victory_road | So you want to be a Pokemon Master?

[There's a guy with wings standing in the middle of the Ilex Forest. They're angel wings, technically speaking, but their spottiness makes them look more like they've been stolen from a very large owl and transplanted onto his body, somehow.

For the record, he doesn't like them.

Also for the record, he doesn't like this whole situation much, either.

Because as it just so happens, an owl — a Noctowl, to be precise, one that's only a few inches shorter than Josh — has taken an interest in him. And the thing is, he'd think he were still in Hell if not for the lush greenery and blissfully cool air surrounding him, but something tells him he isn't, exactly. Even with the monstrous-sized owl staring him in the face.

But Josh has had dreams like this before, so he doesn't even think for one second that any of this is real. It can't real. He's dead. He's going to wake up and continue being dead and hot any second, now. Probably, he guesses, he'll wake up as soon as he finds his way out of this forest, because isn't that just like his dreams to serve as a giant metaphor for something he won't even remember upon waking.]

...hey.

[The owl hoots softly in response, head slightly tilted.]

I don't suppose you know how to get outta here, do you?

[The owl gives him a look like, Are you stupid. And before he can say anything else, it gestures with a wing, in a motion that nearly knocks Josh off his feet, toward the pathway to their left.

And it's in that moment that Josh realizes his subconscious has turned the memory of Toby Ziegler into a giant owl, which he thinks is only fitting, considering how this thing is wearing what looks like a permanent scowl.]

Great. Thanks.

[When he takes off walking, the owl stares after him, obviously confused. Like, what the hell is the point of those wings if you aren't going to use them, stupid?

And it's in that moment that the Noctowl decides he'd better follow this one, just in case.]

Edited 2016-11-25 15:38 (UTC)

...Well, then.

[ It has been a meatgrinder of a year. Working for the President of the United States is never a walk in the park, less so in an election year, even less so in an election year like the one they've been running, and least of all when there's a widow in Orange County holding onto a promise that you never in a million years thought you'd have to keep.

Then of course, the actual day of— What happens? Sam Seaborn disappears off a corner in the District of Columbia and is suddenly... Not. ]

I guess this is as good a time as any to have a— You know. A complete nervous breakdown.

[ There isn't any other reason Sam can think of for being in the middle of a forest surrounded by nature in its various forms. Sure, he's outdoorsy and vaguely enjoys said nature (not) but he kind of has a job to do and for most people their jobs don't have the fate of the world riding on it but... Again. President of the United States. Kind of a big deal which goes and explains how a relatively healthy guy who occasionally made it to the gym during lunch ends up with a hallucinogenic aneurysm of some sort.

This theory is doubled down as an oddly colored bird flaps onto a branch and cocks its head at Sam. He's pretty sure birds don't look like that. Relatively. Call it 85% plus/minus 2. Maybe his mother was right and he should've joined the Boy Scouts when he was younger. ]

Hi! [ Said bird tweets animatedly back in response before zooming at Sam and settling in his hair. He's waiting for a Hitchcock homage to start any second now but it seems as if the bird is just...abnormally friendly. ] Oh, uh. Maybe too much of a hi.

[ The small bird chirps happily in spite of all attempts to gently shoo it away, and starts to preen Sam's hair. At least it's not biting him? He's pretty sure that would be a little bit worse than what his stress-addled brain has already cooked up for him. ]

Okay, I'm probably twitching on some sidewalk and drooling while talking to myself in my own head. But there's a small weird bird that may or may not poop in my hair so. Got that going for me.

Edited (shut up i can follow rules of writing and grammar) 2016-11-25 21:37 (UTC)

[Oh.

Sam's here.

Or Sam's voice is, anyway; Josh would know it anywhere, still. But he figures the voice is connected to the rest of him, probably, if he could only just figure out what direction —

The owl hoots again, catching Josh's attention, and directs his gaze via another vaguely annoyed wing-jerk toward Sam, who is standing, literally, only a few feet away.]

Oh.

[Said mostly to himself, and to the owl, sheepishly. So there they are: Two Ivy League boys, talking to themselves in the middle of a forest while birds bother them.

Seems about right. Seems par for the course, as far as Josh's dreams tend to go.]

Hey, buddy. [Louder. Loud enough for Sam to hear him.] You've got a little, uh... [And should Sam look over, he'll see Josh, gesturing at his own head and smirking.]

[ Sam jerks around a little too quickly for someone with an avian passenger on their head — imaginary or not, he doesn't really want to knock the thing off — but the Fletchling has better balance than one would expect given how large its head is. Of course he recognizes Josh in kind and isn't surprised for his best friend to appear in his weirdo fever dream unconscious whatever so he can roll with it. Even smile a little bit in relief because when Josh is here (in whatever figment form) then he's got somebody he trusts backing him up and from there the impossible's just one more line on the agenda to cross out. ]

I know. [ He opens his mouth at the sight of the very grouchy looking owl flanking Josh before closing it because really, what room does he have to be talking about birds right now? But then he opens it again because... Uh. ] You've got a little something going on yourself. And by little I mean—

[ A general gesture at the giant freaking wings that are just hanging out of Josh's back. Sam knows this is all in his head but the metaphor is kind of on the nose and honestly, he would think his subconscious could be a little more nuanced. What's next — Mallory showing up with little red horns and a pitchfork?

...Not that he'd be against that if it fell into his lap but. Details. ]

Yeah.

[Said like, duh.]

Not to be meta, but you've seen them before.

[This must be what lucid dreaming feels like. What he's referring to is all the previous dreams in which Sam has appeared and hasn't made a fuss over Josh's wings, so he can't imagine what's changed in his subconscious between then and now.

But hey, whatever. Such is the nature of dreaming. Or Freud would say so, probably.

He takes a few steps closer, leans in, and stage whispers:] I think Toby over there's a little jealous.

[The Noctowl doesn't even blink.]

Uh... No? I definitely think I would've noticed those the last you popped in with the California numbers.

[ Sam knows he's been... Well. Preoccupied is putting it mildly given his particular situation with the 47th but. Yeah, he'd definitely have noticed someone walking around doing an in-depth Touched By An Angel homage. ]

Josh. [ Glancing around Josh's shoulders...and the wings that apparently go with it now... he takes in the large owl before looking back at Josh in concern. ] You don't actually think that's Toby, do you.

[ Because he really— Okay, there's a bit of a resemblance but at the same time if his brain is going to start pulling Toby's voice out of that beak Sam thinks he's really going to lose it. ]

I mean. If you're showing up, you'd just think Toby would show up as per his usual, un-winged self too. [ Sam frowns to himself as the Fletchling scoots forward to peer at Josh curiously. ] Or I'd think so. Which really is the whole impetus behind this mess so it would stand to some sort of subconscious reason.

[Wait, what? Josh's brow furrows in classic confusion, and even he has to look back at the owl for a second. If that owl isn't his mental representation of Toby, what the hell is it?

And what the hell is this about California?

And what the hell does Sam mean, if you're showing up? Does he think he's dreaming? He said something about twitching on the sidewalk and drooling, but —

Josh holds out a hand as he looks back to his friend, pressing the big imaginary pause button on this entire conversation.]

I have some questions. First of all, what California numbers?

The 47th. You were telling me how we were looking at tracking polls, not the exits which... Gotta say, did not go and make my day any better. I mean, I'm presuming I'll get out of this sooner or later but Will Bailey's still gonna be in Orange County and then I'm really going to have to pay the piper.

[ A distracted hand runs through his hair, dislodging the Fletchling with no small amount of musical dissent. It settles on his shoulder before Sam flashes a tired smile at Josh before he shrugs. ]

By the way? This is where you're supposed to say something inspiring or pithy or both. [ His eyebrows arch before he drops his gaze to the floor with a self-deprecating laugh. ] I guess I'm not that good a writer without somebody to bounce things off of.

[Josh isn't saying anything. Josh is just staring, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

The Fletchling on Sam's shoulder could be lighting fireworks and singing in Urdu right now and even that wouldn't be enough to break Josh's attention away from Sam's face. Or to rid him of the pit that's suddenly opened in his gut.

Even the Noctowl, which takes this opportunity to fluff up and shake out its wings. Even that super disconcerting sound isn't enough.]

Sam, I have no idea what you're talking about.

[ Yeah, there are very few things in the world as disconcerting as Joshua Lyman not saying anything and it doesn't take too long for the uncertainty to draw lines on Sam's forehead. ]

Well, that's just not true because you told me about it a couple hours ago. And if you know it and I know it and I know you know it then why the hell do I have to explain it to you here? [ He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. This has got to be the worst coma ever. He's half tempted to ask Josh if he had to deal with this nonsense under anesthesia at George Washington but there's no point given that this Josh wouldn't have that answer. ] C'mon, something's got to start working with me here.

[Josh's dream version of Sam is usually much more cooperative than this. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't present Josh with baffling information. He goes with the flow, they do their thing, whatever that may be, and the dream ends. Josh wakes up. Josh goes about his day in Hell.

He looks down at his hands and pinches his left arm.

Nada.

Tries again.

Still nothing. Still not waking up. Feeling in stomach getting worse.]

...c'mere.

[Josh lifts his gaze to meet Sam's again, then gestures with a finger to come hither and offers his arm for the pinching. Because if that works, if Sam can touch him at all, then they're both in a lot of trouble.

He's tried this in his dreams before, and it never works.]

Josh, I don't really—

[ This isn't doing much to allay any uncertainty steadily building and tightening in Sam's chest but Josh asks. Josh asks him to do something and it'd take a hell of a lot more than whatever is happening in his head to keep him from answering. So when Josh offers up his arm, Sam blinks between it and the expression on Josh's face (which doesn't tell him anything anyway, thanks for nothing) with dubious written in large, bold letters on his forehead. ]

Figured that would be my line but,

[ is what he mutters to himself before reaching out and pinching Josh like any other morning where Josh stole the last bagel. Or the last doughnut. Or the last of any kind of breakfast food left in the Roosevelt room for the morning meetings.

At least his subconscious has made Josh plenty solid enough for said pinching. ]

[Right.

Okay.

This is a problem.

Josh pulls away from the pinch as if Sam just held a lit match to his arm. It's not that it hurt — it just surprised him, is all. Or would be all, under normal circumstances, like a circumstance in which Josh weren't dead but somehow not dead because Sam just said he talked to him a couple hours ago.

He closes his mouth and swallows around the lump in his throat.]

You think you're dreaming?

[But if you're dreaming and I'm dreaming then WHO'S RESPONSIBLE FOR TOBY BEING AN OWL.]

No, [ Sam answers slowly, as if speaking to Ainsley about obvious Republican nonsense or to some other sadly deficient audience. ] I just finally reached a point where the stress of the past year and a half has so thoroughly warped my mind that I'm sitting on some pavement outside a polling place while I stare into space.

[ At least he's not flipping out about his very obvious breakdown. He can be proud of that much at least. Just another of the mass of men living lives of quiet desperation. The Fletchling, in apparent concern, chirps in inquiry before gently headbutting Sam's ear. ]

...Which, now that I think about it, shouldn't be me at all. If anybody's going to crack it'd definitely be you. [ Since, you know, you kind of already did it once, what with the PTSD and all. Wait. That might be a little uncouth even if it is all in his mind. That's no excuse for bad manners. ] No offense.

[That makes more sense, at least, but Josh knows there's no way Sam would hallucinate this specific version of him, right down to the wings. He's also pretty sure that if he were part of someone else's nervous breakdown, he wouldn't know it. That's not how it works.

Or so he's guessing, anyway.]

I don't know how to say this other than to just say it. [Because this is the route he should take, obviously. This is the best course of action for both of them.] I'm dead. I died, Sam. Whatever you're talking about with California — maybe it was me, but it wasn't me. Not the me you're talking to right now. And —

[He doesn't even bother to pause and let it sink in, this fact that somewhere, somehow, he survived that gunshot.]

I don't think I'm dreaming. I don't think you're babbling on a sidewalk, either.

[ Now comes Sam's turn to stand and stare, incredulity painting him in shades of stupid until something hard creeps across his face. ]

That's not funny, Josh. I don't care if this is all in my head, it's still doesn't make it funny and it never will be funny so you can knock it off.

[ There are only a few sore spots that can switch off the dry wit that keeps Sam going for most of the day, but this? After Rosslyn, after the Christmas that followed, after everything? This is one of them and screw if it's his subconscious taking the shot. ]

You're back at the offices right now when you're not texting me with the new numbers coming in because Donna's on a street corner trying t- Never mind. The point is that you're fine and— And you're fine!

[Something pangs hard in Josh's chest when that look overtakes Sam's expression, but he can't lie. He's spent too long in denial and too long working toward a sense of closure — which he hasn't found yet, but feels closer to every day — to even try. He just doesn't have it in him, even for Sam's sake.]

I'm not joking. I mean, I wish to God I were, but —

[He gestures at his back, indicating the wings. Which is stupid, really, because the wings themselves are stupid, and they illustrate fuckall if you don't believe in shit like Heaven and Hell like Josh didn't. The look on his own face is probably enough on its own, though.

Josh isn't joking. In fact, he's never looked quite so serious.

Or quite so sad.]

It's been six months since Rosslyn.

It's been three and a half years since Rosslyn. Today's the election.

[ The world seems to be slowly tilting off its axis again, that sick and unsettling feeling he hasn't felt since Sam was brought into the circle on MS, since his mother called him with tears in her voice. Those agonizing hours spent orbiting the waiting room at the hospital come back like a punch to the gut because any reality without Josh in it is... It's unthinkable to the point that Sam can't even put words to it. ]

...You're back at the offices.

[ It's quieter now, the stubborn and almost childish insistence against the truth in Josh's expression. What anger there was fades away in the face of this knowledge because it doesn't make sense on any level. And on no level does Sam want to have to make sense of it.

He needs to sit down. And possibly throw up at some point. ]

Maybe.

[Maybe. It's a thought Josh hadn't even considered before, but he doesn't really know why not now that he is, considering how he was recently introduced to the idea of parallel universes and the whole concept of the space-time continuum being completely wonky and as malleable as hot plastic.

And that makes him mad.

Why not him?

And why this? What happened to Hell? What happened to his job? Why are there weird birds everywhere, and what is Sam doing here, really?

Josh looks his friend over, the thought slowly sinking in that this is real. That this is happening. That he's dead, but Sam's here, right in front of him, for the first time in six months. Sam, who he never thought he'd see again for a long, long time, here, and alive.

So all he can think to do in this moment is close the distance between them and throw his arms around Sam, the hug tight and desperate.]

[ Every second ticking by is more proof to what Josh is saying because if this were a joke, Josh would admit it was a bad one and move on and if this were Sam's subconscious pulling a fast one on him, he needs to get on that donating his brain to science gig stat because screw this.

But instead it's this. It's one word and the look on Josh's face and— The last three years flash through his mind as he tries to reconstruct everything that's happened, everything they've been through without Josh being there and... It's impossible.

The second Josh moves Sam is there to match it, hands brushing against wings (honest to god wings) as he wraps his arms around Josh's ribs. His chin tucks into the crook of Josh's neck as he exhales slowly, and after a moment offers a reassuring squeeze. ]

Jesus, Josh.

[ What the hell else can he say? The freight train of everything he realizes Josh doesn't know only just starts to run him over on top of the stunner that this is really happening in the first place. ]

[The squeeze is nice, but it's not enough. Josh doesn't move, doesn't let go, isn't even breathing at the moment. He's imagined an encounter like this a few times — what he'd do if one of his friends turned up, how happy he'd be and how quickly heartbreak would follow on that happiness's heels.

But Sam's not dead. This isn't Hell. This isn't Heaven, either. He's not sure where it is, and the weird animals aren't giving him any clues. Right now, though, that doesn't really matter. One thing at a time.

Sam is going to have to pry himself away if he wants this embrace to break anytime soon.]

I missed you.

[The words are muffled against Sam's shoulder, but they're clear as a heavenly bell nonetheless.]

[ Sam gets it. And he sure as hell isn't about to get himself out of it even if the wings out the corner of his eye are large, in charge, and more than a little... Yeah.

Another ache stabs at his chest hearing Josh and he almost catches himself saying he missed him too but— That's not right. It isn't. He swallows hard because he hasn't had to miss Josh because his Josh apparently didn't get the short straw (and when the short straw wasn't a day's worth of surgery and months of recovery what the hell did that say about how the universe works?). ]

...Donna's Canadian.

[ He blurts it out against Josh's neck because. Because— In all the things that Josh has missed out on without being missed — the Congressional censure, Leo's hearings, Ritchie and the election, Toby and the kids, Horton Wilde, and oh, god, Mrs. Landingham — it's too much. There were good days in there, successes, but when Sam looks back at the scorecard right now it's with bleak eyes and the doubt that any of them could've happened without Josh there egging them on and driving them all insane.

Also because all else aside, Sam's brain is weird in the way that Josh's is and as soon as he says it he thinks it was the right thing to say. ]

[That was absolutely the right thing to say. His eyes were just on the verge of burning and he was poised to jump the very thin line between "crying" and "not crying" — he could feel it in his throat, even, that swelling tightness — but when Sam says Donna's Canadian, Josh pulls away with a look of disbelief on his face.

No sadness, no grief, no anger.

Just disbelief.

And then, slowly, his expression cracks into a grin, and sure enough, he starts to laugh. His hands are still on Sam's upper arms and he's still holding him in place like he's afraid that if he lets go Sam might disappear, but now he's laughing.]

What? Canadian? Did she defect?

[ For a split second Sam is sure he's screwed up, that he's taken what is and should stay a serious moment and ruined it and Josh is about to start yelling at him. ...The bad kind of yelling, given how prone to yelling Josh was in general.

But then there's that smile and Sam returns it, with a little more waver than there ought to be but you take what you can get. And when it gets Josh to laugh? That's enough. ]

No, n- For Abbey's birthday the Secret Service found out something about the Wisconsin-Canadian border when and where she was born and— Turned out she was Canadian all along. Unbeknownst.

[ A disbelieving chuckle as he remembers the sudden swell of the orchestra playing O, Canada and the look on the President's face trying to figure out what the hell was going on. But even the memory doesn't undo the grip he's got on Josh's jacket. ]

I mean we fixed it, obviously, we weren't going to send her back to the Great White North but.

[That's actually hilarious.

What's weird, though, is that Josh doesn't know whether to laugh or cry about it. Because yes, it's hilarious, but it also breaks his heart to know that this is one of many, many things he's missed, but at the same time he's thrilled to see Sam and to be able to look into his stupidly, impossibly blue eyes again, and to hang onto him like he has a hundred times before in moments of uncertainty, and —

No, his own eyes are absolutely not watering, you're imagining things. It's allergies. They're in a forest, for crying out loud.

Josh laughs again, the sound a little tight in his throat.]

I mean, if you'd told me one of us was secretly Canadian this whole time, I would'a put my money on her.

So you want to be a Pokemon Master?

josh lyman | the west wing | little hades CRAU

this is going nowhere you know that right

if by "nowhere" you mean "to a delightful wonderland of amusement and pain" then yes i do know

good! just wanted to clarify that

ofc ofc.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)