By the time he gets to Eliza's dorm, Alex swears his fingers are going to fall off. No one ever warned him that February in New York City could be colder than Antarctica and if he would have known about windchill when searching for colleges, he might have picked a different school. So when he got a text from his girlfriend that read come to my room, bring food, it took a little courage to leave the central heating of the library and venture out into the frigid tundra formerly known as Manhattan.
As he climbs the stairs to the third floor, Alex begins to wonder what Eliza has planned for the evening. He's used to receiving cryptic instructions from her on Friday nights, usually consisting of how to dress or where to meet her; last week's directions to wear a hat and gloves had led to ice skating at Rockefeller Center. His girlfriend is nothing if not serious about date night.
He finally reaches 327, knocking once before letting himself in. The room is dimly lit, the overhead light turned off in favor of the Christmas lights that are strung across her walls year-round. It takes his eyes a second to adjust and when they do he registers Eliza getting out of bed, walking towards him. His jaw drops slightly when he realizes she's wearing an oversized Schuyler For Senate t-shirt and absolutely nothing else. It's not that he hasn't seen her with even less clothing than this, but that usually comes at the end of the night, not the beginning.
She cups his face in her hands, presses her lips to his. He sets the takeout bag on the closest available surface, shucks off his coat so that he can snake his arms around her waist. It's a few glorious seconds before she pulls away.
Leaning back, she looks up at him. A sunny smile lights up her already radiant face. "Hi," she whispers.
"Hey," he responds with a grin of his own.
Satisfied with their greeting, she moves away from him and begins checking the contents of the takeout bag. "Italian," she exclaims upon opening a styrofoam container filled with fettuccine alfredo. "You know me too well."
They settle on the floor with their food, exchanging small talk about their days. After that subject is exhausted, he asks the question that's been on his mind since he walked through the door.
"Okay, you've got me stumped. What are we doing tonight?"
She gestures to the takeout containers. "This."
He's even more dumbstruck by her statement than by her outfit choice. Ever since he'd mentioned early in their relationship that there hadn't been a lot of fun in his childhood, Eliza had made it a point to plan at least one activity for them every weekend. The last time they'd stayed in on a Friday night was in October when they both had the flu.
Noticing his bewilderment, she elaborates. "I had something planned, but it's been such a long week so I thought maybe it would be nice to have a night in for once." She grins sheepishly at him. "That, and I took a nap after I got back from French and don't want to put real clothes back on."
Alex laughs, pushes containers out of the way so he can wrap his arms around her and pull her against him. "Well you won't hear me complaining about either of those things," he smirks.
Leaning back into his chest, she squirms until his chin rests on her head. He exhales deeply, feeling himself relax. She's right, it has been a long week. Between papers and tests and debates they've barely had a moment to rest, let alone spend time together. Not to mention that today is the anniversary of his mother's death.
She can sense these things, his Eliza. He doesn't remember ever telling her the date his mother died and yet somehow she knows. It's no coincidence that she chose this weekend to let them stay in. Her complete understanding of him is quickly becoming his favorite thing about her. With most people he ends up over-explaining, rambling in an attempt to get his point across. But she usually knows what's on his mind before he opens his mouth. It reminds him of the way his mom used to make him feel.
"I missed you this week," he murmurs.
Eliza hums an agreement. He can tell by her deep, even breathing that she's beginning to doze off. "C'mon," he urges, pushing himself up off the floor. "Let's get you into bed."
She whines at the prospect of moving, but nevertheless grasps the hand Alex holds out to her so he can help her up. While she gets into bed he throws away the empty takeout containers, removes his pants and sweater so he's left in boxers and a t-shirts. He climbs over her into the bed, taking his usual position as Big Spoon, back pressed against the wall.
Opening her laptop, Eliza pulls up Netflix and finds the next episode of The West Wing.
"You can pick something you actually want to watch," he says, knowing that the show is more his favorite than her's.
"I don't mind it," she yawns. "Besides, you talk during my shows."
"I just can't comprehend how so many world-class surgeons keep dying in freak accidents."
She reaches up a hand, gently patting his cheek. "It's called a medical drama for a reason, dear."
Alex huffs in mock frustration, eliciting the laugh he was hoping for. Stretching out an arm, he draws her closer to him. If he wasn't relaxed before, the warmth of her back against his chest and the scent of her strawberry shampoo have completely unwound every knot this week tied in his mind. It's nearly twenty minutes into the second episode before either of them speaks.
"Do you need to talk about anything?" she asks gently. Ever the politicians daughter, he knows she's trying to ask without prying too much.
He can't help but smile despite her serious question. Only Eliza would invite him to talk more than he already does. "No," he responds honestly. Usually he finds catharsis in opening up to her, but for tonight this is all he needs.
"Okay," she sighs, her voice heavy with sleep. "Goodnight, Alexander."
"Goodnight, Elizabeth." He presses a kiss into her hair. "I love you."
"I love you too."
It's less than five minutes before she's completely out. Alex wishes he could say the same for himself, but it's barely ten o'clock and he hasn't gone to sleep that early since he was a child. It's something he's working on, at Eliza's request. She's trying to teach him to slow down, that non-stop is not the only possible pace at which to live life.
And he's trying, he really is, but he has twenty years worth of bad habits working against him. So instead of closing his eyes he keeps them on the screen, watching President Bartlet and his staff discuss the American Dream. As a little boy, Alex had been captivated with the idea of it, that through hard work he would rise out of poverty and create a life for himself that others could only fantasize about.
Now, as Eliza snuffles gently in her sleep and scoots closer to him, he tells himself that maybe he's already living it.