Title: Does Heaven Have Enough Angels Yet?
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita.
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first.
++++++
I wonder when I began measuring my life by her.
By her nylons drying on the shower rod; by the three different types of hairspray arranged neatly on the bathroom sink; by the various lotions and 'smell pretties' organized according to size in the white wicker basket.
I wonder when I began categorizing a good day as one when I came home and she wasn't collapsed on the bed in a heap, still wearing her suit and shoes.
I wonder when I began categorizing a bad day as one when she and Sam were snapping at each other in an entirely too vicious fashion, and there would be no after-work drink together at one of the bars in Georgetown.
But above all else, I wonder what's wrong with her.
Aside from President Bartlet's betrayal, Grand Jury hearings, and the re-election campaign, I mean.
Because although these things are horrible, they don't account for the paleness of her features, the dark bruises marring her upper arms and thighs, or the easy fatigue that leaves her sighing in exhaustion as soon as we reach her apartment.
I wonder, but I don't ask. I don't know if it's because I'm almost certain she wouldn't tell me the truth anyway, or if it's because I'm afraid of her answer.
She smiles at me now from across the table, a poor attempt really, as it doesn't even reach her eyes. But my heart is warmed at the gesture and I place my hand on her knee anyway.
"I should be getting back to the office soon...there's a strategy meeting, and I was late to the last one, so-"
She cuts me off with a violent shake of her head. "Don't worry about it. I don't want to be responsible for Leo tearing you a new one."
Although her tone is teasing, and light, I can hear the hurt behind her words. She'll make excuses about needing to read some briefing memos, or catching up on some housework, but I know she resents not being included in the re-election campaign meetings along with Toby and Sam. And me. She hides behind an indifferent mask of professionalism because she doesn't want any of us to think her petulant.
But sometimes when I get home, I see the tear stains on her cheeks and I know they weren't caused by the latest labor statistics, or the GDP. And in the morning, her eyes will be puffy and swollen, but she'll just shrug off my questions and mutter something about allergies.
I've done laundry with this woman, rubbed her feet after a long day; hell, I've even gone to the store on my way home from work and picked up tampons for her. I, Josh Lyman, stood in the aisle of Walgreen's reading off labels of feminine products to her over the cell phone to make sure I got the right brand. I know her; I love her, and she thinks she can keep things from me.
I sign the bill, and help her with her coat. Her lips linger on my cheek and she whispers a good-bye before trudging out of the restaurant, looking terribly small against the velvet night.
I hope that tonight will be the night I walk through the door and she's singing along to the radio in the kitchen. Or soaking in the bathtub reading something that has nothing to do with MS, national debt, or exports of Nigeria.
I hope that tonight I'll see the old CJ. The one who used to drag me into the living room so that I could see the new Britney Spears video, and make all the right comments about how cheap she looks, and how she really doesn't sing or dance all that well. The one who used to paint my toenails while I dozed on the couch. The one who knew every song from every musical made in the last thirty years, and who demonstrated her knowledge by singing in a clear soprano. The one who used to wipe the floor with Sam, Donna and me at Trivial Pursuit on Saturday nights when we had nothing better to do.
But I know instinctively that I'll come home to the new CJ. The one who cries herself to sleep at night, but never tells me why. The one who silences my questions with hard kisses and cold hands. The one who argues with Sam about moot points, even after everyone has moved on to other issues. The one who looks as if she's ready to break.
But I love her, and I'll be there to pick up the pieces when she falls apart.
++++++
He's worried about me.
Hell, I'm worried about me. I can't ever remember feeling this tired, this defeated. I've been left behind, pushed aside, and almost all together forgotten about. Or at least it feels that way.
Josh tries hard to include me, tries to make me feel like I'm still part of the team, but a drink after work with Sam, Toby, Bruno, and Connie isn't going to erase the insecurities I feel. Neither are the kisses, or the chocolate he offers when he comes home sometimes.
There are days when I just want to stay in bed and contemplate things like disabling diseases of the central nervous system, numbness in limbs, severe paralysis, and loss of vision. I want to contemplate these things I have been reading about almost obsessively for the past few weeks, much to Josh's chagrin.
He never says anything, but I see the disapproval in his eyes when he comes home and sees I've checked out five new books, all saying the same thing, about Multiple Sclerosis. I know he rolls his eyes at the notes I jot down on yellow stickies, and I know he hates it when he tries to tell me about his day, but I'm too engrossed with treatment and funding information to really pay attention.
And there are days when I just want to stay in bed and let the exhaustion that resides right behind my eyes and creeps in my bones take control. I want to sleep that delicious sleep of fairy tales where I wake up refreshed and ready to take on the world.
I want to be able to eat without having to force myself. I want to be able to look in the mirror without noticing the large bruises on my upper arm, dark against my too-pale skin. I want to be able to walk down the stairs without feeling the dull ache in my joints.
I want to be able to apologize to Sam and mean it. I want to be able to impress Leo with my knowledge on the new ambassador from the Netherlands. I want to be able to spend one night with Josh without the rest of these worries running around in my head.
And because I want to do these things, I pick up the phone and make an appointment with an old friend at GW.
It's only the flu of course, but I've been trying to fight it off for the better part of three weeks, and Josh is starting to worry.
And because he's worrying, I decide to put aside 'Living with Multiple Sclerosis' for one night. I soak in the bathtub with the gel he got me from Bath and Body Works...Sun-Ripened Raspberry, or Country Apple, or something like that. I slip on the silk nightgown he loves so much, ignoring how big it is on me now, and prepare for a night of seduction.
But then I promptly fall asleep on top of the covers, barely acknowledging his presence as he slides into bed beside me much later and envelops me in his arms.
+++++++
She's humming some show tune, which I suppose is a good sign, and nibbling on the bagel I placed on her desk before she got into work this morning, when I sit down on her couch.
"You're in a good mood."
She peers at me over her glasses and says, "Yeah, and no thanks to you, Joshua. You did a very, very bad thing."
"What the hell did I do except bring you a bagel?"
"You re-set my alarm clock."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Are you going to punish me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you'd enjoy it."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to stop speaking to you for the rest of the day."
"You promise?"
She throws a wadded up piece of paper at my head. "I'm serious here. I'm pissed at you."
"Because I let you sleep in?"
"I'm a grown woman."
"Thanks for pointing that out, CJ. I never would have noticed."
"I'm just saying...I wanted to come in early. I still have a stack of press releases that need to be looked over."
"You don't sleep enough," I say quietly as I study my hands.
"This coming from the man who doesn't sleep at all! That's rich."
"CJ," I sigh and lean my head on the tips of two fingers. "You look like hell, and people are starting to notice."
Her mouth hangs open for a few seconds and then she stands up. "So now, not only are you re-setting my alarm clock, but you're also insulting me. That's it, I'm cutting you off."
"I mean it. Even the President is asking about you."
"Why the hell doesn't he ask me himself?"
"He knows you're pissed at him," I explain as she sits beside me. "I think he's a little scared of you at the moment."
"He should be," she says as she leans her head against the cushion, closing her eyes.
I reach out and gently stroke the column of her neck and am heartened by the fact that she does not pull away, that she in fact, leans into the touch. She rolls her head and looks at me. "What am I going to do with you?"
"You can take me to lunch."
"It's only eight-thirty in the morning, and you're already thinking about lunch?"
"I just want to make sure you free your schedule in time."
"Well, as much as I'd love to watch you, watch me, eat, I'm afraid I already have a date."
"Anybody I know?"
"Kevin."
"Kevin?"
"Yeah...we've only had dinner with him like three times. Kevin...from Berkeley."
Oh yes. Kevin. The six foot four, dark-haired hunk-Donna's description not mine-- who acts too familiar around my girlfriend. Yes, I remember him now. I clear my throat and try to appear nonchalant. "Oh really? Any particular reason?"
"Are we going to do this again?"
"Do what?"
She rolls her eyes at me, but I can tell she's more amused than anything else because she pats the side of my cheek and settles her hand on my chest. "You know...we're at the part right now where you act like you don't care, and then later you'll be pouting in your office, and I'll have to-"
I silence her with a kiss, and I feel her smile against my mouth. She pinches me in the side lightly and pulls away a centimeter or two. "You don't play fair."
"No, but you like it."
She gives me a dubious look as she gets to her feet. "Is there anything else you wanted, or can I, you know, get back to work?"
"No, no. I'm sure I can find more stimulating conversation elsewhere."
"Swear to God, Josh, if you question my intelligence one more time, I really am going to cut you off."
"I'm leaving now." I'm almost through the door when I remember the other reason I came here. "Look, CJ, Bruno wants to have another meeting tonight. I know we were supposed to have dinner, but I don't know how late it's going to run. So-"
"So, you're standing me up...again?"
She's staring down at a folder laying open on her desk and I know things are bad because she won't look at me. I sigh in frustration and lean back into her office, closing the door behind me. She's spoiling for a fight...I can tell by the set of her shoulders, and I don't think it's going to be avoidable.
"CJ-"
"No, you know what? It's fine, really. It's only like the fifth time in the last two weeks that you've bowed out on me."
"You know what it's like here...I can't just tell Bruno I'm not going to make it because my girlfriend feels a little neglected."
I have what is commonly referred to as 'foot-in-mouth' disease. I know it's the wrong thing to say even as it comes out of my mouth, but I can't seem to stop myself. It's a travesty, really, when you think about it.
Her head snaps up and I'm the recipient of a withering glare that would make Attila the Hun run for cover. "A little neglected? You patronizing son of a-"
"CJ?" Carol pokes her head in the door and mumbles an apology as she gestures to the hallway. "You've got the briefing in a minute and-"
"All right." CJ replies tiredly as she shrugs on her blazer. She brushes past me without another word and I'm left standing in her empty office, thanking God for Carol and White House Press Briefings.
++++++++
I'm soaking in the bathtub when he pokes his head around the corner and smiles. "Can I come in?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Did you come bearing gifts?"
"Am I not enough anymore?"
"Unless you have some White Zinfandel with you, you're not welcome."
He smiles broadly as he pulls out a crystal fluke from behind his back. "Ask and ye shall receive."
I accept the glass and smile back at him. "Don't keep this up, Josh. That well-cultivated reputation you have for being a pain in the ass might get tarnished."
He kneels down beside the bathtub and shrugs. "Naw, I trust you won't let this get out."
"What, that you have a tendency to be incredibly sweet sometimes?" I ask as I take a grateful swallow of the wine. He looks down at the crossword puzzle I've been trying to solve, and he lifts the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry about earlier today, Josh." I wait until he meets my gaze before continuing. "I just...I just miss you sometimes."
He sighs and then takes one of my hands. "CJ, you knew before we got involved that the hours would be horrendous."
"Yes, well, at the time, I kind of took for granted that we'd be working side-by-side. You'd be occupied, I'd be occupied, and the little time we had would be spent together."
"I'm sorry you're feeling left out, but there's nothing I can do."
"I know, which is why I'm apologizing."
"So, how did lunch with Kevin go?" he asks as he begins to undress.
I wait until he has settled into the water at the other end of the tub before I respond. "It was fine. He's getting married, you know."
He lifts one of my legs out of the tub and rests my foot against his chest as he begins to massage my calve. "Again? This would be the, what, fourth time?"
"The second," I correct automatically.
He rolls his eyes. "Any other news?"
"No," I lie smoothly.
I won't tell him of the paper gown and the needles; of the strained conversation with Kevin who was asking entirely too many embarrassing questions; of the promise to hear from him in the next few days when the blood work gets back from the lab.
He accepts my answer and I almost feel guilty. Almost.
++++++++
TBC
Author: (fauquita@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I bow down before the greatness that is Aaron Sorkin, and admit that these are his characters, not mine...although I usually have more fun with them than he does!
Summary: I've gone hard and I've gone cold. I can't make the pieces of this cracked life fit. Please forgive me for wanting to know, does Heaven have enough angels yet ?
Thanks: To my partners in crime, Sidalicious and Lizisita.
Note: Yes, illness is involved, and again I'm attempting to portray it with the sensitivity it deserves. Be forewarned however that if these kinds of things upset you, you're gonna wanna skip this one. In addition, this is a sequel to 'Silence', so you might want to read that one first.
++++++
I wonder when I began measuring my life by her.
By her nylons drying on the shower rod; by the three different types of hairspray arranged neatly on the bathroom sink; by the various lotions and 'smell pretties' organized according to size in the white wicker basket.
I wonder when I began categorizing a good day as one when I came home and she wasn't collapsed on the bed in a heap, still wearing her suit and shoes.
I wonder when I began categorizing a bad day as one when she and Sam were snapping at each other in an entirely too vicious fashion, and there would be no after-work drink together at one of the bars in Georgetown.
But above all else, I wonder what's wrong with her.
Aside from President Bartlet's betrayal, Grand Jury hearings, and the re-election campaign, I mean.
Because although these things are horrible, they don't account for the paleness of her features, the dark bruises marring her upper arms and thighs, or the easy fatigue that leaves her sighing in exhaustion as soon as we reach her apartment.
I wonder, but I don't ask. I don't know if it's because I'm almost certain she wouldn't tell me the truth anyway, or if it's because I'm afraid of her answer.
She smiles at me now from across the table, a poor attempt really, as it doesn't even reach her eyes. But my heart is warmed at the gesture and I place my hand on her knee anyway.
"I should be getting back to the office soon...there's a strategy meeting, and I was late to the last one, so-"
She cuts me off with a violent shake of her head. "Don't worry about it. I don't want to be responsible for Leo tearing you a new one."
Although her tone is teasing, and light, I can hear the hurt behind her words. She'll make excuses about needing to read some briefing memos, or catching up on some housework, but I know she resents not being included in the re-election campaign meetings along with Toby and Sam. And me. She hides behind an indifferent mask of professionalism because she doesn't want any of us to think her petulant.
But sometimes when I get home, I see the tear stains on her cheeks and I know they weren't caused by the latest labor statistics, or the GDP. And in the morning, her eyes will be puffy and swollen, but she'll just shrug off my questions and mutter something about allergies.
I've done laundry with this woman, rubbed her feet after a long day; hell, I've even gone to the store on my way home from work and picked up tampons for her. I, Josh Lyman, stood in the aisle of Walgreen's reading off labels of feminine products to her over the cell phone to make sure I got the right brand. I know her; I love her, and she thinks she can keep things from me.
I sign the bill, and help her with her coat. Her lips linger on my cheek and she whispers a good-bye before trudging out of the restaurant, looking terribly small against the velvet night.
I hope that tonight will be the night I walk through the door and she's singing along to the radio in the kitchen. Or soaking in the bathtub reading something that has nothing to do with MS, national debt, or exports of Nigeria.
I hope that tonight I'll see the old CJ. The one who used to drag me into the living room so that I could see the new Britney Spears video, and make all the right comments about how cheap she looks, and how she really doesn't sing or dance all that well. The one who used to paint my toenails while I dozed on the couch. The one who knew every song from every musical made in the last thirty years, and who demonstrated her knowledge by singing in a clear soprano. The one who used to wipe the floor with Sam, Donna and me at Trivial Pursuit on Saturday nights when we had nothing better to do.
But I know instinctively that I'll come home to the new CJ. The one who cries herself to sleep at night, but never tells me why. The one who silences my questions with hard kisses and cold hands. The one who argues with Sam about moot points, even after everyone has moved on to other issues. The one who looks as if she's ready to break.
But I love her, and I'll be there to pick up the pieces when she falls apart.
++++++
He's worried about me.
Hell, I'm worried about me. I can't ever remember feeling this tired, this defeated. I've been left behind, pushed aside, and almost all together forgotten about. Or at least it feels that way.
Josh tries hard to include me, tries to make me feel like I'm still part of the team, but a drink after work with Sam, Toby, Bruno, and Connie isn't going to erase the insecurities I feel. Neither are the kisses, or the chocolate he offers when he comes home sometimes.
There are days when I just want to stay in bed and contemplate things like disabling diseases of the central nervous system, numbness in limbs, severe paralysis, and loss of vision. I want to contemplate these things I have been reading about almost obsessively for the past few weeks, much to Josh's chagrin.
He never says anything, but I see the disapproval in his eyes when he comes home and sees I've checked out five new books, all saying the same thing, about Multiple Sclerosis. I know he rolls his eyes at the notes I jot down on yellow stickies, and I know he hates it when he tries to tell me about his day, but I'm too engrossed with treatment and funding information to really pay attention.
And there are days when I just want to stay in bed and let the exhaustion that resides right behind my eyes and creeps in my bones take control. I want to sleep that delicious sleep of fairy tales where I wake up refreshed and ready to take on the world.
I want to be able to eat without having to force myself. I want to be able to look in the mirror without noticing the large bruises on my upper arm, dark against my too-pale skin. I want to be able to walk down the stairs without feeling the dull ache in my joints.
I want to be able to apologize to Sam and mean it. I want to be able to impress Leo with my knowledge on the new ambassador from the Netherlands. I want to be able to spend one night with Josh without the rest of these worries running around in my head.
And because I want to do these things, I pick up the phone and make an appointment with an old friend at GW.
It's only the flu of course, but I've been trying to fight it off for the better part of three weeks, and Josh is starting to worry.
And because he's worrying, I decide to put aside 'Living with Multiple Sclerosis' for one night. I soak in the bathtub with the gel he got me from Bath and Body Works...Sun-Ripened Raspberry, or Country Apple, or something like that. I slip on the silk nightgown he loves so much, ignoring how big it is on me now, and prepare for a night of seduction.
But then I promptly fall asleep on top of the covers, barely acknowledging his presence as he slides into bed beside me much later and envelops me in his arms.
+++++++
She's humming some show tune, which I suppose is a good sign, and nibbling on the bagel I placed on her desk before she got into work this morning, when I sit down on her couch.
"You're in a good mood."
She peers at me over her glasses and says, "Yeah, and no thanks to you, Joshua. You did a very, very bad thing."
"What the hell did I do except bring you a bagel?"
"You re-set my alarm clock."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Are you going to punish me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you'd enjoy it."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to stop speaking to you for the rest of the day."
"You promise?"
She throws a wadded up piece of paper at my head. "I'm serious here. I'm pissed at you."
"Because I let you sleep in?"
"I'm a grown woman."
"Thanks for pointing that out, CJ. I never would have noticed."
"I'm just saying...I wanted to come in early. I still have a stack of press releases that need to be looked over."
"You don't sleep enough," I say quietly as I study my hands.
"This coming from the man who doesn't sleep at all! That's rich."
"CJ," I sigh and lean my head on the tips of two fingers. "You look like hell, and people are starting to notice."
Her mouth hangs open for a few seconds and then she stands up. "So now, not only are you re-setting my alarm clock, but you're also insulting me. That's it, I'm cutting you off."
"I mean it. Even the President is asking about you."
"Why the hell doesn't he ask me himself?"
"He knows you're pissed at him," I explain as she sits beside me. "I think he's a little scared of you at the moment."
"He should be," she says as she leans her head against the cushion, closing her eyes.
I reach out and gently stroke the column of her neck and am heartened by the fact that she does not pull away, that she in fact, leans into the touch. She rolls her head and looks at me. "What am I going to do with you?"
"You can take me to lunch."
"It's only eight-thirty in the morning, and you're already thinking about lunch?"
"I just want to make sure you free your schedule in time."
"Well, as much as I'd love to watch you, watch me, eat, I'm afraid I already have a date."
"Anybody I know?"
"Kevin."
"Kevin?"
"Yeah...we've only had dinner with him like three times. Kevin...from Berkeley."
Oh yes. Kevin. The six foot four, dark-haired hunk-Donna's description not mine-- who acts too familiar around my girlfriend. Yes, I remember him now. I clear my throat and try to appear nonchalant. "Oh really? Any particular reason?"
"Are we going to do this again?"
"Do what?"
She rolls her eyes at me, but I can tell she's more amused than anything else because she pats the side of my cheek and settles her hand on my chest. "You know...we're at the part right now where you act like you don't care, and then later you'll be pouting in your office, and I'll have to-"
I silence her with a kiss, and I feel her smile against my mouth. She pinches me in the side lightly and pulls away a centimeter or two. "You don't play fair."
"No, but you like it."
She gives me a dubious look as she gets to her feet. "Is there anything else you wanted, or can I, you know, get back to work?"
"No, no. I'm sure I can find more stimulating conversation elsewhere."
"Swear to God, Josh, if you question my intelligence one more time, I really am going to cut you off."
"I'm leaving now." I'm almost through the door when I remember the other reason I came here. "Look, CJ, Bruno wants to have another meeting tonight. I know we were supposed to have dinner, but I don't know how late it's going to run. So-"
"So, you're standing me up...again?"
She's staring down at a folder laying open on her desk and I know things are bad because she won't look at me. I sigh in frustration and lean back into her office, closing the door behind me. She's spoiling for a fight...I can tell by the set of her shoulders, and I don't think it's going to be avoidable.
"CJ-"
"No, you know what? It's fine, really. It's only like the fifth time in the last two weeks that you've bowed out on me."
"You know what it's like here...I can't just tell Bruno I'm not going to make it because my girlfriend feels a little neglected."
I have what is commonly referred to as 'foot-in-mouth' disease. I know it's the wrong thing to say even as it comes out of my mouth, but I can't seem to stop myself. It's a travesty, really, when you think about it.
Her head snaps up and I'm the recipient of a withering glare that would make Attila the Hun run for cover. "A little neglected? You patronizing son of a-"
"CJ?" Carol pokes her head in the door and mumbles an apology as she gestures to the hallway. "You've got the briefing in a minute and-"
"All right." CJ replies tiredly as she shrugs on her blazer. She brushes past me without another word and I'm left standing in her empty office, thanking God for Carol and White House Press Briefings.
++++++++
I'm soaking in the bathtub when he pokes his head around the corner and smiles. "Can I come in?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Did you come bearing gifts?"
"Am I not enough anymore?"
"Unless you have some White Zinfandel with you, you're not welcome."
He smiles broadly as he pulls out a crystal fluke from behind his back. "Ask and ye shall receive."
I accept the glass and smile back at him. "Don't keep this up, Josh. That well-cultivated reputation you have for being a pain in the ass might get tarnished."
He kneels down beside the bathtub and shrugs. "Naw, I trust you won't let this get out."
"What, that you have a tendency to be incredibly sweet sometimes?" I ask as I take a grateful swallow of the wine. He looks down at the crossword puzzle I've been trying to solve, and he lifts the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry about earlier today, Josh." I wait until he meets my gaze before continuing. "I just...I just miss you sometimes."
He sighs and then takes one of my hands. "CJ, you knew before we got involved that the hours would be horrendous."
"Yes, well, at the time, I kind of took for granted that we'd be working side-by-side. You'd be occupied, I'd be occupied, and the little time we had would be spent together."
"I'm sorry you're feeling left out, but there's nothing I can do."
"I know, which is why I'm apologizing."
"So, how did lunch with Kevin go?" he asks as he begins to undress.
I wait until he has settled into the water at the other end of the tub before I respond. "It was fine. He's getting married, you know."
He lifts one of my legs out of the tub and rests my foot against his chest as he begins to massage my calve. "Again? This would be the, what, fourth time?"
"The second," I correct automatically.
He rolls his eyes. "Any other news?"
"No," I lie smoothly.
I won't tell him of the paper gown and the needles; of the strained conversation with Kevin who was asking entirely too many embarrassing questions; of the promise to hear from him in the next few days when the blood work gets back from the lab.
He accepts my answer and I almost feel guilty. Almost.
++++++++
TBC