6 (Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?) & Dan/Jon
The door clicks red and Dan sighs, throwing his suit jacket over his shoulder and leaning wearily against the wall to swipe again, and again, until it finally blinks green. “Finally,” he mutters, using his shoulder to push the door open.
The room is dark, the blinds pulled closed tightly against the lamp light from the parking lot below. He makes a note to thank advance for the foresight to close them when they’d dumped his suitcase earlier that afternoon, when he’d still been twelve hours, two memos, a senior staff meeting, and a call with the Turkish President away from his bed.
He’s never been more grateful that all he has to do is toe off his shoes, loosen his tie enough to pull it over his head, and fall face-first into four hours of uninterrupted sleep before he has to get up and do it all over again, in Buenos Aires or Bogata or wherever Alyssa tells Air Force One to take them next. Dan’s stopped asking.
Dan discards his jacket over the edge of the dresser and reaches for his Blackberry for one last check, his eyes crunchy and aching with exhaustion. He’s swearing over an email from his Colombian counterpart when he steps up to the bed, gravity already pulling him face down into the mattress, when he’s stopped by something hard and warm and very much alive.
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