The characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, the story is mine, please ask
before archiving.
This is a quick little piece - after I rewatched 'The Short List' a few
months ago, I've been meaning to write something along these lines. And
I hear that tonight 'The Short List' is being reshown over in the US, so
now seemed a good time.
It's going out unedited, since I don't have time to run it past my
editors, to be checked for non-American dialogue or errors. So if anyone
wants it for an archive, please contact me, I'll send you the revised
copy.
Spoilers; The Short List and season two.
That Kinda Luck.
by Michelle Hiley.
cat@hiley.demon.co.uk
Do you remember what I smiled and said, when your ceiling tried to kill
you? You looked at me with that face, the lost, sad, adorable little
one, that you know damn well is a potent weapon. Long ago, I had to
discipline myself not to give in to that face. If I did, you'd get
coffee all the time, and ego boosts, and it's not good for you, Josh.
You get adulation from girls in crowds, you wield power, and someone has
to keep you in check. Someone has to make sure you stay on the earth
with the rest of us, and don't become too proud to get your own coffee.
That's my job. Like those Romans, who used to employ someone to remind
them that they had their limits. Caesar, thou too art mortal.
Well, we've both had a reminder tonight. Josh, thou too art mortal. I'm
painfully aware of that, watching the clock tick round, while they
operate on you.
I did bring you coffee once. It was when you were about to be fired, so
we thought, and your ego was at an all-time low. You didn't need
reminding then that you were mortal. You needed coffee, and reminding
that you'd won that election for Bartlet. But you came back from that
crisis. We came back from it.
"You should be nice to me, I could be dead, you know."
"I don't have that kinda luck."
Beside me, Mrs. Landingham is shifting slightly in her chair. I think
she's getting stiff. She hasn't let go of my hand, and I'm comforted,
but in a moment, I'll find some tactful way to suggest she takes a rest.
She's too old to sit up all night in a chair like this, there must be
somewhere she could lie down. I catch the First Lady's eye as she walks
into the room, and nod slightly towards my companion. She understands at
once, coming across to us, and asking Mrs. Landingham if she'd mind
going home, and getting some sleep. She'll be needed on duty in the
President's office tomorrow morning, organising the assistants to keep
things moving. It's sheer brilliance - appeal to Mrs. Landingham's sense
of duty, and concern for 'her girls'. She gives me a worried look, but I
smile, and Mrs. Bartlet tells her she'll stay here with me, and keep her
posted. That seems to satisfy her, and she relinquishes her chair to the
First Lady. I sense they don't like to leave me alone, in case something
happens.
In case Josh dies.
It's funny, because if they asked me, I could tell them that it isn't
going to happen. I've been telling myself that, over and over, and
finally, I think I'm starting to believe it. I close my eyes, and I see
him there, covered in the dust from the ceiling, while I lecture him on
cautious optimism, and I know that whatever I said then, he and I still
have unfinished business.
You don't get to die here tonight, Josh. You don't. You're too young,
and we all need you. You have so much of life still waiting to be
experienced, so many battles that need you to fight them. You've barely
begun, Josh. And besides, Fate owes us. It brought us both to the
Bartlet campaign, it gave us to the team, to Sam, to CJ, to Toby. It
brought us together, and turned two strangers into workmates, then
friends, and maybe one day something more.
I won't let Fate change its mind and take that away from us, before
we've even begun to explore what it is we have. Not here. Not tonight.
It's just too cruel, too random, for me to lose you now.
And I'm clinging to the hope that neither of us has that kinda luck.
*****