Five
By Redtoes
Authors Note - Let's assume that Josh is 39 at the time of Galileo (approx). Let's make Mallory early/mid thirties, so that's about 5 years between them. My thought is that if Noah Lyman and Leo McGarry were "old friends" then Josh had to have known Mallory when they both were growing up. And so what if Josh and Mallory had a thing when they were younger?
Disclaimer - they're not mine. None of them. And that really is a shame.
Spoilers - General season 2 up to Galileo and Noel. Takes place during Galileo but with strong hints for Noel.
Feedback makes me happy.
"How's she looking?"
"She looks good."
"Can you describe what she's wearing?"
I shouldn't have asked that, I mean god knows Sam and I are close but I don't think he needs any hint what I think of Mallory, or what I thought of Mallory. I mean, name me a guy who asks his best friend what the girl he's chasing is wearing. And yes, I'm aware that was a confusing sentence. Toby would be here with an axe if he had any idea the levels my mental grammar stoops to.
But I still shouldn't have done that.
And now Donna's here.
"You should put him on a stamp," she says, offloading files in one hand and flicking through my organizer with the other.
"I know," I sigh, "it's not that simple." Nothing's that simple. Nothing's ever that simple.
"Make it that simple Josh," she says, looking at me with that look. That look that says she has complete faith in the fact I can do it. I hate that look.
I hate it.
Because if I think about it for even a second I'm left with the thought that this world is full of beautiful women I can't touch.
But then I love that look. It gives me hope, and god knows there's been little hope round here for a long time. A long time.
"Josh?"
"Yeah," I'm back, I'm here, I wasn't just thinking about you and me and all the things I can't have.
"Put him on a stamp Josh." I watch her bustle about my office, tidying, sorting, doing all those organization things that are so far beyond my reach. Like her, like Mallory. Far, far beyond my reach.
"I thought we decided you were gracing envelopes this time." I say, leaning back in my chair. I'm relaxed, I'm cool. I'm not thinking depressive, heartrending thoughts.
"Next time," she smiles, "I'm next time."
"Yeah," but it's less of an agreement than an acknowledgement, jus something to say.
I watch her drift out of my office, out of this dully-lit pit of a room into the open, golden, human space of the bullpen.
"Put him on a stamp," she yells over her shoulder. Always has to have the last word. I smile. She becomes more like me every day, or maybe she's more like herself. Stronger, tougher, more independent that the fast- talking acutely single college drop-out that talked her way into my office in New Hampshire. She's completed. Confident, sure of herself, and more beautiful than ever.
I remember many beautiful women. I've known many beautiful women: in politics and in life. But a few stick in my mind, refuse to leave:
Suzy Jacobs, this girl I met during my Fulbright year at Oxford, an English rose with freckles, a slightly upturned nose and enough strength to take on the college over their sex-discrimination policies despite her fear of losing her perfect record. She kissed me in the rain the day she got formal notice of her eviction from halls. She then slept in my bed for a week, while I lay on the floor and tried to work up the courage to sleep beside her.
Andrea Carlson, junior year at Harvard, a writer with dreams of her own place, her own words and her own book. She wrote dark short stories about children, about sex, about family breakdowns. I was warned away, but I got involved anyway, and learnt that you can't save everyone. Some people just don't want to be saved. But she's married now. A housewife with three kids and two dogs. Every now and then I get poetry in the mail, and I know it's from her. Her husband doesn't approve, but I get poetry talking of home and love and hope. After Roslyn there was a small bunch of flowers that came with a card and a manuscript. She'll never publish it, but I've read it. I know.
Julie Lennox I dated through Law School. To this day I have no idea if it was anything more than sex and the need to research and argue our points before, during and after class that kept us together. She was all passion and opinions. Works for NOW and when she's in town to berate the hill, we have drinks and continue the same decade-old arguments.
As to be expected, perhaps. Name me a guy in his late thirties who doesn't have three amazing women he's had to consign to the past. I've got five, and here's the kicker, the one no one expects -
Mallory McGarry.
Summer after Law School I started in the office of a friend of her fathers. She was finishing up her education degree at Georgetown while I learned the skills of a political operative on the hill. I'm not sure what that was, we talked, we laughed, we smiled. I gave her a refuge from Leo's decline and her mother's controlling presence. I was family without the baggage - we had, after all, played together as children. We knew each other.
Family without the baggage.
I kissed her once, while we drowned our sorrows in a bottle of whiskey on the banks of the Potomac. One night. Nothing more. She took her mother's maiden name and a teaching assignment in New England the next week. Next time I see her I'm working for her father trying to elect an unknown liberal democrat Governor from New Hampshire into the Oval Office. Time after that she's chasing Sam.
But I'll always wonder, you know? She'll be my best friend's wife and I'm sure as hell not in love with her, but I'll always wonder.
I'll always ask how she's looking. I'll always tell Sam not to give up. She's worth it.
I'll always wonder.
"JOSH!"
Ah, the dulcet tones of Donnatella Moss.
"JOSH!"
I shift my tired body across the office to lean against the doorframe.
"Trying your hand at role reversal Donnatella?"
She turns in her chair to grin at me.
"Just practicing for the day I'm your superior Joshua." She's already my superior in every way that counts.
"Like that'll ever happen," I scoff, "What d'you want?"
"The President's due back from the Kennedy Centre in twenty," she says, "He wants an update on Galileo."
"And the rest?" I query thinking about that damn stamp.
"And the rest," she pauses, waiting for my comment.
"I'm gonna put him on a stamp Donna," I admit.
"Really?" There's hope in her tone.
"Yeah." I shuffle slightly on my feet. "But not because you told me to."
"Of course not," she grins, "Why would you ever listen to me?"
"I wouldn't, but then you never stop talking." I soften the words with a smile.
She still smiling, her entire face lit up by this small joy of putting a guy on a stamp. Happy that her faith in me has been justified. For Today. She takes pleasure in the small victories, all too aware that the larger battles are building up and there's little she can do when they hit.
Tomorrow I'll disappoint her and she'll do her best to hide how her face falls. Do her best to disguise the pain she feels at my acerbic comments or irrational anger. She'll humor me, disguise her distress with a joke, maybe call me Deputy Downer for a few hours, but she'll hurt tomorrow.
Today this is all I can give her. A stamp. A little bit of hope that all her faith is justified. A tiny sign that I need her, find her more valuable than she ever could have imagined.
"Twenty minutes?" I query.
"Fifteen now."
"Okay," I say as I retreat back into my office, "Remind me when it's time."
I've got fifteen minutes to brood. Fifteen minutes to think about Suzy and Andrea and Julie and Mallory. Fifteen minutes to think about the four of the five women who have made my life interesting and just won't go away.
I can't think about the fifth. Because if I fall in the way I think I'm going to I can't take anyone with me. I need to do it alone.
And Donna deserves better.
So it's Suzy and Andrea and Julia and Mallory and Donna. Five women I've loved and love. Five beautiful amazing challenging independent women I can't touch.
I wish I could.
But I can wonder. I can hope.
I hope Suzy changed the world, and Andrea will one day publish her book, and that Julie will rise to the top of the ranks and challenge perceptions of feminism everywhere. I hope that Mallory will give Sam a chance. Sam who would adore her and love her and give her the chance to teach her own children about the world.
I hope that Donna never loses faith in me. Never loses faith in herself. I hope she gets whatever she wants and live a long happy life with someone who's allowed to love her. Someone better than me. Someone else.
I'll even dance at her wedding, though part of me doubts I'll make it that far. Not the ways things have been going regularly. Not with the nightmares creeping up on me that I have to bat away with the better memories from my youth. I'm afraid that I'm starting to lose the battle.
But I'll still wonder.
Still hope.
Still dream.
About five beautiful women I'm not allowed to touch.
By Redtoes
Authors Note - Let's assume that Josh is 39 at the time of Galileo (approx). Let's make Mallory early/mid thirties, so that's about 5 years between them. My thought is that if Noah Lyman and Leo McGarry were "old friends" then Josh had to have known Mallory when they both were growing up. And so what if Josh and Mallory had a thing when they were younger?
Disclaimer - they're not mine. None of them. And that really is a shame.
Spoilers - General season 2 up to Galileo and Noel. Takes place during Galileo but with strong hints for Noel.
Feedback makes me happy.
"How's she looking?"
"She looks good."
"Can you describe what she's wearing?"
I shouldn't have asked that, I mean god knows Sam and I are close but I don't think he needs any hint what I think of Mallory, or what I thought of Mallory. I mean, name me a guy who asks his best friend what the girl he's chasing is wearing. And yes, I'm aware that was a confusing sentence. Toby would be here with an axe if he had any idea the levels my mental grammar stoops to.
But I still shouldn't have done that.
And now Donna's here.
"You should put him on a stamp," she says, offloading files in one hand and flicking through my organizer with the other.
"I know," I sigh, "it's not that simple." Nothing's that simple. Nothing's ever that simple.
"Make it that simple Josh," she says, looking at me with that look. That look that says she has complete faith in the fact I can do it. I hate that look.
I hate it.
Because if I think about it for even a second I'm left with the thought that this world is full of beautiful women I can't touch.
But then I love that look. It gives me hope, and god knows there's been little hope round here for a long time. A long time.
"Josh?"
"Yeah," I'm back, I'm here, I wasn't just thinking about you and me and all the things I can't have.
"Put him on a stamp Josh." I watch her bustle about my office, tidying, sorting, doing all those organization things that are so far beyond my reach. Like her, like Mallory. Far, far beyond my reach.
"I thought we decided you were gracing envelopes this time." I say, leaning back in my chair. I'm relaxed, I'm cool. I'm not thinking depressive, heartrending thoughts.
"Next time," she smiles, "I'm next time."
"Yeah," but it's less of an agreement than an acknowledgement, jus something to say.
I watch her drift out of my office, out of this dully-lit pit of a room into the open, golden, human space of the bullpen.
"Put him on a stamp," she yells over her shoulder. Always has to have the last word. I smile. She becomes more like me every day, or maybe she's more like herself. Stronger, tougher, more independent that the fast- talking acutely single college drop-out that talked her way into my office in New Hampshire. She's completed. Confident, sure of herself, and more beautiful than ever.
I remember many beautiful women. I've known many beautiful women: in politics and in life. But a few stick in my mind, refuse to leave:
Suzy Jacobs, this girl I met during my Fulbright year at Oxford, an English rose with freckles, a slightly upturned nose and enough strength to take on the college over their sex-discrimination policies despite her fear of losing her perfect record. She kissed me in the rain the day she got formal notice of her eviction from halls. She then slept in my bed for a week, while I lay on the floor and tried to work up the courage to sleep beside her.
Andrea Carlson, junior year at Harvard, a writer with dreams of her own place, her own words and her own book. She wrote dark short stories about children, about sex, about family breakdowns. I was warned away, but I got involved anyway, and learnt that you can't save everyone. Some people just don't want to be saved. But she's married now. A housewife with three kids and two dogs. Every now and then I get poetry in the mail, and I know it's from her. Her husband doesn't approve, but I get poetry talking of home and love and hope. After Roslyn there was a small bunch of flowers that came with a card and a manuscript. She'll never publish it, but I've read it. I know.
Julie Lennox I dated through Law School. To this day I have no idea if it was anything more than sex and the need to research and argue our points before, during and after class that kept us together. She was all passion and opinions. Works for NOW and when she's in town to berate the hill, we have drinks and continue the same decade-old arguments.
As to be expected, perhaps. Name me a guy in his late thirties who doesn't have three amazing women he's had to consign to the past. I've got five, and here's the kicker, the one no one expects -
Mallory McGarry.
Summer after Law School I started in the office of a friend of her fathers. She was finishing up her education degree at Georgetown while I learned the skills of a political operative on the hill. I'm not sure what that was, we talked, we laughed, we smiled. I gave her a refuge from Leo's decline and her mother's controlling presence. I was family without the baggage - we had, after all, played together as children. We knew each other.
Family without the baggage.
I kissed her once, while we drowned our sorrows in a bottle of whiskey on the banks of the Potomac. One night. Nothing more. She took her mother's maiden name and a teaching assignment in New England the next week. Next time I see her I'm working for her father trying to elect an unknown liberal democrat Governor from New Hampshire into the Oval Office. Time after that she's chasing Sam.
But I'll always wonder, you know? She'll be my best friend's wife and I'm sure as hell not in love with her, but I'll always wonder.
I'll always ask how she's looking. I'll always tell Sam not to give up. She's worth it.
I'll always wonder.
"JOSH!"
Ah, the dulcet tones of Donnatella Moss.
"JOSH!"
I shift my tired body across the office to lean against the doorframe.
"Trying your hand at role reversal Donnatella?"
She turns in her chair to grin at me.
"Just practicing for the day I'm your superior Joshua." She's already my superior in every way that counts.
"Like that'll ever happen," I scoff, "What d'you want?"
"The President's due back from the Kennedy Centre in twenty," she says, "He wants an update on Galileo."
"And the rest?" I query thinking about that damn stamp.
"And the rest," she pauses, waiting for my comment.
"I'm gonna put him on a stamp Donna," I admit.
"Really?" There's hope in her tone.
"Yeah." I shuffle slightly on my feet. "But not because you told me to."
"Of course not," she grins, "Why would you ever listen to me?"
"I wouldn't, but then you never stop talking." I soften the words with a smile.
She still smiling, her entire face lit up by this small joy of putting a guy on a stamp. Happy that her faith in me has been justified. For Today. She takes pleasure in the small victories, all too aware that the larger battles are building up and there's little she can do when they hit.
Tomorrow I'll disappoint her and she'll do her best to hide how her face falls. Do her best to disguise the pain she feels at my acerbic comments or irrational anger. She'll humor me, disguise her distress with a joke, maybe call me Deputy Downer for a few hours, but she'll hurt tomorrow.
Today this is all I can give her. A stamp. A little bit of hope that all her faith is justified. A tiny sign that I need her, find her more valuable than she ever could have imagined.
"Twenty minutes?" I query.
"Fifteen now."
"Okay," I say as I retreat back into my office, "Remind me when it's time."
I've got fifteen minutes to brood. Fifteen minutes to think about Suzy and Andrea and Julie and Mallory. Fifteen minutes to think about the four of the five women who have made my life interesting and just won't go away.
I can't think about the fifth. Because if I fall in the way I think I'm going to I can't take anyone with me. I need to do it alone.
And Donna deserves better.
So it's Suzy and Andrea and Julia and Mallory and Donna. Five women I've loved and love. Five beautiful amazing challenging independent women I can't touch.
I wish I could.
But I can wonder. I can hope.
I hope Suzy changed the world, and Andrea will one day publish her book, and that Julie will rise to the top of the ranks and challenge perceptions of feminism everywhere. I hope that Mallory will give Sam a chance. Sam who would adore her and love her and give her the chance to teach her own children about the world.
I hope that Donna never loses faith in me. Never loses faith in herself. I hope she gets whatever she wants and live a long happy life with someone who's allowed to love her. Someone better than me. Someone else.
I'll even dance at her wedding, though part of me doubts I'll make it that far. Not the ways things have been going regularly. Not with the nightmares creeping up on me that I have to bat away with the better memories from my youth. I'm afraid that I'm starting to lose the battle.
But I'll still wonder.
Still hope.
Still dream.
About five beautiful women I'm not allowed to touch.