Title: Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own them
Archive: Teanna's sound site - otherwise, please let me know where
Feedback: Delightful - lina_wilson@hotmail.com
Summary: CJ listens in the dying days of the campaign
Author's notes - at end.
~*~
E.
Sam sits next to her and cracks his knuckles. One through ten, clunking solidly back into place with just the right amount of applied pressure.
"Why do you do that?" She asks.
"Because my hands are stiff. And cold."
"You'll get arthritis."
He shrugs.
G.
The people are cheering as the Governor and his wife step off the campaign bus. Their cheers are indeterminable - words and noise and whistles and horns - cluttering and echoing around the cold, crisp air.
She fights the impulse to clasp her hands over her ears.
For some reason the crowds make her remember the way people whistled and hooted at her twenty-first birthday part.
Of course, that was then . . .
B.
They're driving through the night, because it will give them more living hours to meet and greet and persuade to vote.
The bus rumbles around them, the tires chewing up mile after mile of highway. Almost everyone else has managed to go to sleep, but it's yet another one of those skills she hasn't quite gotten the hang of yet.
Sam, two seats down, across the aisle, refuses to snore. Instead he breathes, heavy, air-filled breaths that occasionally catch the sharp edge of a whistle. Josh snores, a rich chainsaw sound that banishes him to the back of the bus. Sam says you can shake of shift Josh any which way you like, but he'll still snore.
Toby also snores, but quietly, so he's allowed to sleep in the seat in front of her. His snore mixes and competes with the turning of the tires to produce a backbeat to the melody that runs on repeat through her head.
Only four weeks to go. Only four weeks to go . . .
D.
The TV in her hotel room buzzes whenever she turns it on. The sound is pervasive, a continuous companion in her perusal of the major news channels. It makes the Governor sound annoying.
She picks up the phone to complain to Josh, but it rings out, and the receiver lays hopeless in her hand.
The talking head on the television is rating her performance. She hears that she is naive and unpracticed at the job, and with a less honest candidate would have been quite hopeless.
She hears that the Governor would have been smarter to go with a man.
But, despite all odds she's done an adequate job.
It's the nicest things anyone's said to her all week.
F.
His voice is low. Low and soothing and a bare three inches from her ear. He's talking about great and exciting things, using words that reverberate through her head.
And all she can think about is how much she wants a drink.
The pillows - too new to be comfortable - rustle under his head as he rolls away from her. She runs her hand down his back, and he is making a noise that's an inch away from purring.
What would people say if they knew Toby Ziegler purrs when you touch him the right way?
He's kissing the top of her ear and she can hear the pull as his breath quickens. Then there's her own ragged breath; completely wrong. Completely different to her studied, polished display.
Tonight she screams. It's not particularly that good, and usually screaming isn't her style. But it seems like the proper thing to do.
So she does it.
She always says what she thinks they want to hear.
~*~ Finis ~*~
Author's notes:
When I learn music at school we used to learn the little rhyme - Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit. It just seemed to make a good title.
Thanks to Liz for telling me this sounded like a good idea, and Teanna for making me think about sound.
Feedback rocks
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own them
Archive: Teanna's sound site - otherwise, please let me know where
Feedback: Delightful - lina_wilson@hotmail.com
Summary: CJ listens in the dying days of the campaign
Author's notes - at end.
~*~
E.
Sam sits next to her and cracks his knuckles. One through ten, clunking solidly back into place with just the right amount of applied pressure.
"Why do you do that?" She asks.
"Because my hands are stiff. And cold."
"You'll get arthritis."
He shrugs.
G.
The people are cheering as the Governor and his wife step off the campaign bus. Their cheers are indeterminable - words and noise and whistles and horns - cluttering and echoing around the cold, crisp air.
She fights the impulse to clasp her hands over her ears.
For some reason the crowds make her remember the way people whistled and hooted at her twenty-first birthday part.
Of course, that was then . . .
B.
They're driving through the night, because it will give them more living hours to meet and greet and persuade to vote.
The bus rumbles around them, the tires chewing up mile after mile of highway. Almost everyone else has managed to go to sleep, but it's yet another one of those skills she hasn't quite gotten the hang of yet.
Sam, two seats down, across the aisle, refuses to snore. Instead he breathes, heavy, air-filled breaths that occasionally catch the sharp edge of a whistle. Josh snores, a rich chainsaw sound that banishes him to the back of the bus. Sam says you can shake of shift Josh any which way you like, but he'll still snore.
Toby also snores, but quietly, so he's allowed to sleep in the seat in front of her. His snore mixes and competes with the turning of the tires to produce a backbeat to the melody that runs on repeat through her head.
Only four weeks to go. Only four weeks to go . . .
D.
The TV in her hotel room buzzes whenever she turns it on. The sound is pervasive, a continuous companion in her perusal of the major news channels. It makes the Governor sound annoying.
She picks up the phone to complain to Josh, but it rings out, and the receiver lays hopeless in her hand.
The talking head on the television is rating her performance. She hears that she is naive and unpracticed at the job, and with a less honest candidate would have been quite hopeless.
She hears that the Governor would have been smarter to go with a man.
But, despite all odds she's done an adequate job.
It's the nicest things anyone's said to her all week.
F.
His voice is low. Low and soothing and a bare three inches from her ear. He's talking about great and exciting things, using words that reverberate through her head.
And all she can think about is how much she wants a drink.
The pillows - too new to be comfortable - rustle under his head as he rolls away from her. She runs her hand down his back, and he is making a noise that's an inch away from purring.
What would people say if they knew Toby Ziegler purrs when you touch him the right way?
He's kissing the top of her ear and she can hear the pull as his breath quickens. Then there's her own ragged breath; completely wrong. Completely different to her studied, polished display.
Tonight she screams. It's not particularly that good, and usually screaming isn't her style. But it seems like the proper thing to do.
So she does it.
She always says what she thinks they want to hear.
~*~ Finis ~*~
Author's notes:
When I learn music at school we used to learn the little rhyme - Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit. It just seemed to make a good title.
Thanks to Liz for telling me this sounded like a good idea, and Teanna for making me think about sound.
Feedback rocks