Comparative Possibilities

By Cappuccino Girl

Genre: Angst. CJ/Toby.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The West Wing and its characters belong to the genius of Aaron Sorkin, and those companies who make the show.
Notes: I wrote a CJ/Toby fic voluntarily. OMG. I didn't plan for it to be this way, but it just happened somehow. Thanks to all of you who beta-read for me. It's appreciated, as always.

 
Summary: He was sober, trying to be the comforting one when he'd never even been able to read past page two of a pop psychology book, and she was too drunk to notice the utter bullshit which came out of his mouth.

 

He says he loves her, claims he always has, and she's believed him somehow. Maybe because it's simpler to believe him than to doubt, for he gives her a sense of security within the chaos. It's what she's wanted to hear, and he knows that just as well as she does. So when they fall into bed together for the fifth time in three weeks, she knows that the world must be close to collapsing, as she's desperate for something to cling on to, and he happens to have been nearest.

They're living close to each other again, precariously so, and it hasn't been closer since they both were in LA those years ago. He'd just moved there for a short-term project; she'd been there since she could think. She wasn't thinking when it first happened, him and her, in a cloud of alcohol induced haziness. He was sober, trying to be the comforting one when he'd never even been able to read past page two of a pop psychology book, and she was too drunk to notice the utter bullshit which came out of his mouth.

It had always been like that. Her hurting on the inside, and his convenience for her as a sexual punch bag. The week before he left LA, she'd broken up with her long-term boyfriend. It was the first time she had been dumped, for she never liked to stay in a rocky relationship so long that she might be on the receiving end of 'it's over'. Adam had departed, leaving her hurting and pitifully alone, so she called the only one she knew yet didn't know at all, and she fucked him instead of Adam, because it didn't make a difference to her who he was, and he was honored to have had such a stunning woman beg for him.

And now she fears that the statistics lie, that she will be out of a job and become that which she fears most, a has been. Once so powerful, yet soon to be forgotten. She could forget him. He's been forgettable to her, but only when she was busy. As soon as she pauses on life's treadmill, he hits her like a pang. What could have been versus what they are, and she's never been wild on comparisons. This one happens every time, predictably after she's faltered in her plan to never see him socially again.

So she's lying in his bed on Sunday morning, the sun streaming through the half closed blinds, and he brushes the hair from her face, thinking how she seems almost angelic, wrapped up in crumpled sheets. He wishes he could be her only, her soul mate, because she looks like she'd have such beautiful thoughts to tell. He doubts he'll ever hear them, for she's sure to leave here quickly, his place and the debris of last night. She always does. She'll return at the next crisis, and they'll go through the well known motions, and he'll hope, like he does every time, that she'll stay, rather than leave in a haze of perfume and words of apology and regret. He's never regretted a single moment spent with her.

~ The End ~

 


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