West Wing drabbles
No spoilers. No porn. 100 words apiece by NoteTab's word counter.
[CJ, grace, for sangerin.]
Grace
CJ fears she has overused her limit, that this briefing will be the one when she runs out.
There is a finite amount of grace in the world, and one day, she'll use up hers. They should ration grace like they did gas in the seventies. She should speak to the President about this, before something drastic happens, before she is at the podium, graceless and afraid (again), before she trips over her words.
If she is sparing with her cleverness and moves swiftly, she will outthink, outrun, the running out of her lifetime allotment of not failing, of grace.
[Donna, Utopia, for alixtii]
Utopia
Josh explained it to her when she brought him The Republic, relevant parts hi-lighted, instead of his morning briefing on Venezuela.
"You do know what 'Utopia' means, right?"
"...A good place?"
"No place! It means 'no place'!"
"Oh."
She thought he was going to do a whole routine, explaining how this was some place and thus not no place and therefore, not Utopia, Q.E.D.
But he didn't, just nodded, and said, "Venezuela?"
"I'm on it. Josh? Will you read it eventually?"
"Can't. I've got work to do in, you know, this place."
[Leo, snort, for webbgirl]
Rationalizations
He does not snort. He does not sniff or snuff or inhale. He drinks.
Steadily and surehandedly, sunup to sundown, today he drinks. He's gotten good at justifying the second glass. He's not an addict; addicts snort, inject, mainline. He drinks. Just one drink, just two drinks, just one bottle, just two bottles.
Just today. Tomorrow, sobriety.
By the third drink he doesn't need justifications or rationalizations or reasons. He just needs another glass of liquor, and that's the best thing about it. In his more lucid moments he remembers nothing but the simplicity of craving and satiation.
[CJ/Josh, silly, for control_freak80]
Hat
He'd like her to grin. He made her a hat. He folded it out of paper left over from their first administration and gave it to her with careless disinterest. She watched the slow crawl of his smile, sneaking from straight-faced to hysterical, then let herself smile too.
"Thank you. It's very thoughtful."
"You have to wear it. Nine o'clock briefing."
"To what do I owe the honor of this hat?"
He shrugged. "I wanted to make you laugh?"
"Good enough for me. I'll go explain that to the press corps."
"Will you laugh?"
"That depends."
"On?"
"No comment."
"Oh."
[Toby, melancholia, for raedbard]
Melancholia
Not depressed, not sad, not, God have mercy, too sad, Toby, but melancholy. The last finger of amber whiskey, a woman's boudoir with no woman, a speech with too many commas and no period at the end. One, two, three things that mean the same thing.
He is melancholia, rolling in the bottom of his mouth, melancholia, pinpricks of pain. Will is three -- younger. Smarter. Quicker. Sam is three more -- missing. Gone. Déserteur. It's classier in French, but you can't disguise with accent aigu that melancholia is, in the end, still sadness.
[CJ, grace, for sangerin.]
Grace
CJ fears she has overused her limit, that this briefing will be the one when she runs out.
There is a finite amount of grace in the world, and one day, she'll use up hers. They should ration grace like they did gas in the seventies. She should speak to the President about this, before something drastic happens, before she is at the podium, graceless and afraid (again), before she trips over her words.
If she is sparing with her cleverness and moves swiftly, she will outthink, outrun, the running out of her lifetime allotment of not failing, of grace.
[Donna, Utopia, for alixtii]
Utopia
Josh explained it to her when she brought him The Republic, relevant parts hi-lighted, instead of his morning briefing on Venezuela.
"You do know what 'Utopia' means, right?"
"...A good place?"
"No place! It means 'no place'!"
"Oh."
She thought he was going to do a whole routine, explaining how this was some place and thus not no place and therefore, not Utopia, Q.E.D.
But he didn't, just nodded, and said, "Venezuela?"
"I'm on it. Josh? Will you read it eventually?"
"Can't. I've got work to do in, you know, this place."
[Leo, snort, for webbgirl]
Rationalizations
He does not snort. He does not sniff or snuff or inhale. He drinks.
Steadily and surehandedly, sunup to sundown, today he drinks. He's gotten good at justifying the second glass. He's not an addict; addicts snort, inject, mainline. He drinks. Just one drink, just two drinks, just one bottle, just two bottles.
Just today. Tomorrow, sobriety.
By the third drink he doesn't need justifications or rationalizations or reasons. He just needs another glass of liquor, and that's the best thing about it. In his more lucid moments he remembers nothing but the simplicity of craving and satiation.
[CJ/Josh, silly, for control_freak80]
Hat
He'd like her to grin. He made her a hat. He folded it out of paper left over from their first administration and gave it to her with careless disinterest. She watched the slow crawl of his smile, sneaking from straight-faced to hysterical, then let herself smile too.
"Thank you. It's very thoughtful."
"You have to wear it. Nine o'clock briefing."
"To what do I owe the honor of this hat?"
He shrugged. "I wanted to make you laugh?"
"Good enough for me. I'll go explain that to the press corps."
"Will you laugh?"
"That depends."
"On?"
"No comment."
"Oh."
[Toby, melancholia, for raedbard]
Melancholia
Not depressed, not sad, not, God have mercy, too sad, Toby, but melancholy. The last finger of amber whiskey, a woman's boudoir with no woman, a speech with too many commas and no period at the end. One, two, three things that mean the same thing.
He is melancholia, rolling in the bottom of his mouth, melancholia, pinpricks of pain. Will is three -- younger. Smarter. Quicker. Sam is three more -- missing. Gone. Déserteur. It's classier in French, but you can't disguise with accent aigu that melancholia is, in the end, still sadness.