fic: The Last Hurrah (The West Wing; CJ/Toby; pg)
The Last Hurrah
The West Wing; CJ/Toby; pg; 555 words
Toby has a thing for lost causes.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
The Last Hurrah
You've never been a winner. You don't think of yourself as a loser, not in the way some sixteen-year-old with a sneer might say it, but you have a thing for lost causes, for fights that can't be won.
It explains your marriage (your divorce), your career (up until the Bartlet campaign, anyway), and, in a roundabout way, why you're a Yankees fan. (You choose not to share that story with anyone.) It also explains the way CJ is looking at you right now, her mouth curved in a sad half-smile you'd like to kiss off her face.
"Toby," she says.
"I know."
"Toby." Sharper now, demanding an answer she knows you'll always give.
"I know." You rub a hand over your jaw, the soft brush of your beard comforting, familiar against the palm of your hand. Your fingers smell like sex, like CJ.
You lean in, give her that kiss you've been thinking about, as if you can lick the sadness, the regret, out of her mouth. She softens for a moment, kisses you back before pulling away.
"I can't," she says, and she's good, but even she can't hide the hurt in her eyes completely. She can't hold your gaze. "I can't do this anymore."
"Okay." You've known this was coming for a while. It still rocks you back, but you've got a lot of practice hiding the kind of pain she's just inflicted.
She fumbles with her pantyhose, yanked off in haste and curled into a flesh-colored puzzle she can't pull apart. "I'm your boss now."
"Do you think I don't know that?" You can't keep your voice from going loud and sharp. Maybe you don't want to. You'll take the pain, but not the insult to your intelligence. "I don't see what difference it makes."
"Of course you don't."
You suck in a sharp breath, let her know she's made her point, and start doing up your trousers. You don't look at her; you watch your hands instead. They look foreign--clumsy and wrong. You think you should be used to it by now, but you aren't. You never are. "CJ." It's a demand she won't--can't--answer. You don't expect her to. Not anymore.
She gives up on the pantyhose, smoothes her skirt down and slips her feet into her shoes. "I have to go."
"CJ." You let your desperation seep into your voice this time, though your expectations remain the same.
"I'll see you at senior staff in the morning," she says. She touches your shoulder briefly, impersonally, not lingering long enough to leave any warmth behind.
She's already out the door when you say, "Yeah."
You sit on the edge of the bed, exhausted and aching. You put your own shoes back on carefully, like an old man with arthritis, and stand slowly, as if uncertain your legs will hold your weight. You rub your scalp, let out a long slow breath you'd pretend is relief if you thought you'd believe it. You wish for a glass of scotch and a cigar, think about stopping in at the bar downstairs, but you already know you won't. You can't lick your wounds in public in anymore.
On your way out, you toss her pantyhose into the garbage pail.
You don't need any souvenirs. You know exactly what you've lost.
end
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
The West Wing; CJ/Toby; pg; 555 words
Toby has a thing for lost causes.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
The Last Hurrah
You've never been a winner. You don't think of yourself as a loser, not in the way some sixteen-year-old with a sneer might say it, but you have a thing for lost causes, for fights that can't be won.
It explains your marriage (your divorce), your career (up until the Bartlet campaign, anyway), and, in a roundabout way, why you're a Yankees fan. (You choose not to share that story with anyone.) It also explains the way CJ is looking at you right now, her mouth curved in a sad half-smile you'd like to kiss off her face.
"Toby," she says.
"I know."
"Toby." Sharper now, demanding an answer she knows you'll always give.
"I know." You rub a hand over your jaw, the soft brush of your beard comforting, familiar against the palm of your hand. Your fingers smell like sex, like CJ.
You lean in, give her that kiss you've been thinking about, as if you can lick the sadness, the regret, out of her mouth. She softens for a moment, kisses you back before pulling away.
"I can't," she says, and she's good, but even she can't hide the hurt in her eyes completely. She can't hold your gaze. "I can't do this anymore."
"Okay." You've known this was coming for a while. It still rocks you back, but you've got a lot of practice hiding the kind of pain she's just inflicted.
She fumbles with her pantyhose, yanked off in haste and curled into a flesh-colored puzzle she can't pull apart. "I'm your boss now."
"Do you think I don't know that?" You can't keep your voice from going loud and sharp. Maybe you don't want to. You'll take the pain, but not the insult to your intelligence. "I don't see what difference it makes."
"Of course you don't."
You suck in a sharp breath, let her know she's made her point, and start doing up your trousers. You don't look at her; you watch your hands instead. They look foreign--clumsy and wrong. You think you should be used to it by now, but you aren't. You never are. "CJ." It's a demand she won't--can't--answer. You don't expect her to. Not anymore.
She gives up on the pantyhose, smoothes her skirt down and slips her feet into her shoes. "I have to go."
"CJ." You let your desperation seep into your voice this time, though your expectations remain the same.
"I'll see you at senior staff in the morning," she says. She touches your shoulder briefly, impersonally, not lingering long enough to leave any warmth behind.
She's already out the door when you say, "Yeah."
You sit on the edge of the bed, exhausted and aching. You put your own shoes back on carefully, like an old man with arthritis, and stand slowly, as if uncertain your legs will hold your weight. You rub your scalp, let out a long slow breath you'd pretend is relief if you thought you'd believe it. You wish for a glass of scotch and a cigar, think about stopping in at the bar downstairs, but you already know you won't. You can't lick your wounds in public in anymore.
On your way out, you toss her pantyhose into the garbage pail.
You don't need any souvenirs. You know exactly what you've lost.
end
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~