author: aj (another_juxtaposition@hotmail.com)
codes: leo, g.
spoilers: none.
archive: ask and ye shall receive.
disclaimer: not mine, never will be, but a girl’s gotta have a little fun, okay?
notes: this sits in its own little universe. somewhere, sometime after season one. LE, lyman’s might, oro and kyra rocked the house, all faults are mine and not theirs. and trust me, the story is better because of them. this might have stayed on my hard drive forever if luna hadn’t reminded me of The Project. title and summary thanks to ben folds five.

summary: “the streetlight it shines through the haze/casting lines on the floor/and the lines on his face/he reflects on the day . . .”

*

His callused hands are stiff, shoved deep into the pockets of his navy coat. They are still cold, always cold in February. Leather gloves, a gift from Jenny seven years ago, sit forgotten in his car.

His footsteps are swallowed by the snow, tracks erased. The world around him is wrapped in silence, the falling snow absorbing each sound, every echo in the early morning hours.

The White House washes out in this weather, bleeds into nothingness. Only squinting can he see its melted outline, though it isn’t snowing heavily or even much. Just lightly and consistently, and he has to shake his coat out, wipe his shoes on the mat, leave his umbrella at the door.

The west wing is empty this time of morning, a rarity, and he revels in its momentary quiet. Margaret appears, punctual as ever, turning on lights and computers. She’ll be in soon to rattle off the day’s events, his and the President’s; because Leo always knows, must always know. They’ve done this every morning for too many years but neither would choose to walk away. “Good morning, Margaret,” he calls. They’ve mastered the art of talking through doorways, talking through business as usual. She appears, papers in hand, to continue the ritual that has become his life.

“It’s snowing.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“They say 8 inches by nightfall, which happens tonight at 5:58 pm, and can I just say that it’s remarkable how they know the exact minute the sun sets? The exact minute, Leo . . . right. The schedule.”

She lists the day in chronological order beginning with morning staff at 8 and ending with the CIA briefing at 6:30. Leo’s day begins before and ends after the paper dictates, Margaret is already making changes.

“I need to call and confirm, the GAO called. Fred Jones is having his retirement party today at 5, and I think you should go, you haven’t been out much. It would be good for you, especially since. . . ” She is still talking, but Leo has stopped listening. He’d forgotten about Fred, the name triggering a string of remembrances and a pang of guilt.

Fred Jones, product of the American dream and Puritan work ethic. Jenny’s friend, Jenny will probably be there this afternoon, and he hasn’t seen her in months. The divorce was nothing like he expected, nothing like he dreamed. No bitterness, no lamp throwing, no hurled accusations that cut through the heart. It was paper and signatures, phone calls in the middle of the night, exhaustion. Leo didn’t - doesn’t - blame her. He’d like to tell her he wishes things were different, but he’s too old to lie and she’s too smart to believe him.

“I have Chesney and Hill about the ag bill at 5, Josh is meeting with Adams at 4:30 about teacher incentives, Toby and Sam are still stuck on the labor speech. Does my afternoon look free? Don’t look at me like that, Margaret. See these papers in front of me? It’s called work. Send him a card or something, won’t you?” She looks down on him, her objections clear. She’ll cast disapproving looks throughout the day until he’s ready to fire her from exasperation, from knowing she has a point.

“You should go.” But she leaves, and the glasses slip on. He begins to read, all thoughts of Fred Jones disappearing within the Careers to Classroom Act.

*

Time doesn’t move with rhythm in the west wing, it dances across their days in spurts and stops, unpredictability its only constant. Margaret knocks, and his staff files in to officially begin the day. In this job, the days never really end, but they mark them with routine nonetheless.

“What’s on for today?”

There are bills in the Senate, disgruntled Congresspersons in the House, proclamations by the Pope, photo ops and speeches to write. Nothing urgent, but everything is urgent.

The meeting is quick, there are no questions.

“Oh, Sam?” Sam, in his impeccably pressed white shirt, breaks from the leaving procession. “You know Fred Jones?”

“The guy that’s been at the GAO since the beginning of time?”

“Something like that. He’s retiring today, I’d like you to write him a note or something. Something from the staff, someone’s already got the President’s message.” Sam’s face is painted with confusion. “He was a friend of the family, he’s known Mal forever.”

Fred knew Mal since the beginning, and he saw her even more as time went on. Leo has often wondered how much Fred knows, if he knows how many times he stared at Mallory’s wide eyes looking down from the top of the staircase as he paced, furious, enraged, drunk.

“Of course, I’ll get right on it.”

The door shuts and everything echoes.

*

Alcohol didn’t kill Jenny, work did. Priorities laid naked, stark in their unconscious alignment. Sometimes Leo wonders if he would have stopped, if he could have stopped, simply for Jenny, for Mallory. The dirtiest skeleton in the closet: he has to wonder.

*

Leo doesn’t notice when lunch arrives, doesn’t notice the note from Margaret in the middle of his desk. She walks into the room sometime later, her eyes immediately aware.

“Leo! You need to eat!”

“I don’t need you telling me what to do, Margaret.”

“Yes, you do.” She pauses for a moment, and then nods. “And Nancy McNally’s on line two, she says it’s about India.”

“Put her through and bring me the memo from State.” His hand involuntarily moves to rub his eyes, a sigh escaping. The flashing red light is persistent. He wants a drink. He always wants a drink.

“Good morning, Nancy. What’s going on?”

“Our satellites have located surface-to-air missiles in Pakistan. It seems like they finally convinced someone to sell them a couple of TOWs.”

“Does the Indian government know?”

“We haven’t been able to establish that yet. I should have a complete picture in an hour.”

“Okay, we’ll push the briefing up to one.”

“Thank you, Leo.”

“Nancy?”

“Yes?”

“This isn’t going to be resolved today.”

“No.”

“Okay. Okay. Thanks.” The silence echoes. It’s all so easy, he thinks, too easy. And nearby, Fred Jones is packing his life into boxes, knowing at the end of the day there will be a cake and a goodbye, and something new will start.

Fred’s day is ending.

*

The security briefing at one goes smoothly. Pakistan is catching up to India thanks to some help from Iran and Turkey, but India still has the nuclear bomb, so everything is where it was before: in a strange state of waiting. Nancy reassures them all simply by her presence; she is calm and collected with a thin file in her hand. She shows the President pictures of the missiles and he groans loudly.

“It’s all a game of chess,” he says, “and both sides have lost their rooks. But India still has her queen.” He rubs his hands through his hair. “How far along is Pakistan from having the bomb?”

Nancy is still standing. She never sits in these meetings, though sometimes she rocks back and forth on her heels. “Our best estimates say five months. They have to get the plutonium from somewhere and figure out the logistics, but if you ask me, one of the satellite states, or Russia itself, would be willing to do a little trading.”

“Funny how the world turns into a caring means sharing nightmare,” the President grumbles.

Leo stands up. “Anything else?”

“No,” Nancy replies. “I’ll be back at 6:30 for the debriefing.”

“Thank you, Nancy.” The President stands and Nancy leaves silently, folder in hand.

When the door closes Jed looks at Leo. “Well, that could have gone worse. It almost seems too easy.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yeah, cause it might bite you. And everyone likes their fingers.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” an element of sarcasm evident in his tone. The President only smiles in reply. Leo leaves through a different door, on the left. Leo has his own door and he bets Fred Jones never had that.

*

The President wanders casually into Leo’s office and settles down on the couch. “You see CJ around lately?”

“No,” he replies, warily. “Can I ask why you are avoiding her today?”

“I’m supposed to get my picture taken with about three thousand different school children, a high school basketball team, some college group for something or other, and five foreign dignitaries. It’s picture day with the President, and this President wants to play hooky. She’s been stalking me all day. Do you think I can get a restraining order out on her?”

“And I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“Remind me again why you’re my chief of staff?”

Leo grins.

“Did you hear about the Pope condemning violence? Made the front page of the Times. CJ’s going to want a quote.”

“Tell her the President thinks the Vatican has finally seen the light. That it needs to take its light out from under the bushel a little more often.” Jed crosses his legs, feet up on the couch cushions.

“The Vatican is really going to like that.”

“Oh, let her make something up. CJ’s a smart girl. We condemn violence, they condemn violence, amen. Now let’s do something to eradicate the violence. I don’t suppose there was a plan including in that genius declaration, was there?”

“Don’t you, you know, have work to do?” Leo has picked up the file on Careers to Classrooms Act again.

“I do have work to do, don’t you see? That’s why I can’t spend my whole day taking pictures!”

“The Republicans are threatening to filibuster the teachers’ incentives.”

Jed groans. “You’d think that would be something we can all get behind.”

“I’ll get Josh on it. Send him to the Hill, see what’s happening.” Leo is skimming pages rapidly. “And now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. President, I have a meeting with Chesney and Hill about corn subsidies, so I really don’t have time for your games at this minute.”

“When did you get to be such a stuffy old man, Leo?” The President stands up. “I guess I’ll have to face the firing squad.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, thanks. Your sympathy is simply radiating from you.”

*

CJ knocks. “I’ve gotten a few questions on India, and Pakistan?” She says it like a question, he hates when she does that.

“Yeah.”

“The President knows what’s going on?”

“Yeah.” The files he needs are never where he wants them. “He had his security briefing at one, but nothing new is happening. Pakistan’s got surface to air missiles now, India lost that advantage. We support peace in the region, State is sending people, and refer them to Nancy if they have questions later.” “Okay then.”

“Anything else?”

“The President doesn’t want to have his picture taken today. As if I never have a bad hair day, the least he can do is smile for the camera.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

Her words echo, and he thinks of all the times they have done things they didn’t want to do, how perhaps that is part of the definition of their jobs. But they do them, and they smile and crack jokes, even when they are breaking inside, even when they can’t fall asleep at night.

Jenny knew that, in the end, and when he said he would change she didn’t ask him to. She knew before he did, and the hours after dragged, and the days faded into nights and mornings and meetings and bills.

*

The day passes. They always pass, even the todays that bleed into tomorrows: Monday shootings, Thursday anniversaries, Tuesday deaths and Wednesday announcements.

Leo stares at the photograph on his desk: Leo, Jenny and Mallory, years ago, when Mallory’s hair was still curly, their smiles as wide as the Pacific. It’s easy to forget, Leo thinks, and puts the frame in his top drawer. He’s part of a different family now.

It's rained and snowed and hailed, they have weathered tropical storms in May and early freezes in September. These are things that are out of their control. They know their limitations, most of the time. They understand there are things they cannot change, most of the time.

Sam knocks on the door holding a piece of paper. “I have the thing for the retirement party.”

And now Fred Jones is retiring, young at 57. Fred is still happily married, with three grown boys and a barbecue out back. He’d somehow managed to keep it all. Oh, Leo is sure there are some skeletons in his closet; everyone has dirt in their backyard. But Fred Jones managed to keep it all together.

Leo is both stronger and weaker than he remembers. There has been birth, death, war, starvation, devastation and the creation of hope. Horror, shock and wonder. He prevailed over addiction, over loneliness, over the hardships of everyday life, and failed more times than he’ll admit. He has fallen, he has risen, and he has fallen again. Alone and surrounded, he has been lost and loved, killed and been killed.

He has been beaten, he has beaten, he has lost. Lost, and lost, and somehow regained footing. He has survived. The world hasn’t made things easy for Leo McGarry. He hasn’t made things easy either.

Sam reads from a thin white paper, a paper that symbolizes a day of work and a value of worth, the same piece of paper that will be recycled in about an hour.

“Today marks the end of one moment and the departure into the second period of your life. It is this part of life that leaves many of us nervous and worried, but perhaps the most important moments occur hereafter. You will have time to experience life without a pager, to read the newspaper without calling the office, to keep dinner dates with your wife. Your life has been a great asset to this administration and to those prior, and you will be missed. We congratulate you on your achievements, and know the best is yet to come.”

Leo looks up at Sam. “Good. Give it to Margaret. Anything else?”

“No, it’s been a slow day. Everything is fine.”

“Now there’s something we don’t hear too often.”

Sam pauses. “Really, everything is under control. You could, you know, go to the party if you wanted.” Sam’s eyes focus in on Leo and he feels heavy and old.

“Just because it’s been a slow day doesn’t mean there’s nothing to do,” he replies. Sam shrugs and leaves out a different door than the one he came in, the one that leads to Margaret, the one that leads to the way out.

*

They file into his office, Josh straggling in at the end.

“They should fire them all, Leo. We should fire them all. The House is full of idiots. The Senate too, for that matter. No common sense, not one of them.”

“I take it you made no progress?”

“It depends on how you define progress. If you’re thinking something like putting a few smug Republicans in their places and watching them squirm, then yes, I was successful. If you define it as convincing them teacher incentives help everyone, then no.”

“You’re so cute when you fail,” CJ comments.

“Shut up.” They’re like siblings, Leo thinks, all of them. “They want a trade. Teacher incentives, more money in the next budget for defense.”

“What is it with Republicans and their missiles?” Sam muses.

“Well, it’s kind of like what is it with men and their – ” CJ gets cut off.

“Can we focus here? Before I kick you all out?” Leo remands them. “Toby, tell me about the speech.”

“Finished a draft. Sam here was no help since he was doing your little, your little exercise, but there’s a draft. Bonnie’s looking it over now.”

“I expect a copy on my desk by tomorrow morning. And don’t forget, we have to include the language the United Farm Workers sent over.”

“It’s in there.”

“Good. Sam, help him with that. And thanks for the note.”

Sam nods in reply. He never looks flustered, never questions anything to Leo’s face. Leo thinks, the son of a man lost. He wonders if Sam has nightmares about abandonment, and then reminds himself to focus.

It’s CJ’s turn, the middle child, the sister with brothers, she had to learn to hold her own. It took her a while, Leo admits, but now she stands on her own two feet.

“How did the photos go?”

“He was Mr. Grumpy today, and I’m glad there weren’t translators in the room half the time, but they all got taken. India and Pakistan went over fine, Nancy’s doing a great job. Peter came over from State and it should make the top fold of the Time and the Post, but that’s good for us.”

“And the Vatican?”

“Everyone treated it as a joke. No problem there. Someone asked about the relationship with the President and the Pope, if they talked before this, I said I didn’t know, but there’s going to be a follow up tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“If the President had a direct line to the Pope the Vatican would suddenly lose the ability to use the telephone.” Everyone laughs. “But you can get a quote from him tomorrow. He’s being debriefed by Nancy right now, and then he’s heading back to the Residence. It’s going be a slow day.”

“A slow snowy day,” CJ says. Sam laughs.

“Oh look who can use alliteration now!” Josh exclaims. Toby rolls his eyes.

“Okay, all of you, out. Now.”

“But CJ – ”

“Out!”

It’s seven pm and his office is quiet. Jenny is probably clinking glasses with Fred Jones. Maybe the two of them went to dinner after the party. Maybe –

He was a drunk then, he was an addict then, but he was still powerful and everyone knew it. Fred held the same office for over twenty years. Fred was, is, nothing like Leo.

Sometimes Leo wonders if this is a life, or just a job.

*

Leo rubs his hands in circles on his temples. The letters in front of him have begun to blur, the darkness outside his window long time present. Margaret pokes her head in to say she is leaving, red hair covered by a green plaid hat. He tells her it was a good day.

It was a good day, he thinks, but just another day in a long string of many. And who knows what tomorrow will bring. Even Fred, probably out drinking at a bar somewhere, someone else picking up the tab, doesn’t know. What Leo would do to have a drink. But not with Fred, no, Fred who knows too much about the Leo, the Leo the world doesn’t see. The world that Jenny knows, that Mallory knows.

And Fred Jones was always there, despite his own family, when Jenny called late at night. He would come over and talk to Leo, try to bring him down from the rage, pour the vodka down the sink. Fred Jones was a friend, but he was Jenny’s friend, and that meant dealing with Leo to protect her.

He should have gone to the party. He should have sent his own card.

But Leo’s too old for regrets.

*

The President is on the portico without his coat, a cigarette lit between his worn fingers.

“You shouldn’t smoke Mr. President, it’s bad for your health.”

“Really? My God, the Surgeon General is certainly making advances these days.” His voice doesn’t travel as far as it usually does, each syllable punctuated by visible air. “Everyone tells me it's bad for my health, Leo. It seems they forget it's my health to worry about. Why is that?"

“Maybe because you’re the President, sir.”

“You know, I often forget that detail about my life.” His feet shuffle slowly over the worn concrete path. “So why did you come out here? You’ve never liked the snow.”

“I like the snow, sir, I don’t like to freeze, but I like the snow.” There is a moment of quiet, everything still except the falling snow.

“India has a few missiles lying around, at least they’re even with Pakistan now. I spent the day getting my picture taken while the Pope and other religious leaders have decided to condemn violence, a novel idea I have to say. Toby and Sam spent the day writing six lines of a retirement card for some guy in the GAO, teacher incentives are stuck the Senate, but they tell us it was one of the easy days. And it was, Leo. It was.”

“There’s always another step. It’s just a question of not falling flat.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He rocks a bit on his heels. “It was a good day.”

“Yes.” They are rare enough that there is nothing more to say.

“Leo,” Jed says, staring out into the distance. “What is this?”

It’s a loaded question and Leo isn’t up to the challenge. “Just two men alone in the same cold.” Leo takes a step backward. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Leo.” He turns. The door is opened for him. Leo leaves the President behind and walks through the Oval Office, silent. There are papers on his desk, always papers on his desk. He flips through them and decides they can wait. Jacket, coat, scarf, reminds himself not to forget the umbrella. The hallways are empty, bathed in a faint light.

Leo walks out into the falling snow that absorbs each sound, every echo in the late night hours. His hands are shoved deep within the pockets of his wool coat, still cold.

They are always cold in February.

*

the end, the end, the end.
  . send a flower .
    . back to the garden . .