Usual disclaimers. Not mine: Aaron Sorkin's. Janel Moloney and the lovely and under-appreciated Nicole Robinson also get credit for portraying the girls. Suggestions of slash. Post-ep for "Two Cathedrals"; obviously, spoilers. Big ones.
Rain
Kat M.
through these fields of destruction
baptisms of fire
I've witnessed your suffering
as the battle raged higher
One hundred people are packed into a close, stifling room late at night. Harsh fluorescent lighting drives all the shadows into corners, holds them at bay there and blots them out. The wind and rain outside lash against the window panes, sheeting down the glass in great clean swathes of water, but the air is hot inside, shifted only reluctantly in slow currents by the whir of two overworked fans. The babble and murmur of all those voices swells and drifts and crashes until the tall red-haired woman standing at the back of the room feels she could crack and huddle with her hands over her ears, shrieking soundlessly, to block out that chaos of noise.
Instead she purses her lips and stares with large serious eyes at the podium. She watches the jostling crowd lash at the angular figure behind the microphone with questions like whips, watches her fend them off one-handed. She waits, like everyone else in this room is waiting. She knows Donna is standing very near her, at her right shoulder, but they don't look at one another and they don't speak. The reporters drown their impatience with bad coffee in styrofoam cups, but the people for whom this means the most only stand, still and expectant, and wait.
Then there he is, striding into the room, stepping up to the podium, squaring himself behind it. His hair is spiky and wet, his coat slick with rain. CJ's meticulous instructions and preparations will do them no good: he spreads his arms, plants his feet, and leans into the microphone. Bring it on.
The question is asked. She feels Donna's hand slip around her elbow and close on her upper arm, and she wants to turn and hide her face in Donna's shoulder and not have to look, but she has to look, so she does. The question is answered before she knows that the President has answered it, and she snaps her head around and stares as Donna stiffens, her face lighting up. All over the room, droplets of comprehension condense, one by one, out of the general confused mist, and the stillness gives way to a storm of incredulous looks and frantic scribbling and shouted questions. She still can't believe it. "What?"
Donna's eyes are huge. She has one hand pressed to her mouth, and looks as if she might cry. "He's going to run again."
"How do you--" Her voice is deep in her throat, caught in the aching tightness there. She stares at Donna, now, who has mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. She wants to hear yes or no from the President's mouth, but if this creature says it's yes, then it's yes.
"Yes," finally, comes the President's great booming orator's voice. "Yes, I will be seeking a second term." Her knees unlock and she sways, but Donna's hands are on her shoulders and Donna's glowing white smile is blinding her, and Donna has caught her up in a tight hug and everything is one great shout of (but the MS the MS he lied what will he how will he) triumphant joy.