Fic: The Smart Geeky Ones
Author: Ryo Sen
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Also, I blame Luna. ;)
Summary: CJ reflects on her taste in men.
Thanks: To Jo, for giving me feedback even with all "the wrong." ;) And of course, thanks to Luna, who is the nefarious mastermind behind this Shipswitch Challenge thing. Look for her Textbook Case. It's quite good.
I've always been a sucker for the smart, geeky ones.
In seventh grade, while my friends nursed crushes on the resident bad boy with the black leather jacket and torn jeans, I couldn't take my eyes off of Douglas O'Connor. He of the big glasses and bigger blue eyes. And I thought the cowlick was just dreamy.
My first real boyfriend was Freddie Grafton, a gawky kid in my honors literature class. Our idea of a fantasy date was long discussions of the finer points of Doris Lessing over Cokes. Heady stuff for sixteen year olds.
All through college, I dated the original computer geek. Well, okay, it wasn't Bill Gates. But Paul Hammond would code for hours at a time in the small computer science lab on campus. That could be very annoying, his obsessive need to finish what he'd started. Sometimes he'd be in there for 36 hours. But the upside was that when he emerged, wrung out and full of expendable energy from staring at a screen for so long, he was insatiable. Our sex life was a hell of lot more exciting and adventurous than my friends', all of whom had their share of one night stands and short-lived relationships with guys whose numbers and supposed prowess were preserved for posterity on the bathroom walls.
But I digress.
Being in my line of work, surrounded by the best and the geekiest, you'd think I'd have crushes on all of my coworkers.
Clearly, you haven't ever had a conversation with any of them.
Leo McGarry is old enough to be my father. Just... no.
Josh Lyman is, yes, smart and a geek. But he's also incredibly arrogant and self-centered. I admire his mind, and value his friendship, but if I have to spend more than a day with him, I'm usually ready and eager to snap his wiry little body in two. I'll admit that when we first met, I was drawn to him. I mean, who wouldn't be? The man is nothing if not charismatic. If he weren't quite so mesmerizing, someone would have killed him long since. Donna has the patience of a saint.
Sam Seaborn is far too pretty, which almost covers up his inherent geekiness. I realize that half the female staff members in the White House (and I should reiterate my disgust at the pitiful ratio of staffers that are female) have crushes on Sam. For some reason, that dynamic just isn't there between us. He's like my sweet, naïve little brother.
And then there's Toby.
Toby Ziegler, a prickly, dour, and oddly endearing man who has the unique ability to rub me absolutely the wrong way. That said, I prefer cantankerous, patronizing, argumentative Toby; he freaks me out when he's nice to me. Lucky for me, that doesn't happen very often. For the most part, he's just Toby.
When we met on opposite sides of a gay-rights rally ten years ago, I thought he was an insufferable jackass. I still think that. But there's something about him, something unnamable that draws me to him.
I think it has to do with his incredible mind. Not to mention his ability to weave words together that can leave you suddenly in tears, rocked to the core. I remember this one speech that President Bartlet gave during the campaign at a women's center in Massachusetts. Because a number of the attendees were residents of the center's affiliated domestic violence shelter, the press wasn't invited. Lots of candidates -- and lots of campaign workers -- would have taken advantage of such a rare opportunity to phone it in. After all, in the grand scheme of things, an untelevised event doesn't matter. But it did to President Bartlet.
And it certainly mattered to Toby.
The words he used, the compassion he showed those women whose lives were in shambles and probably in danger... it was just astounding.
I cried that day. From the sheer power of Toby's writing. Sam brings a whimsical, idealistic side to the President's speeches, but Toby is the heart. He provides the emotional base, the empathy, and the power.
It's incredibly sexy.
He's also got great hands. Very expressive. You can just imagine what he'd be able to do with them.
Well, I don't have to imagine anymore; in fact, I can say with certainty that he knows how to use those hands to great effect.
I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm flustered, and I'm recounting this poorly.
It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows us that this... thing that happened between us started as a fight.
Pretty much every conversation between us starts as a fight, or segues into a fight, or ends in a fight. We're contentious, stubborn people. But we like it that way.
Which is why we spark so effectively, I think. Two years ago, I would have sworn this thing between Toby and me was just a mutual appreciation; possibly admiration. A year ago, I would have reluctantly admitted that Toby had something of a crush on me, but would have defended my tendency to tease him as just that: a friendly tease.
Now, I am forced to admit that there is possibly something more there. What it is, I'm not sure, but it's something.
Anyway, we were fighting.
Not at work. I don't think even Josh would be impulsive enough to kiss a coworker in the West Wing without damn good mitigating circumstances.
We were in a bar, this crummy little place on the edge of Georgetown that Toby likes. The patrons are, for the most part, frat kids and bikers. In other words, he can show up occasionally, get loaded, and it won't end up in the papers.
So we were arguing.
"Toby--"
"No, CJ, I'm saying--"
"It's disgusting," I insisted, glaring at him over my martini. I knew it was irrational, but I blamed him for my mood. After all, he'd written the damn thing. "I can't believe you made me get up there and read that--"
"It's all we can say right now, CJ," Toby answered tiredly.
I stared at him for a moment. "I don't care," I decided. "It's disgusting."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you really know?" I pushed. I was tired and angry and looking for a fight. I admit it. And Toby has never been one to back down from a fight.
"Yes," he answered tightly, his hand gripping his gin and tonic.
"These women--"
"I know, CJ."
"These women," I repeated, raising my voice slightly, "they've been brutally subjugated -- they're stoned to death, Toby, if they leave their houses without a male relative! Stoned to death!"
"I know."
"You know?"
"Yes," he answered grimly.
"They have to paint the windows black if a woman lives in the house; radios are outlawed; girls can't be educated; laughter is banned." I shook my head. "Laughter is banned, Toby!"
"I know," he sighed, taking a large swig of his drink.
"I got up there today," I said, my voice starting to shake with anger, remorse, and too much alcohol, "and I told the press that the United States was strongly opposed to the recent destruction of religious statues by the Taliban."
"CJ--"
"Statues, Toby," I repeated loudly. "We're opposed to the destruction of statues, but not to that illegitimate military regime's complete and total subjugation of eleven and a half million women?"
"CJ--"
"It's not like these women were raised to believe in this twisted misinterpretation of Islam, Toby," I argued, oblivious to the fact that he was agreeing with me. "Before 1996, Afghani women wore contemporary clothing, they were educated -- hell, half of the doctors were women, Toby!
"I know." This time when he spoke, his voice broke. I think that's what did me in, that he was frustrated too.
I stared at him a moment, and I finally understood that he was just as disgusted as me. That the flatness of the statement I'd been handed was due to Toby's inability to put his heart into writing it.
I shrugged helplessly. "And we're protesting the fact that the Taliban is smashing statues."
"CJ," Toby said. Nothing else, just my name. But the tone he used...
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was a way to relieve some of the rioting emotions inside me. Maybe it was just because his brown eyes held such exquisite pain. I can't explain it, but I leaned across that table and kissed him.
I always imagined that his beard would tickle. It didn't. I barely felt it, distracted as I was by his talented mouth and the hand that landed on the back of my neck to pull me closer. Objectively, it was a fairly awkward kiss; we were both half-standing, and the edge of the table was digging into my stomach. Subjectively, it was perfect.
Perfectly Toby and me.
When I pulled back, he stayed that way for a moment before he collected himself and sat back down. And stared at me.
I shrugged. "Have you ever read The Handmaid's Tale, Toby?"
Toby's eyes narrowed. "No," he answered quietly. He accepted the subject change, even though I could tell he wanted to ask me why the hell I was kissing him a crummy bar.
I wasn't ready to talk about it yet. "It's the same idea. It's the Christian version of the Taliban, subjugating women."
Toby nodded then. "Scary."
"Even more so for a woman," I pointed out.
"You don't think it terrifies me?" he demanded. "The thought of my mother, of my sisters, of you being forced into the dark ages? Abused and silenced?"
I stared at him. "You'd be well out of it, Toby. You're a man."
"I'm Jewish," he countered. "I killed their god."
I granted him the point with a curt nod. "It just -- I can't stand it when we tacitly approve things that are so obviously wrong."
"You want us to send in the military?" he asked, downing the last of his drink.
"Why not?" I asked. "We do it to protect oil reserves. We do it when weak presidents want to up their approval numbers. Why not for these eleven and a half million women?"
Toby watched me carefully. "Where do we draw the line?"
"I don't know."
"What about the atrocities in Africa? Or the conflict between Israel and Palestine? Hell, do we bomb China for human rights violations?"
"I don't know," I admitted, rubbing my face tiredly. "Sometimes, it's just -- I get so frustrated."
Toby slid a hand across the scarred tabletop, and it landed atop mine. His fingers tangled into mine and squeezed. "Come home with me."
I stared at him, utterly relieved of the power of speech.
He shrugged, as close to bashful as I've ever seen him. "You're right."
"About?" I managed.
"That it gets too be too much," he answered quietly. "Come home with me."
I shook my head and, at the same time, held on to his hand for dear life. "That'll help?"
The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Probably not. But..."
And then I was laughing. "But you're willing to give it a shot?"
He glanced away. "Something like that."
"Toby," I said, "this is a really bad idea."
"Yes." He met my gaze again.
"We shouldn't do this."
"You're probably right," he admitted.
I stared down at our hands for a long time. Then I looked up at him, resolute. "Let's go."
"Seriously?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"You're surprised?"
"Honestly? Yes."
"Why?" I asked, tugging him upright.
"Because," he shrugged, following me towards the door, "you're... you."
I rolled my eyes. "Well, that cleared things right up for me, Toby. Thanks. You know--"
Then he pressed me against the wall just inside the door and kissed me again.
The drive to his small apartment didn't take long, and we managed to control ourselves until we got inside. And then it was explosive. Those hands of his... they're amazing.
I won't say that afterwards, everything was right with the world; it never is. But things were a little bit more bearable.
Now, looking at his hand splayed on my abdomen, it doesn't seem wrong. It seems complicated and potentially dangerous: Toby is technically my superior; he's still half in love with his ex-wife, a woman I happen to consider a friend; his manner is blunt and brusque, and we argue more than anyone else I know. But it doesn't seem wrong.
I should walk away. I should leave before he wakes up. I absolutely shouldn't pursue this.
But I always have been a sucker for the smart, geeky ones.
THE END
03.14.01
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Also, I blame Luna. ;)
Summary: CJ reflects on her taste in men.
Thanks: To Jo, for giving me feedback even with all "the wrong." ;) And of course, thanks to Luna, who is the nefarious mastermind behind this Shipswitch Challenge thing. Look for her Textbook Case. It's quite good.
I've always been a sucker for the smart, geeky ones.
In seventh grade, while my friends nursed crushes on the resident bad boy with the black leather jacket and torn jeans, I couldn't take my eyes off of Douglas O'Connor. He of the big glasses and bigger blue eyes. And I thought the cowlick was just dreamy.
My first real boyfriend was Freddie Grafton, a gawky kid in my honors literature class. Our idea of a fantasy date was long discussions of the finer points of Doris Lessing over Cokes. Heady stuff for sixteen year olds.
All through college, I dated the original computer geek. Well, okay, it wasn't Bill Gates. But Paul Hammond would code for hours at a time in the small computer science lab on campus. That could be very annoying, his obsessive need to finish what he'd started. Sometimes he'd be in there for 36 hours. But the upside was that when he emerged, wrung out and full of expendable energy from staring at a screen for so long, he was insatiable. Our sex life was a hell of lot more exciting and adventurous than my friends', all of whom had their share of one night stands and short-lived relationships with guys whose numbers and supposed prowess were preserved for posterity on the bathroom walls.
But I digress.
Being in my line of work, surrounded by the best and the geekiest, you'd think I'd have crushes on all of my coworkers.
Clearly, you haven't ever had a conversation with any of them.
Leo McGarry is old enough to be my father. Just... no.
Josh Lyman is, yes, smart and a geek. But he's also incredibly arrogant and self-centered. I admire his mind, and value his friendship, but if I have to spend more than a day with him, I'm usually ready and eager to snap his wiry little body in two. I'll admit that when we first met, I was drawn to him. I mean, who wouldn't be? The man is nothing if not charismatic. If he weren't quite so mesmerizing, someone would have killed him long since. Donna has the patience of a saint.
Sam Seaborn is far too pretty, which almost covers up his inherent geekiness. I realize that half the female staff members in the White House (and I should reiterate my disgust at the pitiful ratio of staffers that are female) have crushes on Sam. For some reason, that dynamic just isn't there between us. He's like my sweet, naïve little brother.
And then there's Toby.
Toby Ziegler, a prickly, dour, and oddly endearing man who has the unique ability to rub me absolutely the wrong way. That said, I prefer cantankerous, patronizing, argumentative Toby; he freaks me out when he's nice to me. Lucky for me, that doesn't happen very often. For the most part, he's just Toby.
When we met on opposite sides of a gay-rights rally ten years ago, I thought he was an insufferable jackass. I still think that. But there's something about him, something unnamable that draws me to him.
I think it has to do with his incredible mind. Not to mention his ability to weave words together that can leave you suddenly in tears, rocked to the core. I remember this one speech that President Bartlet gave during the campaign at a women's center in Massachusetts. Because a number of the attendees were residents of the center's affiliated domestic violence shelter, the press wasn't invited. Lots of candidates -- and lots of campaign workers -- would have taken advantage of such a rare opportunity to phone it in. After all, in the grand scheme of things, an untelevised event doesn't matter. But it did to President Bartlet.
And it certainly mattered to Toby.
The words he used, the compassion he showed those women whose lives were in shambles and probably in danger... it was just astounding.
I cried that day. From the sheer power of Toby's writing. Sam brings a whimsical, idealistic side to the President's speeches, but Toby is the heart. He provides the emotional base, the empathy, and the power.
It's incredibly sexy.
He's also got great hands. Very expressive. You can just imagine what he'd be able to do with them.
Well, I don't have to imagine anymore; in fact, I can say with certainty that he knows how to use those hands to great effect.
I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm flustered, and I'm recounting this poorly.
It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows us that this... thing that happened between us started as a fight.
Pretty much every conversation between us starts as a fight, or segues into a fight, or ends in a fight. We're contentious, stubborn people. But we like it that way.
Which is why we spark so effectively, I think. Two years ago, I would have sworn this thing between Toby and me was just a mutual appreciation; possibly admiration. A year ago, I would have reluctantly admitted that Toby had something of a crush on me, but would have defended my tendency to tease him as just that: a friendly tease.
Now, I am forced to admit that there is possibly something more there. What it is, I'm not sure, but it's something.
Anyway, we were fighting.
Not at work. I don't think even Josh would be impulsive enough to kiss a coworker in the West Wing without damn good mitigating circumstances.
We were in a bar, this crummy little place on the edge of Georgetown that Toby likes. The patrons are, for the most part, frat kids and bikers. In other words, he can show up occasionally, get loaded, and it won't end up in the papers.
So we were arguing.
"Toby--"
"No, CJ, I'm saying--"
"It's disgusting," I insisted, glaring at him over my martini. I knew it was irrational, but I blamed him for my mood. After all, he'd written the damn thing. "I can't believe you made me get up there and read that--"
"It's all we can say right now, CJ," Toby answered tiredly.
I stared at him for a moment. "I don't care," I decided. "It's disgusting."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you really know?" I pushed. I was tired and angry and looking for a fight. I admit it. And Toby has never been one to back down from a fight.
"Yes," he answered tightly, his hand gripping his gin and tonic.
"These women--"
"I know, CJ."
"These women," I repeated, raising my voice slightly, "they've been brutally subjugated -- they're stoned to death, Toby, if they leave their houses without a male relative! Stoned to death!"
"I know."
"You know?"
"Yes," he answered grimly.
"They have to paint the windows black if a woman lives in the house; radios are outlawed; girls can't be educated; laughter is banned." I shook my head. "Laughter is banned, Toby!"
"I know," he sighed, taking a large swig of his drink.
"I got up there today," I said, my voice starting to shake with anger, remorse, and too much alcohol, "and I told the press that the United States was strongly opposed to the recent destruction of religious statues by the Taliban."
"CJ--"
"Statues, Toby," I repeated loudly. "We're opposed to the destruction of statues, but not to that illegitimate military regime's complete and total subjugation of eleven and a half million women?"
"CJ--"
"It's not like these women were raised to believe in this twisted misinterpretation of Islam, Toby," I argued, oblivious to the fact that he was agreeing with me. "Before 1996, Afghani women wore contemporary clothing, they were educated -- hell, half of the doctors were women, Toby!
"I know." This time when he spoke, his voice broke. I think that's what did me in, that he was frustrated too.
I stared at him a moment, and I finally understood that he was just as disgusted as me. That the flatness of the statement I'd been handed was due to Toby's inability to put his heart into writing it.
I shrugged helplessly. "And we're protesting the fact that the Taliban is smashing statues."
"CJ," Toby said. Nothing else, just my name. But the tone he used...
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was a way to relieve some of the rioting emotions inside me. Maybe it was just because his brown eyes held such exquisite pain. I can't explain it, but I leaned across that table and kissed him.
I always imagined that his beard would tickle. It didn't. I barely felt it, distracted as I was by his talented mouth and the hand that landed on the back of my neck to pull me closer. Objectively, it was a fairly awkward kiss; we were both half-standing, and the edge of the table was digging into my stomach. Subjectively, it was perfect.
Perfectly Toby and me.
When I pulled back, he stayed that way for a moment before he collected himself and sat back down. And stared at me.
I shrugged. "Have you ever read The Handmaid's Tale, Toby?"
Toby's eyes narrowed. "No," he answered quietly. He accepted the subject change, even though I could tell he wanted to ask me why the hell I was kissing him a crummy bar.
I wasn't ready to talk about it yet. "It's the same idea. It's the Christian version of the Taliban, subjugating women."
Toby nodded then. "Scary."
"Even more so for a woman," I pointed out.
"You don't think it terrifies me?" he demanded. "The thought of my mother, of my sisters, of you being forced into the dark ages? Abused and silenced?"
I stared at him. "You'd be well out of it, Toby. You're a man."
"I'm Jewish," he countered. "I killed their god."
I granted him the point with a curt nod. "It just -- I can't stand it when we tacitly approve things that are so obviously wrong."
"You want us to send in the military?" he asked, downing the last of his drink.
"Why not?" I asked. "We do it to protect oil reserves. We do it when weak presidents want to up their approval numbers. Why not for these eleven and a half million women?"
Toby watched me carefully. "Where do we draw the line?"
"I don't know."
"What about the atrocities in Africa? Or the conflict between Israel and Palestine? Hell, do we bomb China for human rights violations?"
"I don't know," I admitted, rubbing my face tiredly. "Sometimes, it's just -- I get so frustrated."
Toby slid a hand across the scarred tabletop, and it landed atop mine. His fingers tangled into mine and squeezed. "Come home with me."
I stared at him, utterly relieved of the power of speech.
He shrugged, as close to bashful as I've ever seen him. "You're right."
"About?" I managed.
"That it gets too be too much," he answered quietly. "Come home with me."
I shook my head and, at the same time, held on to his hand for dear life. "That'll help?"
The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Probably not. But..."
And then I was laughing. "But you're willing to give it a shot?"
He glanced away. "Something like that."
"Toby," I said, "this is a really bad idea."
"Yes." He met my gaze again.
"We shouldn't do this."
"You're probably right," he admitted.
I stared down at our hands for a long time. Then I looked up at him, resolute. "Let's go."
"Seriously?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"You're surprised?"
"Honestly? Yes."
"Why?" I asked, tugging him upright.
"Because," he shrugged, following me towards the door, "you're... you."
I rolled my eyes. "Well, that cleared things right up for me, Toby. Thanks. You know--"
Then he pressed me against the wall just inside the door and kissed me again.
The drive to his small apartment didn't take long, and we managed to control ourselves until we got inside. And then it was explosive. Those hands of his... they're amazing.
I won't say that afterwards, everything was right with the world; it never is. But things were a little bit more bearable.
Now, looking at his hand splayed on my abdomen, it doesn't seem wrong. It seems complicated and potentially dangerous: Toby is technically my superior; he's still half in love with his ex-wife, a woman I happen to consider a friend; his manner is blunt and brusque, and we argue more than anyone else I know. But it doesn't seem wrong.
I should walk away. I should leave before he wakes up. I absolutely shouldn't pursue this.
But I always have been a sucker for the smart, geeky ones.
THE END
03.14.01