All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. Brothers In Arms Violet
He says yes.
Josh says yes to the bartender and the third round comes, and for once, Donna doesn't complain. Sam swears the beer tastes like honey and clover, and Cathy and Ginger want to know how he knows what clover tastes like, and he has to admit he doesn't. It doesn't matter, because Josh decides that Sam is right, and the beer is like honey, and the light is like amber, and the night is like one in New Hampshire three and a half years earlier. The only new things are the scars, but that's all right too, because it's much easier to be scarred than scared. Back then, there were countless layers of questions about the future, and in the morning there will be the same. But tonight the most important question has been answered, and there is beer that is mysteriously sweet, and there are their arms on each other's shoulders and their laughter and their voices in each other's ears.
He says yes.
Leo says yes to Margaret and she leaves almost reluctantly, much more energy and sparkle in her than there should be at three in the morning by any decent standards. He watches her go and paces slowly around his office, treading a small circle. Watching his steps an observer would think he was exhausted and weighed down, and he is, but watching his face an observer would see something else. He does believe in numbers, and he does believe that there has been a breach of trust. And he also believes in his own words: Act as if ye have faith, and faith shall be given to you. And so a smile crinkles his face as he reaches for the phone and dials three digits of his daughter's phone number -- and stops. And the smile stops. He is tired. But the strength behind it is visible when he starts over, when he twists the band on his finger, when his ex-wife picks up the phone, and when he hears her voice.
He says yes.
Danny says yes and the intern puts sugar in the cup and passes it to him, and he leans against the window of his office as he takes a sip. There is blue ink smudged all over his fingers, and he has never fumbled his pen so many times during one press conference. The managing editor is arguing with the news editor over headline sizes and which picture goes on the front page, which one is inset on A6, and whether at this hour they have time to roust someone with a medical degree to write a sidebar or perhaps they can just dig something up on the Internet. Danny lets it wash over him, into him, does not pass a judgment or hold an opinion. He is perfectly objective. The editors see him standing there with his coffee, not writing, not moving, and wonder if he's all right. He cracks a slight smile as he recedes into his office, toward his laptop.
He says yes.
Toby says yes and lets C.J. come in, and she sits on his couch with her hands folded, looking for all the world like the Catholic schoolgirl she once was. He debates telling her this but decides, for now, not to demonstrate a death wish. He offers her a drink. She refuses, certain that any alcohol right now and she'd spin right off the planet, out of orbit and into the stars. He knows this is both ridiculous and true, so he sits beside her sober and silent. She asks him suddenly if he ever dreams about falling, but he doesn't. She does, once in a while, and claims there are three ways it can end. He doesn't speak, but the quiet asks the question, and she holds up her hand like a little girl, counting on her fingers. Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly. The beginnings of a smile flicker between them for a while before he touches her.
He says yes.
John Hoynes says yes, yes, and pins his wife's wrists to the bed with one of his hands. In the background the television is incessant, relentless, the same two clips he knows he will hear for another five years. He kisses Ruth hard, bruising his mouth against hers, her teeth stabbing into his lip, and he's tasting blood, and he doesn't care. Tonight he'd like to kill the President, or at least step back and point a finger at him, yelling the word liar as loud as he can. He knows what went on in those offices the last few days, how hard they must have struggled to decide this. And now it's his turn to determine where he stands, when he runs. Damned if he doesn't have to decide before dawn. The television drones on. The woman beneath him clutches at his shoulders and calls his name. He can barely hear her over his own pulse as he slams into her, angry and hungry.
He says yes.
Charlie says yes and comes inside from the rain, closing the door behind him. Bonnie gives him the phone and gets her coat. On her way out, she gives him a look like the ones he gives Deena when he's sure she's gone out of her mind. He wipes rain and sadness off his face with his hands and brings the receiver to his ear. Zoey is almost babbling, her voice scratchy and choked with tears, some attributable to joy but many more to pain. The line is bad because of the storm, and he can't make out some of her speech, but he hears the important parts. His voice is low and reassuring, and he's not sure she's listening, but she calms down gradually, and he promises he'll take her to breakfast in the morning. She swallows hard against the lump in her throat. He does the same. Her laugh crackles over the line and she murmurs that this is some weather they're having, isn't it?
He says yes.
Jed says yes and goes into his bedroom, hearing Ron Butterfield tell the radio that Eagle is in for the night. His wife's Secret Service name is Empress, and certainly Abbey looks regal now, still dressed for the camera, hands firmly on her hips. Her eyes follow him with the mix of soft and sharp they always have, cutting through him not without kindness, never without love. They have raised three children, and this woman has seen him through more than -- almost -- anyone. There is a stab of pain at his heart, a fresh ache that he knows will quickly grow familiar. He looks at this Empress, this mother, this healer, this woman, and can only ask her if they are okay. He isn't sure exactly what he means by these words, with their ambiguity, the echoes and implications. But she looks at him and into him and beyond him. And she answers all the important questions in the simplest way.