they shall be called the children of God
Title: they shall be called the children of God
Rating: G
Category: Charlie Young, Zoey Bartlet, Charlie/Zoey
Spoilers: In the Shadow of Two Gunmen
Word Count: 619
Author's Notes: Written for quirkytaverna at ww_stockings. Thanks to shutterbug_12 for the beta read.
The limo slows to a lazy halt in a parking lot before Charlie realizes they’ve made several wrong turns.
“Uh, Zoey?” He shifts his weight and tries to peer through the window. “This isn’t the White House.”
“I know,” she replies, reaching out to grasp his hand and tug him forward. “Follow me.”
“Zoey,” he protests again. The hospital was cold, so cold and dry. The warm May humidity feels foreign against his skin. (Or maybe it’s all in his head). “Zoey, this is a church.”
Zoey laughs. It’s not a robust laugh, but then, today hasn’t been that kind of a day. It’s soft and sweet and genuine. Charlie almost smiles. Almost.
“Well aren’t you Captain Obvious tonight?”
“I’m just saying,” Charlie trails two steps behind her, flanked by Secret Service at every conceivable angle, an impenetrable human wall. “I’m under strict orders to get you straight home.”
“Relax,” she soothes as the large wooden door closes behind them. “Mom had the Secret Service seal this place off an hour ago.”
He almost comments that it’s two o’clock in the morning, but the country is wide awake and will be for some time. (The truth, though, is they don’t know the half of it).
Instead he follows obediently as she makes her way up the long nave to the altar. Moonlight through the stained glass windows cast an eerie shadow in the otherwise empty church but Charlie imagines that, in daylight, the vaulted ceilings and marble columns give the space an appearance of grandeur. She genuflects at the altar, and he kneels alongside her, mirroring her gesture.
Zoey shifts her attention from the altar to the aisle on the right, and Charlie follows. Before them stands a marble statue of a man with a small ox at his feet.
“St. Luke.” Zoey tugs on Charlie’s hand, erasing the distance he established between them. “He’s the patron saint of surgeons. Mom likes to come to mass here sometimes.”
She steps forward, releasing her grip, and he watches, entranced, as she approaches a collection of candles just underneath the statue. Painstakingly slowly, she lights one, two, then three.
There’s a constant echo ringing in his ears that sounds like gunfire. A rapid pulsing of the blood through his veins that reminds him he’s still alive, if but for a few inches.
She’s back by his side now, her gaze tilting upwards, and she’s there.
“Mom and Dad always come to church to light candles when they have a special intention. I thought St. Luke was a good choice for tonight.”
Charlie takes hold of her hand, real and tangible as she stands beside him. This time he is the one that closes the inches between them. “You lit three candles. The first one is for Josh, and the second one is for the President. Did you miscount?”
“No, silly.” She gives a small shake of her head. “The last one is for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, for you.” She breathes deeply, and exhales. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.” A pause, she’s waiting. And then, finally, “I want you to remember that it’s not your fault. What happened tonight.”
He doesn’t have a response for that. He wants to argue, tell her that she’s wrong, that it’s been his fault since the day his mother died. But the gold cross she wears around her neck catches in the moonlight, and her hand is warm in his. They are there, and they’re together, and that has to count for something.
He nods in quiet affirmation.
For now, it is enough.
Rating: G
Category: Charlie Young, Zoey Bartlet, Charlie/Zoey
Spoilers: In the Shadow of Two Gunmen
Word Count: 619
Author's Notes: Written for quirkytaverna at ww_stockings. Thanks to shutterbug_12 for the beta read.
The limo slows to a lazy halt in a parking lot before Charlie realizes they’ve made several wrong turns.
“Uh, Zoey?” He shifts his weight and tries to peer through the window. “This isn’t the White House.”
“I know,” she replies, reaching out to grasp his hand and tug him forward. “Follow me.”
“Zoey,” he protests again. The hospital was cold, so cold and dry. The warm May humidity feels foreign against his skin. (Or maybe it’s all in his head). “Zoey, this is a church.”
Zoey laughs. It’s not a robust laugh, but then, today hasn’t been that kind of a day. It’s soft and sweet and genuine. Charlie almost smiles. Almost.
“Well aren’t you Captain Obvious tonight?”
“I’m just saying,” Charlie trails two steps behind her, flanked by Secret Service at every conceivable angle, an impenetrable human wall. “I’m under strict orders to get you straight home.”
“Relax,” she soothes as the large wooden door closes behind them. “Mom had the Secret Service seal this place off an hour ago.”
He almost comments that it’s two o’clock in the morning, but the country is wide awake and will be for some time. (The truth, though, is they don’t know the half of it).
Instead he follows obediently as she makes her way up the long nave to the altar. Moonlight through the stained glass windows cast an eerie shadow in the otherwise empty church but Charlie imagines that, in daylight, the vaulted ceilings and marble columns give the space an appearance of grandeur. She genuflects at the altar, and he kneels alongside her, mirroring her gesture.
Zoey shifts her attention from the altar to the aisle on the right, and Charlie follows. Before them stands a marble statue of a man with a small ox at his feet.
“St. Luke.” Zoey tugs on Charlie’s hand, erasing the distance he established between them. “He’s the patron saint of surgeons. Mom likes to come to mass here sometimes.”
She steps forward, releasing her grip, and he watches, entranced, as she approaches a collection of candles just underneath the statue. Painstakingly slowly, she lights one, two, then three.
There’s a constant echo ringing in his ears that sounds like gunfire. A rapid pulsing of the blood through his veins that reminds him he’s still alive, if but for a few inches.
She’s back by his side now, her gaze tilting upwards, and she’s there.
“Mom and Dad always come to church to light candles when they have a special intention. I thought St. Luke was a good choice for tonight.”
Charlie takes hold of her hand, real and tangible as she stands beside him. This time he is the one that closes the inches between them. “You lit three candles. The first one is for Josh, and the second one is for the President. Did you miscount?”
“No, silly.” She gives a small shake of her head. “The last one is for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, for you.” She breathes deeply, and exhales. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.” A pause, she’s waiting. And then, finally, “I want you to remember that it’s not your fault. What happened tonight.”
He doesn’t have a response for that. He wants to argue, tell her that she’s wrong, that it’s been his fault since the day his mother died. But the gold cross she wears around her neck catches in the moonlight, and her hand is warm in his. They are there, and they’re together, and that has to count for something.
He nods in quiet affirmation.
For now, it is enough.