sMomento: Two
Part 4 of 5
Author's note - it's been a while since I've updated this little fic, mostly because the amy/josh relationship in the third season just made me want to slap him (and her), and as such I was never quite in the right frame of mind to write the fourth chapter in this nice little bit of fluff that is Momento. I apologise if there was anyone wanting to read it, but as I've only gathered one review (whimper) for this on ff.net so far (sob) I'm not too bothered about disappointing anyone (evil grin). Maybe part four will encourage a few more readers to add their comments. I'd love to know what you all think.
Disclaimer - they weren't mine when I started and they sure as hell aren't now.
Spoilers - nothing in this series moves past Noel. Due to bad scheduling and the delay in the release of DVDs I've only seen about half the third season, though I'm an avid reader of televisionwithoutpity.com and therefore have a clue as to what's going on. But for all intents and purposes, if it happened after Bartlet for America, I haven't seen it and therefore it doesn't exist in this fic. Sorry if that makes anything awkward but that's how it stands.
Author's note 2 - the show part of this tale is from Enemies. I also had to edit part of chapter 3 so I apologise for any confusion this might cause. Rest assured it's sorted now.
So without further ado....
Two
The thought makes me grin.
Chinese opera
I mean Chinese opera.
Not that I actually have anything against Chinese opera, promotion of intercultural understanding and out continued mollifying of the last major communist power on the planet not with standing, but still, Chinese opera.
I can see why he's happier writing a birthday card for some guy in agriculture or something.
Weird.
Because even though Chinese opera is well, Chinese opera, he turned down an evening with Red when she walked into his office looking like that.
Not Red. Mallory. Mallory.
She doesn't answer to Red anymore.
I kinda get the feeling she might stab me with one of those damn heels if I even made an illusion to it.
Maybe I could get around that if I called her Ginger?
Maybe I could avoid intensive care if I just kept my mouth shut for once?
Yeah, that works.
But anyway, Chinese opera. And Mallory. In a dress like that. And he just sits and writes a birthday card - a birthday card! - while she goes off for desert with her father.
At least it's not a drink, a small voice in the back of my head sneaks out. At least he's not -
No.
I will NOT go there.
Leo doesn't drink anymore. Leo can't drink anymore. Leo hasn't had a drink in years, apart from -
But we don't count that.
It might be barely eighteen months ago but we don't count that. Ever.
Because Leo doesn't drink.
Neither does Mallory.
But for entirely different reasons...
******
The house is festive when I arrive, wallpaper hidden beneath colourful decorations, tables festooned with handmade cards, each inscribed to Miss O'Brien, ribbons and bows hanging from every picture frame and door knob.
If I didn't know better I'd think Jenny's taste had been ambushed by Santa's elves the garishness of Mallory's classes offerings clashing horribly with Jenny's understated décor.
It's quite a sight.
They've a houseful tonight - every congressmen and aide in search of a favour wanders these halls, prominent democrats sipping eggnog in every doorway, Jenny's society acquaintance (I doubt even she counts them as real friends) working the room. I'm amazed anyone has room to breathe let alone move, but this throng of the DC rich as powerful is constantly mobile, bodies shifting as if on castors between each other, everyone desperate to spread the gossip or earn a favour from someone more influential.
It's ridiculously overwhelming, and I serious consider rescuing my overcoat from which ever of the domestic staff has spirited it away and running for the hills.
Until I am, as ever, half tackled, half embraced by a familiar redhead.
"Joshie!" She cries as she attempts to break my ribs in one of things she calls a hug. "You came!"
"I did," I manage, breaking her grip far enough to mock glare at her, "And don't call me Joshie."
"Don't call me Red," she responds with a toss of her hair.
"You've never minded before," I press, surprised at her refusal of the nick- name.
"Hey," she says with a grin, half yelling over the noise of the crowd, "you can't be the only one placing restrictions on terms of endearment."
I raise an eyebrow. "Joshie is not a term of endearment, it's a term of embarrassment."
She laughs at that, her eyes sparking.
"If you didn't care so much," she points out, "I wouldn't do it."
I'll give her that. This girl, more than any other, has been able to sneak under my skin, and only the mental mantra of "she's you friend and besides her father would kill you" has prevented me from doing something foolish.
Like kissing her.
Not that that would be foolish so much as wonderful, but that's not what either of us need right now, not when I'm the only stress-free part of her life.
Not when I can tell that she thinks of me as a damn brother and nothing more.
I think.
Maybe.
Oh hell I don't know anymore.
"Deep thoughts Joshie?"
I grin down at her as I abandon yet another Mallory-related internal monologue. I seem to be having a lot of those lately, and none of them has helped in the slightest beyond pointing out the continuing state of confusion I live under.
"You know Red," I offer tapping her nose, "have to keep up with the Jones? Or would that be the McGarry's?"
"The O'Brien," she corrects, "but nevermind that." There's a hesitation in her smile as she continues, "Dad wants to introduce you to some people so I was sent to keep watch for that hair of yours."
"What about it?" I fight down the instinctive urge to run my hand through my messy locks.
"It's the easiest way to find you in a crowd," she shrugs, taking my hand and leading me away from the escape route of the front door, "Come on, he's in the den with Uncle Jed. I think he wants rescuing from some lecture."
I have no idea who Uncle Jed is but anyone Leo McGarry needs rescuing from obviously can't be good. I try not to shudder as the diminutive redhead leads me towards one of the scariest men I've ever met, and whomever it is he can't get away from.
******
You'd never believe she was in her twenties the way she bewitches a room. It's a strange trick, a combination of matriarch sharpness and little girl innocence. She can just make people smile by her nearness.
It makes her a wondrous teacher.
God I'm ever jealous of her school kids.
Focus.
By now Mallory and her magical aura have isolated the unknown Uncle, removing him by a mixture of a few scarily academic questions and the total use of those eyes in demonstrating how he has her full attention.
Lord help those children if they ever try and get one over on Ms O'Brien over there.
Leo regards me shrewdly, glass in hand.
"Josh."
"Sir," I resist the urge to shift on my feet. This man, for all that I gained a few inches on him in college is single-handedly responsible for half of the cities political machinations, not to mention the initial stages of my career on the hill. Only a fool would underestimate him.
He regards me, those flinty eyes taking in my appearance as shrewdly as ever, despite the tumbler in his hand.
I know Red hates him drinking. I know he's slowly drinking himself to death. But when I see that constant shrewdness, alert and awake even under a haze of whiskey I sometimes wonder if I could stand the full focus he must have when sober.
"Mallory tells me you're enjoying the hill," he says sipping his drink.
"Sir?"
Red talked to her father? When? How? She's only here tonight for her mother.
My confusion must be obvious, as he sighs and looks away before continuing.
"My wife tells me," he amends, "that our daughter says you're enjoying the hill."
"Yes sir," I reply, and let the conversational shift to the house, and Wiseman and the Texan Democrats. It's a far easier subject to let flow than the complicated relationship between this man and his daughter.
She's only here for her mother, and despite the "Dad said" excuse to bring me through, I doubt they've spoken a word to each other that hasn't been outlined by the public perception rule book Jenny imposes on the two of them.
They talk. But they never say anything.
It's been that way for years.
I scan the room subtly for a glimpse of her, but see only the faces of the establishment, the hallowed halls of government, these people I should meet, greet, talk with. Maybe even gain a few favours somewhere along the line.
I smile a little awkwardly at the first dignitary I'm introduced to.
This is gonna be a long night.
Maybe I can find her after it.
*****
End Part 4.
Reviewers are wonderful people. Really you are.
Part 4 of 5
Author's note - it's been a while since I've updated this little fic, mostly because the amy/josh relationship in the third season just made me want to slap him (and her), and as such I was never quite in the right frame of mind to write the fourth chapter in this nice little bit of fluff that is Momento. I apologise if there was anyone wanting to read it, but as I've only gathered one review (whimper) for this on ff.net so far (sob) I'm not too bothered about disappointing anyone (evil grin). Maybe part four will encourage a few more readers to add their comments. I'd love to know what you all think.
Disclaimer - they weren't mine when I started and they sure as hell aren't now.
Spoilers - nothing in this series moves past Noel. Due to bad scheduling and the delay in the release of DVDs I've only seen about half the third season, though I'm an avid reader of televisionwithoutpity.com and therefore have a clue as to what's going on. But for all intents and purposes, if it happened after Bartlet for America, I haven't seen it and therefore it doesn't exist in this fic. Sorry if that makes anything awkward but that's how it stands.
Author's note 2 - the show part of this tale is from Enemies. I also had to edit part of chapter 3 so I apologise for any confusion this might cause. Rest assured it's sorted now.
So without further ado....
Two
The thought makes me grin.
Chinese opera
I mean Chinese opera.
Not that I actually have anything against Chinese opera, promotion of intercultural understanding and out continued mollifying of the last major communist power on the planet not with standing, but still, Chinese opera.
I can see why he's happier writing a birthday card for some guy in agriculture or something.
Weird.
Because even though Chinese opera is well, Chinese opera, he turned down an evening with Red when she walked into his office looking like that.
Not Red. Mallory. Mallory.
She doesn't answer to Red anymore.
I kinda get the feeling she might stab me with one of those damn heels if I even made an illusion to it.
Maybe I could get around that if I called her Ginger?
Maybe I could avoid intensive care if I just kept my mouth shut for once?
Yeah, that works.
But anyway, Chinese opera. And Mallory. In a dress like that. And he just sits and writes a birthday card - a birthday card! - while she goes off for desert with her father.
At least it's not a drink, a small voice in the back of my head sneaks out. At least he's not -
No.
I will NOT go there.
Leo doesn't drink anymore. Leo can't drink anymore. Leo hasn't had a drink in years, apart from -
But we don't count that.
It might be barely eighteen months ago but we don't count that. Ever.
Because Leo doesn't drink.
Neither does Mallory.
But for entirely different reasons...
******
The house is festive when I arrive, wallpaper hidden beneath colourful decorations, tables festooned with handmade cards, each inscribed to Miss O'Brien, ribbons and bows hanging from every picture frame and door knob.
If I didn't know better I'd think Jenny's taste had been ambushed by Santa's elves the garishness of Mallory's classes offerings clashing horribly with Jenny's understated décor.
It's quite a sight.
They've a houseful tonight - every congressmen and aide in search of a favour wanders these halls, prominent democrats sipping eggnog in every doorway, Jenny's society acquaintance (I doubt even she counts them as real friends) working the room. I'm amazed anyone has room to breathe let alone move, but this throng of the DC rich as powerful is constantly mobile, bodies shifting as if on castors between each other, everyone desperate to spread the gossip or earn a favour from someone more influential.
It's ridiculously overwhelming, and I serious consider rescuing my overcoat from which ever of the domestic staff has spirited it away and running for the hills.
Until I am, as ever, half tackled, half embraced by a familiar redhead.
"Joshie!" She cries as she attempts to break my ribs in one of things she calls a hug. "You came!"
"I did," I manage, breaking her grip far enough to mock glare at her, "And don't call me Joshie."
"Don't call me Red," she responds with a toss of her hair.
"You've never minded before," I press, surprised at her refusal of the nick- name.
"Hey," she says with a grin, half yelling over the noise of the crowd, "you can't be the only one placing restrictions on terms of endearment."
I raise an eyebrow. "Joshie is not a term of endearment, it's a term of embarrassment."
She laughs at that, her eyes sparking.
"If you didn't care so much," she points out, "I wouldn't do it."
I'll give her that. This girl, more than any other, has been able to sneak under my skin, and only the mental mantra of "she's you friend and besides her father would kill you" has prevented me from doing something foolish.
Like kissing her.
Not that that would be foolish so much as wonderful, but that's not what either of us need right now, not when I'm the only stress-free part of her life.
Not when I can tell that she thinks of me as a damn brother and nothing more.
I think.
Maybe.
Oh hell I don't know anymore.
"Deep thoughts Joshie?"
I grin down at her as I abandon yet another Mallory-related internal monologue. I seem to be having a lot of those lately, and none of them has helped in the slightest beyond pointing out the continuing state of confusion I live under.
"You know Red," I offer tapping her nose, "have to keep up with the Jones? Or would that be the McGarry's?"
"The O'Brien," she corrects, "but nevermind that." There's a hesitation in her smile as she continues, "Dad wants to introduce you to some people so I was sent to keep watch for that hair of yours."
"What about it?" I fight down the instinctive urge to run my hand through my messy locks.
"It's the easiest way to find you in a crowd," she shrugs, taking my hand and leading me away from the escape route of the front door, "Come on, he's in the den with Uncle Jed. I think he wants rescuing from some lecture."
I have no idea who Uncle Jed is but anyone Leo McGarry needs rescuing from obviously can't be good. I try not to shudder as the diminutive redhead leads me towards one of the scariest men I've ever met, and whomever it is he can't get away from.
******
You'd never believe she was in her twenties the way she bewitches a room. It's a strange trick, a combination of matriarch sharpness and little girl innocence. She can just make people smile by her nearness.
It makes her a wondrous teacher.
God I'm ever jealous of her school kids.
Focus.
By now Mallory and her magical aura have isolated the unknown Uncle, removing him by a mixture of a few scarily academic questions and the total use of those eyes in demonstrating how he has her full attention.
Lord help those children if they ever try and get one over on Ms O'Brien over there.
Leo regards me shrewdly, glass in hand.
"Josh."
"Sir," I resist the urge to shift on my feet. This man, for all that I gained a few inches on him in college is single-handedly responsible for half of the cities political machinations, not to mention the initial stages of my career on the hill. Only a fool would underestimate him.
He regards me, those flinty eyes taking in my appearance as shrewdly as ever, despite the tumbler in his hand.
I know Red hates him drinking. I know he's slowly drinking himself to death. But when I see that constant shrewdness, alert and awake even under a haze of whiskey I sometimes wonder if I could stand the full focus he must have when sober.
"Mallory tells me you're enjoying the hill," he says sipping his drink.
"Sir?"
Red talked to her father? When? How? She's only here tonight for her mother.
My confusion must be obvious, as he sighs and looks away before continuing.
"My wife tells me," he amends, "that our daughter says you're enjoying the hill."
"Yes sir," I reply, and let the conversational shift to the house, and Wiseman and the Texan Democrats. It's a far easier subject to let flow than the complicated relationship between this man and his daughter.
She's only here for her mother, and despite the "Dad said" excuse to bring me through, I doubt they've spoken a word to each other that hasn't been outlined by the public perception rule book Jenny imposes on the two of them.
They talk. But they never say anything.
It's been that way for years.
I scan the room subtly for a glimpse of her, but see only the faces of the establishment, the hallowed halls of government, these people I should meet, greet, talk with. Maybe even gain a few favours somewhere along the line.
I smile a little awkwardly at the first dignitary I'm introduced to.
This is gonna be a long night.
Maybe I can find her after it.
*****
End Part 4.
Reviewers are wonderful people. Really you are.