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Title: Something (1/1)
Author: Michelle K. (CageyGrl@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13
Site: http://www.envy.nu/wwfic
Archive: If you want. Ask first. 
Pairing: Josh/Amy 
Summary: "It may not be Tahiti, but it is something." (post-ep for 
'The Two Bartlets')

Disclaimer: Characters are the sole property of ABS, WB and 
NBC, not necessarily in that order.

~~~~~

Amy wonders how close this is to Tahiti; if it's possible that 
all there is to the foreign land is colored lights and bad music. 
She's guessing no, but Josh's mouth is against hers, so she 
doesn't really care. 

Josh wonders why he couldn't just take her to Tahiti in the 
first place; he was given advice and he ignored it in turn. He 
thinks this is probably a shoddy replacement, but she seems to 
have forgiven him, so he doesn't care. 

He pulls away from her and she stares at him in the way she 
only can. 

"You're really a pain in the ass," she says, insulting him in 
only the way she can. 

"You're not the first to tell me that, for what it's worth," he 
says with a smirk.

"I wasn't saying it to be original, I was saying it to be truthful. 
And I do actually like you, so you shouldn't be too disappointed 
by your pain in the ass status."

"Good to know," he replies. 

Yes, this is probably nothing like Tahiti, she thinks, outside 
of possibly the rum. But, then of course, rum isn't native to 
Tahiti. 

And UB40, she believes, shouldn't be native to Josh's stereo. 
"I'm changing the music," she says, brushing past him. 

He grabs her arm and pulls her back towards him. "But it's 
tropical," he says, and it sounds more pleading than he had 
intended. 

"If you were going for a reggae thing, you should have taken 
out Bob Marley."

"I don't have Bob Marley," he replies.

"UB40 but not Bob Marley? That's..." she shakes her head, 
"...that's just sad. I swear, J, if I find out you have some 
boy band or one of those teenagers with bleached hair who can't 
sing, I'm never talking to you again."

"I'm hard to resist," he smirks, but the bravado behind the comment 
is noticeably false to both of them. 

She doesn't comment on it, because she's already noted the 
tenuous grasp he has on his own ego. She pulls away from him 
slowly, and part of him is worried that she'll walk out the door 
right now. 

But she stays.

When she rifles through his music collection, she's pleased not 
to see a Timberlake or a Spears in the bunch. Although there is 
more UB40, which is a little disturbing. 

Amy turns to him, triumphant. "I've pinpointed the least sucky 
music you have," she says as Johnny Lee Hooker plays in the 
background. 

"But this isn't tropical," he says, walking towards her 
again. 

"You know what it is, though?"

"What?"

"Not sucky."

"Um." He's close to her again and he kisses her softly. 

It may not be Tahiti, but it is something.

~~~~~

When they make their way to the bedroom, their tongues taste 
like rum and their fingers feel like silk against each other's 
skin.

She wonders if you can move too fast with someone you've known 
for years, and if it's even possible for Josh Lyman to do things slowly. 

When their mouths part, he has to bite his tongue to keep from making 
a nasty remark about her and John Tandy. And he wonders why he 
always feels the need to act like a jerk. 

Maybe it's just what guys like him do. 

But he stops, keeps his mouth shut for the third time in his 
life, and moves his lips against her skin.

"J," she says softly as his mouth slides across her neck, 
body arching towards him as he goes a little lower.

She's the only one to ever call him that. Most people leave it 
in the middle; some stretch it out until its last syllable. But 
she has always been succinct, devoid of any pretenses. 

He wonders if he started calling her 'A,' if it would sound 
ridiculous; if it would be unbearably precious; if it would 
make everyone roll their eyes at them both. 

But, it's entirely possible that neither of them are capable of 
acting cutesy; it's even more possible that they would never reach 
the smug happiness that many couples experience but never maintain. 

It's entirely possible that he'd screw up again next week and not 
have a clever little stunt to fall back on. 

It's happened more than once. 

But he pushes those thoughts away as she begins to remove his 
clothes. He feels her hands slide against his chest, slow and 
sensual. She must be able to feel his scar, but her fingers, thankfully, don't linger. 

He doesn't need to feel different right now. He doesn't need 
someone to treat him as fragile. 

But, Amy would probably never tiptoe around him. That's one 
of the things he likes best about her.

She asks no questions, because she already knows all about it. 
She knows what happened to him. And whispering condolences won't 
make him feel better about anything. He doesn't need to think 
she pities him. 

And, anyway, she doesn't. Not about this. 

"So," he asks with a smile. "Do you want to try on the 
pajamas?"

"No," she replies. "I think we could skip that." She pauses. 
"Unless you did just invite me over here to swap recipes and 
have a fashion show."

"I didn't."

"Okay, then." 

And when she kisses him, bodies pressed together, he imagines 
that it feels as warm as Tahiti.

~~~~~

She wakes up the next morning, and he's not next to her in the 
bed. She's guessing he didn't leave, considering that it's his apartment. Or, if you want to look at it another way, his 
tropical isle. 

She sits up and stretches while turning her head to look at 
the clock. 

"No one can say my body is incapable of multitasking," she mutters 
to herself. 

It's a little after six, and she decides this is as good a time as 
any to get out of bed.

She considers putting on his pajamas, but she doesn't feel 
like rifling through his drawers for the sake of a visual joke. 
And, anyway, she does have to go soon. As does he, no doubt. 

She throws on her clothes and walks out of the bedroom. It doesn't 
take long to find him in the kitchen. 

And it doesn't take long for her to be horrified.

"What exactly is this?" she says suspiciously, and he freezes 
in his tracks. 

Josh moves his eyes back and forth between the object in his 
hand and Amy's face. "Um...coffee filter."

"It's a coffee filter that I just saw you pick out of the trash.
 A very different, very wrong type of coffee filter. Satan's 
coffee filter, if you will."

"It doesn't have horns," he points out. This is the bad thing 
about having a person in your apartment, he thinks - being caught 
doing something horribly disgusting. But, he considers last night 
and he figures the good outweighs the bad. 

"There are horns, my friend."

He holds the filter a little farther away from his body, as if distancing himself from his bad behavior. "You see, I didn't have 
any coffee so..." He considers it for a moment. "This is 
disgusting, isn't it?"

She nods. "Throw it away."

"No coffee," he says, voice slightly whiny. 

"I'll go and buy you coffee," Amy says. 

"You would?"

"Yes. I think I'd buy you anything just to get that thing 
in the garbage."

"Well, there's a Mercedes I've been looking at...I prefer a 
dark color..."

"J. Garbage. Now," she commands him. 

Thankfully, he listens. 

"The national nightmare is now over," she says.

"Are you really going to get me coffee?"

She shrugs. "I'm already dressed. And considering you raiding 
through the garbage...I have to do it, for the sake of my own 
sanity."

"Thanks," he smiles.

"No problem." She turns on her heel, then promptly turns back. 
"I'm never going to Tahiti with you again," she says. With that, 
she starts to walk away. A moment later, her head pokes back in. 
"That last thing I just said? Probably a lie."

He listens to the sound of the door closing, and he knows she'll 
be back.

He just hopes he doesn't screw it all up somewhere down the road. 

She's hoping the same thing. 

THE END