fic: benedicta tu in mulieribus (or 7 women Joshua Lyman loves)
the west wing, joshua lyman and various others, pg13, 1425 words, he goes on to greater things
notes: for firstillusion (whose name is not Janie), you're probably the only person who will ever read this, darling, as so few on my f-list are wise enough to watch tww.
1. Joanie Lyman
He twirls, round and round, as Joanie’s nimble hands run over ivory keys. He twirls, round and round, because the music makes his pulse race and his blood pound, and this is like flying.
He twirls, round and round, and the music stops and so does he, but then Joanie is there, next to him, taking his hands in hers, and making small fast circles, round and round.
Her hair falls back across her face. Her hair gleams in the soft light. She’s beautiful, the most beautiful person in the world, and her hair gleams, and she laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs.
Joanie laughs, and it sounds like music, and he clings to her, tightly so tightly, but there are flames.
There are flames and he runs. He runs and his pulse races and his blood pounds and he can hear nothing above the crackle, the sharp dangerous crackle of the fire.
There are flames, and the music stops.
2. Mrs. Lyman
She is a cool hand against his forehead in the depth of night, when the nightmares wrack his seven-year-old body. She is sad eyes, darkened by a lost daughter and a son she cannot heal; she is stronger, stronger than anyone else, she holds the world together, and she is the rock of the Lyman family.
All little boys love their mothers, but this different, this is deeper and tempered by guilt, by heart-rending regret.
As he grows, he lies, easily and readily, but each fib hurts more than it ought to, and he always returns to her. Always begs for forgiveness; it is in these times that he sees her mercy, her unending capacity for love, and hope lessens the stains upon his soul.
Time pulls him away from her, he goes on to greater things, to harder things, and he does not call as often as he should. But when he does, he is patient, is quiet and attentive, and he does not protest her requests for grandchildren or demands that he work less.
But it is not enough.
Mrs. Lyman deserves more than her son can ever hope to give her, and on the bad days he can’t help but think that’s the most tragic thing he’s ever heard.
3. Claudia Jean Cregg
She’s beautiful, all pale long limbs, and he’d be lying if he said he isn’t intimidated.
She sits next to him, on the bus (going from who-knows-where to god-knows-where), long legs folded around her with cat-like grace.
She sits next to him, because Toby’s by Sam (ostensibly working on some speech, but really arguing about the word ‘egregious’), and he can’t say a damn thing to her for fear of tripping over the words.
He rubs his hands across his knees, twiddles his thumbs, shifts in the seat. He’s bad with silence, horrible actually.
Then she’s talking, with what he’ll later learn is discomfort but right now passes for charisma; he laughs, once, twice, and again. He falls in step with her, barters a noun for a verb, an adjective for pronoun, and it’s strange. It’s strange because he’s not good with words; threats, plans, ideas certainly. But never words.
She laughs, suddenly, throws her head back and reveals her long graceful neck. Her laugh is full and loud, and he’s laughing with her, and Toby’s glaring at them, demanding “peace and quiet, damn it”, and Sam’s leaning over, wanting to know what’s funny, and Leo-- Leo’s watching them, from the corner of his eye, smiling a half smile.
He wants to kiss her. Wants to kiss this beautiful CJ Cregg, because she just made them a family. She took this group of lonesome talented people, who all just happen to be working for the same cause, and made them a team.
4. Mrs. Landingham
It’s another one of those days.
The warm embrace of the candidate is still lacking and everything has gone wrong, and God he wants to kick something.
He’s sitting at his desk, though really that’s another thing he wants to kick, shuffling papers blindly, because his mind is on overdrive and concentration won’t come, when he notices her standing at the door.
He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything, because this is Mrs. Landingham. Mrs. Landingham.
Who had one conversation with his new doe-eyed long-legged assistant and came back to tell him that “a man can do great things with a smart girl by his side. You take good care of her, Joshua.”
Who always gives him cookies, even when Sam and Toby and CJ don’t get any. Who’s faced down the Governor in one of his moods, and not blinked.
This is Mrs. Landingham and he can’t yell at her, won’t.
“Josh?”
He looks up but can’t find the confidence to speak.
“You did good today.”
5. Amy Gardner
She is color. Pure color. Light and Dark. Red and Black. Color. Pure Color.
She sits behind her impressive desk, impressive pictures hanging on her walls; teeth bared in something like a smile.
She twists demands around her tongue, makes them sound like questions, she insinuates, lies, taunts, teases, calls him one of those guys, like it should all mean something to him.
He responds, retorts, volleys, pretends to know how to get a footing in this game, pretends he can win.
She smiles, again and again, and he wants to shake her until she stops, he wants to kiss her, he wants her.
He wants her, although this thing is already crumbling around the edges, although it will crash and burn before his eyes.
He wants her.
6. Louise Thornton
“I like to win,” Lou says, as though it’s an explanation.
Maybe it is, or maybe it’s a definition, of who she is and who she wants to be. Maybe he’s reading too deeply into it, philosophical musings once again fueled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
Whatever the case may be, Lou does like to win, and Lou does like to argue. There’s a good chance they’d be in screaming matches all day long, if this weren’t a presidential campaign, if this weren’t so God damn important. As it is, they debate, in harsh whispers that echo through hotel lobbies and airplane hangers and tour buses, with an occasional volume spike thrown in for good measure.
As it is, he has to settle for an inch to every mile she takes. He has to settle, and maybe resentment would grow, but if governing taught him one thing, if the White House taught him one thing, it’s how to wage trench warfare. It’s how to outlast even the unstoppable force.
So they argue, here and there and anywhere else available, and he stops picking every fight, settling for every second or third instead, and Lou’s brows stop being drawn together all the time, and a grin cracks his face once in a while, and animosity dissipates into the early morning air.
There is a campaign to run.
7. Donnatella Moss
She is pure and clean and perfect, like the freshly fallen snow of her home state, like her long blonde hair.
She is unbroken, she is unspoiled, and this is why he will not touch her, will not think to touch her. Not because of the whispers, not because of his loyalty to a man who’s a bit too human for any of their likings, not because of CJ’s watchful eyes (though God knows he’s not lacking in fear of her wrath).
This is why he will not touch her, because she is a smile to his frown, a ray of sunshine to whatever cloud he has summoned, a question and an answer all at once.
He watches, from the corner of his eye, as she flies and flits and dances through the days, as she laughs.
He watches as she stumbles and rights herself once more (sometimes with his helping hand, sometimes with another’s), as she cares too much and hurts herself, as bombs blast and her blood drips into the thirsty sand, as she leaves for the final time.
He watches, and even when he hates her, even when he fears for her, she is still too perfect, too pure, too whole.
He nurtures his hate, but even when it is at its peak, it is also a lie. And then one day, in the moment between two kisses, the world tilts, ever so slightly, and it is himself that he hates.
She is pure and clean and perfect. He hates himself.
notes: for firstillusion (whose name is not Janie), you're probably the only person who will ever read this, darling, as so few on my f-list are wise enough to watch tww.
1. Joanie Lyman
He twirls, round and round, as Joanie’s nimble hands run over ivory keys. He twirls, round and round, because the music makes his pulse race and his blood pound, and this is like flying.
He twirls, round and round, and the music stops and so does he, but then Joanie is there, next to him, taking his hands in hers, and making small fast circles, round and round.
Her hair falls back across her face. Her hair gleams in the soft light. She’s beautiful, the most beautiful person in the world, and her hair gleams, and she laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs.
Joanie laughs, and it sounds like music, and he clings to her, tightly so tightly, but there are flames.
There are flames and he runs. He runs and his pulse races and his blood pounds and he can hear nothing above the crackle, the sharp dangerous crackle of the fire.
There are flames, and the music stops.
2. Mrs. Lyman
She is a cool hand against his forehead in the depth of night, when the nightmares wrack his seven-year-old body. She is sad eyes, darkened by a lost daughter and a son she cannot heal; she is stronger, stronger than anyone else, she holds the world together, and she is the rock of the Lyman family.
All little boys love their mothers, but this different, this is deeper and tempered by guilt, by heart-rending regret.
As he grows, he lies, easily and readily, but each fib hurts more than it ought to, and he always returns to her. Always begs for forgiveness; it is in these times that he sees her mercy, her unending capacity for love, and hope lessens the stains upon his soul.
Time pulls him away from her, he goes on to greater things, to harder things, and he does not call as often as he should. But when he does, he is patient, is quiet and attentive, and he does not protest her requests for grandchildren or demands that he work less.
But it is not enough.
Mrs. Lyman deserves more than her son can ever hope to give her, and on the bad days he can’t help but think that’s the most tragic thing he’s ever heard.
3. Claudia Jean Cregg
She’s beautiful, all pale long limbs, and he’d be lying if he said he isn’t intimidated.
She sits next to him, on the bus (going from who-knows-where to god-knows-where), long legs folded around her with cat-like grace.
She sits next to him, because Toby’s by Sam (ostensibly working on some speech, but really arguing about the word ‘egregious’), and he can’t say a damn thing to her for fear of tripping over the words.
He rubs his hands across his knees, twiddles his thumbs, shifts in the seat. He’s bad with silence, horrible actually.
Then she’s talking, with what he’ll later learn is discomfort but right now passes for charisma; he laughs, once, twice, and again. He falls in step with her, barters a noun for a verb, an adjective for pronoun, and it’s strange. It’s strange because he’s not good with words; threats, plans, ideas certainly. But never words.
She laughs, suddenly, throws her head back and reveals her long graceful neck. Her laugh is full and loud, and he’s laughing with her, and Toby’s glaring at them, demanding “peace and quiet, damn it”, and Sam’s leaning over, wanting to know what’s funny, and Leo-- Leo’s watching them, from the corner of his eye, smiling a half smile.
He wants to kiss her. Wants to kiss this beautiful CJ Cregg, because she just made them a family. She took this group of lonesome talented people, who all just happen to be working for the same cause, and made them a team.
4. Mrs. Landingham
It’s another one of those days.
The warm embrace of the candidate is still lacking and everything has gone wrong, and God he wants to kick something.
He’s sitting at his desk, though really that’s another thing he wants to kick, shuffling papers blindly, because his mind is on overdrive and concentration won’t come, when he notices her standing at the door.
He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything, because this is Mrs. Landingham. Mrs. Landingham.
Who had one conversation with his new doe-eyed long-legged assistant and came back to tell him that “a man can do great things with a smart girl by his side. You take good care of her, Joshua.”
Who always gives him cookies, even when Sam and Toby and CJ don’t get any. Who’s faced down the Governor in one of his moods, and not blinked.
This is Mrs. Landingham and he can’t yell at her, won’t.
“Josh?”
He looks up but can’t find the confidence to speak.
“You did good today.”
5. Amy Gardner
She is color. Pure color. Light and Dark. Red and Black. Color. Pure Color.
She sits behind her impressive desk, impressive pictures hanging on her walls; teeth bared in something like a smile.
She twists demands around her tongue, makes them sound like questions, she insinuates, lies, taunts, teases, calls him one of those guys, like it should all mean something to him.
He responds, retorts, volleys, pretends to know how to get a footing in this game, pretends he can win.
She smiles, again and again, and he wants to shake her until she stops, he wants to kiss her, he wants her.
He wants her, although this thing is already crumbling around the edges, although it will crash and burn before his eyes.
He wants her.
6. Louise Thornton
“I like to win,” Lou says, as though it’s an explanation.
Maybe it is, or maybe it’s a definition, of who she is and who she wants to be. Maybe he’s reading too deeply into it, philosophical musings once again fueled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
Whatever the case may be, Lou does like to win, and Lou does like to argue. There’s a good chance they’d be in screaming matches all day long, if this weren’t a presidential campaign, if this weren’t so God damn important. As it is, they debate, in harsh whispers that echo through hotel lobbies and airplane hangers and tour buses, with an occasional volume spike thrown in for good measure.
As it is, he has to settle for an inch to every mile she takes. He has to settle, and maybe resentment would grow, but if governing taught him one thing, if the White House taught him one thing, it’s how to wage trench warfare. It’s how to outlast even the unstoppable force.
So they argue, here and there and anywhere else available, and he stops picking every fight, settling for every second or third instead, and Lou’s brows stop being drawn together all the time, and a grin cracks his face once in a while, and animosity dissipates into the early morning air.
There is a campaign to run.
7. Donnatella Moss
She is pure and clean and perfect, like the freshly fallen snow of her home state, like her long blonde hair.
She is unbroken, she is unspoiled, and this is why he will not touch her, will not think to touch her. Not because of the whispers, not because of his loyalty to a man who’s a bit too human for any of their likings, not because of CJ’s watchful eyes (though God knows he’s not lacking in fear of her wrath).
This is why he will not touch her, because she is a smile to his frown, a ray of sunshine to whatever cloud he has summoned, a question and an answer all at once.
He watches, from the corner of his eye, as she flies and flits and dances through the days, as she laughs.
He watches as she stumbles and rights herself once more (sometimes with his helping hand, sometimes with another’s), as she cares too much and hurts herself, as bombs blast and her blood drips into the thirsty sand, as she leaves for the final time.
He watches, and even when he hates her, even when he fears for her, she is still too perfect, too pure, too whole.
He nurtures his hate, but even when it is at its peak, it is also a lie. And then one day, in the moment between two kisses, the world tilts, ever so slightly, and it is himself that he hates.
She is pure and clean and perfect. He hates himself.