Oh Snape, let them have their flapdoodle.
So, I wrote five things for the Shiny Happy Comment Ficathon (which has, as one might well expect, been a bundle of shiny happy joy). And I don't feel like they are short enough to be in one post together (besides which they are kind of wildly unrelated) but I also do not really want to post them all at once for fear of annoying...someone. Lord knows who, I certainly have no idea, but there you have it.
THESE ARE MY DILEMMAS, OH GOSH MY LIFE IS SO HARD. ANGST ANGST ANGST.
So anyway, what I'm going to do is this: here are the two West Wing fics I wrote, and I will post the rest of what I wrote...at some other point in time! THAT IS MY ULTRA-COMPLICATED AND SPECIFIC PLAN.
Title: A Distinct Lack of Gravitas
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Josh, Toby, and CJ's intimidating, one-line presence!
Spoilers/Warnings: Nope!
Summary: Sam, Josh, and Toby, on a plane, being nerdy.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Campaign trail conversation amongst the weary warriors of Bartlet for America is, of course, made of exceedingly weighty stuff. This is a group of people, after all, who graduated at the top of their respective Ivy League classes. They thrive on tearing apart the issues of the day. They are the rising stars of their generation, hell bent on putting their guy in the White House, whatever it takes. They are Serious Political Operatives, god damn it.
"Do you think we could scientifically calculate how annoyed we're making Toby?" Sam asks one day as their flight cruises along the Eastern seaboard.
"There's got to be some kind of, like, algorithm for it," Josh replies. "Is that the term I'm looking for here, algorithm? Or is it just an equation? A formula? A formula for determining the effect of our conversation on the fury in Toby's-- that's quite the steely gaze you've got there, Toby-- in Toby's steely gaze."
"Math was never really my thing," Sam says, his brow furrowed. Josh snorts.
"Never really your thing? Sam, the whole of academia was your thing. In fact, I would go so far as to say-- nay, to declare, to declaim, my friend!-- that it still is your thing. Reading The Manuscript Books of Emily Dickinson out loud on a bus ride from Des Moines to Chicago? Your thing. Discussing the various merits of the Oxford comma? Your thing. Inflicting astrophysics on a group of innocent fifth-graders? Very much your thing."
"They asked!" Sam says in the indignant tones of one who has defended this particular point more than once. "One of them asked me what 'astrophysics' meant, Josh, it wasn't exactly an impromptu lecture--"
"Oh come on, Sam, they wanted to know if it was a kind of soda, they didn't want Princeton's finest explaining the concept of computational numerical simulations. Back me up here, Toby."
"If you listen very, very closely," Toby says without taking his eyes off of the magazine in his hands, "you can hear the deafening roar of my indifference."
"Toby, you wound us," Josh says with a grin, clutching his hands to his chest. Toby favors him with an eye roll which is ruthlessly efficient in conveying his disdain, and which is doubtless the envy of all its fellows.
For a moment, there is silence. Then Toby says, "And Sam, your love affair with the Oxford comma is frankly sickening," at which point it becomes clear that no one is going to shut up until CJ starts throwing things.
Title: And Most Fools Do
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Josh, Donna, and He Who Ought Not Be On Television.
Spoilers/Warnings: Nope!
Summary: Josh watches Glenn Beck. Donna suffers the consequences.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it. Nor, for that matter, is Glenn Beck.
Notes: Title is from a Benjamin Franklin quote.
"I officially give up," Josh says.
"Hnrghffle?" Donna says.
"I mean it. I'm never going to understand this country. I'm supposed to help run it-- that is my job, isn't it? I'm pretty sure that's my job-- and I haven't the foggiest notion about what anyone in it is thinking. I'm--"
"Josh?" Donna says faintly. There is a brief silence.
"I did it again, didn't I?" Josh says.
"Mmhmm," Donna says.
"So it's, uh-- I mean, it can't be that late, I was just reading some of the late editions before I went home and--"
"It's two o'clock in the morning, Josh," Donna says in a tone which, rather miraculously, does not speak of immediate and painful dismemberment. "Which means that whatever fatal, nationwide crisis you have unearthed can wait until later. Unless it's the zombie apocalypse. Is it the zombie apocalypse, Josh?"
"No," Josh admits.
"Good night," Donna says.
Josh hangs up and goes back to staring at his computer screen with a potent and terrifying mixture of awe, disgust, and sleep deprivation.
------
"I mean, here's the thing," Josh says. Donna groans and slings her coat over her arm.
"You had to meet me at the entrance, really? Morning Bill," she adds as she moves through security.
"Good morning Ms. Moss, Mr. Lyman," Bill says.
"Glenn Beck is this country's death rattle personified, Bill," Josh says.
"Whatever you say Mr. Lyman," says Bill.
------
"He spends a lot of time shouting," Josh says, "which is just kind of ridiculous. Does he not realize he's, you know, wired for sound? At what decibel level is he assuming his version of truth will just vibrate into fact?"
"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear that over the ringing in my ears from the last time you took a phone call from the House minority leader," Donna says. "Were you saying something about vocal modulation, Joshua?"
"That's different! I don't shout at a national television audience!" Josh says.
"You would if you could," Donna says. "I'm going to pick up some bagels from that place down the street, do you want anything?"
"An explanation for the deterioration of this country's taste in television," Josh says. "Whatever happened to Gilligan's Island? At least I knew where that was going."
"One onion bagel with cream cheese," Donna says. "Got it."
------
"He jumped out of his seat, made some screechy noises about the downfall of our great nation, and then started crying," Josh says. "I don't understand."
"People want to be comforted, Josh," Donna says in what Josh has privately started to call her well look who thinks he's a special little snowflake today voice.
"Couldn't they make some hot chocolate and watch Hugh Grant movies or something?" Josh asks. Donna drops the file onto his desk and blinks at him for a moment.
"Really? Hugh Grant is your go-to for comfort? Not that I can fault your taste or anything, Josh, but it's probably going to impugn your reputation as Mr. Scary Political Operative when I tell the entire secretarial staff of the West Wing that British accents and winsome grins make you swoon."
"First of all, I do not swoon over Hugh Grant-- no, you know what, scratch that, I do not swoon over anything."
"Let me guess," Donna says, leaning against the door frame. "Not manly enough?"
"I will have you know that I am extremely manly!" Josh says.
"The wild, I'm-a-seventh-grade-girl-at-the-Twilight-premiere flailing of your arms suggests otherwise Joshua," Donna says.
"I'm serious, Donna, he spends, like, one hundred and ten percent of his onscreen time crying," Josh says. "Now who's manly?!"
"Is this Hugh Grant or Glenn Beck we're talking about here?" Donna says. Josh groans and lets his head fall into his hands.
------
"He is a terrible human being," Josh says. "He just is! Are the other guys having this pumped directly into the brains of the voters? Because honestly, that is some sound goddamned political strategy. If even ten percent of this country believes the crap he's spewing, that's ten percent we are never getting back Donna, I'm not kidding around here--"
"Josh," Donna says firmly. She steps into the room. She closes the door. She sets a cup of what Josh strongly suspects is going to turn out to be decaf on his desk. "Yes. Yes, Glenn Beck is a terrible human being. You're right. And yes, a lot of people listen to him, and care about what he has to say, no matter how despicable it is. And yes, he cries enough tears, per week, to fill an Olympic swimming pool. He's not only terrible, he's hilarious. He's rapidly approaching self-parody. So why don't you stop hunting down YouTube clips of a deranged television personality and actually do your job?"
Josh sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and takes a sip of his coffee.
"What's my job again?" He says.
"Providing policy alternatives to the weepy whackjob," Donna says cheerfully.
"Right," Josh says. "Yes. Okay. I can do that."
Oh Aaron Sorkin. You and your show have ruined me for actual, real life politics, and I don't even particularly mind.
P.S.: Wizard Swears.
THESE ARE MY DILEMMAS, OH GOSH MY LIFE IS SO HARD. ANGST ANGST ANGST.
So anyway, what I'm going to do is this: here are the two West Wing fics I wrote, and I will post the rest of what I wrote...at some other point in time! THAT IS MY ULTRA-COMPLICATED AND SPECIFIC PLAN.
Title: A Distinct Lack of Gravitas
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Josh, Toby, and CJ's intimidating, one-line presence!
Spoilers/Warnings: Nope!
Summary: Sam, Josh, and Toby, on a plane, being nerdy.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it.
Campaign trail conversation amongst the weary warriors of Bartlet for America is, of course, made of exceedingly weighty stuff. This is a group of people, after all, who graduated at the top of their respective Ivy League classes. They thrive on tearing apart the issues of the day. They are the rising stars of their generation, hell bent on putting their guy in the White House, whatever it takes. They are Serious Political Operatives, god damn it.
"Do you think we could scientifically calculate how annoyed we're making Toby?" Sam asks one day as their flight cruises along the Eastern seaboard.
"There's got to be some kind of, like, algorithm for it," Josh replies. "Is that the term I'm looking for here, algorithm? Or is it just an equation? A formula? A formula for determining the effect of our conversation on the fury in Toby's-- that's quite the steely gaze you've got there, Toby-- in Toby's steely gaze."
"Math was never really my thing," Sam says, his brow furrowed. Josh snorts.
"Never really your thing? Sam, the whole of academia was your thing. In fact, I would go so far as to say-- nay, to declare, to declaim, my friend!-- that it still is your thing. Reading The Manuscript Books of Emily Dickinson out loud on a bus ride from Des Moines to Chicago? Your thing. Discussing the various merits of the Oxford comma? Your thing. Inflicting astrophysics on a group of innocent fifth-graders? Very much your thing."
"They asked!" Sam says in the indignant tones of one who has defended this particular point more than once. "One of them asked me what 'astrophysics' meant, Josh, it wasn't exactly an impromptu lecture--"
"Oh come on, Sam, they wanted to know if it was a kind of soda, they didn't want Princeton's finest explaining the concept of computational numerical simulations. Back me up here, Toby."
"If you listen very, very closely," Toby says without taking his eyes off of the magazine in his hands, "you can hear the deafening roar of my indifference."
"Toby, you wound us," Josh says with a grin, clutching his hands to his chest. Toby favors him with an eye roll which is ruthlessly efficient in conveying his disdain, and which is doubtless the envy of all its fellows.
For a moment, there is silence. Then Toby says, "And Sam, your love affair with the Oxford comma is frankly sickening," at which point it becomes clear that no one is going to shut up until CJ starts throwing things.
Title: And Most Fools Do
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Josh, Donna, and He Who Ought Not Be On Television.
Spoilers/Warnings: Nope!
Summary: Josh watches Glenn Beck. Donna suffers the consequences.
Disclaimer: The West Wing is absolutely not mine, nor is anything you recognize from it. Nor, for that matter, is Glenn Beck.
Notes: Title is from a Benjamin Franklin quote.
"I officially give up," Josh says.
"Hnrghffle?" Donna says.
"I mean it. I'm never going to understand this country. I'm supposed to help run it-- that is my job, isn't it? I'm pretty sure that's my job-- and I haven't the foggiest notion about what anyone in it is thinking. I'm--"
"Josh?" Donna says faintly. There is a brief silence.
"I did it again, didn't I?" Josh says.
"Mmhmm," Donna says.
"So it's, uh-- I mean, it can't be that late, I was just reading some of the late editions before I went home and--"
"It's two o'clock in the morning, Josh," Donna says in a tone which, rather miraculously, does not speak of immediate and painful dismemberment. "Which means that whatever fatal, nationwide crisis you have unearthed can wait until later. Unless it's the zombie apocalypse. Is it the zombie apocalypse, Josh?"
"No," Josh admits.
"Good night," Donna says.
Josh hangs up and goes back to staring at his computer screen with a potent and terrifying mixture of awe, disgust, and sleep deprivation.
------
"I mean, here's the thing," Josh says. Donna groans and slings her coat over her arm.
"You had to meet me at the entrance, really? Morning Bill," she adds as she moves through security.
"Good morning Ms. Moss, Mr. Lyman," Bill says.
"Glenn Beck is this country's death rattle personified, Bill," Josh says.
"Whatever you say Mr. Lyman," says Bill.
------
"He spends a lot of time shouting," Josh says, "which is just kind of ridiculous. Does he not realize he's, you know, wired for sound? At what decibel level is he assuming his version of truth will just vibrate into fact?"
"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear that over the ringing in my ears from the last time you took a phone call from the House minority leader," Donna says. "Were you saying something about vocal modulation, Joshua?"
"That's different! I don't shout at a national television audience!" Josh says.
"You would if you could," Donna says. "I'm going to pick up some bagels from that place down the street, do you want anything?"
"An explanation for the deterioration of this country's taste in television," Josh says. "Whatever happened to Gilligan's Island? At least I knew where that was going."
"One onion bagel with cream cheese," Donna says. "Got it."
------
"He jumped out of his seat, made some screechy noises about the downfall of our great nation, and then started crying," Josh says. "I don't understand."
"People want to be comforted, Josh," Donna says in what Josh has privately started to call her well look who thinks he's a special little snowflake today voice.
"Couldn't they make some hot chocolate and watch Hugh Grant movies or something?" Josh asks. Donna drops the file onto his desk and blinks at him for a moment.
"Really? Hugh Grant is your go-to for comfort? Not that I can fault your taste or anything, Josh, but it's probably going to impugn your reputation as Mr. Scary Political Operative when I tell the entire secretarial staff of the West Wing that British accents and winsome grins make you swoon."
"First of all, I do not swoon over Hugh Grant-- no, you know what, scratch that, I do not swoon over anything."
"Let me guess," Donna says, leaning against the door frame. "Not manly enough?"
"I will have you know that I am extremely manly!" Josh says.
"The wild, I'm-a-seventh-grade-girl-at-the-Twilight-premiere flailing of your arms suggests otherwise Joshua," Donna says.
"I'm serious, Donna, he spends, like, one hundred and ten percent of his onscreen time crying," Josh says. "Now who's manly?!"
"Is this Hugh Grant or Glenn Beck we're talking about here?" Donna says. Josh groans and lets his head fall into his hands.
------
"He is a terrible human being," Josh says. "He just is! Are the other guys having this pumped directly into the brains of the voters? Because honestly, that is some sound goddamned political strategy. If even ten percent of this country believes the crap he's spewing, that's ten percent we are never getting back Donna, I'm not kidding around here--"
"Josh," Donna says firmly. She steps into the room. She closes the door. She sets a cup of what Josh strongly suspects is going to turn out to be decaf on his desk. "Yes. Yes, Glenn Beck is a terrible human being. You're right. And yes, a lot of people listen to him, and care about what he has to say, no matter how despicable it is. And yes, he cries enough tears, per week, to fill an Olympic swimming pool. He's not only terrible, he's hilarious. He's rapidly approaching self-parody. So why don't you stop hunting down YouTube clips of a deranged television personality and actually do your job?"
Josh sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and takes a sip of his coffee.
"What's my job again?" He says.
"Providing policy alternatives to the weepy whackjob," Donna says cheerfully.
"Right," Josh says. "Yes. Okay. I can do that."
Oh Aaron Sorkin. You and your show have ruined me for actual, real life politics, and I don't even particularly mind.
P.S.: Wizard Swears.