Work Text:
"And now Buster's gone and run off with Potato Head's eyes and we can't find them for the life of us, and-"
"Woody." Bo leant aside her crook and rested her hands gently on her hips, a faint smile on her face as she watched him pacing back and forth along the windowsill. Woody reached up to rub his head, then pulled his hat back down, and started counting on his fingers.
"He says that it's somewhere dark, so I've got Buzz and the army guys checking downstairs, and Jessie and Bullseye in the garden, and Slink's in Molly's room because Mrs. Potato Head won't leave her husband, and-"
"Woody." She caught hold of his flapping hands, curling them together so that he couldn't keep counting on them. He looked up from his fingers to meet her gaze, brown eyes wide and slightly desperate, and she smiled gently. "Woody, remember to breathe, hmm?"
He heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, Bo. It's just the second time this week someone's lost a part, and-"
"Ah ah." She pressed one finger to his lips, waited for him to fall silent, then planted a kiss on them instead. "Breathe. You remember how that goes, right?"
Woody finally managed to pull together a flicker of a smile for her as she removed his hat, stroked his head, then pressed herself up against his chest with her arms wrapped around his waist. She looked at him patiently, watched as his eyes flickered once or twice to the window, then he sighed and slumped in her arms, his forehead coming to rest against hers.
"I swear, sometimes you need someone to round you up, cowboy. Come on, let's sit down."
Andy often left the windows open, and his mother seemed to approve, so it was hardly for the first time this spring that they sat on the windowsill. Far below, one of the bushes rustled, and a frown sprung to Woody's face as he went to lean forward and look over the edge.
"Oh no you don't," Bo replied, hooking her fingers round his pullstring. Woody froze before it could be drawn out of his back, and she gave a slightly wicked smile. "If it's Jessie, she knows what she's doing. And if it isn't, there's nothing you can do in any case. So you..." she ran her hands around the ring of his pullstring, seeing the shift of his shoulders that told her she was doing it just right. "Can sit right here for a bit."
Woody let one leg dangle out of the window, the other one bent up so that he could prop his elbow on it. Bo put his hat down beside him and watched, smiling faintly, as he pulled it onto his lap and traced the blanket stitch with his fingers. As if it was a crown. She stood behind him and leant her chin on the top of his head, looking down to watch his hands move.
"I don't know, Bo," he said, more quietly this time, and his voice sounded tired. "Sorting the search parties or going on battery runs and everything, and warning people when yard sales come up, or-"
"Shh," she breathed, and kissed the top of his head, and that was all that she needed to say for him to fall quiet. She stroked his shoulders gently, teasing her fingers along the seams, then knelt down behind him and planted a light kiss on the back of his neck. Woody sighed softly, letting her deft fingers reach round to tweak his collar and stroke his chest.
Woody closed his eyes, leaning back for Bo to kiss him on the forehead, the tip of his nose, the mouth. "Now, Woody Pride," she said, putting one finger back against his lips as he looked up at her again, a question forming in his gaze, "you can go and see how the others have done, because I think that I can hear Buzz being self-congratulating again.
"Thank you, Bo," Woody whispered past her fingertip.
Bo smiled, and kissed him on the mouth again, this time a little more firmly. "And I'll see you again this evening."
She stepped back to allow him to get to his feet, brushing sparkling motes of dust off his hat and placing it on his head again. At just the right angle, of course. He winked and clicked his tongue, using his fingers like an imaginary pistol. "You can bet on that, little lady."
A laugh tumbled out, and she gave him a shove on the shoulder. "Go on, cowboy, keep 'em in line."
And as she watched him shimmy back down to floor level, she held her crook between her hands again and smiled, thinking softly and wonderingly about just how the cloth he was made of felt and gave beneath her porcelain fingers, and how warm he was when he smiled. Maybe tomorrow he'd be able to keep his posse running smoothly, stop people from getting themselves trapped in the wardrobe or from falling down the stairs or the myriad of other things that they seemed to have thought up for themselves to do. And maybe it would be easy. But if not, she would be there again, to hold his head in her lap or clasp him to her chest, until he could breathe once more and the world did not seem so vastly oversized for toys.