TACET II: DAWN
Classification: Post-ep for "Posse Comitatus"
Summary: "I'm so sorry, he doesn't say aloud, but CJ hears him anyway."
***
Tacet II: Dawn
***
Josh doesn't want to do anything but listen to them breathe.
Amy stands by his side, straining to hear as Sam gives him the bad news from a
hundred miles away, up in the air, his voice hushed and reverent.
It's impossible, Josh thinks as he holds on to the phone with cold, nerveless
fingers. He's been so shaken over the idea that someone could want to hurt CJ -
there's no way he could've seen this coming. Besides, hadn't Leo called a while
ago and said they'd gotten the guy? But there are too many guys to get, and
Simon Donovan has just found that out the hard way.
Of course the call is from Air Force One. Sam tells him that CJ's alone in the
conference room and Toby stands guard over her privacy. They'll land in an hour,
all but Ron, who's supervising the investigation, and Simon's body, which is at
the coroner's office for an autopsy.
Josh tells Sam that he'll go to Andrews and meet them.
There's too much security, Sam warns. The agents are wound up tighter than a
cheap watch, and there's something going on that Leo won't tell anyone. He and
the President are holed up in private. This can't be good.
So Josh decides to wait at the office. He hands the phone back to Amy, who
watches him with wary, dark eyes. She seems smaller without the aura of
indignation. He tells her about the robbery and about CJ. She asks if he's okay
- not because he knew Simon well, because he really didn't, but because Amy
probably suspects that there's something about that kind of wound that will
always make his breathing become labored. He shrugs and leans over to kiss her.
It's not tender. Not needy. Only Josh could kiss absentmindedly.
When he gets outside Amy's building he doesn't remember leaving it. There's a
hint of cherry blossom in the night air. Underneath is the tang of sulfur, or
maybe that's an olfactory hallucination. Stanley's in town; Josh thinks he ought
to call him and ask about whether he's stopped hearing things and started
smelling things. He walks for three or four blocks before he realizes that there
are cabs buzzing around him. He lifts a hand to signal one, tells the driver
where he's going.
At this hour? the driver's expression seems to ask, so Josh pulls out his wallet
to show the I.D. card. No terrorist, he. Just this guy, whose friend is in pain.
He shows the I.D. again at the main gate. There are more agents around than
normal, probably because of whatever Sam was talking about. In fact, there are
more people outside than in tonight. Donna's gone, asleep, unaware. It's just
him tonight, pacing from office to office, racketing around all by himself.
Simon's photo is on the news already. Josh turns up the volume on one of the
half-dozen sets in the bullpen. It's deja vu. He'd watched the endless stream of
videotape during his recuperation. The difference is that when it had been his
photo on the news, he wasn't quite dead. Didn't die, after all.
Had it been like this for them two springs ago? He ponders that while scanning
the other channels for their coverage. Sam had said the press corps on the plane
was incredibly respectful, but the network media is showing no such scruples
with their video of an agonized CJ being guided to the motorcade between Sam and
Toby. He wonders again: had it been like this for them two springs ago?
Movement in the hall. They're back. They've come home. CJ is wearing Toby's
jacket over her gown but she's still shivering. Her face is an enigma, wan and
tight and expressionless. Josh wants to touch her arm but he doesn't know how to
be gentle enough to keep from breaking her.
Carol is walking behind them, looking stricken. Josh can't hold CJ in his arms
but he can console Carol with a hug. She arches into his embrace like a cat,
then goes to do whatever she can for her boss. Sam and Toby pull Josh aside. Sam
is worried because CJ hasn't cried. Toby thinks she has, though, back when she
first heard. That's how she does these things, he tells them. Alone. And only
once.
When CJ emerges she has car keys in her hand. Simon had replaced the parts he'd
pulled out. Just an hour before they left, he'd done it. His hands, warm and
alive, putting bits of Mustang back in place. The three men follow CJ to the car
and she stands shivering in the surprisingly cool May air. The reddish gold hair
on her arms is downy over the gooseflesh, and her hands shake as she points the
key at the lock. Something is keeping her from touching the car.
They go in Sam's car instead. It's the most reliable. The safest.
They don't talk as Sam guides them through the starless night. CJ won't talk;
neither will she bend. She won't break. Not even when they get to her place and
she lets the men into her living room, tottering a little on high heels that
don't work well with flight-swollen feet. She sits on the sofa, staring straight
ahead, and Toby sits by her side, close enough that she can surely sense his
warmth.
Sam putters around in the unused kitchen until he finds tea. Chamomile, Josh
notes. Isn't that what women drink when they want to feel better? He'd feel
better if there were something he could do. So Toby is the watchdog and Sam the
caregiver. What is Josh, as he stands behind the sofa and observes the muscular
curve of CJ's back? What is his role?
He crosses in front of the sofa and sits on his heels. CJ looks down at him,
lost, eyes vacant. He takes her hands and brings them to his lips. I'm so sorry,
he doesn't say aloud, but CJ hears him anyway. She moves her right hand down to
his chest. Fifth intercostal space. He lived; Simon died.
CJ leans toward Josh until their foreheads touch. They've kissed once. It was
after a long fundraiser, sweetly, drunkenly, just-this-side of brother and
sister. CJ had tasted like champagne that night, and said Josh, like all men,
tasted like coffee. Josh wonders if she'll ever be able to bear the taste of
coffee or of a man's lips again. He knows she will. This is CJ. His CJ, their
CJ.
Sam passes tea around in white ceramic mugs. Too much sugar. It'd hurt Sam's
feelings if anyone said so. They all take little sips. Josh feels the warmth
coursing through him and the steam brings moisture to his eyes. It takes away
the bitter edge.
A Valium ends up in CJ's hands. Sam has given it to her, straight from a bottle
in his jacket. Sam carries Valium? But CJ doesn't question it. She takes the
pill, swallows it dry and washes it down with sweet Sam's sweet tea. Bizarre
communion, pills and chamomile.
After a while, when CJ's body uncoils, Toby leads her to the bedroom. CJ is still
in her evening gown but Toby takes off her shoes and places them at the side of
the bed. He toes off his own shoes as well. Toby looks like newsprint in his
tuxedo, all black-and-white and so clearly readable. Guilty. His jealousy had
been palpable. He'd been envious of this dashing man who was being paid to stand
in front of a bullet for CJ. Toby'd have done it for free. Would've paid for the
privilege. Now his rival's dead and Toby, who was born for the burden of
self-awareness, is surely blaming himself for turning God's odds against Simon.
CJ asks Toby to sit with her a while. Apologizes to Sam and Josh, but she just
can't stay awake anymore even though she's terrified about what she'll dream.
Besides, it'll be morning soon and she'll have to do the briefing. Just a few
hours, maybe a little rest, some sleep, perchance.
Toby pulls up the little damask-covered chair and sits like a statue of some
literary figure pondering an eternal mystery. Bearded marble. He holds CJ's hand
until it relaxes and stops trembling.
At the kitchen table, Sam sits with his head down on his folded arms. With a
voice like broken glass, Josh asks if this is what it had been like. He doesn't
have to explain that he's talking about Rosslyn. Did it feel like this?
Yes. Helpless. Afraid.
Josh had missed this feeling the first time. He'd been too busy breathing and
bleeding. It's easier to bleed than wait, he decides. Certainly easier to bleed
than mourn.
A few minutes later they smile wanly at each other when they hear the soft
rumble of Toby's snore. Josh peers into the bedroom and sees Toby leaning
sideways in the chair, his fingers still lightly threaded through CJ's. But he
doesn't get to tell Sam about it, because Sam's succumbed to the late hour and
has fallen quietly asleep - even his breathing is orderly and neat - at the
table.
So Josh stands in the doorway. He's the one who's awake this time, silent, hands
behind his back. Dawn touches them through the airy curtains at CJ's windows,
but they don't waken and Josh doesn't want to do anything but listen to them
breathe.
***
END
***
Feedback would be welcome at marguerite@swbell.net .
Back to West Wing .
Classification: Post-ep for "Posse Comitatus"
Summary: "I'm so sorry, he doesn't say aloud, but CJ hears him anyway."
***
Tacet II: Dawn
***
Josh doesn't want to do anything but listen to them breathe.
Amy stands by his side, straining to hear as Sam gives him the bad news from a
hundred miles away, up in the air, his voice hushed and reverent.
It's impossible, Josh thinks as he holds on to the phone with cold, nerveless
fingers. He's been so shaken over the idea that someone could want to hurt CJ -
there's no way he could've seen this coming. Besides, hadn't Leo called a while
ago and said they'd gotten the guy? But there are too many guys to get, and
Simon Donovan has just found that out the hard way.
Of course the call is from Air Force One. Sam tells him that CJ's alone in the
conference room and Toby stands guard over her privacy. They'll land in an hour,
all but Ron, who's supervising the investigation, and Simon's body, which is at
the coroner's office for an autopsy.
Josh tells Sam that he'll go to Andrews and meet them.
There's too much security, Sam warns. The agents are wound up tighter than a
cheap watch, and there's something going on that Leo won't tell anyone. He and
the President are holed up in private. This can't be good.
So Josh decides to wait at the office. He hands the phone back to Amy, who
watches him with wary, dark eyes. She seems smaller without the aura of
indignation. He tells her about the robbery and about CJ. She asks if he's okay
- not because he knew Simon well, because he really didn't, but because Amy
probably suspects that there's something about that kind of wound that will
always make his breathing become labored. He shrugs and leans over to kiss her.
It's not tender. Not needy. Only Josh could kiss absentmindedly.
When he gets outside Amy's building he doesn't remember leaving it. There's a
hint of cherry blossom in the night air. Underneath is the tang of sulfur, or
maybe that's an olfactory hallucination. Stanley's in town; Josh thinks he ought
to call him and ask about whether he's stopped hearing things and started
smelling things. He walks for three or four blocks before he realizes that there
are cabs buzzing around him. He lifts a hand to signal one, tells the driver
where he's going.
At this hour? the driver's expression seems to ask, so Josh pulls out his wallet
to show the I.D. card. No terrorist, he. Just this guy, whose friend is in pain.
He shows the I.D. again at the main gate. There are more agents around than
normal, probably because of whatever Sam was talking about. In fact, there are
more people outside than in tonight. Donna's gone, asleep, unaware. It's just
him tonight, pacing from office to office, racketing around all by himself.
Simon's photo is on the news already. Josh turns up the volume on one of the
half-dozen sets in the bullpen. It's deja vu. He'd watched the endless stream of
videotape during his recuperation. The difference is that when it had been his
photo on the news, he wasn't quite dead. Didn't die, after all.
Had it been like this for them two springs ago? He ponders that while scanning
the other channels for their coverage. Sam had said the press corps on the plane
was incredibly respectful, but the network media is showing no such scruples
with their video of an agonized CJ being guided to the motorcade between Sam and
Toby. He wonders again: had it been like this for them two springs ago?
Movement in the hall. They're back. They've come home. CJ is wearing Toby's
jacket over her gown but she's still shivering. Her face is an enigma, wan and
tight and expressionless. Josh wants to touch her arm but he doesn't know how to
be gentle enough to keep from breaking her.
Carol is walking behind them, looking stricken. Josh can't hold CJ in his arms
but he can console Carol with a hug. She arches into his embrace like a cat,
then goes to do whatever she can for her boss. Sam and Toby pull Josh aside. Sam
is worried because CJ hasn't cried. Toby thinks she has, though, back when she
first heard. That's how she does these things, he tells them. Alone. And only
once.
When CJ emerges she has car keys in her hand. Simon had replaced the parts he'd
pulled out. Just an hour before they left, he'd done it. His hands, warm and
alive, putting bits of Mustang back in place. The three men follow CJ to the car
and she stands shivering in the surprisingly cool May air. The reddish gold hair
on her arms is downy over the gooseflesh, and her hands shake as she points the
key at the lock. Something is keeping her from touching the car.
They go in Sam's car instead. It's the most reliable. The safest.
They don't talk as Sam guides them through the starless night. CJ won't talk;
neither will she bend. She won't break. Not even when they get to her place and
she lets the men into her living room, tottering a little on high heels that
don't work well with flight-swollen feet. She sits on the sofa, staring straight
ahead, and Toby sits by her side, close enough that she can surely sense his
warmth.
Sam putters around in the unused kitchen until he finds tea. Chamomile, Josh
notes. Isn't that what women drink when they want to feel better? He'd feel
better if there were something he could do. So Toby is the watchdog and Sam the
caregiver. What is Josh, as he stands behind the sofa and observes the muscular
curve of CJ's back? What is his role?
He crosses in front of the sofa and sits on his heels. CJ looks down at him,
lost, eyes vacant. He takes her hands and brings them to his lips. I'm so sorry,
he doesn't say aloud, but CJ hears him anyway. She moves her right hand down to
his chest. Fifth intercostal space. He lived; Simon died.
CJ leans toward Josh until their foreheads touch. They've kissed once. It was
after a long fundraiser, sweetly, drunkenly, just-this-side of brother and
sister. CJ had tasted like champagne that night, and said Josh, like all men,
tasted like coffee. Josh wonders if she'll ever be able to bear the taste of
coffee or of a man's lips again. He knows she will. This is CJ. His CJ, their
CJ.
Sam passes tea around in white ceramic mugs. Too much sugar. It'd hurt Sam's
feelings if anyone said so. They all take little sips. Josh feels the warmth
coursing through him and the steam brings moisture to his eyes. It takes away
the bitter edge.
A Valium ends up in CJ's hands. Sam has given it to her, straight from a bottle
in his jacket. Sam carries Valium? But CJ doesn't question it. She takes the
pill, swallows it dry and washes it down with sweet Sam's sweet tea. Bizarre
communion, pills and chamomile.
After a while, when CJ's body uncoils, Toby leads her to the bedroom. CJ is still
in her evening gown but Toby takes off her shoes and places them at the side of
the bed. He toes off his own shoes as well. Toby looks like newsprint in his
tuxedo, all black-and-white and so clearly readable. Guilty. His jealousy had
been palpable. He'd been envious of this dashing man who was being paid to stand
in front of a bullet for CJ. Toby'd have done it for free. Would've paid for the
privilege. Now his rival's dead and Toby, who was born for the burden of
self-awareness, is surely blaming himself for turning God's odds against Simon.
CJ asks Toby to sit with her a while. Apologizes to Sam and Josh, but she just
can't stay awake anymore even though she's terrified about what she'll dream.
Besides, it'll be morning soon and she'll have to do the briefing. Just a few
hours, maybe a little rest, some sleep, perchance.
Toby pulls up the little damask-covered chair and sits like a statue of some
literary figure pondering an eternal mystery. Bearded marble. He holds CJ's hand
until it relaxes and stops trembling.
At the kitchen table, Sam sits with his head down on his folded arms. With a
voice like broken glass, Josh asks if this is what it had been like. He doesn't
have to explain that he's talking about Rosslyn. Did it feel like this?
Yes. Helpless. Afraid.
Josh had missed this feeling the first time. He'd been too busy breathing and
bleeding. It's easier to bleed than wait, he decides. Certainly easier to bleed
than mourn.
A few minutes later they smile wanly at each other when they hear the soft
rumble of Toby's snore. Josh peers into the bedroom and sees Toby leaning
sideways in the chair, his fingers still lightly threaded through CJ's. But he
doesn't get to tell Sam about it, because Sam's succumbed to the late hour and
has fallen quietly asleep - even his breathing is orderly and neat - at the
table.
So Josh stands in the doorway. He's the one who's awake this time, silent, hands
behind his back. Dawn touches them through the airy curtains at CJ's windows,
but they don't waken and Josh doesn't want to do anything but listen to them
breathe.
***
END
***
Feedback would be welcome at marguerite@swbell.net .
Back to West Wing .