Work Text:
Slice of Americana
Thursday, November 23 rd, 2017
Bill opened his eyes and turned over in the bed, not bothering to look at the neon numbers flashing across the screen of the digital clock situated askew on his bedside table. Fogged as his mind still was, he knew that he and Hillary had nowhere to be that day but Chappaqua. Long, aged digits connected with the silky fabric of high end sheets with an extraordinary thread count. For a brief moment – just before his vision cleared and he still hung between the realms of sleep and wakefulness – he thought of closing his eyes completely again, cocooning himself in the tantalising soft down of the comforter.
He decided against it when it hit him that his wife wasn't next to him. The wider the scope he allowed for the sweep of his hand, the more sheet he felt come up empty beneath it. Half smiling, he shifted his weight across the mattress before coming to the edge, swung his legs over it and made to stand. He was a night owl, Hillary was an early bird. She wasn't far off, and he found her in a matter of moments.
Standing in the doorway leading to the en suite bathroom clad only in boxer briefs and a tee he had scooped up off the floor, (where he'd let it fall into a crinkled, careless heap the previous evening) he watched her intently. Completely unaware of his presence, Hillary was meticulously applying make up as her reflection bounced off the glinting glass of the mirror, staring back at her. His eyes travelled over the creamy skin of her naked flesh, drinking in each dip, swell, edge and curve in its entirety. Many times, he'd witnessed her in these situations: caught completely unaware, raw and exposed. Decades with the same woman had seen him by her side through an assortment of changes, some more permanent than others. Undoubtedly they had - would continue to – age. It was the natural order of things. Regardless of public opinion, he would always believe she had done so incredibly gracefully.
Blue eyes focused again on the present moment and he hummed appreciatively – a gravelly sound springing up from the depths of his throat – as she bent closer to the vanity, ample backside jutting further outward in the process, and simultaneously began the careful application of mascara. Noting once again her lack of a towel, a sly smile ghosted over his lips.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Hillary greeted him huskily, straightening her posture and meeting his gaze in the mirror. Capping her mascara, she set the bottle down next to the sink. Eyes twinkling, she made sure the grin she extended to him was playful and sly in equal measure. An effort to let him know his gesture had not gone unseen.
“Hello, Madam President,” Bill winked as he stepped carefully into the room, situating himself behind her. “Nice shower?” he asked, brow raising slightly. “You smell nice.” His nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent of lotion long absorbed by the skin of her neck, and parted lips flitted lovingly over the crook.
“Mm,” she hummed appreciatively. “Thank you.” She smiled somewhat bashfully. “And yes, it was nice. Good and long. I only wish you could've joined. Did you sleep well?”
Bill lessened the loose hold he had on her shoulders, turned her to face him, peering amusedly down into piercing blue eyes. “I did. You could've woken me up,” he reasoned with a toothy smile. “Did I not tire you out last night?”
“Not quite,” Hillary chuckled, standing on tiptoe to touch her lips to his cheek.
“Well damn, I'll have to rectify that, won't I?” he countered playfully as she pulled away. He watched with bright eyes as a round of his wife's signature deep, belly laughter bounced off the walls and he allowed himself to get lost in it.
“Not right now, you won't,” Hillary admonished him, half heartedly swatting his shoulder before peeling her body completely away from her husband so as to grab a brush and run it through still damp locks of hair. “Chelsea and her friends will be here soon, and I still haven't got a clue what to wear.”
“I've no objections to your current ensemble,” Bill smirked. “I could go on and on about how much I appreciate it, actually.”
“Bill!” Hillary shrieked, laughter rolling off of her as she made her way toward their bedroom closet.
“Hey, just trying to get into the Thanksgiving spirit,” he said innocently as he followed closely behind.
///
“Damn it!” Hillary was situated behind the sliding doors of the walk in closet, preoccupation with trying on outfits momentarily having fallen by the wayside as her exclamations of frustration rang through the barrier of the thick, heavy doors.
...”Damn it, damn it, damn it!”
Bill blinked twice in the bathroom mirror, sighing heavily as his attentions were diverted from the task of shaving his face. Setting the razor carefully down at the edge of the sink, he wiped excess shaving gel from his chin and made the short trek back toward their shared closet. Opening the doors slowly, he peered inside. Hillary was sitting on a bench along the wall, frustratedly running porcelain fingers through her hair.
“Problem?” Bill asked softly.
“No,” Hillary sighed, frustrated as she peered up at him. “Not really. But kind of.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” He looked at her quizzically, perplexed and uncertain of the best course of action to help.
“It means half of this stuff doesn't even fit me anymore,” she told him dryly, an attempt to disguise the hint of sadness which had managed to creep into her tone.
“Oh, darlin'...” He let his voice trail off as he knelt down in front of her, clasping her hands protectively in his much larger ones. “It's been a minute since you cleaned out your half of the closet. Some of what's here has been for a while. It's okay if your body isn't the same as it was a couple of decades ago.”
“Wow, thank you,” Hillary said flatly, looking to him unimpressed. “I feel so much better.”
Bill ran a hand over his face, slightly exasperated. He counted to ten in his head before replying, weighed his words carefully. “What I meant,” he said slowly, “was that it's completely okay that you have changed. Everybody does. I have, too.”
“Yeah, but you've lost weight,” she told him, voice breaking slightly. “Not gained it.”
“Yeah,” Bill said gently. His wife had never been one with a self esteem problem, but there were instances she gave in to the things she least liked about herself, and he did his best to be a strong force of reassurance in those moments. He hated seeing her doubt herself, couldn't bear seeing her in any kind of pain. “But I'm all wrinkled, and my hair went white,” he winked.
“I love your white hair,” she chuckled, twinkle slowly returning to her eyes as she wiped a silent, lone tear from one of them.
“And I love you,” he told her. “All of you. Your body, curves, extra pounds and all.”
“Really?” Hillary asked softly after a moment, silence having fallen between them.
“Swear,” Bill said thickly. “Let's find you an outfit before everyone shows up, hmm?” he winked as he rose up off his knees and stood.
///
“You look beautiful,” Bill told her as he watched her finish getting ready, effortlessly sliding into off white, three inch pumps. “I love that blazer. That's the one you wore for some of your tv appearances, no?”
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed absent mindedly, attempting to smooth creases in the leg of her dark wash, straight cut jeans. “I really loved the purple. Something different, so I bought it.”
“It's nice. Reminds me of some of the things you wore as Secretary. Colour suits you.”
“Thanks honey.” She looked in his direction, and Bill saw appreciation swimming in her gaze, evident, too, in the slight smile pasted on her lips. “For everything you said today. I really, really love you.”
“I really, really love you too, Hill.” Covering the space between them in long, purposeful strides, he situated gargantuan hands on either side of her face. “I'm so proud of everything you've fought to accomplish this last year. I'll always be grateful and thankful for you.”
“Oh, don't make me cry,” she admonished. “My make up will run.”
“Let it run,” he told her, stroking the pad of a thumb over one of her cheeks. “You don't need it anyway.” Warm, soft lips descended and hungrily devoured the ones beneath for several moments before a voice at the foot of the stairs forced them to pull apart.
“Mum?!” Chelsea called. “Dad?! I'm here!” Nostrils flared as she sniffed the air. “Are you cooking?” she asked in surprise, taking in the decadent smells wafting from the kitchen.
///
“Not really,” Hillary offered in explanation as she and Bill descended the staircase together, holding hands as they always did. “We knew people were bringing food, but someone's taking care of the turkey. God knows I'd ruin it.”
“Ah,” Chelsea chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she smiled, opening her arms wide as her mother stepped carefully down from the bottom landing.
“You too baby,” Hillary said with affection as she accepted the gesture of a hug, lingering for several minutes before pulling back and moving off to one side to allow Bill the same opportunity. “Where're the kids?”
“Still outside,” Chelsea laughed. “Charlotte wanted to play in the leaves with Daddy and Aidan.”
“That doesn't surprise me,” Bill said, laughing. “They're too cute.”
“They are,” Chelsea nodded, pride evident. “Is anybody else here yet?”
“Nope,” Hillary shook her head. “You're the first ones.”
“I figured,” Chelsea turned, heels clacking as she stepped in the direction of the dining area. “I'm a little early.”
“Oh, don't worry about it,” Hillary told her, waving a hand dismissively as she followed behind. “You know you're welcome to show up any time you want.”
“Everything looks really nice, Mum.” Chelsea took in the long, folding tables covered in festive centrepieces and candles, countless chairs situated around them, concept remaining open so as to make everyone feel welcomed, allow them to converse freely, openly, without awkwardness or reservation.
“I think so, too. So do you.” Hillary looked her up and down, taken again by the amount of love she felt for her child. “I love that dress. And the shoes.”
“Thank you,” Chelsea said brightly, situating herself in a vacant chair. “I really like that blazer. Better watch out, I might steal it.” Winking, she played her tongue through her teeth.
“I think I hear more cars pulling in,” Bill mused, making his way to the window to see which of his daughter's friends had arrived first.
///
“Alright,” Hillary said over the din of light conversation that had erupted after Bill had led grace. “What's everyone thankful for? Let's make our way around the table. Who wants to start?”
“I will,” Chelsea volunteered happily. “I could go on for ever and ever and ever,” she chuckled. “But I'll keep it simple. I'm thankful for my life, for the two of you,” she glanced quickly toward her parents. “For what you've taught me. My health. My family, my children.”
“That's lovely honey,” Bill told her, casting his own gaze toward his adult child.
“You go next, Dad,” Chelsea urged him. “What're you thankful for?”
“So many things,” Bill started, exhaling, trying to accurately sum up his thoughts. “But especially your mother. Her efforts this past year, her tenacity, her kindness. Everything. I'm thankful for every inch of her.”
Hillary looked across to her husband with watery eyes, kissing the airspace between them.
“Keep it G rated, y'all,” Chelsea quipped good naturedly, eliciting laughter around the table.
“Thank you guys so much for coming out to celebrate this tradition with us for another year,” Hillary spoke up, pausing the rotations of 'I-am-thankful-for'. “It's a joy to host all of you.”
Bill nodded in agreement, looked in turn at his wife and child with equal amounts of love, devotion and adoration. The American dream had come through for him tenfold, and the fruits of his labours showed themselves every single day. As they'd always attempted to teach Chelsea, it was important to give back whenever and wherever you could. The lesson had apparently stuck. In her DNC speech, with millions watching, she had declared just how much her parents had meant to her, talked about how deeply they'd tried to instil in her that challenging what felt wrong and giving back was the 'responsibility that came with being smiled on by fate'.
This tradition they partook in every season – hosting their daughter and her friends who wished to be part of an American thanksgiving - was one of many little ways they tried to give back and show how much they appreciated her and all the ones she held close, though it was equally joyous on their end.
Looking around the table, locking eyes with each other, they realised everything you did had a domino effect. Every action produced a reaction, and sometimes the outcome of that was beyond beautiful. Each year, they exposed old friends and fresh new faces to a little slice of Americana, gave thanks for the one they'd been so blessed to be able to create for themselves. They hoped, with the dawn of each new year, to find new strength, innovative ways to push life forward toward a common goal. Mostly, they gave thanks a thousand times over for the sense of home they'd found repeatedly in one another.