baby, it's cold outside
Don Draper, Joan Holloway.
979 words. PG.
Summary: Don knows he could kiss her now and she would probably allow it.
Note: Blah. Already behind on my holiday prompts! Though it's due to no fault of mine, I got all sick and gross randomly. So...double-apologies if this descends mid-way into sleepy nonsense. It's entirely possible. For![]()
mercuryfish! This is set circa-1955.
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What was once a pleasant enough party has descended into messiness, streamers and cups crushed on the floor, the copy boys getting ever more forward with the girls from the steno pool. The janitors'll have hell trying to fix it all up tomorrow, but tonight nobody is worried about janitors, all of them instead angling to add another skeleton to the marital closet in the form of some sweet eager-to-please girl drunk off too much eggnog.
Don half-wishes he was home with Bets, who is no doubt asleep already, vastly pregnant and more exhausted than she was with the last one, most likely because she's got Sally at her ankles now. He would like to tuck himself against her soft side and see her smile but for whatever reason he doesn't make a move to leave.
But he still removes himself from the situation, retreating to the spacious, shadowy office that only just became his. He likes to look at the city outside these big windows and marvel at the fact that anything belongs to him.
"Mr. Draper?"
The pretty, girlish voice is somewhat at odds with the woman it belongs to, who strikes a sexy picture but seems to Don all power, impenetrable. He'd say that she'll be the first girl out of here with a ring on her finger, but the steel beneath her sweetness gives him pause.
"Miss Holloway," he says, turning to see her hourglass silhouetted in the frame of his doorway. "The party not to your liking?"
She smiles, a curve of Christmas red. She's put on a nicer dress than usual for the event, a bright red sweater with a dove gray skirt, hugging tight to her in all the usual places. A festive Christmas tree brooch is pinned near her shoulder. The gold pen on its chain is half-lost between her breasts. "The young men are not to my liking," she says. "They're becoming rather rude."
"Young men do that, I've heard," Don says.
She gives him a look like she's all too familiar with that. "I thought you'd gone home for the evening, so I came to check that the office was locked. Wouldn't want anyone to stumble in here who didn't belong."
"Efficient to the end," he says, and her smile is less artifice this time. "But, as you can see, I'm still very much here." He pauses. "Would you like a drink?"
She stands in the doorway, at a precipice, because they both know what a drink means in a dim office with no one else around.
"Well, if you're offering." Joan crosses the threshold. "Would you like me to fix it?"
"I think I can handle it," Don says, a touch dryly, as she comes up to stand beside him.
"Can you?" Joan says, perhaps innocently meant but surprising nonetheless, and Don laughs.
"I should hope so," he says. He hands her a glass and then pours his own. They both turn their attention to the windows, gray buildings under a dark sky, streetlights and cars flashing far-off.
"It's snowing," she says suddenly, delighted. She takes a step closer to the glass, pressing her fingertips to it like a kid looking into a shop window.
Don smiles a little. "You like the snow?" he asks. Somehow he expected her to be more pragmatic, concerned with salt-ruined heels and slush-splattered hems.
She glances over her shoulder at him with that enigmatic half-smile. "Surprised?" she says. "Who doesn't like snow?"
Don himself had never been a fan – snow meant more work at the farm, meant colder nights. "Didn't strike you as that type of a romantic is all," Don says and almost immediately wants to correct himself, because the twist to his words has too much Dick Whitman in it.
Joan arches a brow slightly, turns on her heel and lets her back rest against the cool windowpane. "Isn't everyone?"
Don shrugs half-heartedly.
They're both distracted by a cheer out in the main office, followed by laughter and the radio turning up. They share a smile and, on a whim, Don holds his hand out. Joan hesitates but they both know it's more of a show than anything else; she slips her cool hand into his and moves close, lets Don puts a hand on her firm waist. She's very warm in his arms despite the coolness of her fingers, very close though Don feels oddly like he's not touching her. She's solid and real, the swing of hips and security of grip, real in a way even Betty doesn't feel half the time; yet still he feels distant from her, removed.
"You're a charming dancer, Mr. Draper," she says softly.
"You say that now," he says lightly, "Wait 'til I step on your feet."
Joan laughs softly. "Well you certainly give the appearance of charm."
Don frowns slightly. He's not sure what to say to that – how could she know? – but luckily there's nothing to be said, Joan pressing close under the hazy winter light filtering into the room.
When the song begins to draw to its conclusion, she pulls back slightly and looks up at him, all bright blue eyes fringed with dark eyelashes. Don knows he could kiss her now and she would probably allow it.
"I think…" he says slowly, "that I ought to walk you back to the party. And then I should be on my way."
Joan's hands slide from his arms. "Of course," she says. "Your wife is waiting."
"Yes," he says, with a little nod.
She smiles. "Happy Christmas, Mr. Draper."
"Happy Christmas, Joan," he returns.
The snow is coming down much harder by the time Don makes it out onto the street, huddled into his coat. He tilts his hat over his eyes and walks past the train station, finds a bar and orders himself a drink.
He doesn't go home.
Don Draper, Joan Holloway.
979 words. PG.
Summary: Don knows he could kiss her now and she would probably allow it.
Note: Blah. Already behind on my holiday prompts! Though it's due to no fault of mine, I got all sick and gross randomly. So...double-apologies if this descends mid-way into sleepy nonsense. It's entirely possible. For
mercuryfish! This is set circa-1955.
What was once a pleasant enough party has descended into messiness, streamers and cups crushed on the floor, the copy boys getting ever more forward with the girls from the steno pool. The janitors'll have hell trying to fix it all up tomorrow, but tonight nobody is worried about janitors, all of them instead angling to add another skeleton to the marital closet in the form of some sweet eager-to-please girl drunk off too much eggnog.
Don half-wishes he was home with Bets, who is no doubt asleep already, vastly pregnant and more exhausted than she was with the last one, most likely because she's got Sally at her ankles now. He would like to tuck himself against her soft side and see her smile but for whatever reason he doesn't make a move to leave.
But he still removes himself from the situation, retreating to the spacious, shadowy office that only just became his. He likes to look at the city outside these big windows and marvel at the fact that anything belongs to him.
"Mr. Draper?"
The pretty, girlish voice is somewhat at odds with the woman it belongs to, who strikes a sexy picture but seems to Don all power, impenetrable. He'd say that she'll be the first girl out of here with a ring on her finger, but the steel beneath her sweetness gives him pause.
"Miss Holloway," he says, turning to see her hourglass silhouetted in the frame of his doorway. "The party not to your liking?"
She smiles, a curve of Christmas red. She's put on a nicer dress than usual for the event, a bright red sweater with a dove gray skirt, hugging tight to her in all the usual places. A festive Christmas tree brooch is pinned near her shoulder. The gold pen on its chain is half-lost between her breasts. "The young men are not to my liking," she says. "They're becoming rather rude."
"Young men do that, I've heard," Don says.
She gives him a look like she's all too familiar with that. "I thought you'd gone home for the evening, so I came to check that the office was locked. Wouldn't want anyone to stumble in here who didn't belong."
"Efficient to the end," he says, and her smile is less artifice this time. "But, as you can see, I'm still very much here." He pauses. "Would you like a drink?"
She stands in the doorway, at a precipice, because they both know what a drink means in a dim office with no one else around.
"Well, if you're offering." Joan crosses the threshold. "Would you like me to fix it?"
"I think I can handle it," Don says, a touch dryly, as she comes up to stand beside him.
"Can you?" Joan says, perhaps innocently meant but surprising nonetheless, and Don laughs.
"I should hope so," he says. He hands her a glass and then pours his own. They both turn their attention to the windows, gray buildings under a dark sky, streetlights and cars flashing far-off.
"It's snowing," she says suddenly, delighted. She takes a step closer to the glass, pressing her fingertips to it like a kid looking into a shop window.
Don smiles a little. "You like the snow?" he asks. Somehow he expected her to be more pragmatic, concerned with salt-ruined heels and slush-splattered hems.
She glances over her shoulder at him with that enigmatic half-smile. "Surprised?" she says. "Who doesn't like snow?"
Don himself had never been a fan – snow meant more work at the farm, meant colder nights. "Didn't strike you as that type of a romantic is all," Don says and almost immediately wants to correct himself, because the twist to his words has too much Dick Whitman in it.
Joan arches a brow slightly, turns on her heel and lets her back rest against the cool windowpane. "Isn't everyone?"
Don shrugs half-heartedly.
They're both distracted by a cheer out in the main office, followed by laughter and the radio turning up. They share a smile and, on a whim, Don holds his hand out. Joan hesitates but they both know it's more of a show than anything else; she slips her cool hand into his and moves close, lets Don puts a hand on her firm waist. She's very warm in his arms despite the coolness of her fingers, very close though Don feels oddly like he's not touching her. She's solid and real, the swing of hips and security of grip, real in a way even Betty doesn't feel half the time; yet still he feels distant from her, removed.
"You're a charming dancer, Mr. Draper," she says softly.
"You say that now," he says lightly, "Wait 'til I step on your feet."
Joan laughs softly. "Well you certainly give the appearance of charm."
Don frowns slightly. He's not sure what to say to that – how could she know? – but luckily there's nothing to be said, Joan pressing close under the hazy winter light filtering into the room.
When the song begins to draw to its conclusion, she pulls back slightly and looks up at him, all bright blue eyes fringed with dark eyelashes. Don knows he could kiss her now and she would probably allow it.
"I think…" he says slowly, "that I ought to walk you back to the party. And then I should be on my way."
Joan's hands slide from his arms. "Of course," she says. "Your wife is waiting."
"Yes," he says, with a little nod.
She smiles. "Happy Christmas, Mr. Draper."
"Happy Christmas, Joan," he returns.
The snow is coming down much harder by the time Don makes it out onto the street, huddled into his coat. He tilts his hat over his eyes and walks past the train station, finds a bar and orders himself a drink.
He doesn't go home.