Three Fics
I felt like writing the little things when I'm supposed to be writing big things, and thecolourclear and lordessrenegade, the two wonderful people, gave me prompts for drabbles. Well, only lordess' turned out to actually be a drabble. Anyway.
None of the titles are mine. I wasn't feeling very title-creative. The first one is from The Rainmakers' song Tattoo; the second is from a James Joyce quote; the third is from The Night Before Christmas (duh).
lordessrenegade gave me Abby and Tony and tattoos.
“Some things fade, some never do.”
-- Tattoo, the Rainmakers
“Does it… hurt?”
“Ooh! Big, bad Tony’s afraid of needles!”
“Well, they’re scary.”
“Tony’s afraid of nee-dles!”
“Abby, you really shouldn’t dance in here. Isn’t this stuff worth some money or something?”
“Tony! I’d never hurt my babies. Tony’s afraid of nee-dles, Tony’s afraid-”
“Abby.”
“Hey, I don’t get to go undercover. This is how I get my fun. Oh, and it doesn’t hurt if you’re drunk enough.”
“Well, nothing does.”
“Tony’s afraid of nee-”
“Abby, if you don’t shut up right now, I’ll tell McGee about the tattoo he doesn’t know about.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Watch me.”
“...Shutting up now.”
- - - - - - - - - -
thecolourclear gave me "Explain how Toby and C.J. got to know each other." So I did... kinda. It's how they met.
“The light music of whiskey falling into a glass - an agreeable interlude.”
-- James Joyce
She was in New York for a conference of stuck up people. He was in New York because it was cold and lonely and overwhelming and everything about it was home.
She was in the Hilton for a place to stay. He was in the Hilton for a drink.
It was one of those days where the world is washed gray and the buildings glower blue ice. The scotch was cool in his hand and warm in his throat and fantastically molten gold in his mouth and it was almost the colour of the lights and her hair when she walked in and looked around as if she was missing something she hadn’t known she had lost.
It was five o’clock and he was the only one in the bar, already drinking, and he realized that would appear wrong to some people. And if it did to anyone, it would to her. She was tailored gray pants and long-sleeved blouses and blotted lipstick and eyes that didn’t quite match and she was in New York for a conference.
He was just in New York for a drink.
He cleared his throat. “Hello.”
She seemed surprised that he had spoken and turned to look at him. He fixed his eyes on the swirls the melting ice made in the scotch and rotated the glass around. She smiled and sat next to him. “Hello.” When she realized that he had already exhausted his small-talk ability, she smiled again and this time it was real. “C.J. Cregg,” she said, and held out his hand.
“Toby Ziegler,” he said, and took it. He cleared his throat again. “Uh, what do you do?”
Sighing, she said, “Nothing I want to talk about. Please, please.”
He chuckled a little. “Okay.”
She shifted and got more comfortable on the bar stool. “How about you?”
He shrugged. “Nothing worth talking about.”
“Okay.”
There was a comfortable pause, almost as if they had had enough of a conversation to be able to have a lull in it. The door blew open and a man appeared, the picture of suavity. Toby didn’t know if that was a word, but it should be. He thought about that instead of the way the man was looking at C.J., because he didn’t know her at all.
“C.J.,” the man said.
She looked up, startled. She hadn’t seen him. “Nick!” she said. “Oh, hi. Um, Toby, this is Nick Dyson, my client. Nick, this is Toby Ziegler.”
Toby nodded to him. “Nick Dyson?” he asked.
The man chuckled, as if he was used to people asking. “Yeah,” he said, and Toby knew he was used to it. Nick Dyson was the name you knew if you were in media. He was an advertising guru, a man who sold more products on TV than Toby had supported losing candidates. If he was a client of C.J.’s, she was in the television business. She didn’t belong in New York.
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Toby, pretending he didn’t know who he was talking to.
“You too,” said Nick Dyson. “You ready, C.J.?”
“You bet,” she said, standing. Her hair caught the lights and everything was scotch-warm and burning. She smiled at Toby. “It was nice talking to you,” she said.
And then the door was opening again and the warmth was swirling out into the darkening blue street in scotch-coloured swirls and she was gone, probably for good. Because she was successful and powerful and had Nick Dyson as a client.
She was in New York for a conference, and he was in New York because he had nowhere else to go.
- - - - - - - - - -
thecolourclear also gave me Sam revealing a childhood secret to Josh. You're right - these two are love.
“Did you ever have an imaginary friend?”
I look up, surprised at his voice over the faint hum of the bullpen. He’s leaning on the doorframe in that way he has that makes it seem like he’s dressed in rumpled sweats and a t-shirt even if he’s wearing a tux.
Not that he’s wearing a tux at the moment. But a guy can dream.
“An imaginary friend?” I ask. “Why?”
He shrugs and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Donna was talking about it. She had one.”
I grin. “Yeah? What was her name?”
He snorts. “Betty.”
My grin expands a little. “And Veronica?”
“Not as such, apparently, no.”
“Too bad. Yeah, I had one. And an imaginary place.”
“An imaginary place?”
“Yeah. Like I’d go into my backyard and pretend to be somewhere else. Did you have one?”
His face darkens. “She wasn’t imaginary.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.”
“S’ok. So, where did you pretend to go?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, just... somewhere.”
Apparently, I didn’t get as casual a tone as I was looking for because his eyes narrow and he pushes off the doorframe into the office. “Somewhere else?” he asks quietly. “Somewhere not here.”
I nod. My throat feels kind of funny and it’s hard to get words out. “Yeah,” I say.
He pauses for a moment. “You never talk about it, you know,” he says finally.
And if it was anybody else, I’d be frustrated and confused, but this is just the way Josh is - this is how he talks, really talks. “About what?” I ask patiently.
“Your childhood,” he says, “and everything in it.”
This conversation is quickly going in a direction I’d rather stay away from. I shrug. “Nothing much happened. It was boring, you know? Regular childhood,” and I wince, because he really doesn’t know.
He turns his head and looks at me sideways like he does when someone does something he doesn’t really understand. “Yeah, okay,” he said, but it’s anything but.
“He just wasn’t around a lot,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
I pause. “You’d think my imaginary friend would show up when he wasn’t there. But he came around when he was.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a silence then, as if neither one of us knows what to say. Finally, he asks, “What was his name? Your imaginary friend?”
I grin again, because it’s really okay. It’s Josh. “Rudolph.”
He smiles, and his whole face just cracks. Or, not his face, but everything weighing it down. “Seriously?”
“I liked the way reindeer look. I liked their antlers.”
“What was wrong with Dasher? Or Prancer or Vixen, for that matter?”
I shrug. “Rudolph saved Christmas.” And maybe he knows what I mean, because his Christmases were always short one, too.
He smiles just a little, a sad little quirk. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna…” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder again.
“Alright,” I say. I watch him back out, then turn and walk away, before I look down at my work again.
His voice comes from the direction of the door. “I’m just sayin’, would Blitzen have killed you?”
I look up and glare. “Weren’t you leaving?”
He grins. “On my way.”
_