XV
Sam kicked back in his seat with a groan. The good mood he'd been fostering Friday night had completely dissipated over the course of a truly dismal day. Hate mail at breakfast, jerks from the legal office, and now it looked like CJ's father might die. He wished he could have flown out to Ohio with her and Josh, but the way things were right now he'd only turn the whole thing into a media circus.
At least the press had been respectful, even concerned, when Toby had supplied her deputy with a brief, vague statement about a 'family emergency'. Sam wasn't sure how to reconcile that with the voracious appetite of the press for news about his own situation. It only seemed to reinforce the idea that this whole thing was 'his own fault'; that following his heart to be with Steve was wrong, even though he knew it wasn't.
Well, the whole 'Steve' aspect of him and Steve was certainly a welcome kind of compensation, but still... he shouldn't have to be going through this. And he definitely shouldn't have to be putting everybody else through this, at a time when the last thing they needed were more complications.
Toby emerged from his office, and Sam stood up to join him. "Any news?"
Toby shook his head. Sam knew it was burning him up not to be at CJ's side; his post as her guardian angel was entirely unofficial, but he carried it out with unshaking devotion.
Sam sighed. "I hope he's okay."
"Spoken to your father?" Toby asked him. Dammit, why was everybody drawing that connection?
"No," he said sullenly. Since the revelation two years ago, he and his father had reached a point where they could at least communicate - provided they stuck to safe subjects. Anything involving relationships, especially of the controversial variety, was definitely not a safe subject. He gave his boss a sharp look. "I suppose this is the 'life's too short' lecture now?"
Toby, being Toby, just shrugged. There was a brief silence.
"We're backing off on hate crimes, aren't we?" he said after a moment. Toby nodded, and Sam shook his head slowly. "This is all my fault."
"Yes."
The unexpected agreement was enough to shock him into a snort of startled laughter. "Hey, what happened to 'don't beat yourself up over this, Sam'?"
"And there you're mistaking me for somebody who doesn't find you inconvenient."
Sam grinned wryly and stretched, Toby's blunt refusal to pander to anybody doing more good than any empty reassurance. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I need beer," he announced.
"Josh has beer," Toby supplied neutrally.
"Josh is in Ohio."
"This, to me, seems like a fortuitous combination."
"It does."
They went to raid Josh's fridge.
Charlie thought to himself that he probably looked like an idiot, wandering through the streets of Washington, grinning his head off. He didn't care.
Who would have thought, just sixteen days ago when some momentary madness had moved him to propose, that the president would even let him live, never mind give his blessing? And yet here he was, seriously - seriously - planning his marriage to Zoey Bartlet. True, at the moment it was very much a potential marriage, and slated for a long time in the future - several decades, if the president had his way - but... still.
He was getting married.
To Zoey. Married. To Zoey.
Was it any wonder he couldn't stop grinning?
Of course, he'd known that for several days now, but today it was feeling more real than ever. Mostly because he'd just come out of the jewellers.
The store had been minutes away from closing up when he'd arrived, but the man behind the counter had been only too happy to let him in - as he said, how often did you get a personal request from the president?
Charlie had politely but firmly refused the president's offer to fund him for fancy engagement rings; the ones he'd bought with his own modest pay-packet were plain and simple, but after they'd worn them in secret on chains around their necks, they had a certain amount of sentimental value.
Wedding rings, though... He certainly didn't want to begin his marriage on anybody's charity, but there had been a highly convincing argument in there that hinged around the fact that the president was technically paying his wages anyway... Hence, several visits to the jewellers.
Hastily snatched visits, mostly, which meant that time to pick out the perfect ring - and it had to be the perfect ring - was severely limited. Today, though, he thought he'd found it.
Not that he had it in his pocket or anything. There would have to be some kind of chicanery involved in paying for it - he didn't think the president was going to be able to just saunter down with a credit card, and it was the kind of price range where he couldn't just pick it up himself and wait to be paid back. At least, not without selling his home, possessions, and possibly some top secret government documents first.
But he'd made his choice. There would have to be presidential approval, and then he'd have a fight over the inscription on the inside - he favoured something pure and simple, the president was predictably pulling for Latin - but pushy future in-laws aside, when he closed his eyes, he could see the ring on Zoey's finger.
And that was what mattered.
It was full dark now, where it had been only dim when he entered the store. His quest had probably been keeping the jeweller from his dinner, but hey, at the end of it all he'd get to say that the president's daughter had got her wedding ring from his store.
Charlie walked along the city streets in a dreamy daze, picturing Zoey's face when she saw the ring that she would one day wear as his wife.
His wife. Man...
It was quite a while before he began to realise he was being followed.
The scuffle of more footsteps on the streets behind him made his heart race, but he stubbornly tried to quiet it. Growing up in southeast DC had given him the instincts to jump at every shadow, and they followed him into nicer, safer areas of town. Nobody was going to leap out at him here. And besides, he wasn't a kid anymore, he wasn't an easy target; he was a full grown man, with youth and muscle enough to make any would-be mugger think twice.
And just because those footsteps were still behind him, just because they'd taken the same turn a short while back, that didn't mean he was being followed. And just because he could tell now that it was more than one person walking, well; that didn't make them any more likely to be muggers.
Just because they'd taken the same turn again...
He walked a little faster. After all, he was in a hurry to be home; Deanna would be waiting for him. Okay, not actually waiting, because even for a Saturday it was pretty damn early for him to be getting back, but even so...
And those footsteps were closer now, and they were moving faster, and maybe it was about time he stopped impressing his complete lack of an audience with his bravery and turned the hell round to see who was chasing him.
There were three of them, all probably no more than nineteen, all with the kind of blank, flat eyes that plugged straight into those instincts that he should never have been ignoring.
They advanced towards him, not speaking. Charlie quickly held up his hands. "Hey. Hey, okay. I'm gonna get my wallet out, okay?" He didn't have room to run, and wasn't stupid enough to pick a fight with three guys who could have pretty much anything in their pockets. Knives, guns... he kept his movements slow and steady.
"I'm gonna take the money out, okay? And you can have it. You can take all the money. But I've got my ID in there, and that wouldn't be any good to you, so if it's okay with you I'd like to-"
But when the first fist slammed into him, wallet and money both fluttered to the ground, and none of the three made any move to grab for them. And for the first time he really took in the fact that all of them were shaven-headed and all of them were white, and that maybe he was in even bigger trouble than he'd thought he was...
It took a moment to wonder why her alarm was going off in the middle of the night, another moment to wonder what she was doing in bed this early, and a third moment to wonder why her alarm sounded remarkably like her cell phone.
Then it all came together, and she leapt for the phone. "CJ Cregg?" long professional habit made her answer. She listened to the brief, urgent message and said "Okay, I'm coming," before shutting off on the phone.
Josh appeared in the doorway to the adjoining room, looking sleep-rumpled and befuddled. "CJ? Is something-?"
"That was Peter, we have to get back to the hospital, I-" She paused, taking in her travelling companion's decidedly baggy nightwear. "Are those my pyjamas?"
"Not in the strictly literal sense, but yeah."
"You don't have any that fit?"
"I like these."
"Okay." She didn't really have enough marbles to try and process that right now. "We have to-"
"Yeah. Get dressed, I'll call us a cab."
"Thank you." CJ found herself almost pathetically grateful for the assistance. It seemed like the simplest of tasks was magnitudes beyond her, now; she found herself staring at her clothes for entirely too long just trying to figure out how she was supposed to put them on.
She felt like the entire world was spinning away from her, and in it she could only manage to get a grasp on one simple fact.
Her father was dying, and she needed to be there.