Grieve
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Even though I cherish Will...
Summary: And there they were, suddenly superfluous, staff and aides. (Post-25, one shot)
A/N: Just a short piece, following "25," to let concerned readers know that I am in fact still writing. It's been a tough few weeks, moving back into my university for my senior year while drastically changing my plans for graduate school. Hang in with me — more long fic will show itself...
The consensus in the room was that no one truly knew what was going on. Nine hours had gone by since the disappearance of First Daughter Zoey Bartlet (so innocent, and he hadn't stopped her from leaving), but each senior staff member for the Bartlet administration found him- or herself stagnant. The facts were harsh: Bartlet wasn't in charge and the man taking his place (not even a Democrat!) had his own, trusted staffers to keep his political machine moving.
And there they were, suddenly superfluous, staff and aides. They were in Josh's office since, as Leo was running the coordination with Walken's staff, the least important job in useless group of people was a Deputy to the (nonexistent) Chief of Staff. The man himself was on the floor, curled in a ball at the foot of his leather desk chair and snoring loudly. Of the highest ranked (and least useful) man in the room, the others took little notice.
"Nine hours," CJ commented, staring at the clock on the desk from her place, slumped against the door jam. "They'll be wanting another press briefing."
"Not nine," Donna protested. "That's Josh's clock, it's always behind. Nine and fifteen minutes, at least."
Her comment must've been disturbing to the press secretary, as CJ visibly flinched and glanced though the crack between door and frame. "His media secretary must be here. He must be cutting me off -"
"Don't," Toby snapped, emphasizing his point by bouncing his (ever present, always in sight, just like she wasn't) ball against the table. Josh snorted, but didn't wake. "He won't cut us off. He can't. This can't last."
CJ winced. "It can last. Toby, what if she's -"
"No."
That was Charlie, finally speaking up, largely unnoticed in the corner, crouched between stacks of files of potential vice presidents. "No," he repeated, and CJ winced and Toby's gaze wouldn't meet Charlie's. He'd been sitting, watching, listening for the past hour, since the President (the real president, not the fake, that man in his boss' seat) had dismissed him to pray (grieve) with his wife and two remaining daughters. No, Josh wasn't the least useful man in the room. On second thought, it was Charlie himself.
Donna's gaze was pity, Will's was pained, CJ's was guilt, and Toby wouldn't look at him as Josh let off another snore. "Nine hours," Charlie found himself saying (it came without thinking, without planning), "but she'll be home in another nine. I'm sure of it." And from Donna's pity, Will's wince, CJ's guilt, and Toby's blank stare toward the door, Charlie knew he was alone in his hope.
And then he realized — the Republicans hadn't brought them down. Nor had the communists, nor the Christian Right, nor the gun nuts. Nor, even, had the man (woman?) who shot an agent in the head and dragged Zoey Bartlet (so innocent, and he'd sent her off to the party) out the back of the nightclub to wherever she was being held (or her body was). They'd been defeated, in the end, by their own dependence on the man who sat in the chair.
