Disclaimer: 'The West Wing' and all related materials are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC, and various other organisations. I am in no way affiliated with them, and I get nothing out of this but my own sick pleasure. Please don't sue me. Titles (sorta) and summary from "Sort of a Protest Song" by the Matthew Good Band, which is on the album "The Audio of Being."

Author's Note: This story is slash (that means it has content of a sexual/romantic nature between two characters of the same gender, in this case Sam and Josh). If you don't like slash, don't read this. If you read this anyway, don't complain to me, because I like slash, and you'll get no sympathy.



Sort of a Protest Story

By BJ Garrett



I: Fireman in a Time of Fires: Incident



I'm sitting on the floor at the end of my bed, surfing spinelessly through television waves. He lays on the bed, arms around my neck from above, cheek resting on the top of my head. I don't cuddle. Except with him. The look on his face sometimes-it convinces me that a need for personal space cannot outweigh his desire for physical contact of a non-sexual nature.

He makes a noise, something between a sigh and a purr.

There's the noises too, I guess. The noises are cute.

"It's kind of funny," he says slowly, "I wanted to be a fireman."

I fail to see the funny in that, but give an affirmative shrug. His forearms rub my earlobes, an interesting friction.

"And you wanted to be a ballerina."

"I didn't know what it meant," I say wearily, for the nth time today.

"Yeah."

He chuckles and drops his arms, moves over, rests his cheek on my shoulder.

"But I'm the gay one," he adds in a whisper, still trying to joke, not fully succeeding in hiding a note of sadness.

I don't know what to say. I never do. I'm never sure if he intends for me to hear when he says these things. I'm not sure what it means if he doesn't.

"Well," I say, far too loudly to be speaking to one man twined around my neck like a scarf, "I think it's time we turned in, Billy Blazes."

With an elaborate gesture, I turn the television off. My arm drops back to my lap.

He grips my shoulders and presses his lips against my jaw. "I *am* a fireman," he says. "I put you out."

And it kills me every time I realise he thinks I'm not grateful.



End incident.