Gunpowder (Charlie/Josh)




Your first impression is that he doesn't understand your language.  

You came about the messenger's job and they sent you to this guy with 
wilder hair than looks right on a white man, who lulls you in a 
frantic sort of way.  He talks quickly, not rudely, packing in more 
information than you can process and prying out more than you can 
keep track of.  

An easy smile, obviously the kind he'd throw away on anyone.  It'd be 
almost offensive; except this place is awe and you can't ignore the 
prickle of excitement that he'd consider you worth throwing a smile.  

Still talking, restlessly casual, it's as if he expects you to 
believe all this is completely normal.  He doesn't seem to 
understand.

"I think there's been some kind of mistake," you try again.

He stops.  You're busy thinking that isn't something he does often 
when you remember you don't know him at all.  He tilts his head and 
eyes you all over and pride kicks in to straighten your back.  The 
smile widens and crosses over with a smirk, blended admiration and 
power and whatever else he's made of.  Dimples take over his face.  
Your hands clench.

He’s making a speech about gut instinct when another man storms in, 
wearing heartbreaker looks and a face full of angry distortions.  
Josh splits his defensiveness between you, the newcomer and something 
less palpable.  

You look from one to the other, trying to find your bearings.  It's 
not hard to tell more has gone on there than you'll ever find out 
about.  Your new friend, Sam, snaps that Josh is asking if you're 
gay.  

You look back to Josh, but his attention is nowhere near you and he's 
turning up his authority.  You should say something.  You could make 
a lame crack about being twenty-one and fucking anything that moves, 
but you can’t say that in here.  

Anyway, Sam says you shouldn't answer, and so you never do.


*


When you remember that day, you remember, "I've never felt like this 
before," was the only thing you could say.  You never had.

You remember Josh standing beside you, just about the only thing you 
were aware of besides President Bartlet.  You remember the crowding 
around Bartlet himself, and Josh being so close his elbow brushed 
your one and only necktie.  You knew CJ was CJ and, had your 
heartbeat slowed for thought, could have figured out Leo was McGarry.  
The others were a mystery.

The only thing that could overwhelm the awe was your need not to 
embarrass yourself, and you dragged your voice out from deep within 
when Josh gave you the nudge to speak.  

The rest floats together in your memory.  All you know is that you'd 
never felt like that, but you have since.  When you said it, Josh, 
smiling with more heart and less arrogance than earlier, seemed to be 
looking right inside you.

"It doesn't go away," he said.

Ten minutes ago, you told him he was right.

"It doesn't go away," you said.  He looked, showed you the same 
smile.  It felt the same.

You're thinking about that more than listening to Zoey's chatter when 
you hear Gina yell.  

The world crashes. 

Minutes masquerade as hours, and then you're racing after CJ and Sam 
towards Toby's cries.  People are sinking to their knees but you stay 
up: down is too close to his body.  EMTs start tearing clothing 
aside; you look away.  Looking right inside Josh isn't all you 
imagined it could be. 


*


Josh has been out of surgery for two days and it's pushing toward the 
wrong side of conspicuous that you haven't seen him yet.  

You’ve practically moved into the hospital.  There isn’t much the 
President needs from you now, but he only gets impatient when he’s 
tired.  

Zoey's trying to make you talk about your feelings and you're 
treating her like shit.  It's better to see him than to deal with her 
speculation, so you slip inside while he's sleeping.  (That, and you 
need to know if the bullet broke his dimples.)

You make an event of silently pulling the door shut behind you, 
unsure of what you're going to do once you're with him. 

You've seen death and he doesn't look like that, but the body on the 
bed is unrecognisable as the man who lifted you off the streets and 
sat you on a horse and pointed you to Camelot.  

The cough rouses him, a painful sound like nails on a blackboard in 
his chest.  You arch forward, a protective urge overcoming 
awkwardness, if only for a moment.  His eyes change at the sight of 
you; perhaps familiarity is calming.  You pass him a tissue but he'd 
have to strain to lift his arm so you hold it to his mouth instead.

"Okay," you mutter.  He tries to speak and you wave him down.  "Don't 
do anything alarming."  You always sound calmer than you feel.  You 
were always the best at getting your baby sister to settle.  

His mouth crinkles in a watered-down chuckle.  "Where've you been?"

If you picture more blood in his cheeks and more caffeine in his 
movements, it's almost him.  He's looking at you in the sharp way he 
does when he's paying attention.  They didn't blow his brains out.

You've got to come up with an answer; you won't be able to stand it 
if he tells you it's not your fault.  He wouldn't be the first.  He 
might be the first to get why the idea that anyone could think it 
might be is so offensive, but he almost died and you don't want to 
take chances.  

You're not about to apologise and there's no way to say, "They didn't 
shoot you because of what I am; they shot you because of what they 
are," that doesn't sound like, "I don't care."  

You need to come up with an answer but you don't.  It becomes too 
late.

Josh shifts his position, seeking comfort.  It doesn't work.  His 
face is the same shade as the sheets.

"You okay?" he asks.

Zoey's a nice kid, a smart kid who tries hard, but she wasn't worth 
this.

"This wouldn't have happened if I'd been fucking Donna."  

The fact that Josh doesn't respond lets you imagine you make sense.  
You lean back, a hand extended behind your neck, kneading out 
tension.  "Maybe I should've been fucking you."

His laugh is dutiful and dry, rasping in and choking out.  It cuts at 
your throat.      

"Maybe next time," he says.

You look down.  The eyes he's looking up through are puffy and lined 
in crepe, but you can't resist a grin.  His cheeks are still dimpled.
 

*
 
 
This year he's more morbid; his streak's become a slick.  

Nevertheless, you didn't think of him when you collected Dee on your 
lunchbreak and went to lay your flowers.  You still can't afford a 
decent headstone.  Maybe next year, if the lawyers don't clean you 
out.  

Mom didn't set much store by anniversaries, but you need to pluck a 
time from the busy world to think.  And it matters to Deanna, who's 
far too old for her body but still crumples like the child she could 
have been.  Once in a while you're there to see it.  
 
There are other things to think of today but Josh can't quite 
understand that.  You made sure you were home for dinner but Dee had 
eaten already.  She was at basketball practice by the time you got 
home, and when she got back she flew to her room to turn up the 
sounds of angry girls playing at being hip-hop.  There's no sign of 
life in response to the pounding at the door - she can't be expecting 
anyone.  That leaves one person, and that means one thing.
 
The second you pause just to look is enough to satisfy him, and 
you've seen it all before.  The smile's half-slid off his face, not 
sure it shouldn't be ashamed to be there.  He stops shifting from one 
foot to the other at the sight of you.  The spark in his eyes is as 
sorrowful as anything you've seen.

You turn away to rouse from its dormancy in the freezer the bottle of 
Jagermeister kept for such purposes.  (Be prepared: you're a boy 
scout, with bigger worries and rougher sex.)

He's shifting from one side of his backside to the other by the time 
you sit down.  These are the moments he doesn't know how to play 
with.  You could be angry at the way he initiates then doesn't know 
what to do.  As if you should know.  You might be the one who keeps 
his cool and guides in careful steps, but as if you've got a fucking 
clue what to do with a man like him in a world like his.

Splashing considerably more than a measure in a plastic cup, you 
throw back yours and press another upon Josh.  It chills your guts 
then turns to a burn that's gentle and ominous by turns, and 
accelerates you sinking your weight towards his side of the couch.  
Nudging your leg against his.  You are the one who keeps his cool, 
and if you were going to get angry, it wouldn't be over this. 

A couple of swallows and a couple of flinches in, he looks at your 
hand on his knee and hesitantly asks if you want to talk about your 
mom.  A couple more and kissing is good enough.  Half a dozen 
attempts to be a drinker and he's trembling against your body while 
he murmurs half of stories about his sister, the good parts never 
making it past his lips.  They're too dry, those lips.  

It's probably wrong that you're listening and nodding and thinking 
this isn't going to be good tonight.  You've known too many people 
who've suffered too much.  You can't feel it all for them - not even 
for him.

You decide he's had enough about an hour later than Donna would have 
done.  You manoeuvre him down the hall more easily than Donna 
possibly could.  His eyes clear when his head hits the pillow.  He's 
always believed he's better at this, more fit for this than it's wise 
to rely upon.

Dee turns the music up.  Reverberations pass through the wall, up 
your leg and thud with your heart.  You focus on rhythm above 
discomfort.  It takes forever to make him come, and it's too late to 
talk by the morning.


*


It's almost surprising how unsurprised you are by his manoeuvres.  

Stopping by your desk, the end of a day that would seem long to most 
people, "How 'bout that drink?"  

He means an actual bar, not your place.  You play along.  You frown 
when he starts lining up shots.  He plays with his glass and doesn't 
follow your lead when you toss one back, just watching your throat.

"Do you ever think," one foot against the bar, fingertips flicking 
off the bottom of the glass, "You might want to get back with Zoey 
sometime?" 

You’ve always had to rely on smoke signals, but this is almost 
pathetic.  You don’t like to think of him like that.

You take another drink and a shaded look at his stricken smile.  You 
know the sight of Josh in pain.

"Yeah."  You let out a long breath ending in a sigh, like expelling 
smoke, but that's never appealed to you.  "It's crossed my mind."

He is punctured and reinflated in the course of a second, mimicking 
your exhalation.  He steps back from the bar and rocks on his feet.  
You imagine him clicking his heels together and wishing you away.

"Yeah?  'Cause you were, you know, you were nice together."  He downs 
his first of the night and you wait until the shudder has passed all 
the way through.

You agree, "Nice."

A few minutes nodding along to let him know you won't fight, then you 
nudge the conversation towards Donna’s latest ex.  No, he isn’t happy 
with that, and turns to face the bar.  You don't feel like another.  
He drinks up.

It's time for you to stand back.  You don't stare, watching with half 
an eye all night as he unravels.  Maybe he's making an ass of himself 
in compensation.  Maybe he's doing this for you.

Dealing with him drunk in public could be as embarrassing to the 
administration as anything you've done, but you take care of it (a 
clean job, no mess).  

You tip him out of the cab and he leans back in, holding on to the 
roof by the tips of his fingers.  You're breathing his alcohol and 
you pull your face back before he can do something stupid.

"Charlie."

You dig your elbow into his swaying side.  "I'll see you at the 
office."  His mouth hangs half-open.  Nobody knows the secret to 
preventing Josh from saying something stupid.  You add, "Hey, I might 
give Zoey a call."

The wind goes out of him; he stops blowing.  He rests a heavy hand on 
your shoulder and pats once he's found his balance.  "Good.  Good 
night, Charlie."

You have the driver wait until you've seen him enter the building.  
He's framed in the doorway, looking back.

Josh doesn't change much, no matter how hard you fuck him.




End.

May 2004