TITLE: "Best Black Dress" (1/1)
AUTHOR: mcee (mcee@fangy.net)
SITE: http://fangy.net/ww
SPOILERS: "Posse Comitatus"
RATING: R for language

* * *

You can hear the faraway pounding of his fist on your door, and he's got the third loudest voice of all the people you know--but you figure the President wouldn't be doing this, not at this time of night anyway, and his Communications Director already gave it his best a few hours ago, leaving empty-handed with aching knuckles. But Josh is stubborn and a little obsessive, and he's been at this for forty minutes already, pounding at your door. The more you hear your name the less it makes sense.

You opened all the windows as wide as they could, both to tempt fate and to get rid of the smell of a singed Vera Wang in your bathtub. The part of your brain that reminds you of your own mother thinks that maybe you should've kept it for the funeral, but the irony is too painful and you can't really be expect to think practical just now. The cool night air bites at your flesh and makes your eyes water, and it occurs to you that you must look like one hell of a tragic heroine like this, lying neatly on your unmade bed in your underwear and sobbing like a madwoman. The wisp of hair that always falls in your eyes tickles your nose in the breeze and sticks to your cheek. It smells like burnt silk, too.

You figure Josh must've lost the key to your apartment you gave him after Rosslyn, and that he's about this far from kicking down the door if you don't answer. But he should know that if he does you'll want to punch him or fuck him, you're not sure, and neither of those options will look good in the morning to either of you. But then that's such a Josh thing to do, and you're not sure you can blame him. The pounding has picked up momentum.

Your neighbours must be very happy. Of course your neighbours don't really talk to you anymore, not after their building was invaded by Secret Service cameras, Secret Service agents gunned down in a goddamn convenient store while waiting for you, killed by a kid with a gun and pocketfuls of stolen money, you saw the pictures, a few of them, with the roses and the black and white and red, looking like a painting if someone was morbid and cruel enough to want to paint that. It's like the ones with the eyes that follow you when you move; this one is going to follow you to your own grave, you're sure of it. You try and take large gulps of air between sobs, but the room with its tall windows and flowing curtains feels as stifling as a coffin.

The funeral is tomorrow. And you need a dress.