Classification: Post-ep vignette, J/D friendship
Spoilers: 7A WF 83429
THIS LITTLE LIGHT
The last thing Josh wanted to feel was hope.
Hope, Josh knew first-hand, was an invitation to heartbreak. As he followed
Donna down the steps, he remembered the phrase she'd used to get him to
accompany her to the vigil: "Because it's about hope." He didn't have the heart
to tell her that hope would only lead to brutal disappointment. That hope was
cruel. Instead he followed her down the steps, where an unexpected brightness
made them both halt in their tracks.
"Oh, my God." Donna's breathless whisper echoed the words careening through
Josh's mind. This was no handful of people with candles in paper holders - it
was a shrine, a monument to Zoey, an expression of sympathy so visceral that it
made Josh's hands shake. He hid them in his pockets and moved closer to Donna,
staring in astonishment at the array of tributes - everything from candles to
stuffed animals to magazine photos. And the notes.
The notes. We love you, Zoey. We're praying for you, Zoey. God will save you,
Zoey.
Mothers stood with their children, lighting candles and weeping softly. A group
of teenaged girls stood holding hands and praying. Josh saw drawings of crosses,
of roses, of doves. It felt almost like a wake, a funeral he didn't think he
could bear.
"We were right outside," he whispered, more to himself than to Donna. "Charlie
and I were having a beer, maybe fifty feet away."
Donna turned to him. The reflection of candlelight shimmered in her eyes.
"Don't. Don't do this."
"We could've stopped her. It would have been so easy."
"It's not your fault." She took his wrist in her hand, squeezing it for emphasis.
He had known she would say that - it was her job, her lot in life, the cross she
proudly and willingly bore. His protector. Donna was often all that stood
between him and certain disaster, all arms and legs and heart and hair that
gleamed in the flickering light. So thin that the next gust of wind could blow
her over, so strong that she could survive the heartrending poignancy of this
makeshift place of worship.
The only thing keeping Josh at this vigil was the silent, comforting support of
Donna's presence. He glanced at her profile and saw a tear making its way down
her cheek. The urge to brush that tear away was so strong that Josh tasted salt.
Instead, he placed his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward a group of
photographs of Zoey in an evening gown. The pictures were garlanded with
flowers. "Those are from the Inaugural."
"It seems so long ago," Donna murmured.
"I know." Josh gestured toward a little group of stuffed animals. "What's going
to happen to all this stuff?"
Without missing a beat, Donna replied, "Zoey will send thank-you notes to anyone
who left an address. The toys will go to the children's ward at Georgetown. The
flowers will go to hospitals, too--"
"Donna." Her name felt cool in his mouth. "What if--?"
"No." Donna crossed her arms over her chest, staring him down. "Stop talking,
Josh. Just stop." When he put his hand on her shoulder, she flinched as if his
touch burned.
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it, sorry to have planted this poisonous idea. He
started walking past the heartfelt tributes again. Donna followed a moment later
and they paused together, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Someone handed them candles. Before Josh could say anything, Donna was getting a
light from the person on her left. Then she faced him again and tipped her
candle toward his, sharing the flame. Donna took a step forward to join a group
of people praying quietly. When Josh did not join her, she reached behind and
tugged at his sleeve.
At that moment, in that place, Josh felt as far from God as any man had ever
been. "I've forgotten how to pray," he whispered. "Toby knows. He knows all
about it, he still goes to temple. He'd know what to do. I don't...I don't
remember."
Donna's tentative smile was as warm as the candle's glow. "Just hope with me,
Josh. That's all God could ask of you."
"I'm afraid to hope."
She looked him right in the eye. "I'm not," she said before turning to face the
floral tributes. Josh watched her kneel, slowly and gracefully, cupping her
candle in both hands. She was hoping for both of them. Would she be keeping
faith, he wondered, if she knew what he knew?
Donna's head was bowed, and the same breeze that made his candle gutter lifted
her hair like a flag. Josh stood close behind her and let his free hand rest on
her shoulder. Her hand came up to cover his. Josh watched his candle, careful
not to let the wax drip past the paper collar at its base, and just beyond the
flame he saw a familiar face.
It was Mark, from the press corps. Mark, who was bringing a camera to his eye.
Mark, who was framing them for a shot that could easily win him an award and
cause them no end of grief.
Josh lifted his chin and caught Mark's gaze. He steeled himself for the flash.
Part of him relished the distraction, but the other part of him, the better
half, tried to communicate the holiness of this moment. Please, please, don't
make this about us. Not while Zoey's dead or dying or being tortured.
To Josh's surprise, Mark lowered the camera and shrugged apologetically before
pointing the lens toward a mound of stuffed animals.
Like a silent wave, the people around him got to their feet and began to
disperse. Donna's arm felt insubstantial and frail as he helped her up. She
looked around for a moment, sighed, then let him lead her away from the crowd.
As they walked, Donna cupped her hand around her candle's flame and blew it out.
She leaned over to do the same for Josh's, but he shook his head. He kept it
aloft, a tiny flicker of hope in the darkness, lighting their way home.
***
End
Thanks to Ria for the line-by-line beta.
Feedback is welcomed and answered at marguerite@swbell.net.
Back to West Wing.
Spoilers: 7A WF 83429
THIS LITTLE LIGHT
The last thing Josh wanted to feel was hope.
Hope, Josh knew first-hand, was an invitation to heartbreak. As he followed
Donna down the steps, he remembered the phrase she'd used to get him to
accompany her to the vigil: "Because it's about hope." He didn't have the heart
to tell her that hope would only lead to brutal disappointment. That hope was
cruel. Instead he followed her down the steps, where an unexpected brightness
made them both halt in their tracks.
"Oh, my God." Donna's breathless whisper echoed the words careening through
Josh's mind. This was no handful of people with candles in paper holders - it
was a shrine, a monument to Zoey, an expression of sympathy so visceral that it
made Josh's hands shake. He hid them in his pockets and moved closer to Donna,
staring in astonishment at the array of tributes - everything from candles to
stuffed animals to magazine photos. And the notes.
The notes. We love you, Zoey. We're praying for you, Zoey. God will save you,
Zoey.
Mothers stood with their children, lighting candles and weeping softly. A group
of teenaged girls stood holding hands and praying. Josh saw drawings of crosses,
of roses, of doves. It felt almost like a wake, a funeral he didn't think he
could bear.
"We were right outside," he whispered, more to himself than to Donna. "Charlie
and I were having a beer, maybe fifty feet away."
Donna turned to him. The reflection of candlelight shimmered in her eyes.
"Don't. Don't do this."
"We could've stopped her. It would have been so easy."
"It's not your fault." She took his wrist in her hand, squeezing it for emphasis.
He had known she would say that - it was her job, her lot in life, the cross she
proudly and willingly bore. His protector. Donna was often all that stood
between him and certain disaster, all arms and legs and heart and hair that
gleamed in the flickering light. So thin that the next gust of wind could blow
her over, so strong that she could survive the heartrending poignancy of this
makeshift place of worship.
The only thing keeping Josh at this vigil was the silent, comforting support of
Donna's presence. He glanced at her profile and saw a tear making its way down
her cheek. The urge to brush that tear away was so strong that Josh tasted salt.
Instead, he placed his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward a group of
photographs of Zoey in an evening gown. The pictures were garlanded with
flowers. "Those are from the Inaugural."
"It seems so long ago," Donna murmured.
"I know." Josh gestured toward a little group of stuffed animals. "What's going
to happen to all this stuff?"
Without missing a beat, Donna replied, "Zoey will send thank-you notes to anyone
who left an address. The toys will go to the children's ward at Georgetown. The
flowers will go to hospitals, too--"
"Donna." Her name felt cool in his mouth. "What if--?"
"No." Donna crossed her arms over her chest, staring him down. "Stop talking,
Josh. Just stop." When he put his hand on her shoulder, she flinched as if his
touch burned.
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it, sorry to have planted this poisonous idea. He
started walking past the heartfelt tributes again. Donna followed a moment later
and they paused together, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Someone handed them candles. Before Josh could say anything, Donna was getting a
light from the person on her left. Then she faced him again and tipped her
candle toward his, sharing the flame. Donna took a step forward to join a group
of people praying quietly. When Josh did not join her, she reached behind and
tugged at his sleeve.
At that moment, in that place, Josh felt as far from God as any man had ever
been. "I've forgotten how to pray," he whispered. "Toby knows. He knows all
about it, he still goes to temple. He'd know what to do. I don't...I don't
remember."
Donna's tentative smile was as warm as the candle's glow. "Just hope with me,
Josh. That's all God could ask of you."
"I'm afraid to hope."
She looked him right in the eye. "I'm not," she said before turning to face the
floral tributes. Josh watched her kneel, slowly and gracefully, cupping her
candle in both hands. She was hoping for both of them. Would she be keeping
faith, he wondered, if she knew what he knew?
Donna's head was bowed, and the same breeze that made his candle gutter lifted
her hair like a flag. Josh stood close behind her and let his free hand rest on
her shoulder. Her hand came up to cover his. Josh watched his candle, careful
not to let the wax drip past the paper collar at its base, and just beyond the
flame he saw a familiar face.
It was Mark, from the press corps. Mark, who was bringing a camera to his eye.
Mark, who was framing them for a shot that could easily win him an award and
cause them no end of grief.
Josh lifted his chin and caught Mark's gaze. He steeled himself for the flash.
Part of him relished the distraction, but the other part of him, the better
half, tried to communicate the holiness of this moment. Please, please, don't
make this about us. Not while Zoey's dead or dying or being tortured.
To Josh's surprise, Mark lowered the camera and shrugged apologetically before
pointing the lens toward a mound of stuffed animals.
Like a silent wave, the people around him got to their feet and began to
disperse. Donna's arm felt insubstantial and frail as he helped her up. She
looked around for a moment, sighed, then let him lead her away from the crowd.
As they walked, Donna cupped her hand around her candle's flame and blew it out.
She leaned over to do the same for Josh's, but he shook his head. He kept it
aloft, a tiny flicker of hope in the darkness, lighting their way home.
***
End
Thanks to Ria for the line-by-line beta.
Feedback is welcomed and answered at marguerite@swbell.net.
Back to West Wing.