An Incomplete Existence

Toby stood at the windows of his living room, momentarily distracted from the act of drawing the curtains by the sight of his own reflection. He wasn't a man who spent a great deal of time looking or thinking about his appearance and somehow he knew that was exactly the impression he projected. The very last thing anyone in DC would accuse him of was vanity - in fact for as long as he could recall people had spoken slightingly of his personal appearance; referred to him as that 'funny little man' or worse.

There had even been ,on one unforgettable occasion during the primaries, an article, although it was an insult to good journalism to call it that, about how Bartlet's team was winning the appearance war hands down, citing Josh and Sam as good-looking, Leo as the 'Sean Connery figure' and CJ as one of the sexiest women in politics. It had caused much merriment in the offices for about half an hour, especially the section that had referred to Toby as the 'thorn between the roses'. And he hadn't cared, because he knew what mattered was his mind and his writing, that what he looked like had very little to do with what he was capable of.

Even this moment of introspection wasn't really about his appearance, it was more about his curiosity to see if after crossing such an important boundary he looked any different. His conclusion was that he looked as crumpled, as tired and as irritable as ever.

The sound of raindrops pelting against the window broke the spell and reminded Toby abruptly of his purpose. He pulled the heavy curtains closed, shutting out the storm and went back to worrying about whether the rain and the wind would wake his companion. He padded two steps back towards his bedroom and reassured himself that she was still curled under the covers, giving every appearance of being deeply and soundly asleep.

He leaned forward and picked up her shirt from where it had been discarded by her, or them, or however it had gone, lifting the soft garment to his face. He'd caught the same scent when she'd brushed past him on her way into that morning's staff meeting and while he was sure she'd worn that particular brand of perfume before, for some reason today it had roused in him thoughts he'd always been sure were best left buried. He'd been intoxicated by that damn scent all day, he was still intoxicated if his uncharacteristic concern with his appearance and CJs sleeping habits was anything to go by.

Why today? The question pounded at him, had stolen his ability to sleep despite the warm, inviting body curled beside his. How had the last twenty hours differed from all the other occasions when his awareness of her had spun around him, narrowing in each dizzying circle to, at its centre, a core of attraction he had always assumed would never be consummated.

He should have learnt by now, never to assume anything and the recollection of the way they had moved against each other, the sound of his name wrung from her lips and the feel of her hands against his body were enough to convince him that he had wasted precious years engaged in a game of trivial pursuits when their time could have been much more pleasurably and profitably spent. But knowing that they had unmistakable, terrifying chemistry did not give him the answers that he sought and he was coming rapidly to the conclusion that without knowing why it had happened he had no way of knowing if it was a momentary aberration from the normal rhythm of their lives, or something that had the chance to be more enduring.

They definitely hadn't been fighting, fighting would have required far more energy then either of them had. It was as though a dark cloud hung over the entire senior staff, dampening their mood, sapping their strength and leaving them floundering. It felt like they were waiting for something to happen, although no one seemed to be sure what it was.

Toby was no stranger to dark moods, so, perhaps he had been less aware of what was happening to the closely knit team around him than he should have been. Caught up in the secret re-election campaign and trying to second guess the next moves of Anne Stark and the Majority Leader he had been focussing externally and not looking around him enough. Which probably explained why he had been so startled when CJ had come into his office mid-afternoon, curled up in the corner of his couch and said,

'I'm tired Toby, tell me a happy story, make me smile, better yet say something inspirational.' He'd been so surprised, especially since his thoughts about her today had been so very different from normal, that his only response had been a snappy,

'Do I look like Oprah?' She'd tilted her head towards him and appeared to be giving the question serious consideration before replying.

'No, you don't, but I have a briefing in an hour and I'm out of enthusiasm and so you, my friend, are it.'

'CJ,'

'Please don't make me feel worse about this than I do already Toby.' And he'd taken a breath, found a sensitivity he was quite sure he didn't normally possess and over the next hour he had tried hard to divert her, with war stories from campaigns in his past, memories they shared of the Bartlet campaign and a quick tour through the best and funniest moments of their time at the White House. It was easy to feel close to her when he was perched beside her on the couch, talking fast, trading stories and competing with quips. Witnessing her energy coming back made him feel as though his day might not be an entirely futile exercise and when he watched her give the best briefing he'd seen for months he felt as though he was smiling for the first time in a long time.

It would have been easy to leave it at that; to view it as a professional interaction, devoid of personal meaning, to be pleased that she was feeling better, doing her job well and move on and on any other day that might have been what had happened. Perhaps he ought to wake CJ and ask her what had brought her to his door hours later? Perhaps he ought to admit to himself that if she had not appeared he would have gone looking for her, though perhaps the results would have been different.

'Hey, Oprah!' He'd sighed, raised his eyes heaven-wards before fixing her with what he'd intended as a stern gaze. Despite the levity of her greeting she'd looked solemnly back at him, and her posture had slumped a little as she leant against the door frame.

'This is what you're going to be calling me now?'

'For a while. Want to come and get a drink?'

'No.'

'Toby - '

'Are you paying?'

'I guess,'

'Then I can spare an hour.'

In the darkened apartment Toby sat down on his couch, casting one of CJs shoes aside before burying his head in his hands and remembering the way she had leaned across the sticky table in a dark, probably disreputable bar they had found their way to. In the stillness of the night he thought about how she had waved her hands around as she talked, punctuating her points with hand movements as though she had expected them to add something to her arguments - and he had watched with baited breath, rousing himself to argue with her every now and again, but not bothering to attribute his feelings of unsteadiness to the alcohol he had drunk.

He had wanted her then, beyond reason or explanation and perhaps even beyond sanity - and there was, this time no protection in thoughts of their long and almost comfortable friendship. He had looked at the way her hair lay against the collar of her suit jacket and wondered how it would feel against his fingers. He had listened to her voice without hearing her words, lost in thoughts of what it might sound like in an entirely different situation.

'Toby?' He looked over his shoulder to find her watching him from the doorway, wearing his shirt, looking absurdly pleased with herself. His pulse quickened and he remembered how it felt to touch her, to see her moving beneath and above and around him, to be totally swept up by her and lost in her.

He'd wanted to hurry away from the bar, rather than face the sudden desire that possessed him. But she had run out of energy - or the alcohol had hit her system and she had slumped, dejectedly back in her chair and he realised that whatever had bought her to his door earlier that day wasn't going away anytime soon. The tenderness was new, and uncomfortable, he wasn't a man who wanted or needed to find that he cared about another's well being. But there was CJ, turning her empty glass in circles on the sticky table top and suddenly oxygen seemed too pure and rarefied for his lungs.

'You going to brood all night?' He turns to meet her, admitting to himself that had he not touched her hand in the bar, they wouldn't be here now. Had he not reached over and taken her hand in his, had the need and the electricity not flowed between them then this night would have been so very different. And it bothers him how concerned he is that their hurried exit from the bar, their first desperate kiss and everything that followed was about her need - and not about them at all. Its what haunts him now - and the only person who can answer the question is standing before him now, but still he can not find the words to ask her the question. For a fleeting instant he is afraid, that as well as everything else this night with her has somehow robbed him of his power over words.

'It was raining,' he says, 'I didn't want the storm to wake you.'

She is watching him, carefully, closely, almost as though she can't get enough of him. He remembers again the way they moved together, the fit of their bodies, her lips on his skin and he is once again dizzy with lust and need, so much so that he does not hear her first words.

'What did you say?'

'I said, I thought you might have been regretting this...' She gestures with her hand, a movement that takes in both them and the current disorder of his living room. 'And I was going on to say, that we both dissemble every day - I don't want to do that now. I don't want you to spin me. Tell me the truth, I won't break.'

'The truth is, complicated.'

'I can do complicated.'

'But I'm not sure that I can.' In the end, it was his reflection, as he had seen it just a few moments earlier that bought him to his senses. In the window he had looked as crumpled, as irritated and as tired as he ever did - but he was crumpled and tired from making love to a woman he knew and trusted - and the irritation was part of his genetic make up - impossible that he would ever be completely without it.

But in the glass of the window, just visible through the half open door, CJ had been sleeping in his bed - and he had felt warm, and content. It was only now that he realised that he had been uncomfortable because for years those feelings had been an anathema to him - and the man who could inspire them in someone else a stranger. But he was here, now and so was CJ.

'I'm afraid that I'll hurt you.' She nodded, sombrely, not doubting his capacity to do that, or the possibility.

'I've been hurt before Toby.'

'We work together - are you willing to risk your job, our working relationship as well as our friendship?'

'Are you?' This wasn't the response he had imagined her giving and his head spun through several seconds of unpleasant scenes and disastrous scenarios, but when he came to his senses again she was still CJ.

'Yes.' She nodded once, as though she had known all along that would be his answer, when really it was impossible that she could have - since he hadn't known himself until he'd said the word. But she closed the gap between them and took his hand in hers, leading him slowly back to bed. 'Are you willing to risk everything?' He asked, hesitating in the doorway of the bedroom. She slipped out of his shirt and turned back to him, wearing nothing - and he wondered if it was intentional, that she was standing before him naked at this moment.

'I already have.'

The End