A/N sweet jesus someone has taken mercy on us all. They are showing the old west wings on 29 late on Saturdays and at five in the afternoon on Sundays. And the last one was 'In the Shadow of Two Gunmen' Parts I and II, and I have been happily obsessing to the point where I had to write this. There is a tiny moment in part II where Danny opens up a semi-interrogation with CJ by saying "I don't want to be this guy, but ..." That's what this is about. This is before CJ gets her necklace back from Sam.
***
Nothing Personal
He doesn't want to be that guy. She doesn't believe him when he says it, but by god he doesn't want to be that guy. Because he is always that guy, and sometimes that is okay, sometimes that is the best thing he could be, but not now. Not when she's standing there, and her hair is in her eyes and her hand is on her neck, scratching, rubbing, in some kind of addled, frightened, confused way that draws his attention away from her unfocused eyes and her bitten lips and he can't stand to be that guy. But what else is he going to be? He's always been that guy.
"CJ... CJ, you've got to answer the question." That guy presses, because that's what he does, because that's how he makes his life.
"What?" her glassy eyes dart up and down again.
"The question, CJ."
She should understand, she should understand that every journalist lives and dies according to what he can and cannot do. According to where he is and where he is not, and one story, *one* story can make it all go away. One big break can do it, and she knows that, and he knows that, and that's how it works.
"The question about the twenty-fifth, CJ." That guy reiterates, trying so hard not to be who he is, trying so hard not to sound condescending or uncaring, because he is none of those things, because he respects her and cares for her and loves her more than enough to know that those things can't count for anything right now. Right now all he can be is that guy.
"I can't-can't help you with that, Danny, I've told you." She stuttered-he's never heard her stutter.
"Okay. I'm sorry, CJ..."
He just wants to know if she's okay, even though he knows the answer, even though he knows she isn't. He wants to know what keeps her hair pushed in front of her eyes and why her brain is going off to someplace awful every time he looks away, why her lip is bitten and her hands are still shaking.
Her hands. Her left hand slips off the edge of the desk, and it's shaking and it slips and she falls forward-more slowly than you would think-off balance in everyway you could imagine, about to come down and he takes her hand, stops her elbow from hitting on the hard mahogany of everything she has to pretend to be every day. Her hand is still shaking, probably harder, and dear god he doesn't want to be that guy.
"Hey. Hey, are you okay?" he asks, and he keeps that shaking hand, that hand like an injured bird inside his hand like a crutch to save its life.
"Yes. Yes." She says with the same mature surety that makes her that girl that she doesn't want to be, but that she always always is.
And he's got to be that guy again, and she understands, because she's that girl, too. Because that girl doesn't expect anything from anyone except for them to survive, and this is how he does it. This is how he survives. And she doesn't need someone to hold her hand or let her cry on his shoulder or ask if she's okay, because that's not the kind of girl she is, she's not that girl. She's a different girl. She's a girl that likes to think she's bitter while hoping to God that she isn't.
She'll understand because it's how she does it too.
"Okay. Get back to me when you can, I'm going back." He says.
"Yeah, yeah." And she's calm, he thinks. She's calm and in control and maybe he feels a little better to pretend she is.
"Okay." He nods.
"Yeah."
He leaves and he knows that she's terrified and that she's coming apart and that she's alone, and he knows that she's got every reason to be all of those things but one. And he goes back into the pressroom, and he finds out what else the people might want to hear. He looks to find out where she is weak, where she may have forgotten something, where she may have given him a sound bite and where she might have forgotten the way things work. Because that's what he does, because that's how he survives. Because if he were to do anything else... well, he wouldn't know what.
And when she comes out again an hour later, her hair is out of her eyes. Her lipstick has been reapplied. Her hand stays purposely away from her neck. But when she points into the crowd to take questions that fragile bird still tries to fly away...
And maybe she doesn't need to want him. Maybe all she needs is to shake.
Maybe he can just hold her because it's what he wants to do, and maybe for a little while that guy can leave him alone long enough to just love that girl, purely and cleanly and with nothing in the space between.
But until then.
"CJ, I need an answer on the 25th."
***
Nothing Personal
He doesn't want to be that guy. She doesn't believe him when he says it, but by god he doesn't want to be that guy. Because he is always that guy, and sometimes that is okay, sometimes that is the best thing he could be, but not now. Not when she's standing there, and her hair is in her eyes and her hand is on her neck, scratching, rubbing, in some kind of addled, frightened, confused way that draws his attention away from her unfocused eyes and her bitten lips and he can't stand to be that guy. But what else is he going to be? He's always been that guy.
"CJ... CJ, you've got to answer the question." That guy presses, because that's what he does, because that's how he makes his life.
"What?" her glassy eyes dart up and down again.
"The question, CJ."
She should understand, she should understand that every journalist lives and dies according to what he can and cannot do. According to where he is and where he is not, and one story, *one* story can make it all go away. One big break can do it, and she knows that, and he knows that, and that's how it works.
"The question about the twenty-fifth, CJ." That guy reiterates, trying so hard not to be who he is, trying so hard not to sound condescending or uncaring, because he is none of those things, because he respects her and cares for her and loves her more than enough to know that those things can't count for anything right now. Right now all he can be is that guy.
"I can't-can't help you with that, Danny, I've told you." She stuttered-he's never heard her stutter.
"Okay. I'm sorry, CJ..."
He just wants to know if she's okay, even though he knows the answer, even though he knows she isn't. He wants to know what keeps her hair pushed in front of her eyes and why her brain is going off to someplace awful every time he looks away, why her lip is bitten and her hands are still shaking.
Her hands. Her left hand slips off the edge of the desk, and it's shaking and it slips and she falls forward-more slowly than you would think-off balance in everyway you could imagine, about to come down and he takes her hand, stops her elbow from hitting on the hard mahogany of everything she has to pretend to be every day. Her hand is still shaking, probably harder, and dear god he doesn't want to be that guy.
"Hey. Hey, are you okay?" he asks, and he keeps that shaking hand, that hand like an injured bird inside his hand like a crutch to save its life.
"Yes. Yes." She says with the same mature surety that makes her that girl that she doesn't want to be, but that she always always is.
And he's got to be that guy again, and she understands, because she's that girl, too. Because that girl doesn't expect anything from anyone except for them to survive, and this is how he does it. This is how he survives. And she doesn't need someone to hold her hand or let her cry on his shoulder or ask if she's okay, because that's not the kind of girl she is, she's not that girl. She's a different girl. She's a girl that likes to think she's bitter while hoping to God that she isn't.
She'll understand because it's how she does it too.
"Okay. Get back to me when you can, I'm going back." He says.
"Yeah, yeah." And she's calm, he thinks. She's calm and in control and maybe he feels a little better to pretend she is.
"Okay." He nods.
"Yeah."
He leaves and he knows that she's terrified and that she's coming apart and that she's alone, and he knows that she's got every reason to be all of those things but one. And he goes back into the pressroom, and he finds out what else the people might want to hear. He looks to find out where she is weak, where she may have forgotten something, where she may have given him a sound bite and where she might have forgotten the way things work. Because that's what he does, because that's how he survives. Because if he were to do anything else... well, he wouldn't know what.
And when she comes out again an hour later, her hair is out of her eyes. Her lipstick has been reapplied. Her hand stays purposely away from her neck. But when she points into the crowd to take questions that fragile bird still tries to fly away...
And maybe she doesn't need to want him. Maybe all she needs is to shake.
Maybe he can just hold her because it's what he wants to do, and maybe for a little while that guy can leave him alone long enough to just love that girl, purely and cleanly and with nothing in the space between.
But until then.
"CJ, I need an answer on the 25th."