Congratulations
Author: Oro
Disclaimer: Brilliance of Aaron Sorkin.
Spoilers: Posse Comitatus
Rating: PG-13
Author's notes: BJ rocks. ::does the BJ rocks dance::
A beautiful gun, newly bought; the silver metal still glimmers in the neon lights of the city. The gun feels smooth underneath your fingers as you slide them up and down the cold metal. The bullets are amazingly easy to insert, surely a very good piece to use when needing to get something done quickly: maybe if you're robbed and in need to defend your own, or if in sudden need for some money and having to rob a small grocery store. So you take the gun and this guy goes in and gets in the middle of things, – which is why you need the easy to insert bullets inserted into your spanking new gun – so you shoot him down, take the money and get the hell out of there. Because it's what you're supposed to do in times like this.
And they say, white male, age 45 shot: and the sirens and the cars and the secret service agents surrounding the body, and her usually pleasant expression that is interrupted by involuntary tears that automatically pull up her cheek and make her look – and feel – ridiculous, because she didn't need an agent in the first place, she was fine. She had a stalker but it didn't seem serious though it probably was, though he saw her try on a dress with her niece, and he wasn't even the one to catch him, and he didn't have to come with her to New York. The pain slips in her like abrupt cuts through her chest, only from the inside out, and it flows from her in the form of tears and the sudden need to embrace herself when she knows he's not there to do that. They could've had something nice, maybe just dinner and some kisses before they realize it's too much like that movie starring that singer, before they'd laugh and call it quits and she's back to reading books alone in her bed to the light of her bedside lamp, but nice nonetheless. He could've made things easier, if only for a little while, if only because she imagined him doing that from time to time, if only he hadn't died: and the thought keeps hitting her as she walks alone in a strange town, unprotected, thinking of how just minutes ago she talked to him, touched him, tasted him and said she'd see him later.
You didn't know him, and you don't know her, and you have your money in a brown, slightly crumpled paper bag. So congratulations on your new gun.