Disclaimer: Not mine.
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Equate
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He wonders when it all – the hopes and dreams – went away. When he lost the resolve of truth and began hiding behind a mask; acting to the world.
To himself.
Still he lulls his body from the bed each day, eyes finding the picture on the nightstand. Stares at it until the tears threaten. They sometimes spill, but he's learned to stuff them back in with hard force.
There are cracks forming now. The bitterness creeping out into the open where Donna and Leo can see. CJ is catching on, but Toby ignores the Deputy's slips – he's been waiting for the younger man to breakdown again.
He won't give them that pleasure.
Donna noticed his cuts this morning. Noticed the thin line of blood on the arm of his shirt from the edge of his scab. She'd admonished him for being so clumsy before darting off to find some memo or another.
He laughs at the thought, as it plays back in his mind like a perfect black-and-white movie.
Leo came later, after a meeting with some humanitarian group (he can't remember specifically which one) and was lectured for fifteen minutes yet all he recalls is his superior's questions of health.
Again his brain wraps around the inquiry:
Are you okay, Josh?
How does one reply to that, in reality when everything has fallen apart as though a space satellite had crashed back to Earth.
No one is ever fine, he says aloud, to the silence and the scotch bottle.
Burns like the lighter he holds against his pale thigh.
The scent of crisp flesh floats through the space, out the open window.
A knocking comes.
(Mr. Lyman…)
The voice is different, familiar and loved. Calls his name in Hebrew asks to come in and then demands.
Slowly he moves. His arms heavy and his legs sluggish. He doesn't care that he smells of almost-carrion, that he's half-dressed and drunk. The siren outside takes all his strength…
Sam and Leo.
Worry.
He can't fathom the reason why. Until the shot glass is pulled from his fingers by one and the source of fire removed from the other. Eyes flicker between the two.
California isn't home anymore, whispers at the damaged shell of a man, I missed you.
His savior? (Maybe.)
His life. (Probably.)
Gently, they lay him in the bed. He thinks they're getting good at this. At cleaning up the mess, at protecting the president from another scandal.
*Deputy Chief of Staff Acts Like Child.*
Danny would love that story. Prints whatever he's given if it will sell papers and Josh knows it – he had to deal with it at the beginning of his decline. Protection of his deepest secret is killing him, started killing him at that moment.
(I won't, Josh. But someone else might. Be prepared…)
Someone – Leo – snaps his fingers, mumbles something under his breath and drags the younger to his feet. The bathroom becomes his respite for a passing minute when fingers press into his mouth, pushing past the edge of his tongue. Tests his gag reflex as though it were a physical exam for a few seconds prior to their quick removal.
His liquid dinner slips from his body, hypnotizing him.
Sam coaxes; speaks to him in soothing tones like he used to for an all too-different reason.
They talk to each other then, pulling him back to the bed and he can hear them talk about the hospital.
He argues for his side.
But they only placate him with soft whispers, lackluster promises. He knows they're trying to calm him and they know it, too.
Silence then. Bitter, pompous quiet. And he wonders again.
How long will they abandon him this time?
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*v* Cassie Jamie *v*
angelusaquiluscaelitus@hotmail.com