All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. Four Decembers: Kacey, Kelly, Stephanie, Meghan. And a January to Jae, whose challenge it was in the first place. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. Four Decembers And A January Violet
I. Merry Christmas, Baby
He could have been a statue, frozen in the dark, one hand over the telephone. His face was still wet, but his throat was parched and tight as mummified muscle. He couldn't cough.
He couldn't call. He had nothing to say.
So he drew his hand back and wiped his eyes. Told himself to think. When you've known someone for thirty-two years, there must be words to say. Hey, kid, I'm about to get caught lying again. No big surprise. Happy holidays. No. But forgiveness was a lot to ask, and middle ground was hard to find.
A familiar monster stepped on his back, small and heavy, claws digging in to clutch his spine. It spoke with the voice of age and truth, bitter in the back of his mind. Congratulations on surviving this long. Tomorrow's another day. And he was bowed already with the weight.
Through years like murky water, he remembered coming home in the smallest, darkest hours. Jenny was precise with every garland and star, but the best way to look at a Christmas tree was blind drunk. Each point of colored light splashed and spilled into the next, beautiful blur like abstract art. He was singing when he came in, something between carol and dirge, and tripped over Mallory, curled up on the floor behind the couch.
"Jesus Christ, baby, what're you doing up?"
She blinked, sleepy and sweet. "I wanted to see Santa."
Then she peeked further, scanning the loot, piles of crimson and gold, and hidden in the back, was that a bicycle? Her eyes went wide, and he wasn't thinking--of course he wasn't. Twenty-five years later, he still heard the hollow, cruel humor in his own voice.
"Santa's not coming, okay? Go back to bed."
And still saw her face falling, saw her turn, silently breaking, and run upstairs. He fell asleep on the couch, woke with his skull screaming at seven a.m. He watched his daughter tear through the wrapping paper, bright as the morning. Jenny sat beside him, murmured in his ear, "I can't believe she let us sleep this late. I guess she wore herself out trying to stay awake." So she never told her mother, little co-conspirator, lying like a trooper--how old was she when he taught her to mix a drink? When she stopped using his last name?
His tongue tasted of dust; his hand trembled and then stilled on the desktop. Hey, sweetheart. Just thought I'd say hi. Sorry I ruined your life. I'm glad you take after your mother. Merry Christmas.
He could have been chiseled from stone. Portrait of an old man who lost the war. Then his downcast eyes found the crumpled napkin, and he shrugged his shoulders straight. There's life in this one yet. Steel at the core of these crumbling bones. But he felt the ache of footprints on his back, and left the phone in its cradle.
He couldn't call, not yet. His mouth was too dry for speech.
II. Calling The Moon
"I want to be everything," he said, stopping the car a safe ten feet from the pond. "Everything to you."
She wasn't ready to look at him. So she stared at the dashboard instead, dusty blue leather and beyond it, glass, trees, ice. The moon, and they were going to put a man up there in the next few years, or so the President had said. There was light frost on the windshield, and she felt it on her skin, creeping under her cardigan. "What's everything?"
He laughed, the gentle laugh she loved. "Well, what do you want?"
A lover. Friend. Provider? No. She knew it at her core, where the chill couldn't touch her, where there was always fire: she had to take care of herself. And she would--crossing her fingers next to her knee--if she could make it through the next four years.
He saw her hand move and covered it in the dark with his own. "This isn't a test."
But it was. And he was so sure she would pass, like he was sure of everything: that he could find a way to feed poor children, that there was healing in her hands. So sure. If she even breathed doubt she felt like she'd already failed. "You can't just ask me things like that," she said.
"Sorry." He released her hand, and moved his arm to her shoulders. The shock of brown hair falling onto his forehead was silver in the moonlight, and his eyes like stars. "It's simple."
"Really?"
"No. Yes. I want the best things in the world for us, Abbey. I want to make this the best world for us."
"Can you do that?"
"I can do anything." He leaned closer, and she remembered that stars were burning, even when they twinkled. "Everyone says so."
Everyone did. No one ever said that about her, expecting that she'd have babies and give the rest up. Just like her mother, like everyone's mother. But he loved to hear her talk about medicine. He believed in her as an article of faith. She shivered. "I won't go to England with you."
His face was as calm as still water, or the sky. "I know."
"You don't mind?"
"I'll wait."
He would, and they both knew it. She wondered if she could do the same. She wanted to; feared anything that might change her mind. But she looked at him, and thawed, and smiled. "Just don't start naming our children."
"Edward and Elizabeth," he said with a straight face, and he was kissing her.
With his hands in her hair, she felt the earth fall away. The used Ford was a satellite, and gravity was gone--physics was never her field. She could taste the future on his tongue, feel it where his fingers brushed against her body. When they stopped to breath, she was the one laughing.
"I want the moon," she said.
"It's yours," he replied, and for the moment she believed him.
III. At Midnight, All The Agents
Fourteen men looked her over as she left; she should've worn chameleon skin instead of red glitter. Even outside there was surveillance everywhere, eyes tracking her stride across the frosted lawn. But she could do this, even with all the agents watching.
He was waiting for her, tugging at his silly, charming white tie. Penguin suit. She gulped a nervous laugh like champagne. "What's your code name?"
He touched his forehead, making her watch his hands. "Vulture."
She hid her shivering with an exaggerated shudder. "I thought mine was bad. That's terrible."
"Eagle was taken." He shrugged. "You needed me?"
She needed to tell him. Without whining: everyone from Ann Stark to Ainsley Hayes smirked at her. Her credibility got screwed, and she worked too damn hard to take it. Someone coughed. Her skin prickled as an agent passed in the shadows. She lifted her chin. "We need a break."
"A break?" His tone was half sarcastic, half sincere. To make her talk. Let him make it worse, then; she was iron.
The party was peaking. Half of Congress was there, lobbyists, staffers, lawyers, and one President dancing uncomfortably with his wife. Another thing to handle without handling, spin without touching, another reason to do this. She squared her shoulders. "I don't want to go to bed with you all the time." A flat lie. She amended, "I don't have the energy."
He didn't bother to stifle his laughter. It made her blush, made her furious. "Shut up. I mean, we just have work and sex and work, and I need." She couldn't say she caught herself staring at him, she was tired of him, sick of him and still she wanted more. Love wracked her nerves and her stomach and her sleep, wore her out. "Time. And space. For other things."
Other people; naturally it sounded that way, even if she didn't mean that. He nodded. "You're right."
She exhaled. Let him make it worse, then. "You said yourself once, this"--us--"shouldn't be something that made life harder. It doesn't mean--"
"You're right." He looked slapped, yet relieved: the gloves were off. They were quiet. Finally, he added, "Well. Auld lang syne."
She matched his tone. "Fuck you."
"Hey." He pointed his chin past her, past black human shapes to the glowing windows. She held her breath and heard cheers, then music, swelling.
"It's a stupid song."
He reached out, slid his hand into her hair, his tongue into her mouth. Even in this horribly public place, she kissed back, melting like metal, soldering herself to him. She wanted more, but she wrenched herself away.
"See you in the morning," he said.
She couldn't tell if he smiled at her, if he saw her shiver. She dabbed her mouth with two fingertips, licked her lips fast, turned away. Her shoes were wet. She tiptoed, but she kept her head high. The agent at the door murmured into his sleeve. She passed without blinking. She could do this.
IV. December Will Be Magic Again
One stray flake drifted onto his cheek, dissolved there to the exact thickness of a tear. It was the first snow Sam had seen in Washington, and he turned his face up to it, standing motionless and reverent until Josh barreled into his side and nearly knocked him into the street. "Hey!"
Josh wrapped an arm around a streetlight for steadiness, his face reflecting its unfiltered golden light. "Looked for a second like you were having some kind of a fit or something."
Sam scuffed his shoe along the sidewalk. "I was appreciating the snow."
"Appreciating?" Josh snorted. "You should get a tattoo. Property of the State of California." He reached around the lamppost and touched Sam's forehead. "Right here."
Sam chuckled. "And I think you've had enough to drink."
"For Chrissakes, quit talking to me like I'm twelve. I'm old enough to be your lousy father."
"I'm twenty-six." He was patient; they'd had this conversation before. "You're thirty."
"Twenty-nine."
"You turned thirty two weeks ago."
"I think I would remember that. Wouldn't I remember that?"
"Not if you spent the entire weekend lying under the coffee table. Either way, you're not old enough to be my father, lousy or otherwise."
"Is this the little boy I carried?" Josh sang, in a frightening off-key warble. "Is this the little girl at play?"
"You get gay when you get drunk," Sam observed, unable to stop smiling. His jacket was flimsy and unbuttoned. He wondered why he wasn't cold.
"At least I'm not appreciating the snow."
It was probably the alcohol, not just tonight's beers but the cumulative effect of weeks of celebration: election night, Josh's birthday, and now the holidays. He'd been drinking too much since he came to Washington. He didn't want to go to New York, or even home to California. He wanted to stand perfectly still, so he did, and the snow danced down light as laughter.
"And there were in the same country shepherds," Josh said quietly. "Keeping watch over their flocks by night."
Sam turned his head so fast he was dizzy. "You know Christmas specials?"
"I'm Jewish, Sam, I don't live in a bubble." He snickered. "Didja ever see that movie?"
"Charlie Brown?"
"The Boy In The Plastic Bubble."
Sam laughed. "What are you talking about?"
"I don't know." Josh swung out from the streetlight and pulled Sam into a one-armed hug. "What are you talking about?"
"I was talking about how I appreciate the snow. It's--" He held his breath and let it out in a cloud. "This city. Is beautiful. And in the snow, I wish I was going to stay here forever."
"Someday you gotta spend a winter in New England." His mouth hovered close to Sam's ear; his breath was warm and whiskey-sweet. "It'll cure you."
"I don't want to be cured."
Josh jerked his head toward the bar. "Wanna go inside?"
"No." So they didn't. The snow kept falling, clean and perfect as a first kiss.