![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereHey, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
slodwick? Are you putting these stories up on the website, or just collecting links? I ask, because I have the picture that inspired this, but my sites on geocitie's, so there's basically no point trying to link to the image. It won't show on LJ, and even cut and pasting the URL won't work. Hence, I can email you the pic if you're posting these on a site, or I'll fuss around with geocities and find someway to link to it.
Title: Buildings and Bridges
Fandom: West Wing
Spoilers: Vague S4, although by this stage, I think almost everyone knows how the season ended for Sam.
Challenge: A Picture is Worth 1000 Words Challenge - Take Two (if it was SV, I'd also offer it for the Ani Difranco Title Challenge, but I think I need to go finish that WiP.)
Autors Notes: Big thanks toshoshannagold who didn't mock my need for constant reassurance. *g*
Buildings and Bridges
Josh once asked him if he’d ever seen a therapist. He hadn’t. Not regularly. There had been the compulsory evaluation after Rosslyn, everyone in the West Wing filing in and out of offices, talking and being psychologically graded. He can remember jokes about passing or failing, about report cards being sent to their parents.
Some of the staff had gone back more than once, but he’d just had that one evaluation. Just enough to talk about the shooting, those moments when all that mattered was Josh’s laboured breathing and the dark stain on Josh’s shirt. He had recited, yet again, what had happened and who had been hurt, with the same sincere eyes and slightly pained smile that the television cameras had loved.
They just said, “Thank you for your time, Sam,” and sent him on his way.
***
He thinks back on the White House with vague... something. He’s not sure what it is. It’s not regret, or wistfulness. It’s not despair, or hope, or even happiness. He’s not sad, not fond, but just... numb. He doesn’t think he should be able to look back with vague numbness. The words don’t work together, don’t make sense, but at least he can spell. Even if his words are failing him, he’s still a writer. Just a bad writer.
He thinks about how he talks these days. He’s had five years of not having time to think about how he speaks, of only his written words being important. Now, it’s habit to refer to every third noun as a thing; to talk quickly and repetitively, to force the words out before he’s quashed by someone quicker and louder. By someone smarter. More cunning. More worldly. More cynical.
He thinks about his words and just feels vague.
***
He considers seeing a therapist. Not because he needs to, but because it’s Orange County and everyone who’s anyone has a tan, a boat, and a regular therapist. His mom blithely suggested it and suddenly he had cards for the most popular therapists in the area.
Sitting on his childhood bed, he spreads out the discreet business cards, small white rows lying before him. They stare back at him, but none catch his attention. He thinks about making an appointment just to please his mom. Then he remembers how his dad baulked at the same suggestion.
He gathers the cards back up into a neat pile, and leaves them sitting on his desk.
***
He looks at his half-full glass of water and wonders if he’s still an optimist. He does think of it as half-full. Then again, he’s never heard anyone actually describe a glass as half-empty, so maybe that saying isn’t a reliable measure.
He thinks about writing to Toby, but the pen scratches so loudly he can't hear his own thoughts. He considers emailing Donna, but the words die before they reach the keyboard. He thinks about calling Josh, or CJ, and just talking, but he doesn’t have anything to say.
He remembers the busy White House life, so he isn’t surprised that they don’t contact him either. It vaguely depresses him, but lifting his glass, it still looks half-full.
***
He doesn’t read the political section of the newspaper. He tries to drop out of the world, to leave policies, Senators, and Congress behind him, but he still catches glimpses of it on the news.
When his mother asks him if he’s made an appointment with anyone, he laughs and stalls. He reminds her that he used to work at the White House, that if he wasn’t sane, they would have realised. Then he thinks about Josh and broken glass and the Ave Maria. He thinks about Toby and his bouncing balls and eternal cynicism. He thinks about Donna’s flightiness and scattered enthusiasm. He thinks about CJ’s graceful isolation and the way she strives to be one of the boys.
He remembers lies and omissions, compromises and backroom deals, adulation and applause, and wonders if therapy should be compulsory for everyone working in politics.
He thinks about the bullpen and realises they were all outcasts as children. Too smart, too nerdy, too tall, too sarcastic, or too capable to be accepted. The ambition to enter politics, the motivation to change the world, just seems to be a way to prove yourself in a nation of childhood bullies. He wonders if political aspirations are worthy or just petty. It probably doesn't matter.
***
He wants to move. He wants to have a reason to leave home again. He wants to work anywhere that isn’t California, New York, or the District of Columbia.
He writes his résumé and lists “Domestic Policy Adviser” and “Deputy Director of Communications” as if a title can summarise years of long days and longer nights, of adrenalin and ideals and action. He lists vague duties that really don’t explain how he influenced the administration or why he spent a Saturday researching the penny.
He half-heartedly writes application letters. The jobs are scattered across the country, which feels good. He starts them confidently but when he reads them aloud he only hears Bartlet’s voice. He can't discreetly ask for a job in that tone.
He can’t remember when his words last sounded like Sam Seaborn.
***
He doesn’t see a therapist or send any application letters. He stays with his mom and wastes his days sailing, staring at the sea. He only drives when he has lunch with his dad.
One day, his dad offers him another drink. Looking at his glass, Sam says, “It’s only half-empty,” and starts to laugh. He can’t explain the joke, but on the drive back, he buys a card and addresses it to Toby. Monochrome children hold flowers, saying, “Wishing you every happiness.” Signing the inside, his name feels like the most definite phrase he’s ever crafted. Posting it, he pictures Toby cringing at the Hallmark cliché, and he smiles.
When he gets home, he packs his suitcase, and thinks that some heartbreaks just take longer to heal.
“We are made to bleed,
To scab, and heal,
And bleed again.
And turn every scar into a joke.”
Ani DiFranco - Buildings and Bridges
slodwick? Are you putting these stories up on the website, or just collecting links? I ask, because I have the picture that inspired this, but my sites on geocitie's, so there's basically no point trying to link to the image. It won't show on LJ, and even cut and pasting the URL won't work. Hence, I can email you the pic if you're posting these on a site, or I'll fuss around with geocities and find someway to link to it.Title: Buildings and Bridges
Fandom: West Wing
Spoilers: Vague S4, although by this stage, I think almost everyone knows how the season ended for Sam.
Challenge: A Picture is Worth 1000 Words Challenge - Take Two (if it was SV, I'd also offer it for the Ani Difranco Title Challenge, but I think I need to go finish that WiP.)
Autors Notes: Big thanks to
shoshannagold who didn't mock my need for constant reassurance. *g*Buildings and Bridges
Josh once asked him if he’d ever seen a therapist. He hadn’t. Not regularly. There had been the compulsory evaluation after Rosslyn, everyone in the West Wing filing in and out of offices, talking and being psychologically graded. He can remember jokes about passing or failing, about report cards being sent to their parents.
Some of the staff had gone back more than once, but he’d just had that one evaluation. Just enough to talk about the shooting, those moments when all that mattered was Josh’s laboured breathing and the dark stain on Josh’s shirt. He had recited, yet again, what had happened and who had been hurt, with the same sincere eyes and slightly pained smile that the television cameras had loved.
They just said, “Thank you for your time, Sam,” and sent him on his way.
***
He thinks back on the White House with vague... something. He’s not sure what it is. It’s not regret, or wistfulness. It’s not despair, or hope, or even happiness. He’s not sad, not fond, but just... numb. He doesn’t think he should be able to look back with vague numbness. The words don’t work together, don’t make sense, but at least he can spell. Even if his words are failing him, he’s still a writer. Just a bad writer.
He thinks about how he talks these days. He’s had five years of not having time to think about how he speaks, of only his written words being important. Now, it’s habit to refer to every third noun as a thing; to talk quickly and repetitively, to force the words out before he’s quashed by someone quicker and louder. By someone smarter. More cunning. More worldly. More cynical.
He thinks about his words and just feels vague.
***
He considers seeing a therapist. Not because he needs to, but because it’s Orange County and everyone who’s anyone has a tan, a boat, and a regular therapist. His mom blithely suggested it and suddenly he had cards for the most popular therapists in the area.
Sitting on his childhood bed, he spreads out the discreet business cards, small white rows lying before him. They stare back at him, but none catch his attention. He thinks about making an appointment just to please his mom. Then he remembers how his dad baulked at the same suggestion.
He gathers the cards back up into a neat pile, and leaves them sitting on his desk.
***
He looks at his half-full glass of water and wonders if he’s still an optimist. He does think of it as half-full. Then again, he’s never heard anyone actually describe a glass as half-empty, so maybe that saying isn’t a reliable measure.
He thinks about writing to Toby, but the pen scratches so loudly he can't hear his own thoughts. He considers emailing Donna, but the words die before they reach the keyboard. He thinks about calling Josh, or CJ, and just talking, but he doesn’t have anything to say.
He remembers the busy White House life, so he isn’t surprised that they don’t contact him either. It vaguely depresses him, but lifting his glass, it still looks half-full.
***
He doesn’t read the political section of the newspaper. He tries to drop out of the world, to leave policies, Senators, and Congress behind him, but he still catches glimpses of it on the news.
When his mother asks him if he’s made an appointment with anyone, he laughs and stalls. He reminds her that he used to work at the White House, that if he wasn’t sane, they would have realised. Then he thinks about Josh and broken glass and the Ave Maria. He thinks about Toby and his bouncing balls and eternal cynicism. He thinks about Donna’s flightiness and scattered enthusiasm. He thinks about CJ’s graceful isolation and the way she strives to be one of the boys.
He remembers lies and omissions, compromises and backroom deals, adulation and applause, and wonders if therapy should be compulsory for everyone working in politics.
He thinks about the bullpen and realises they were all outcasts as children. Too smart, too nerdy, too tall, too sarcastic, or too capable to be accepted. The ambition to enter politics, the motivation to change the world, just seems to be a way to prove yourself in a nation of childhood bullies. He wonders if political aspirations are worthy or just petty. It probably doesn't matter.
***
He wants to move. He wants to have a reason to leave home again. He wants to work anywhere that isn’t California, New York, or the District of Columbia.
He writes his résumé and lists “Domestic Policy Adviser” and “Deputy Director of Communications” as if a title can summarise years of long days and longer nights, of adrenalin and ideals and action. He lists vague duties that really don’t explain how he influenced the administration or why he spent a Saturday researching the penny.
He half-heartedly writes application letters. The jobs are scattered across the country, which feels good. He starts them confidently but when he reads them aloud he only hears Bartlet’s voice. He can't discreetly ask for a job in that tone.
He can’t remember when his words last sounded like Sam Seaborn.
***
He doesn’t see a therapist or send any application letters. He stays with his mom and wastes his days sailing, staring at the sea. He only drives when he has lunch with his dad.
One day, his dad offers him another drink. Looking at his glass, Sam says, “It’s only half-empty,” and starts to laugh. He can’t explain the joke, but on the drive back, he buys a card and addresses it to Toby. Monochrome children hold flowers, saying, “Wishing you every happiness.” Signing the inside, his name feels like the most definite phrase he’s ever crafted. Posting it, he pictures Toby cringing at the Hallmark cliché, and he smiles.
When he gets home, he packs his suitcase, and thinks that some heartbreaks just take longer to heal.
“We are made to bleed,
To scab, and heal,
And bleed again.
And turn every scar into a joke.”
Ani DiFranco - Buildings and Bridges
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-01-30 11:30 am (UTC)I can host the picture for you if you'd like, and then you could post it on this page. (I'm guessing the picture is of a glass half full of water - am I even vaguely close?) You can always ask me if you need a picture hosting.
no subject
Date: 2004-01-30 12:25 pm (UTC)*beams* I figured you'd already know, but just in case...
I can host the picture for you if you'd like, and then you could post it on this page.
Dude, thanks for the offer. But, I'll kill two birds with one stone, and post it to my geocities site! Save me having to update the site later.
(I'm guessing the picture is of a glass half full of water - am I even vaguely close?)
Heh. No. See, that would have been far more logical, and a lovely little visual. The picture is actually of an empty bed. *g*
Re:
Date: 2004-01-30 08:29 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-01-31 06:54 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-01-31 01:38 pm (UTC)Oh, yeah, topic. Um... I had some trouble with it, and apparently it's screwing up again. On the good side, the picture (or where it is) is a link to the picture file, so if you click it, it should lead you to the pic.
Oh, btw, I'm sure you'd realise, but I added the text myself and turned it into an easy cover. *g*
Re:
Date: 2004-02-01 04:33 pm (UTC)I nearly ended up using all the Clark in glasses icons I made! He's so cute in them.
And the picture shows up for me know! I like the checked boxers crumpled up on the bed! *g*
But you really ought to put 'by Annie Grayston' on the cover too.