Author: Regency
Title: A Touch of the Blizzard
Rating: PG,
vaguely
Pairing: Evan
Bayh/HRC
Summary: Evan
was reminded of why he should never underestimate her mouth.
AN: Title inspired
by the phrase “a touch of the poet” from the episode U.S. Poet Laureate
of the West Wing.
ANII:
I went to bed right after I promised to write this. The next part of Win, Lose, or
Also-Ran is too big to serve up right after giving the rest of the 4th chapter so I’m saving it.
~~
She
was truly a distraction when she ate, he should’ve remembered that. She
made no qualms about her hunger or her curiosity, even in public. It was those
times, when he didn’t catch himself watching her that he gave himself away.
Today
was no exception to the rule. He’d found himself at the Dairy Queen nearest
to Capitol Hill almost by rote he’d been there so many times. The place,
as usual, was crowded with Washington-types, in their suits and Italian-sewn shoes.
Everyone everywhere wanted to go Dutch, but only if it was cheap.
He
should not have missed her for as long as he did. She was the petite blond figure
being shadowed by a gaggle of cameramen. Even when she was technically no longer
a threat, they couldn’t stifle their fascination with her.
Hillary,
for her part, seemed totally oblivious to them. She was silently dipping her
red plastic spoon into her chosen confection. He recognized the cup immediately—and
the treat. It was Snickers Blizzard, her one great weakness. She scooped up a generous serving and proceeded to lick the spoon clean.
She
couldn’t have had any idea how she was doing that. She had to be in the
dark, otherwise, it would be considered cruel and usual punishment to do what she was doing to that shiny red instrument. It wasn’t cruelty to the spoon but to those watching.
She
ran her tongue along the edge of the cream-laden spoon, darting it out to catch a drop before it dripped onto her chin. Her mouth worked slowly aside from that , taking the spoon in deliberately, twisting
it around between her lips before withdrawing it again. She smiled lazily at
the quenching sweetness. Evan wished he could look away.
It
helped her, he knew, to have this escape. At Dairy Queen, she could be a normal person with normal wants. She had a voracious sweet tooth and blizzards were the only thing capable of feeding it. C’est la vie, he supposed.
Presented
with the overwhelming desire to share in her relaxation, he ordered himself a Extreme Chocolate Blizzard. He was assaulted with memories of the last time they’d had these together. She’d sampled a bit of his dessert and he’d been left a little bit stunned. She wasn’t
much for discretion or propriety when it came to sweets. She let her guard down
when she had sugar in hand. The expression on her face as he’d sampled
her dish had surprised him—though it had been far from bad.
He
had realized some time ago that she was fascinated by his mouth. When he had
spoken for her on the campaign trail, she could endlessly be found watching the words as they fell from his lips. Her Tiffany-blues would be focused and dilated, a tiny crooked smile taking residence on her face. He thought he might’ve seen desire there—could’ve just been wishful
thinking.
Evan
had long since made the mistake of attempting to trap her in that fascination. She
was a crafty one and damned unassuming. She wouldn’t watch him when it
was obvious. If there were cameras, she was a portrait of laudable asceticism;
she refrained from looking, but worse she refrained from even touching. He ached
for those personal touches while media lurked. She wouldn’t give.
Small
groups found her to be another kind of woman, he thought. She was bigger than
life on those occasions. He had come fast to the conclusion that he wasn’t the only man to seek her, or to attempt to
coax her from her shell. She was sought-after. Had he any misunderstanding of
the reason before, he knew now.
It
was her mouth. Scarlet red from the cold and bruised from dedication to the cause
of her ice cream, her mouth was no small draw. It dominated the lower half of
her face and framed her eyes. She was smiling as she ate. Her pearl-white teeth stood in stark contrast to her blushing skin.
He thought she must have felt his eyes. The look he was giving her couldn’t
have been in the least honorable.
He
ate standing, rooted to the spot. She was performing for him. Her tongue darted out anew, taunting the fire that burned in his belly.
He wanted that mouth and, again, his reasoning was hardly honorable.
She
turned unexpectedly, spoon in teeth, to look at him through narrowed eyes. She
was coaxing him to her, nodding permissively to the empty booth she faced.
Evan
knew better than to go. The flush underneath his skin was making the climate-controlled
establishment uncomfortably warm; being as close to her as he would soon be was a recipe for forbidden illusions.
She
flicked her tongue across the sugar-sweet tip of the miniature utensil, watching him unobtrusively from behind hooded eyes. Game, set…?
He
began to walk over, his cup clutched in one hand and his spoon warping from his rising body temperature in the other. He had fallen for her game.
Match.
Fine with him.
