THANKS: To my wonderful editor and friend, Kat. Thank you for your
support and encouragement as always. And damn you for already wondering ;)
SUMMARY: It's not enough, but it has to be.




*Tonight you're mine completely
You give your love so sweetly
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes
But will you love me tomorrow?*


She's standing in my office doorway. With that look. I know what I'll
be doing tonight.

Someone has once again shattered her world. She won't tell me who
or why or what. We don't talk about such inconsequential matters. The
means are immaterial, I just sweep up the pieces.

I've seen that look too many times over the course of this administration.
When she's left out of the loop, blind sided by a leak or reporter's source,
forced to clean up the disaster area left in Hurricane Josh's wake. And it's
now her constant companion, haunting her features. She tries to hide it,
but I've always paid close attention to her. It's there in the slight slump of
the shoulders, her hand rubbing her neck, the chewing of her lip. Most of
all it's in her eyes.

And those eyes are now asking me the question she already knows the
answer to.


*Is this a lasting treasure
Or just a moment's pleasure?
Can I believe the magic of your sighs?
Will you still love me tomorrow?*


We barely make it into my apartment before hands start grabbing and
undoing. She shoves me back into the door, slamming it shut. There's
an unspoken rule, no touching until we're inside. But then all bets and
clothes are off.

Her blouse is on the floor, on top of my jacket. In her haste one of my
buttons pops off, a slight tinkle as it lands and rolls in the direction of
the kitchen. The shirt attempts to capture it in a flying lunge. Our
tongues duel as we unzip each other and step out of our pants. Bra,
undershirt, panties, boxers quickly follow.

I'm really getting too old for this. Beds were invented for a reason. But
we follow our tradition, hard and fast, still standing. I turn us one eighty,
pressing her into the wood. One advantage of her height, she is able to
obtain great leverage. No time for gentle touches or lingering kisses,
foreplay isn't required.

She grasps my shoulders as I drive home, our moans synchronized with
the movement and each other. My beard rubs against her shoulder; she's
going to end up with a burn if the return period between these meetings
keeps on decreasing. We slam together in a final burst of energy, before
sliding down the door until my knees hit the floor. We're still joined, our
heads resting exhausted on each other's shoulder. Our sweat intermingles,
as she begins to shudder and her first tear runs down my back. I gently
rock her. She won't let me see the silent tears, or brush them away from
her cheeks. She will only allow me to feel them flowing across my skin.
It's not enough, but it has to be. We will stay here until the river evaporates
and our skin grows cold. Only then will we adjourn to my bedroom. This
is our tradition.


*Tonight with words unspoken
You say that I'm the only one
But will my heart be broken
When the night meets the morning sun?*


The coupling in my bed is slow, sedate, loving. Here we are allowed
the luxury to explore each other, to touch, to stroke, to feel. She arches
above me, the streetlight highlighting a small smile on her lips as she
lowers herself onto me. Our hands are interlocked, the rhythmic motion
begins again, slower, sweeter. She lowers her head and our lips meet.
Long, sensuous kisses, full of promises and wishes. We soar together,
before she falls into my arms.

I pull the covers up over us as she kisses me, her thanks for gluing her
back together. She rolls off and settles facing me, her eyelids fluttering
closed as the emotional and physical exhaustion overtakes her. I place
a kiss on her forehead and my hand on her cheek. She finds the pressure
comforting and my thumb lightly strokes her skin. I'll remain in this
position, watching over her, touching her, until she falls asleep. Her
face relaxes as the worry bleeds away and her breathing becomes slow
and even. She's beautiful. But I can't tell her, because we don't speak.

We both work with words, but when it comes to us, we're dyslexic.
There's so much I want to tell her. So much I want to ask her. What
are we? I know who I am, what I want us to be. Sometimes, as she calls
my name and whispers the words, I think she wants the same. But I'm
afraid to question her, afraid that I'll drive her away, to another man
whose beard will abrade her skin.

So I don't ask. We speak only with our hands, our lips and tongues, our
skin, our bodies joining. It's the only language we trust ourselves with.
And in the morning she will be gone. I will wonder if it ever happened,
but the clothes on the floor near the door will reassure me. I'll go to
work, we'll see each other and act normally, as if we weren't making
love just hours before. We will work together and apart, sometimes
laugh, sometimes fight. There will be no talk of the night, of bare skin,
of touching, of stolen glances. Until once again she appears at my door
with that look and asks the question she already knows the answer to.
This is who we are. This is what we do.

She's sleeping now, but I can't relax. I don't want to stop looking at her
features that are already burnt into my corneas. I don't want to lose contact
with her skin. If I maintain the connection, maybe she'll stay. And next
time she appears at my door, she'll be whole with a smile on her face.
We'll go to her apartment, make it past the front door without tears. We'll
make leisurely love in her bed. We'll speak. In the morning we will wake
up in each other's arms. It will be our new tradition. And it will be enough.

My eyelids drift closed as my body surrenders to sleep. I silently whisper
the question I can't ask. Here in the depth of night I already know the answer.
It's not enough, but it will do until tomorrow.


*I'd like to know that your love
Is love I can be sure of
So tell me now, and I won't ask again.
Will you still love me tomorrow?*