Title: Sleep, And The Lack Of
Author: kbk
Disclaimer: Sorkin's.
Rating: PG
Notes: This was just something I wrote randomly and was polishing up a little in the hope of it becoming a fic, and it's not really. But it's CJ and Toby and Sam.

CJ yawns, and stretches, and smiles indulgently at the men in the office with her. They are all tired, but that's hardly anything new. They've all learned to work effectively on little sleep, but they're approaching serious sleep-deprivation and it's really starting to show in their work. Sam comes up with ever-more colorful similes, as the night wears on. Toby becomes increasingly persnickety about the correct usage of the different types of punctuation. Their bickering increases in frequency and more than once they look to her as a referee. She doesn't really want to be stuck between them, and she doesn't exactly need to be here, but she is probably too tired, right now, to drive home safely, so she'll wait a few more minutes and drink another cup of coffee, and when she feels alert again she'll go home and get her four hours of sleep.

Toby watches CJ's calf muscle flexing as she points her toe, and manages not to let his eyes trace the line of her leg any further up. It seems like a provocative move from her, but he knows that she is simply tired, and tense from the long day, and a massage would probably help - her feet must be aching from the amount of time she spends standing at the podium and wandering the West Wing in high heels. If they were alone, perhaps he would offer. But they aren't alone. They're sitting in Sam's office, attempting to craft yet another speech for their glorious leader, and he would leave and take CJ with him if not for the fact that he wants a part in this piece of work. He doesn't want to have to sit and edit it after Sam has put hours of work and tiny fragments of his soul into it. He has to stay, and hold his deputy back. Sam hurts himself far too often.

Sam doesn't look up as CJ stands and takes her leave, and so he doesn't catch the flash of wistfulness on Toby's face. It's doubtful he would understand it if he had, for the words have taken over his brain and the message is close to being lost behind a forest of prose that is flowering as he types. It's difficult to restrain himself at times, and he knows that without Toby's analytical mind and briskness, the President would sometimes end up talking a little more and saying a lot less. They make a wonderful writing team. His work has never been better, and that's definitely a good thing, given the audience some of these things are meant for. It's often an enjoyable experience as well, and he knows that they are friends, but there are parts of Toby that he doesn't know at all, and parts of himself that are always hidden. It goes that way, with some people. Disappointing. But too difficult to think about when he's trying to write.