"It's Over"
The characters aren't mine. This is my first published West Wing fic, so please be kind. It's not wonderful, and it's short, so, try to enjoy. It's also kind of slashy, so if you don't like that, head back now. Also: this is part of my never ending quest to write like Baked Goldfish, so you should all go read her stories which are wonderful.
He's been in a wheelchair ten years, two years into his second term, and his speech has been deteriorating, though I would still be proud for him to read my words. He knows what he wants to say, because his mind's as good as ever, his mouth is just slower at forming the words. Despite it all, he's a presence in any room he enters, and all of the old staff drops by Manchester every few months. He'll discuss the current, Republican, Administration, the grandkids, trivia, and anything else. The man's a rolling encyclopedia.
Last year he read the book I wrote about him. It took seven years for me to do it, and the book still isn't quite perfect, but he said it was "fine work." I still have a need to make people stand and cheer for the man. He's got such great principles and faith. He is the real-thing.
I don't think there's another real one out there, which is why I work for the Global Defense Council now. Josh is still looking though, evaluating each new candidate. He hasn't found one yet, but he's worked for a couple of hopeful's, and each night I look at his face to see if he's found it again. I doubt it will happen though. Bartlet's one of a kind.
This is all irrelevant. Bartlet *was* one of kind. Until forty minutes ago.
We walked in the door, Josh and I, and I went to the kitchen to check the status of the hamburgers, left in the white Kenmore that morning to thaw. I heard the television blip on, and the low hum of the words became background noise as I sat the meat on the counter. Then came the low and choked cry, and the soft thud and squeak of something landing more forcefully and suddenly than recommended on the cushions of the sofa.
I jogged in, and Josh was upright on the couch, a hand over his mouth, and the other running through his hair, now more thin and gray than it once was. He was staring at the TV, which cast a greenish glow over the dim room. There was an overly pretty woman on, a smashed car in the background, "And now unconfirmed, but reliable reports that former President Josiah Bartlet was killed in the automobile accident that occurred just thirty minutes ago." Then I sank to the couch as well.
I put my arms around Josh, and he turned toward me, and wrapped his around me. We're still sitting, holding each other, because it's all we could do. This wasn't supposed to happen, not for years. "Damn it!" Josh speaks forcefully, but doesn't move.
The phone rings, and without moving my arms, I reach over and grab it, out of instinct, but the receiver to my ear. "Hello."
C.J.'s crying on the other end of the line. "Sam-"
"We know." I cut her off gently, and let the phone drop.
The end