in the hall of the mountain king
Characters: Joan. Greg.
Rating: PG13.
Word Count: 601
Summary: "You should clean yourself up," he says, when he's done, sitting back on his knees. "We're going to be late." Set during 2x12, The Mountain King.
Note: I was looking at caps for this episode and just had to write something.
"You should clean yourself up," he says, when he's done, sitting back on his knees. "We're going to be late."
"Oh," Joan says. She turns her head to look at him again and thinks, inanely, That's the end of my hair. She can feel the tough carpet fibers underneath her head, she knows her hair will frizz and fray. "Yes. Alright."
"I'll wait outside?" he offers. It comes out half-question and half-statement and Joan nods, though she's not sure he's actually looking for an answer from her.
He looks at her another moment and he looks so calm, so innocent, he looks like the man who brought her roses. Not that red-faced man, the other. He is already cleaned up, his belt buckled and shirt smoothed. His hair was not ruined. Of course, why would it have been?
"Alright," Joan says again, when he doesn't move. She wants him to stop looking at her. Suddenly she wants to be alone in this room so badly she can taste it, this desire for solitude, and she'd thought, before, in the heat of the moment, that she'd never want to be alone in this room again.
That's silly. This is Joan's office; Joan will have to enter this room again – tomorrow morning in fact, to bring Mr. Draper his coffee, to take his hat and coat, to tell him his messages, to check if he is out of bourbon, to straighten his desk, to answer when he calls, to welcome people in and usher them out.
Greg leaves and only then does Joan sit up, slowly. She brings her knees together and tugs her skirt down, smoothing it and smoothing it but to no avail: there's a crease now, a big one right across her lap, and a dozen others surrounding it. She'd ironed this skirt especially for their date and she'd kept a careful eye on it all day so it wouldn't wrinkle. She wouldn't have been able to go home in between and she had to look good, she liked to look good for Greg.
Her stockings do not have a run in them. Aside from her creased skirt nothing is wrong. She touches the back of her head, running her hand over her hair, and finds it's not ruined like she thought. It's fine.
She stands. One of her shoes fell off and she steps back into it. There is no mirror here that she can remember, so she peers into the dark glass of the window to look at her makeup. At the very corner of her mouth her lipstick is smudged from Greg's fingers, but it isn't unfixable. She runs her nail around the edge of her lips like she used to do when she was younger, when she'd been out with her friends and she'd forgotten her compact, when she'd been leaning to look into diner bathroom mirrors and laughing because a boy had just kissed her.
Mr. Draper's office doesn't look different.
This has never happened to Joan before, but it is not outside her realm of experience. A girlfriend in college, she remembers, told her of something similar and the girl's eyes had been bright, brittle. Joan's compact is out on her desk, in her purse; she doesn't know what her eyes look like.
Greg is waiting and so Joan exits Mr. Draper's office, tells herself to smile but does not feel her expression change. She gets her things. Greg keeps his hand on her lower back all the way to the elevator.
Out on the street, she realizes she'd forgotten the roses.
Characters: Joan. Greg.
Rating: PG13.
Word Count: 601
Summary: "You should clean yourself up," he says, when he's done, sitting back on his knees. "We're going to be late." Set during 2x12, The Mountain King.
Note: I was looking at caps for this episode and just had to write something.
"You should clean yourself up," he says, when he's done, sitting back on his knees. "We're going to be late."
"Oh," Joan says. She turns her head to look at him again and thinks, inanely, That's the end of my hair. She can feel the tough carpet fibers underneath her head, she knows her hair will frizz and fray. "Yes. Alright."
"I'll wait outside?" he offers. It comes out half-question and half-statement and Joan nods, though she's not sure he's actually looking for an answer from her.
He looks at her another moment and he looks so calm, so innocent, he looks like the man who brought her roses. Not that red-faced man, the other. He is already cleaned up, his belt buckled and shirt smoothed. His hair was not ruined. Of course, why would it have been?
"Alright," Joan says again, when he doesn't move. She wants him to stop looking at her. Suddenly she wants to be alone in this room so badly she can taste it, this desire for solitude, and she'd thought, before, in the heat of the moment, that she'd never want to be alone in this room again.
That's silly. This is Joan's office; Joan will have to enter this room again – tomorrow morning in fact, to bring Mr. Draper his coffee, to take his hat and coat, to tell him his messages, to check if he is out of bourbon, to straighten his desk, to answer when he calls, to welcome people in and usher them out.
Greg leaves and only then does Joan sit up, slowly. She brings her knees together and tugs her skirt down, smoothing it and smoothing it but to no avail: there's a crease now, a big one right across her lap, and a dozen others surrounding it. She'd ironed this skirt especially for their date and she'd kept a careful eye on it all day so it wouldn't wrinkle. She wouldn't have been able to go home in between and she had to look good, she liked to look good for Greg.
Her stockings do not have a run in them. Aside from her creased skirt nothing is wrong. She touches the back of her head, running her hand over her hair, and finds it's not ruined like she thought. It's fine.
She stands. One of her shoes fell off and she steps back into it. There is no mirror here that she can remember, so she peers into the dark glass of the window to look at her makeup. At the very corner of her mouth her lipstick is smudged from Greg's fingers, but it isn't unfixable. She runs her nail around the edge of her lips like she used to do when she was younger, when she'd been out with her friends and she'd forgotten her compact, when she'd been leaning to look into diner bathroom mirrors and laughing because a boy had just kissed her.
Mr. Draper's office doesn't look different.
This has never happened to Joan before, but it is not outside her realm of experience. A girlfriend in college, she remembers, told her of something similar and the girl's eyes had been bright, brittle. Joan's compact is out on her desk, in her purse; she doesn't know what her eyes look like.
Greg is waiting and so Joan exits Mr. Draper's office, tells herself to smile but does not feel her expression change. She gets her things. Greg keeps his hand on her lower back all the way to the elevator.
Out on the street, she realizes she'd forgotten the roses.