CJ fic, as previously discussed
May. 27th, 2008 08:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaydeefalls
I waited out the holiday weekend to post this, so here we go. (Speaking of which, is the first day of work after a long weekend the most painful thing ever, or what?)
Freefall
by kaydee falls
West Wing, CJ/various or CJ gen, depending on how you look at it
rated NC-17, just barely
notes: set roughly from "17 People" through "Manchester"; huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dorkorific for the beta
She's not alone, she's never alone. She's surrounded by people every hour of every day, and they all have things they need from her and it's her job to give as little as possible to most of them, which comes naturally to her in ways she doesn't like thinking too hard about.
She sometimes wishes to God she could be left alone for five or ten minutes, but she deeply suspects that a closed door to her office is secret good ol' boys' code for let's cause as much trouble as possible while she's not looking, so really she tries not to tempt fate. And besides, the miracle of modern communications prevents a closed office door from actually closing off human contact, and Carol screens her calls well but never well enough.
C.J. Cregg is never alone, not ever, except, of course, when she is. In her bed she's alone, in the dark she's alone, in every waking moment of every day, really, she's alone.
She's fine.
*
The first and last time in her life C.J. had sex in the shower was her sophomore year of college, with a beautiful boy from the rowing team. She was five inches taller, but he had the arms of an Adonis, and she figured he if anyone could make it work, it'd be him.
She was a miserably gangly girl, all knees and elbows and awkward inelegance (and secretly she thanked God when she hit thirty and her metabolism finally slowed down and gave her at least the hint of the curves she always knew she was meant to have). The shower stall was tiny, so small she smacked her elbows on the sides when she washed her hair, but by God she was nineteen and she was going to have shower sex if it killed her.
It was pretty awful, cramped and painful and she has since learned that water does not necessarily a good lubricator make, and she pulled a muscle in her back that didn't stop aching for a week. His much-lauded upper body strength didn't compensate for the fact that she banged her head against the shower head or that he was, well, just as nineteen as she was, and they emerged bruised and frustrated and promptly tumbled sore and dripping onto the rug in her bedroom to have a proper go of it after, except she was so raw from the last that she screamed bloody murder when he tried to thrust into her again (not in the good way) and that was that.
Still, sometimes when she emerges from the press room with her throat hoarse from all the screaming she absolutely cannot do, late at night alone between her soft cotton sheets she closes her eyes and remembers the feel of the cool tile against her slick back, the way she dug her fingers into his biceps, the hot wet spray mingling with his ragged breaths against her neck, and she arches against her own fingers and stifles a moan. Not because she wants to have sex in a shower again. Just for that youthful determination, the enthusiasm of trying something new and kinky and edgy, something she'd never attempted before. Just to recapture that lost daring.
Dare to do something awkward and painful, just for the sake of doing it, and screw the consequences.
Do I dare to eat a peach? she thinks wryly, but to be honest, she's always preferred plums.
*
There's something bothering Toby, and it's bothering C.J. Specifically, the dull repetitive thud of Toby's ball against the wall is bothering C.J., and it's bothering her quite a lot. She has work to do, goddamnit. She's not sure what work, exactly, but there is work, and it is hers to be done, and if he doesn't quit it with the thump-thwack thump-thwack thump-thwack she's going to take his ball and shove it up his ass.
She closes her eyes for a moment, rubbing at her temples. She needs a break. It's going on midnight and she's still in the office as a matter of course; she needs a hell of a lot more than a break.
Actually, she's not in her office, which would solve half her problems right now; she's in Sam's office, going over a chunk of tomorrow's press release, and he's being his usual snotty perfectionist self and for the love of all that is holy she is going to kill Toby if he doesn't cut that shit out.
Thump-thwack.
"Sam," she says, with as much patience as she can muster (that is to say, very little indeed), "is there a reason we can't go over this in my office?"
Sam looks up from his notes, eyes wide and startled behind the frames of his glasses. "My computer isn't in your office, C.J."
"I'm aware of that."
"It's here. In my office."
"Yes, Samuel, I can see that."
"So," he says, as if the conclusion is self-evident. In Sam's strange little private universe, it probably is.
Thump-thwack.
"How do you not kill him?" C.J. demands.
Blink. Blink. "Oh. That. Toby's thinking."
C.J. somehow resists clocking him upside the head. "I know. But is there some unwritten rule that when Toby is thinking, no one else is allowed to?"
Sam hesitates. "Look, if you want me to work on this and then come back later…"
It's going to be tomorrow in about ten minutes, how much later could there possibly be, she thinks, borderline hysterical. She really is wound tightly tonight. "No," she sighs, "it's fine."
Thump-thwack. Thump-thwack.
In one of her old apartments, she had a queen-sized bed with a massive oak headboard that was gorgeous and luxurious and wonderful but possessed one minor defect: when she had a gentleman friend over for the night, and things got raunchy, it would thump-thwack against the wall in a rhythm not unlike Toby's rubber ball. The neighbors must have hated her.
She loved that bed.
Sam's the sort of pretty, clever boy she might have taken home with her, back in her younger, wilder days, in that apartment with that bed. Her taste in men has matured somewhat since then, though the men themselves never really seem to. But still, there's no denying that Sam is an attractive man, and though she often wants to slam his head into things, she is a woman in her prime with a healthy sex drive and it's been a damn long time since she's had an outlet for it, and there's nothing wrong with a fantasy or two.
It's not hard to imagine, the building tempo, the pounding of the headboard against the wall, Sam's single-minded perfectionism focused entirely on her and only her, the scorching intensity of his gaze on her face as he thrusts into her in that sublime rhythm. His chest gleams with perspiration as she presses her hips up to meet his, arching her back, needing hotter-closer-more. He's thick and hot inside of her, and she feels stretched and full and marvelous, whispers yes and he groans and presses his face against her shoulder, God yes more, and she feels the ripple running through her that means she's so fucking close—
Thump-thwack.
"Uh, C.J.?"
"Sorry," she says, opening her eyes and giving herself a little shake. She ought to be embarrassed, she supposes, flush hot and pink from being caught out in the middle of a sexual fantasy about the man sitting in front of her, but honestly, she doesn't have the energy. She pulls herself up off his couch by sheer force of will. "Long day. Look, can we go over this first thing in the morning instead?"
"Yeah," Sam says, blinking up at her, forehead creased in bemusement. "Sure."
"Good," she says crisply, and leaves him there. He doesn't try to follow, of course. Why would he?
On her way out, she shoves open the door to Toby's office, catches his goddamn rubber ball mid-thwack, and throws it out into the hall with all the force she can muster. "Good night, Toby," she says sweetly, enjoying his slack-jawed shock.
She can still hear the ball rebounding against the glass walls of the bullpen as she leaves.
*
Something is afoot. C.J. has a sixth sense for these things. She does not see dead people and she is neither precognizant nor clairvoyant but she has a sixth sense about Things Being Afoot, and Something is most definitely Afoot, and she's not going to like it.
She's not going to like it, but she likes being left out of the loop even less, especially when Toby is in a mood and Leo is giving her compassionate, measuring looks, and this is one of those good ol' boys things again, and she feels as if there's a poorly-painted sign over the clubhouse that is Toby's office that says NO GIRLS ALLOWED. She thinks possibly growing up with three brothers made her particularly attuned to these things.
She strides purposefully out of that morning's press briefing, her heels clipping staccato along the hallways in what she hopes is a terse and don't-fuck-with-me-right-now manner. It works, or at least nobody has anything in particular they want to say to her. She sees Leo across the corridor, and he gives her one of those inscrutable and yet somehow calculating glances, and that's it. There is something afoot, and she is not in the loop, and she is pissed.
She makes her way down to Ainsley's office in the basement, but hesitates at the door. What's it like being totally and completely out of the loop? she wants to ask, but that seems rude somehow, and Ainsley would get all flustered and defensive and start speaking in extended metaphors. C.J. likes Ainsley, really she does, but she can hear the semicolons sometimes.
C.J. leans against the wall outside the office for a second, closing her eyes. Flustered and defensive, Ainsley's skin flushed pink and her long fingers unconsciously pushing silken blonde hair back out of her face, biting just the edge of her lip as she searches for the right words, and Fuck them all, anyway, she could say, we could have our own secrets if we wanted.
Not to say that C.J. is gay, because she's not, she's almost entirely straight, but she did go to Berkeley for chrissakes and she had to at least give it a try, and there is a certain pleasantness to the sorts of things women can get up to without menfolk.
Fuck 'em, C.J. would agree, and stride purposefully around the desk, cup Ainsley's hot flushed face in her hands and kiss her. Soft, pliant lips and sweet breath, nothing like a man's, and strength beneath the deceptively supple skin. And it would be the best sort of revenge, because God knows every last one of those idiot boys has fantasized about the leggy blonde Republican and the even leggier Press Secretary, and C.J. knows it and Ainsley knows it and they both know how it would drive the boys insane to see them here in the basement, C.J. sprawled across the desk scattering legal documents as Ainsley grins and straddles her, wicked gleam in her eye, and rakishly unbuttons her prim little blouse, and I'll show you how we straight-laced gals do it in North Carolina.
Creamy skin and soft curves and lacy bras, and soft pliant mouth wet and hot on her nipples, making C.J. arch and tremble as she pulls Ainsley closer, slipping her hand down underneath Ainsley's skirt and feeling her cry out against C.J.'s breast. Ainsley pulls away, for an instant, and the look in her eyes is needy and scorching and nearly coming undone. C.J. flashes her a brilliant smile, and they both laugh at all the many, many things the boys upstairs do not and will never know until C.J. presses her fingers in just the right spot and Ainsley gasps and shudders against her—
What's it like being totally and completely out of the loop?
But when C.J. steels up her nerve and knocks on the door, the office is empty, so she never does ask.
*
"I'll be in my office when you're done," Toby tells her.
As she follows Leo into his office, she thinks, well, that was odd. Then she promptly dismisses it as classic Toby-ness.
In retrospect, she thinks she really ought to be better at reading the signs by now than that.
*
She thought she knew how bad it could get. The first year of the Bartlet administration, everything that could possibly go wrong, had. She'd been so far beyond green, it was a color no scientist or artist could determine. She'd weathered storm after storm in the press room, and then watched the President and Josh get shot and gone right back into the briefing. There was nothing short of a nuclear holocaust that C.J. Cregg couldn't break to the press with grace, poise, and wit.
This is going to be worse. Far, far worse.
Apart from the ubiquitous Secret Service, the halls of the West Wing are deserted. When did it get this late? Why aren't all hands on deck in Communications, desperately scrambling to spin this in a way that won't get them all booted out of the White House by an angry mob? Oh, that's right, because most of them haven't been told yet.
Except Toby. Who is in his office.
What could she possibly say to him? "I feel betrayed" doesn't even begin to cover it.
"Well, that was fun."
"We're totally screwed, aren't we?"
"So, how did you react?"
There's no good way to start a conversation about this.
God, she needs a drink.
Toby, she could say, I need a drink. And he'd look at her wordlessly, taking in her determinedly straight spine, her tight lips, the crow's feet deepening at the corners of her tired eyes, and he'd just nod sympathetically, offering her his arm.
They both drove in this morning but by unspoken agreement he hails a cab, and it's a short, blessedly silent trip to the darkest, smokiest dive pub in the District. He orders her a vodka martini with emphasis on the vodka, and she downs it in one long, painful shot. Easy there, cowgirl, he says, and he keeps his voice light but she hears the dark velvet undertones, and she accidentally on purpose brushes her fingertips along his arm just to feel him shiver, the tiny jolt of electricity that sparks between them whenever they touch, one of the many, many things they never actually talk about.
She leans against him to steal a sip of his brandy, and he jostles her back gently, you could just order your own, you know.
I know, she says, but I don't really like the flavor.
Except out of my glass, apparently, he says.
Apparently, she agrees.
She tilts her head to see the heat in his dark eyes, the embers he keeps dampened to a low burn flaring up for just an instant. C.J., he says, low and hoarse, like he needs another drink, I know it's hard to take in, and you're hurting, and—
It's not about that, she tells him, and they both know she's lying, and she is, but it's not just about that, and that's an important distinction.
I'm just saying, he says, if you need to talk, I'm here. I'm always here for you.
I know, she says, and I'm glad, and I will, but not – not yet. I can't talk about this yet. She takes a deep breath, and with a candor she never seems to possess in real life, adds, that's not what I want right now.
His eyes are so dark and intent upon her face, and she's flushed and tingling from the alcohol and her own boldness, and before she has a chance to make the next move his hand is cupping her cheek and he's kissing her, hard.
She can feel the calluses on his fingertips and taste the brandy on his tongue, and he smells like books and ink and cigars and stale coffee and Toby, and she has to break away from him now or this will lead very quickly to the sorts of things White House staffers absolutely cannot be witnessed doing in public places. A handful of bills tossed on the table, another quick dark taxi ride with fumbling hands and trespassing lips (oh trespass sweetly urged, give me my sin again, he whispers against her collarbone), and then—
With Toby, it's all about the words, as she always knew it would be, rough rumbling dark voice in her ear as she moves against him, I don't know why it took us so long, wanted to feel touch taste drink you up, drink you in, do you know what you look like right now, eyes like fire breasts like silk you have no idea, let me tell you—
Words and words and words, but not a single breath spoken about the President or relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis or the wrath of God and the outraged media that is about to descend upon their heads, and the release is sweet but the morning dawns just as bleak as the darkness of the evening before.
I'll be in my office when you're done.
There's not a single damn thing Toby could possibly say to her right now that can make this any better.
She takes a cab home, alone.
*
After her first meeting with Oliver Babish, she returns to her office, tells Carol to screen her calls for the rest of the morning, and closes and locks the door. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes. She doesn't know what anyone else in the West Wing is up to right now and she doesn't give a damn. Nothing the idiot boys could possibly do today will be worse than this. It's not a reassuring thought.
Oddly enough, she finds herself missing Danny, just a little bit. Well, maybe not so odd; feeding Gail has become one of her primary procrastination devices these days. It's a wonder the little goldfish hasn't gone belly up from excess fish food by now. Whatever. Danny was good remedy against headaches, once, when he wasn't being a major headache on his own terms, and sometimes she misses him.
It's just that Danny is so…uncomplicated. Well, their relationship, such as it was, was kind of on the complicated side, but that was just because of the whole Press Secretary and White House reporter thing. Point being, Danny is uncomplicated. His affection is uncomplicated, his friendship is uncomplicated. He is the antithesis of all things Oliver Babish and Jed Bartlet and multiple sclerosis, and right now, C.J. misses him.
He'd know, somehow, because Danny always somehow knew; and he'd charm his way past Carol – a little trick she's eternally grateful he didn't teach to anyone else on the press corps – and he'd be in her office at some point today whether she'd locked the door or not.
Hey, C.J., in that perpetually light tone, flopping comfortably down on the couch, what's goin' on?
Nothing, Danny, leave it, or Well, there's a bill going through the House that Sam's trying to get thrown out and Toby wants to add about twelve riders, or Don't you have reporting to do somewhere or something? And as always, it takes about five more rounds of banter back and forth before Danny cheerfully wears her down to the crux of the matter.
It's – there's a thing, Danny, and I can't talk about it yet.
He gives her a measuring look, and she can see the gears whirring, so well-concealed by that placid look of mild bemusement that has fooled so many other people in this office but not her, never her. Okay, he says affably. Mind if I sit?
You already are, she points out.
I find it's a lot easier to get permission that way, yeah. His pale blue eyes twinkle. Mind if you sit?
And she does, because he's Danny, and everything is light and easy with Danny. She leans back, letting her shoulder brush against his, and some of that lightness and ease passes through into her, loosening her tight muscles and the rigid line of her back. He's warm beside her, his hand slipping over hers as he traces light circles across her knuckles, and she smiles.
She could imagine some raunchy fantasy, mostly-clothed sex in her locked office, spread-eagled against her desk with her skirt hiked up and Danny on his knees before her, his mouth hot against her clit – and if she's perfectly honest with herself, sometimes she does. But that's just sex, and she could just as easily mentally substitute Sam or the rower from college or, hell, Brad Pitt in for that one, and it wouldn't be any more satisfying. But she's just spent an hour in the office of the White House counsel and it's only the very beginning of a very long day, week, month, news cycle after news cycle, and when she closes her eyes in her empty office, all she really wants is five minutes of peace, sitting in comfortable quiet with Danny Concannon light and warm beside her, just letting her be.
It's silly to waste time thinking on it, so she sprinkles a few flakes of fish food into Gail's bowl, pops a couple of Advil for the headache, and gets back to work. She's fine.
*
She knows. She doesn't know how or why, but she does. Maybe it's when he calls on Sandy instead of the medical correspondent she worked so hard to plant for him, maybe it's the sudden stillness beside her as Josh's usual twitchy nervous energy abruptly focuses, maybe it's the strange little smile. But she knows. And it's like being in freefall, her heart racing, the sense that the sky is rushing past, terrifying and thrilling, ten thousand times better than sex in a goddamn shower stall. And then he says it.
"Yeah. And I'm gonna win."
Second term. Call on Lawrence Altman, first row, on your right. Subpoenas for all and sundry. God, she's losing control of this already, hold it together, here now, the President of the United States, and he's gonna win.
The press corps explodes.
Not literally. Too bad.
"He said it, he said it, he just said it," Josh says breathlessly into her ear, practically bouncing, clutching at Sam's arm.
"Jesus Christ, we're in for it now," Sam says, but his grin is wide, brilliant and genuine for the first time in far too long.
C.J. watches the reporters shriek questions, one on top of the other, impossible to distinguish in the general tumult but that's never stopped them before and it won't stop them now. And in a minute, maybe two if she's lucky, she's going to have to deal with the fallout. She just needs to remember how to breathe first.
Toby and Leo are there, and she thinks Leo is trying to talk strategy, voice low and fast, but Josh bounds over, irrepressible. "He said it!"
"You know, I think I heard it myself," Leo remarks dryly, as Toby stares at Josh like he's grown another head and says, "Josh, you are, you are like a child. A particularly stupid child," and only just barely avoids being hugged anyway. Josh has hugs for everyone right now, prickly old men included, and as he swings his arms around C.J. she thinks he'd probably be sticking his tongue down Donna's throat right now if she were here with them.
He doesn't stick his tongue down C.J.'s throat, but at the warmth in his eyes as he scoops her up and tugs her around in what was probably meant to be a twirl, the warmth of his cheek pressed fleetingly against hers, she wouldn't be surprised at anything anymore. She's halfway tempted to grab his shoulders and lay one on him. Instead, she lets him hold her close for another long too-brief moment, closing her eyes and pretending that this is good, and maybe everything will be all right.
Then Josh releases her and bounds off to his next victim, and Sam and Toby head out into the storm chattering a mile a minute, and Leo makes a beeline for the President as he steps away from the podium, and C.J. is left alone to handle the press.
Okay, she tells herself, repressing a sigh. Showtime.
*
And then it all comes crashing down.
She's wound so tightly she could (did) scream, and her wrist is sore from slamming against the wall, and at midnight or one or whenever she trips her way into her apartment late that early morning, she doesn't even bother turning on a light, just drops her coat and her bag and her shoes and crumples still-clothed onto her bedspread.
I think the President's relieved to be focusing on something that matters.
How could she be so goddamn stupid?
She shoves her right hand down the front of her skirt, under her panties, and her back arches at her own touch. She rubs hard, relishing the twinge of pain that accompanies her arousal, willing her brain to turn off just for a few empty throbbing blissful minutes, but the thoughts and images flash behind her tightly-closed eyes with every wave of heat.
Her heart is racing and her skin is flushed and feels tight against her bones, an ill-fitting suit, and the ugly shock in Toby's eyes and Sam's outraged whispers and Leo furious and Carol looking at her like she's come from Mars, God why won't the reporters just shut the hell up for once, somewhere Danny is watching in bemusement, okay, so that was a thing in his light, understated tones, slamming her hand into the wall feeling sharp pain radiating outward, her breath comes in short pants as she thrusts against her own fingers, not fit for this week for this scandal for this job for the disappointment in Leo's eyes when he looked at her after, she'll offer her resignation tomorrow, no wait until after the Manchester trip, fade away until no one remembers she was ever there, Mandy just disappearing into the woodwork after the shooting and how long was it before anyone even thought to ask, quietly cut completely out of the good ol' boys' loop, Josh's boundless affection so easily diverted, solitary basement office headboard thumping against the wall words and words and words rough warm dark in her ears—
She's so close so ready it hurts and her wrist hurts and her spine aches and she lets it crash over her, car wreck train wreck pain in the neck misspoken God and bites her lip to keep from screaming, keep the words in, don't say a damn thing, don't let anything out.
She lies there in the darkness, breathing heavily, her fingers wet between her thighs, her face hot and damp with sweat and tears, freefalling, and she wonders if she'll be able to put the pieces back together after she lands.
Freefall
by kaydee falls
West Wing, CJ/various or CJ gen, depending on how you look at it
rated NC-17, just barely
notes: set roughly from "17 People" through "Manchester"; huge thanks to
dorkorific for the betaShe's not alone, she's never alone. She's surrounded by people every hour of every day, and they all have things they need from her and it's her job to give as little as possible to most of them, which comes naturally to her in ways she doesn't like thinking too hard about.
She sometimes wishes to God she could be left alone for five or ten minutes, but she deeply suspects that a closed door to her office is secret good ol' boys' code for let's cause as much trouble as possible while she's not looking, so really she tries not to tempt fate. And besides, the miracle of modern communications prevents a closed office door from actually closing off human contact, and Carol screens her calls well but never well enough.
C.J. Cregg is never alone, not ever, except, of course, when she is. In her bed she's alone, in the dark she's alone, in every waking moment of every day, really, she's alone.
She's fine.
The first and last time in her life C.J. had sex in the shower was her sophomore year of college, with a beautiful boy from the rowing team. She was five inches taller, but he had the arms of an Adonis, and she figured he if anyone could make it work, it'd be him.
She was a miserably gangly girl, all knees and elbows and awkward inelegance (and secretly she thanked God when she hit thirty and her metabolism finally slowed down and gave her at least the hint of the curves she always knew she was meant to have). The shower stall was tiny, so small she smacked her elbows on the sides when she washed her hair, but by God she was nineteen and she was going to have shower sex if it killed her.
It was pretty awful, cramped and painful and she has since learned that water does not necessarily a good lubricator make, and she pulled a muscle in her back that didn't stop aching for a week. His much-lauded upper body strength didn't compensate for the fact that she banged her head against the shower head or that he was, well, just as nineteen as she was, and they emerged bruised and frustrated and promptly tumbled sore and dripping onto the rug in her bedroom to have a proper go of it after, except she was so raw from the last that she screamed bloody murder when he tried to thrust into her again (not in the good way) and that was that.
Still, sometimes when she emerges from the press room with her throat hoarse from all the screaming she absolutely cannot do, late at night alone between her soft cotton sheets she closes her eyes and remembers the feel of the cool tile against her slick back, the way she dug her fingers into his biceps, the hot wet spray mingling with his ragged breaths against her neck, and she arches against her own fingers and stifles a moan. Not because she wants to have sex in a shower again. Just for that youthful determination, the enthusiasm of trying something new and kinky and edgy, something she'd never attempted before. Just to recapture that lost daring.
Dare to do something awkward and painful, just for the sake of doing it, and screw the consequences.
Do I dare to eat a peach? she thinks wryly, but to be honest, she's always preferred plums.
There's something bothering Toby, and it's bothering C.J. Specifically, the dull repetitive thud of Toby's ball against the wall is bothering C.J., and it's bothering her quite a lot. She has work to do, goddamnit. She's not sure what work, exactly, but there is work, and it is hers to be done, and if he doesn't quit it with the thump-thwack thump-thwack thump-thwack she's going to take his ball and shove it up his ass.
She closes her eyes for a moment, rubbing at her temples. She needs a break. It's going on midnight and she's still in the office as a matter of course; she needs a hell of a lot more than a break.
Actually, she's not in her office, which would solve half her problems right now; she's in Sam's office, going over a chunk of tomorrow's press release, and he's being his usual snotty perfectionist self and for the love of all that is holy she is going to kill Toby if he doesn't cut that shit out.
Thump-thwack.
"Sam," she says, with as much patience as she can muster (that is to say, very little indeed), "is there a reason we can't go over this in my office?"
Sam looks up from his notes, eyes wide and startled behind the frames of his glasses. "My computer isn't in your office, C.J."
"I'm aware of that."
"It's here. In my office."
"Yes, Samuel, I can see that."
"So," he says, as if the conclusion is self-evident. In Sam's strange little private universe, it probably is.
Thump-thwack.
"How do you not kill him?" C.J. demands.
Blink. Blink. "Oh. That. Toby's thinking."
C.J. somehow resists clocking him upside the head. "I know. But is there some unwritten rule that when Toby is thinking, no one else is allowed to?"
Sam hesitates. "Look, if you want me to work on this and then come back later…"
It's going to be tomorrow in about ten minutes, how much later could there possibly be, she thinks, borderline hysterical. She really is wound tightly tonight. "No," she sighs, "it's fine."
Thump-thwack. Thump-thwack.
In one of her old apartments, she had a queen-sized bed with a massive oak headboard that was gorgeous and luxurious and wonderful but possessed one minor defect: when she had a gentleman friend over for the night, and things got raunchy, it would thump-thwack against the wall in a rhythm not unlike Toby's rubber ball. The neighbors must have hated her.
She loved that bed.
Sam's the sort of pretty, clever boy she might have taken home with her, back in her younger, wilder days, in that apartment with that bed. Her taste in men has matured somewhat since then, though the men themselves never really seem to. But still, there's no denying that Sam is an attractive man, and though she often wants to slam his head into things, she is a woman in her prime with a healthy sex drive and it's been a damn long time since she's had an outlet for it, and there's nothing wrong with a fantasy or two.
It's not hard to imagine, the building tempo, the pounding of the headboard against the wall, Sam's single-minded perfectionism focused entirely on her and only her, the scorching intensity of his gaze on her face as he thrusts into her in that sublime rhythm. His chest gleams with perspiration as she presses her hips up to meet his, arching her back, needing hotter-closer-more. He's thick and hot inside of her, and she feels stretched and full and marvelous, whispers yes and he groans and presses his face against her shoulder, God yes more, and she feels the ripple running through her that means she's so fucking close—
Thump-thwack.
"Uh, C.J.?"
"Sorry," she says, opening her eyes and giving herself a little shake. She ought to be embarrassed, she supposes, flush hot and pink from being caught out in the middle of a sexual fantasy about the man sitting in front of her, but honestly, she doesn't have the energy. She pulls herself up off his couch by sheer force of will. "Long day. Look, can we go over this first thing in the morning instead?"
"Yeah," Sam says, blinking up at her, forehead creased in bemusement. "Sure."
"Good," she says crisply, and leaves him there. He doesn't try to follow, of course. Why would he?
On her way out, she shoves open the door to Toby's office, catches his goddamn rubber ball mid-thwack, and throws it out into the hall with all the force she can muster. "Good night, Toby," she says sweetly, enjoying his slack-jawed shock.
She can still hear the ball rebounding against the glass walls of the bullpen as she leaves.
Something is afoot. C.J. has a sixth sense for these things. She does not see dead people and she is neither precognizant nor clairvoyant but she has a sixth sense about Things Being Afoot, and Something is most definitely Afoot, and she's not going to like it.
She's not going to like it, but she likes being left out of the loop even less, especially when Toby is in a mood and Leo is giving her compassionate, measuring looks, and this is one of those good ol' boys things again, and she feels as if there's a poorly-painted sign over the clubhouse that is Toby's office that says NO GIRLS ALLOWED. She thinks possibly growing up with three brothers made her particularly attuned to these things.
She strides purposefully out of that morning's press briefing, her heels clipping staccato along the hallways in what she hopes is a terse and don't-fuck-with-me-right-now manner. It works, or at least nobody has anything in particular they want to say to her. She sees Leo across the corridor, and he gives her one of those inscrutable and yet somehow calculating glances, and that's it. There is something afoot, and she is not in the loop, and she is pissed.
She makes her way down to Ainsley's office in the basement, but hesitates at the door. What's it like being totally and completely out of the loop? she wants to ask, but that seems rude somehow, and Ainsley would get all flustered and defensive and start speaking in extended metaphors. C.J. likes Ainsley, really she does, but she can hear the semicolons sometimes.
C.J. leans against the wall outside the office for a second, closing her eyes. Flustered and defensive, Ainsley's skin flushed pink and her long fingers unconsciously pushing silken blonde hair back out of her face, biting just the edge of her lip as she searches for the right words, and Fuck them all, anyway, she could say, we could have our own secrets if we wanted.
Not to say that C.J. is gay, because she's not, she's almost entirely straight, but she did go to Berkeley for chrissakes and she had to at least give it a try, and there is a certain pleasantness to the sorts of things women can get up to without menfolk.
Fuck 'em, C.J. would agree, and stride purposefully around the desk, cup Ainsley's hot flushed face in her hands and kiss her. Soft, pliant lips and sweet breath, nothing like a man's, and strength beneath the deceptively supple skin. And it would be the best sort of revenge, because God knows every last one of those idiot boys has fantasized about the leggy blonde Republican and the even leggier Press Secretary, and C.J. knows it and Ainsley knows it and they both know how it would drive the boys insane to see them here in the basement, C.J. sprawled across the desk scattering legal documents as Ainsley grins and straddles her, wicked gleam in her eye, and rakishly unbuttons her prim little blouse, and I'll show you how we straight-laced gals do it in North Carolina.
Creamy skin and soft curves and lacy bras, and soft pliant mouth wet and hot on her nipples, making C.J. arch and tremble as she pulls Ainsley closer, slipping her hand down underneath Ainsley's skirt and feeling her cry out against C.J.'s breast. Ainsley pulls away, for an instant, and the look in her eyes is needy and scorching and nearly coming undone. C.J. flashes her a brilliant smile, and they both laugh at all the many, many things the boys upstairs do not and will never know until C.J. presses her fingers in just the right spot and Ainsley gasps and shudders against her—
What's it like being totally and completely out of the loop?
But when C.J. steels up her nerve and knocks on the door, the office is empty, so she never does ask.
"I'll be in my office when you're done," Toby tells her.
As she follows Leo into his office, she thinks, well, that was odd. Then she promptly dismisses it as classic Toby-ness.
In retrospect, she thinks she really ought to be better at reading the signs by now than that.
She thought she knew how bad it could get. The first year of the Bartlet administration, everything that could possibly go wrong, had. She'd been so far beyond green, it was a color no scientist or artist could determine. She'd weathered storm after storm in the press room, and then watched the President and Josh get shot and gone right back into the briefing. There was nothing short of a nuclear holocaust that C.J. Cregg couldn't break to the press with grace, poise, and wit.
This is going to be worse. Far, far worse.
Apart from the ubiquitous Secret Service, the halls of the West Wing are deserted. When did it get this late? Why aren't all hands on deck in Communications, desperately scrambling to spin this in a way that won't get them all booted out of the White House by an angry mob? Oh, that's right, because most of them haven't been told yet.
Except Toby. Who is in his office.
What could she possibly say to him? "I feel betrayed" doesn't even begin to cover it.
"Well, that was fun."
"We're totally screwed, aren't we?"
"So, how did you react?"
There's no good way to start a conversation about this.
God, she needs a drink.
Toby, she could say, I need a drink. And he'd look at her wordlessly, taking in her determinedly straight spine, her tight lips, the crow's feet deepening at the corners of her tired eyes, and he'd just nod sympathetically, offering her his arm.
They both drove in this morning but by unspoken agreement he hails a cab, and it's a short, blessedly silent trip to the darkest, smokiest dive pub in the District. He orders her a vodka martini with emphasis on the vodka, and she downs it in one long, painful shot. Easy there, cowgirl, he says, and he keeps his voice light but she hears the dark velvet undertones, and she accidentally on purpose brushes her fingertips along his arm just to feel him shiver, the tiny jolt of electricity that sparks between them whenever they touch, one of the many, many things they never actually talk about.
She leans against him to steal a sip of his brandy, and he jostles her back gently, you could just order your own, you know.
I know, she says, but I don't really like the flavor.
Except out of my glass, apparently, he says.
Apparently, she agrees.
She tilts her head to see the heat in his dark eyes, the embers he keeps dampened to a low burn flaring up for just an instant. C.J., he says, low and hoarse, like he needs another drink, I know it's hard to take in, and you're hurting, and—
It's not about that, she tells him, and they both know she's lying, and she is, but it's not just about that, and that's an important distinction.
I'm just saying, he says, if you need to talk, I'm here. I'm always here for you.
I know, she says, and I'm glad, and I will, but not – not yet. I can't talk about this yet. She takes a deep breath, and with a candor she never seems to possess in real life, adds, that's not what I want right now.
His eyes are so dark and intent upon her face, and she's flushed and tingling from the alcohol and her own boldness, and before she has a chance to make the next move his hand is cupping her cheek and he's kissing her, hard.
She can feel the calluses on his fingertips and taste the brandy on his tongue, and he smells like books and ink and cigars and stale coffee and Toby, and she has to break away from him now or this will lead very quickly to the sorts of things White House staffers absolutely cannot be witnessed doing in public places. A handful of bills tossed on the table, another quick dark taxi ride with fumbling hands and trespassing lips (oh trespass sweetly urged, give me my sin again, he whispers against her collarbone), and then—
With Toby, it's all about the words, as she always knew it would be, rough rumbling dark voice in her ear as she moves against him, I don't know why it took us so long, wanted to feel touch taste drink you up, drink you in, do you know what you look like right now, eyes like fire breasts like silk you have no idea, let me tell you—
Words and words and words, but not a single breath spoken about the President or relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis or the wrath of God and the outraged media that is about to descend upon their heads, and the release is sweet but the morning dawns just as bleak as the darkness of the evening before.
I'll be in my office when you're done.
There's not a single damn thing Toby could possibly say to her right now that can make this any better.
She takes a cab home, alone.
After her first meeting with Oliver Babish, she returns to her office, tells Carol to screen her calls for the rest of the morning, and closes and locks the door. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes. She doesn't know what anyone else in the West Wing is up to right now and she doesn't give a damn. Nothing the idiot boys could possibly do today will be worse than this. It's not a reassuring thought.
Oddly enough, she finds herself missing Danny, just a little bit. Well, maybe not so odd; feeding Gail has become one of her primary procrastination devices these days. It's a wonder the little goldfish hasn't gone belly up from excess fish food by now. Whatever. Danny was good remedy against headaches, once, when he wasn't being a major headache on his own terms, and sometimes she misses him.
It's just that Danny is so…uncomplicated. Well, their relationship, such as it was, was kind of on the complicated side, but that was just because of the whole Press Secretary and White House reporter thing. Point being, Danny is uncomplicated. His affection is uncomplicated, his friendship is uncomplicated. He is the antithesis of all things Oliver Babish and Jed Bartlet and multiple sclerosis, and right now, C.J. misses him.
He'd know, somehow, because Danny always somehow knew; and he'd charm his way past Carol – a little trick she's eternally grateful he didn't teach to anyone else on the press corps – and he'd be in her office at some point today whether she'd locked the door or not.
Hey, C.J., in that perpetually light tone, flopping comfortably down on the couch, what's goin' on?
Nothing, Danny, leave it, or Well, there's a bill going through the House that Sam's trying to get thrown out and Toby wants to add about twelve riders, or Don't you have reporting to do somewhere or something? And as always, it takes about five more rounds of banter back and forth before Danny cheerfully wears her down to the crux of the matter.
It's – there's a thing, Danny, and I can't talk about it yet.
He gives her a measuring look, and she can see the gears whirring, so well-concealed by that placid look of mild bemusement that has fooled so many other people in this office but not her, never her. Okay, he says affably. Mind if I sit?
You already are, she points out.
I find it's a lot easier to get permission that way, yeah. His pale blue eyes twinkle. Mind if you sit?
And she does, because he's Danny, and everything is light and easy with Danny. She leans back, letting her shoulder brush against his, and some of that lightness and ease passes through into her, loosening her tight muscles and the rigid line of her back. He's warm beside her, his hand slipping over hers as he traces light circles across her knuckles, and she smiles.
She could imagine some raunchy fantasy, mostly-clothed sex in her locked office, spread-eagled against her desk with her skirt hiked up and Danny on his knees before her, his mouth hot against her clit – and if she's perfectly honest with herself, sometimes she does. But that's just sex, and she could just as easily mentally substitute Sam or the rower from college or, hell, Brad Pitt in for that one, and it wouldn't be any more satisfying. But she's just spent an hour in the office of the White House counsel and it's only the very beginning of a very long day, week, month, news cycle after news cycle, and when she closes her eyes in her empty office, all she really wants is five minutes of peace, sitting in comfortable quiet with Danny Concannon light and warm beside her, just letting her be.
It's silly to waste time thinking on it, so she sprinkles a few flakes of fish food into Gail's bowl, pops a couple of Advil for the headache, and gets back to work. She's fine.
She knows. She doesn't know how or why, but she does. Maybe it's when he calls on Sandy instead of the medical correspondent she worked so hard to plant for him, maybe it's the sudden stillness beside her as Josh's usual twitchy nervous energy abruptly focuses, maybe it's the strange little smile. But she knows. And it's like being in freefall, her heart racing, the sense that the sky is rushing past, terrifying and thrilling, ten thousand times better than sex in a goddamn shower stall. And then he says it.
"Yeah. And I'm gonna win."
Second term. Call on Lawrence Altman, first row, on your right. Subpoenas for all and sundry. God, she's losing control of this already, hold it together, here now, the President of the United States, and he's gonna win.
The press corps explodes.
Not literally. Too bad.
"He said it, he said it, he just said it," Josh says breathlessly into her ear, practically bouncing, clutching at Sam's arm.
"Jesus Christ, we're in for it now," Sam says, but his grin is wide, brilliant and genuine for the first time in far too long.
C.J. watches the reporters shriek questions, one on top of the other, impossible to distinguish in the general tumult but that's never stopped them before and it won't stop them now. And in a minute, maybe two if she's lucky, she's going to have to deal with the fallout. She just needs to remember how to breathe first.
Toby and Leo are there, and she thinks Leo is trying to talk strategy, voice low and fast, but Josh bounds over, irrepressible. "He said it!"
"You know, I think I heard it myself," Leo remarks dryly, as Toby stares at Josh like he's grown another head and says, "Josh, you are, you are like a child. A particularly stupid child," and only just barely avoids being hugged anyway. Josh has hugs for everyone right now, prickly old men included, and as he swings his arms around C.J. she thinks he'd probably be sticking his tongue down Donna's throat right now if she were here with them.
He doesn't stick his tongue down C.J.'s throat, but at the warmth in his eyes as he scoops her up and tugs her around in what was probably meant to be a twirl, the warmth of his cheek pressed fleetingly against hers, she wouldn't be surprised at anything anymore. She's halfway tempted to grab his shoulders and lay one on him. Instead, she lets him hold her close for another long too-brief moment, closing her eyes and pretending that this is good, and maybe everything will be all right.
Then Josh releases her and bounds off to his next victim, and Sam and Toby head out into the storm chattering a mile a minute, and Leo makes a beeline for the President as he steps away from the podium, and C.J. is left alone to handle the press.
Okay, she tells herself, repressing a sigh. Showtime.
And then it all comes crashing down.
She's wound so tightly she could (did) scream, and her wrist is sore from slamming against the wall, and at midnight or one or whenever she trips her way into her apartment late that early morning, she doesn't even bother turning on a light, just drops her coat and her bag and her shoes and crumples still-clothed onto her bedspread.
I think the President's relieved to be focusing on something that matters.
How could she be so goddamn stupid?
She shoves her right hand down the front of her skirt, under her panties, and her back arches at her own touch. She rubs hard, relishing the twinge of pain that accompanies her arousal, willing her brain to turn off just for a few empty throbbing blissful minutes, but the thoughts and images flash behind her tightly-closed eyes with every wave of heat.
Her heart is racing and her skin is flushed and feels tight against her bones, an ill-fitting suit, and the ugly shock in Toby's eyes and Sam's outraged whispers and Leo furious and Carol looking at her like she's come from Mars, God why won't the reporters just shut the hell up for once, somewhere Danny is watching in bemusement, okay, so that was a thing in his light, understated tones, slamming her hand into the wall feeling sharp pain radiating outward, her breath comes in short pants as she thrusts against her own fingers, not fit for this week for this scandal for this job for the disappointment in Leo's eyes when he looked at her after, she'll offer her resignation tomorrow, no wait until after the Manchester trip, fade away until no one remembers she was ever there, Mandy just disappearing into the woodwork after the shooting and how long was it before anyone even thought to ask, quietly cut completely out of the good ol' boys' loop, Josh's boundless affection so easily diverted, solitary basement office headboard thumping against the wall words and words and words rough warm dark in her ears—
She's so close so ready it hurts and her wrist hurts and her spine aches and she lets it crash over her, car wreck train wreck pain in the neck misspoken God and bites her lip to keep from screaming, keep the words in, don't say a damn thing, don't let anything out.
She lies there in the darkness, breathing heavily, her fingers wet between her thighs, her face hot and damp with sweat and tears, freefalling, and she wonders if she'll be able to put the pieces back together after she lands.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-05-27 02:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-27 02:49 pm (UTC)Sorry, I am at a loss for words right now.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-27 03:12 pm (UTC)C.J. likes Ainsley, really she does, but she can hear the semicolons sometimes.
LOL! Lovely little asides like this all the way through. Fantastic.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 12:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 01:07 am (UTC)This is breautiful, so very, very CJ..
Like someone has already said, you make me wanna go rewatch the episodes.
Also the Ainsley-Semicolon line; Genius!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-28 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-29 03:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-31 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-30 10:57 pm (UTC)And the last section - God, with the hot and the sad...
no subject
Date: 2008-05-31 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-24 12:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-24 01:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-20 03:10 pm (UTC)Fabulous characterisations of everyone (even in fantasy), and I love how it's peace and silence she imagines with Danny.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-20 07:19 pm (UTC)