By Redtoes
Part 5 of 5
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Author's note: Woah. The end. Thanks to all who reviewed – it was truly appreciated.
Spoilers for Mr Willis of Ohio.
"The President's daughter, the Chief of Staff's daughter, a Georgetown bar and Sam. What could possibly go wrong?"
******
Why did I ever think this was a good idea? I'm besieged. Besieged by women. Besieged by Mallory.
CJ's not exactly un-intimidating either and let's not even get started on Zoey – that girl knows far more about me than anyone related to the President should. And it's all entirely as a result of her staying sober (as is legal) while the staff drinks.
The President's youngest daughter has in the past threatened me with photographs she claims to own of our campaign stop in Las Vegas. I really hope she's lying. I'm sure I didn't drink that much.
I hope I didn't drink that much.
God just the thought of it –
The look Zoey has in her eyes right now as she threatens Sam about Laurie is exactly the same she has when she mentions those damn photographs. Oh this is not a good sign.
I watch Mallory laugh with the rest of us. It seems strange this companionship, this acquaintance friendship we have now. She feels perfectly within her rights to tease me, but is reluctant to bring up anything of substance.
Maybe it's because she's chasing Sam.
Maybe the past is as much of a memory to her as it is to me. I often feel like the young man who played pool, collected take-out and sat up all night taking about nothing with younger version of my boss's daughter was someone else. Over a decade has passed and who are we now – friends who tease, old loves?
Or just two people who almost had something but ended up letting it go.
Sam looks really worried now. Perhaps I should warn him that Zoey is not to be trifled with – the kitten, as she has so aptly termed herself in the past, has teeth. And sharp teeth at that. With enough brains behind them to sit perfectly comfortably amongst her father's staff, not one of which is within a decade of her own age. I wish I'd had that confidence as an undergraduate.
Yeah, Zoey can hold her own, and maybe it's about time that Sam learns that.
I watch as the subject of my thoughts slips off towards the bar, determined as ever.
Charlie's question catches my attention, pulling me back to the present with a jolt.
"What's a panic button?"
I mumble something about the President's notorious overprotective nature as Mallory chimes in that she's "seen it in action". When has she?
I would have taken Zoey and Mallory to be friends. For one there's a decade between them, and a world of difference between the lives of the a schoolteacher and a college student, despite the close friendship their father's share. I wonder if that's it – they've become cousins by proxy or some such word. Not unlike Mal and I in our younger years.
I wonder why I never met Zoey, or Ellie or Liz for that matter. Leo and my father being so close at one point it seems strange that we –
Silently Charlie leaves the table, followed a few seconds later by Sam. What the hell? It doesn't take me more than a second to follow, grabbing the panic button as I do.
Mallory and CJ start after us, but I've only got attention for the scene in front.
As the three frat-boys are dragged off by the secret service I'm left with the warm glow of a job well done. I turn, perhaps intending to share this with the others, but see Mallory first.
She's grinning. An evil smile I recognise only too well.
*******
The wide smile under her firebrand hair looks strange to me in this light. Too sloppy perhaps, for such a girl, such a women, as Mal. Definitely far too minx-like for someone who claims to be as nice as she.
"Joshie!"
That was the only time I've ever been knocked off my feet by somehow half my size. And twice my worth.
Also possibly twice my alcohol intake at this point.
I squint up in the darkness, trying to make the face mere inches from mine make……sense.
This is she. She is thus.
She's sitting on my chest swigging from a brown-bagged bottle. My back aches from the impact of the concrete bare moments ago, my rib cage from the manner in which she's treating me like a unusually person-shaped chair. I can feel the dampness of the DC December snowfall making itself known through my coat. I need to get up. Dry off. Get my breath back. But -
Mallory…….is drunk.
This can't be real.
"Red?" I venture.
"Hmmm?" She's too distracted by the laughter of my former roommates to take notice of me, her chair. After all it's not every day a petite red-head tackles a guy then uses him as a convenient place to park for a while. Derrek and Pete are laughing it up.
I roll my eyes at them before returning my attention to the matter at hand.
"Red? Could you possibly, like, stand up," I croak, "soon?"
"Oh," she says, eyes wide as she takes in our relative positions. "Sorry." And with that she stumbles to her feet, drunken hands straightening her skirt and hair.
I'll admit it takes me a few seconds to get to my feet. I hate to think that at 27 I'm this easily winded by a girl but it seems to be the case. My ribs throb slightly and I rest my hands on my knees, taking the weight of my upper-body for a few necessary seconds.
I raise my head to find her staring at me with an odd look on her face. Something between contemplation and caring perhaps. Something I haven't seen etched on her features before.
She arches an eyebrow at me and I feel myself grin in response.
"You two good?" Derrek asks from what seems a long way away.
"Smashing," the redhead savours the word, sounding out all the syllables in a bad British accent.
"We're good," I reassure him. "I might see you later okay? I'm getting Red here home."
Derrek smirks, but Pete drags him off before he can make any further comment and I'm left alone with the drunken pixie that is Mallory McGarry.
"So," she drawls softly, "Happy New Year."
"What?" For a second there I forgot the date. "Yeah, Happy New Year."
"I wanna see the fireworks," she announces, then grabs my hand, leading me towards the paving stones that lead down to the river. She ditches the paper-bagged bottle in a trash-can after a loud torrent on it's empty state.
I let her, giving her full control to choose our path, still in shock at her drink-addled state (not to mention some of the words she just used) to raise any coherent objection.
*****
The bench she chose was awkwardly comfortable, though that eased as we shared the contents of her hip flask. Once that is, I got over the complete shock I felt at Red carrying a hip flask.
And being drunk.
When she doesn't drink.
I shift on the hard wood. We're sitting on the back of the bench on this New Year's Eve, our feet rest on the snow-speckled slats. I want to ask so many questions right now – the how's and why's of the liquor in her hand. I want to know what drove her to drink.
The most I've ever seen her touch is a light beer. And only half of it at that.
It's not that she won't, or doesn't drink. I suspect her aversion has more to do with her father than anything else. Sometimes she drinks for appearances sake – a glass of wine perhaps, or a cocktail closer to virgin than anything else. But drunk? Mallory? That just doesn't happen.
Except tonight it did.
"So….." I start, unsure of where to go from here.
The word hangs in the air. She ignores it, offering me the flask instead.
"Another?"
"Sure." The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat. I don't drink much – hard spirits hit me, well hard – but I can feel the drug in my system, the alcohol in my blood. I feel almost reckless, but still too sober to truly enjoy myself.
"What time's it?" She asks, staring out across the cold expanse of the Potomac, her manner suddenly quiet, introspective. A Harsh contrast to the teasing drunk of earlier who knocked me to the floor and sat on my chest.
"Eleven thirty. Ish."
"Not long til midnight then," she sighs.
God I hope we haven't hit the morbid part of the evening yet. I'd have liked to have celebrated the new year before I got depressed about the old one.
"I'm leaving," she says softly, so softly I almost miss it.
"I'll walk you home," I offer, but I know that's not what she means.
"I'm leaving DC."
"Huh."
She turns to me, her face strained, honest pain stretched across her features.
"I need to go, get away from – everything." I read that to mean her father, but stay silent. I'm not sure my words are of use here. "I've got a job, a small school in New Hampshire. It looks good." Now she's searching for affirmation, for support.
I grunt. Not much but it's all I can offer right now.
"I'm going tomorrow," she finishes, staring out across the water again.
Noise drifts down to us here, the lively din emanating from the parties at the Kennedy Centre easily heard across the water.
I think for a second, wondering why she told me this now, here. Wondering if the reason's she drinking is anything to do with me. With leaving me.
"New Hampshire's pretty," I offer finally, "less crime."
She smiles, but it's a sad expression. There's melancholy in her eyes that remains untouched by the curve of her lips.
Without thinking I bring a hand up to cup her chin, and she tilts her head, letting my fingers rest against her skin, slip into her hair so smoothly.
"Josh," she whispers as I drop my mouth to hers.
She's soft. Sweet. Outside of the world of politics yet tasting of whiskey a drink that will for me, always carry associations of the hill, the game, the offices.
For a second we deepen this kiss. Then she pulls back, her eyes bright with emotion and tears.
"Josh."
I love the way my name sounds on her lips. But I also know that tone.
I smile a little awkwardly as she reaches up a hand to my face.
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"I know."
We stand there, staring at each other, caught up in this moment that seems to last forever –
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The noise triples instantly as the world celebrates and we break apart almost in shock.
Did that really just happen?
I look at her in this light, under this moonlight, this starlight, surrounded by this snow.
A sudden realisation comes to me and I almost smile at the ridiculousness of this situation.
"You're not going to say 'Come with me'." I state softly.
"And you're not going to say 'Stay'," she replies.
"I might," I offer.
"No." She smiles. "We're not….." She trails off searching for words that don't come.
"We could have been," I say softly, though I know she's right. Now that I've been here, touched those lips I'm at peace and suddenly aware that this just isn't possible for right now.
She seems to see this in my eyes, and so she slowly raises herself on her toes to brush her lips over mine.
"You're not going to say something like 'we'll always have Paris' are you?" I tease, as she withdraws.
She grins. "No."
"Okay."
And suddenly that grin becomes evil.
"I'll always have photographs Josh. You and Kung Pow. Nice couple."
Before I can help myself I'm laughing, almost bent double at the thought. She joins me, taking my arm, and the two of us walk side by side along the Potomac towards our futures.
Maybe I'll kiss her goodbye tonight.
Or maybe it won't matter. Because she's right, though I'd phrase it differently, that many moments from these last months have been memorable.
I'm just going to have to destroy those photographs one day.
*******
"You know I still have them," she comments offhand as I try to get her a cab outside the bar. I need to get back to the Whitehouse to deal with the Presidential slapping that's probably going to come my way for activating Zoey's panic button.
"Have what?" My attention is elsewhere, I'll admit it. I'm trying to figure out exactly how to phrase the words I'll be saying to the president later.
"The photographs? Josh Lyman versus the Chinese take-out? Ring any bells?"
"Oh," I feel a strange mix of elation at the memory and deepest fear at the physical evidence. Does every one of my boss's respective daughters have embarrassing photographs of me? I don't know Ellie that well – but then maybe she's the exception that proves the rule as I'm sure Liz caught me tripping over Annie's bike on the Bartlet family camcorder.
"Don't worry," she says with that mischievous glint in her eye – the one that makes her look about 13 again – "I won't tell."
"Good." I try to compose myself as a cab pulls up. Deciding that chivalry now might save me later I hold open the door for her.
"Good memories Joshua," she offers as she gets into the car, she leans in. I expect a kiss on the cheek and am surprised to hear her whisper, "I'm sure Sam'll find them hilarious."
And she's gone. Door closed and car departed in a swish. Though I can still hear her giggles.
I can't help but grin.
Dear god if that girl still has that kind of effect on me then heaven help Sam.
For the first time I find I don't quite begrudge my best friend his shot at our boss's daughter.
Sam and Mallory. Sam and Mal
It seems to work, somehow.
I allow myself a grin as Sam and CJ pull me towards a taxi bound for the White House.
All is well.
*********
End.
Here ends my first West Wing completed story. Please let me know what you think. I appreciate any and all comments to help me improve my writing.