Title: An Easy Step to Silence Author: little zigzags Rating: R Pairing: J/D, very minor Josh/Amy, Donna/Cliff, and Donna/Jack Disclaimer: No money from these beauties. Spoilers: Through '2162 Votes' Summary: It's not quite comfort and it's not quite possession, this thing between them. A/N: So, I thought I'd disembark from the fluff wagon for a little while. Many thanks to caz963, who, although she may not know it, sparked this piece through her, *ahem*, inspiring post on 'War Crimes.' Those dark, sexy scenes set the mood for this story. Oh, and comments are almost as lovely as casual Josh. Also, my LJ is sad and lonely, kind of like Josh and Donna are sometimes. I'm open to friending! "From politics, it was an easy step to silence." -Jane Austen Toby has a smudge of blood on his throat, just below his ear. She doesn't want to tell him, but she doesn't want him to find it alone, either, in front of his mirror when he finally stumbles home. By then, she thinks, Josh will either be alive or he'll be dead and either way she doesn't want Toby finding his blood swiped across his pulse like some strange tattoo. He grasps her wrist as she bends over him to dab at it with a wet handkerchief. They look at the pink stain together. "Yea," he says. This is where she should be worried, because Toby glues words together with ink and brilliance and he can't speak, can't say anything on this night. "Yea." CJ's throwing up in the bathroom and Sam's got his forehead pressed against a wall as he tries not to cry and she, she should be worried, because here, like this, waiting for so long with her face open and her knuckles white, she looks like she's in love with him. She's not sure if she is or isn't, but she's not sure she cares about the differences now. **** It's not quite comfort and it's not quite possession, this thing between them. She's pretty sure she hears him growl at Cliff as he stands before them, handing back the diary like an offering. She moves to take it but it's Josh that takes it swiftly from his hand; turns without a word with a hand at her back. It's dangerous, this game he's playing. Claiming her with his palm on her coat, bartering her private thoughts like currency in front of this man that's not really on their side. Really, she knows, it's all bravado. He's never read that diary or had his hands anywhere on her without two layers of cloth between them; Cliff grasped her ass in his hands as she came and it's eating him alive. She supposes this is why she follows him, lets him take her to a nondescript bar and watches as he drinks his whisky quickly and orders another. "Josh," she says, her glass halfway to her mouth but he shakes his head, not looking at her. Later, he walks her to her apartment and she waits for him to speak. She wishes for that brief moment of peace she felt out by the fountain, when she realized in some strange moment of clarity that it was a mistake to sleep with Cliff. She was stupid to think that it would all be that simple, because in her world, mistakes involve him. He proves her right with his hands on her upper arms, standing like he always does, too close, too warm, his face too open in the yellow light of her hallway. He's trying to talk to her but no sound is coming; she's vaguely aware of the wall behind her back. She can smell the whisky on his breath but he doesn't look drunk. He looks sad and angry, and he's much too close, breathing her air, and despite their usual wordiness she thinks this may just be the conversation, him looking at her mouth and so close she wants to slap him. She should have pushed him away as he sears her mouth with his lips, but she lets him kiss her like it's an apology, like it's enough. He's branding her, his hands hot on her hips, tonguing her incisors, and she's almost processed the fact that she's more than a little turned on before he breaks away from her with something like a sob in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He's not looking at her, he's breathing hard, he looks mortified. He's leaves quickly and she remains in the hallway for several minutes before fishing her keys out of her purse and going inside. **** There's this one time, when they're working and it's late, or early maybe, and suddenly Amy is strolling through the bullpen with two cups of coffee and her secretive, predatory grin. She's unannounced and unexpected and she enters his office without asking if he's in. But of course he's in. It's Josh, and there's a vote in the morning, and he's pacing his office and mumbling and counting the names on his blackboard for the forty-seventh time. So she's here too, less because she has things to do and more in a sort of silent vigil, to make sure doesn't try to use the phone or spontaneously combust or start calling senators at one AM. She gets up a few minutes later to do something: use the bathroom; file something; fucked if she can remember, because he's forgotten to close his office door all the way. He really should have, given what she can see. It's nothing too risqu‚, but she's pretty sure he wouldn't want her to see him kissing Amy like that, his hands underneath her jacket and his tongue in her mouth. She can't help but look, simply out of the incongruousness of the scene. Amy is loud and hot and self assured; she overshadows him, all his charm and wit and sweetness from across a room. But as he kisses her, she looks positively meek, bent slightly back over his arm across her waist. She looks away, sits down, shuffles papers. Hopes he doesn't come out and see her hot face and quick breaths. Later that night she dreams in vibrant colors; wakes flushed in her sheets and curses herself for being so damn pathetic. **** They're on the campaign trail, some no-name bar in some no-name town in the middle of Iowa. She likes it, likes the anonymity as they scramble in the middle of this dark, flawed struggle. But still, they're having an okay time tonight. Toby is heckling CJ, who throws back her head and laughs that full-throated, captivating laugh that makes everyone in the place turn to watch. Josh and Sam are acting like frat boys, laughing and pounding on the bar and she thinks they may just have had too much to drink. It's all fun and games until some guy chooses to cop a feel as she stands by the bar, her hip cocked as she waits for her drink. She's about to hit him, yell, do something, when Josh comes out of nowhere, sleeves rolled up, both hands curled in the guy's shirt as he shoves him backward. She guesses she shouldn't really be surprised as he lands one perfect right hook against the bigger man's jaw. He turns and stalks from the bar, leaving the guy in a heap on the floor. She can hear CJ yelling at him out outside- "Chivalry my ass, Joshua, what the hell were you THINKING?"-and Toby ambles off, a hint of a smile around the cigar between his teeth. She can't decide if she's irate or touched or maybe a little of both, and she gives up trying to decide because in the end, this is how he always makes her feel. Later, she hands him ice wrapped in a wet towel, rubs his father's watch where it chipped against the guy's tooth. He's not looking at her, and she wonders idly what she would see there if he did. **** There's this one time when she thinks she might be pregnant with Jack Reese's baby. She's seven days late and he's in a good mood that day, grinning and joking and swaggering around the office. He disappears for half an hour and returns with that sundried tomato sandwich she likes, dimples flashing and a warm hand on her shoulder. She goes to the women's bathroom and lets herself cry, big heaving sobs until she feels the blood start to spread in her underwear. **** She's home and her leg is killing her and Josh is there, trying to make her laugh and failing miserably. He's not fooling anyone; he's all forced smiles bracketed by that gutted, mournful face, and she tries not to watch. She knows the drill; he's covering his tracks and he's tossing files in her lap and he's trying to forget about the look on her face when she thought she was dying. She wants to tell him its useless; that he'll remember all of it. That Toby still thinks of his blood pouring from beneath his hands. That she remembers every damn second she spent waiting for him to die. She's struggling to get from the couch to her chair so she can go to sleep, but the pain is coursing through her and her cast is unwieldy and he's making her anxious even though her brought her movies and popcorn and her Vicodin refill. "This is just ridiculous," he says, and before she knows it he's picking her up in his arms and carrying her to her bedroom, and she feels like one giant clich‚ until she looks up and catches half a moment of his sweet, unguarded face. He's looking at her with more tenderness than she knows what to do with. She wonders what it will be like to leave him. **** It's a campaign and they're on opposing sides and she thinks that should be enough for the hotels to put them on different floors, different halls, hell, as far apart as possible but she can't believe how many times she ends up across from him, down the hall from him, so close she can usually hear him yelling into his cell phone. There's the time she thinks she's safe, when Russell's doing well and she's more than a little tipsy off the rounds of cheap beer Will bought everyone down in the bar, and she thinks it's probably okay to invite Bram up to her room. She's not sure she's really attracted him; he's too tall and too plain but really, she's so lonely she's about to jump out of her skin, and she lures him back to her room so she doesn't have to fall asleep again to the drone of the heater and her wild, doubtful thoughts. She almost doesn't see him, all the way down the hall. He's holding a key card in one hand and a stack of files in the other, and he's looking right at her, the grim line of his mouth juxtaposed with his fired, sad eyes. She feels her gut clench as he gives her one soft nod, and she can't help but watch him, his hand flexing as Bram's palm meets the small of her back. You should be with me, he'd told her, and left her to wonder what exactly he'd meant. He doesn't touch her anywhere now, not even through her clothes. She wonders if she still would have done it if she had known he was there. **** She's wandering around, not really knowing what to do with herself. He's the man of the moment, the name on everyone's lips. Not Santos, not Leo, those might be on everyone's television but here, in this building, people know to look for Josh. People are looking for him and he's nowhere to be found, and she's hoping he isn't comatose from sheer exhaustion on the morning after the Democratic National Convention. She finds him not far from where she left him the night before, feeling discomforted and anachronistic as she sipped at her beer. He's passed out, face down in the cushions on a couch in the corner, one arm hanging off the side, an empty beer on the floor. He certainly owes her for finding him first. She sits gingerly on the edge of the sofa and puts a hand in between his shoulder blades, shakes gently. "Josh." She starts at the warmth radiating from his body. It's the first time they've touched in months and she's still processing it as he turns over on the couch and grasps her wrist reflexively. She watches as his eyes turn from sleep to recognition, watches as his face closes in on itself. He coughs self-consciously and takes his hand from her arm, and she feels a deep, alien pang of tenderness as she recognizes the embarrassment on his face, the pink tinge on his cheeks. He stands slowly, sleep rumpled and creaky. "Thanks for waking me. I, uh, have to go find the Congressman." He looks around for his jacket, finds it crumpled in a corner. "Yea." She doesn't stand. Doesn't know where she'll even go when she does. "Josh." He turns by the door to look back at her, suit jacket slung almost suavely across his shoulder. "Congratulations." She tries to smile at him. He gives her his ironic half-smirk, shaking his head a little as he stalks off down the hall. She wonders if this is the victory he'd wanted.