Rain - The West Wing - CJ/Toby
Title: Rain
Fandom: The West Wing
Characters/Pairings: CJ/Toby
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Everything up to and including Separation of Powers
Author's Notes: I said everything up to and including Separation of Powers, but what I really should have said was everything up to the point when Bartlet walks into the room to take the meeting with the Speaker. In this story, that meeting didn't happen. Just humor me, okay? Thanks! Also, this is unbeted, so any mistakes are my own. And it was written a long time ago so... just remember that.
It's raining.
He's never really liked the rain. He doesn't like the sun, it's too bright and cheerful, but he doesn't like the rain either. It's too sad.
"You're sad, Toby." The words play over in his head. Was he sad? Was that why he seemed to drive the people he cared about away? Was that why he was sitting here, in what should have been his dream home with Andi, Molly, and Huck, alone with nothing but the sound of the rain on the roof to keep him company?
She had turned him down. She had said no to his proposal. Sure, she'd done it plenty of times before. But this time it had been different. This time she'd actually given him a reason.
He was sad. Like the rain. Depressing. Gloomy. Sad.
It's still raining.
It seems like on nights when bad things happen it rains. It was raining the night Mrs. Landingham was killed. He misses her.
It was raining the night after Rossalyn. Or else it should have been. But he can't remember if it really was. He can only remember the horrible stillness of the hospital halls as he paced back and forth, waiting for news on Josh. He can only remember the look on Donna's face.
He shudders and brushes that thought away. But now he's even more sure it was raining that night.
And it's raining tonight. Tonight, as he sits in an old, beat up recliner, staring out at the rain and thinking about the potential loss of a great Chief Justice and the actual loss of their college funding plan.
The rain suits his mood. Gloomy, dark, and maybe even a little sad.
How many parents would sit up at night, pouring over their books, trying to find any possible money outlets to pay for tuition for their kids? And how many kids wouldn't get to go because they didn't have enough money? How many great minds would this country lose out on?
He closes his eyes. He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think period. He raises the glass of scotch to his mouth and takes a swallow. Only after he feels the stinging in his throat and the warmth in his stomach does he open his eyes.
He finds himself staring into a pair of amber eyes. He blinks once, but other than that he makes no motion that shows he is the least bit affected by the fact that the White House Press Secretary is standing on his porch in the pouring down rain staring in at him through the French doors.
Her clothes are soaked, her white blouse clinging to her every curve and leaving little to the imagination. Her hair is in that stage between wet and dry, where it clings to her face, but still has body to it. He loves her hair like that, he thinks briefly as he stands up.
He pulls open the door and just stares at her. "Think it might rain?" She asks, looking up at him. Droplets of water cling to her eyelashes, mascara is running down from her eyes, and he thinks she's never looked more beautiful.
"What are you doing here?" He asks.
"I'm getting soaked, Toby!" She tells him, hinting at the chance to get inside.
"You're supposed to be in Manchester." He replies, moving out onto the porch with her, closing the door behind him.
"The interview's over, I -"
"I saw it." He tells her. "She was great."
CJ can only nod. "I went in when I got back. Josh told me about the college funding. I'm sorry." She isn't sure why she's here, in the rain, with him. It's just this thing that they always do. He's there when she needs him and now she's going to be there when he needs her, even if that means standing in the rain.
"We gave it away for nothing!" He's angry and upset, but his voice is tired. He is tired.
"We'll get it back in there Toby. We will." She says, and for a second he almost believes her.
He closes his eyes tiredly, against the rain and the world. When he opens them, he finds that she has pulled her blouse over her head and dropped it to her feet. She stands before him in nothing but her bra and jeans and a pair of high-heeled shoes. He wants to ask why she's wearing high heels with jeans, but it doesn't matter. She's gorgeous regardless of what she is wearing, and for some reason, at this moment, in the rain, they complete her outfit perfectly.
His fingers find her belt loops and pull her body to him. His mouth captures hers in a rough kiss, as his fingers tangle through her wet hair. He can taste the rain in her mouth and in his, and he knows without a doubt that he will never feel the same way about rain again.
Her hands are toying with the buttons on his shirt while he reaches for the zipper of her jeans. The rain makes the clothes stick to their wet bodies and it is difficult to remove them, but somehow they manage. He pulls back to look at her in the moonlight with the rain falling down.
She stands before him a goddess in only her little lacy bra and panties, and he knows that this image will forever be associated with the rain for him. He burns it deep into his brain, to store with the other guarded images of her, asleep on his shoulder on the campaign bus, standing tall and proud at her podium, lying wrapped up in a sheet with the California sun shining patterns on her skin, and all the other sacred memories he has of her.
Then he pulls her to him again, her skin slick and wet against his. He trails kisses all over her face, down her neck, until he hits the spot just between her neck and collarbone. Then he runs his tongue there and she lets out a slight moan. He moves her slowly backward, all the while kissing and touching and experiencing her. He has missed her, missed this, missed them.
He lowers her to the lounge chair, whose padding is completely soaked by now, but if she notices she doesn't seem to mind. And as he starts to slowly make love to her everything flies out the window. He is making love to her on the back porch of what was supposed to be his dream house with his ex-wife, where anyone could see them. He has lost college funding in the tax cuts. He is at odds with himself about whether or not to let the Chief Justice stay on the bench. He is even a little angry with Will for going over to the Vice President. And he knows she has her own plate full of disappointments. But none of that matters now.
The only things that exist anymore are him and her. And the rain.
Fin
Fandom: The West Wing
Characters/Pairings: CJ/Toby
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Everything up to and including Separation of Powers
Author's Notes: I said everything up to and including Separation of Powers, but what I really should have said was everything up to the point when Bartlet walks into the room to take the meeting with the Speaker. In this story, that meeting didn't happen. Just humor me, okay? Thanks! Also, this is unbeted, so any mistakes are my own. And it was written a long time ago so... just remember that.
It's raining.
He's never really liked the rain. He doesn't like the sun, it's too bright and cheerful, but he doesn't like the rain either. It's too sad.
"You're sad, Toby." The words play over in his head. Was he sad? Was that why he seemed to drive the people he cared about away? Was that why he was sitting here, in what should have been his dream home with Andi, Molly, and Huck, alone with nothing but the sound of the rain on the roof to keep him company?
She had turned him down. She had said no to his proposal. Sure, she'd done it plenty of times before. But this time it had been different. This time she'd actually given him a reason.
He was sad. Like the rain. Depressing. Gloomy. Sad.
It's still raining.
It seems like on nights when bad things happen it rains. It was raining the night Mrs. Landingham was killed. He misses her.
It was raining the night after Rossalyn. Or else it should have been. But he can't remember if it really was. He can only remember the horrible stillness of the hospital halls as he paced back and forth, waiting for news on Josh. He can only remember the look on Donna's face.
He shudders and brushes that thought away. But now he's even more sure it was raining that night.
And it's raining tonight. Tonight, as he sits in an old, beat up recliner, staring out at the rain and thinking about the potential loss of a great Chief Justice and the actual loss of their college funding plan.
The rain suits his mood. Gloomy, dark, and maybe even a little sad.
How many parents would sit up at night, pouring over their books, trying to find any possible money outlets to pay for tuition for their kids? And how many kids wouldn't get to go because they didn't have enough money? How many great minds would this country lose out on?
He closes his eyes. He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think period. He raises the glass of scotch to his mouth and takes a swallow. Only after he feels the stinging in his throat and the warmth in his stomach does he open his eyes.
He finds himself staring into a pair of amber eyes. He blinks once, but other than that he makes no motion that shows he is the least bit affected by the fact that the White House Press Secretary is standing on his porch in the pouring down rain staring in at him through the French doors.
Her clothes are soaked, her white blouse clinging to her every curve and leaving little to the imagination. Her hair is in that stage between wet and dry, where it clings to her face, but still has body to it. He loves her hair like that, he thinks briefly as he stands up.
He pulls open the door and just stares at her. "Think it might rain?" She asks, looking up at him. Droplets of water cling to her eyelashes, mascara is running down from her eyes, and he thinks she's never looked more beautiful.
"What are you doing here?" He asks.
"I'm getting soaked, Toby!" She tells him, hinting at the chance to get inside.
"You're supposed to be in Manchester." He replies, moving out onto the porch with her, closing the door behind him.
"The interview's over, I -"
"I saw it." He tells her. "She was great."
CJ can only nod. "I went in when I got back. Josh told me about the college funding. I'm sorry." She isn't sure why she's here, in the rain, with him. It's just this thing that they always do. He's there when she needs him and now she's going to be there when he needs her, even if that means standing in the rain.
"We gave it away for nothing!" He's angry and upset, but his voice is tired. He is tired.
"We'll get it back in there Toby. We will." She says, and for a second he almost believes her.
He closes his eyes tiredly, against the rain and the world. When he opens them, he finds that she has pulled her blouse over her head and dropped it to her feet. She stands before him in nothing but her bra and jeans and a pair of high-heeled shoes. He wants to ask why she's wearing high heels with jeans, but it doesn't matter. She's gorgeous regardless of what she is wearing, and for some reason, at this moment, in the rain, they complete her outfit perfectly.
His fingers find her belt loops and pull her body to him. His mouth captures hers in a rough kiss, as his fingers tangle through her wet hair. He can taste the rain in her mouth and in his, and he knows without a doubt that he will never feel the same way about rain again.
Her hands are toying with the buttons on his shirt while he reaches for the zipper of her jeans. The rain makes the clothes stick to their wet bodies and it is difficult to remove them, but somehow they manage. He pulls back to look at her in the moonlight with the rain falling down.
She stands before him a goddess in only her little lacy bra and panties, and he knows that this image will forever be associated with the rain for him. He burns it deep into his brain, to store with the other guarded images of her, asleep on his shoulder on the campaign bus, standing tall and proud at her podium, lying wrapped up in a sheet with the California sun shining patterns on her skin, and all the other sacred memories he has of her.
Then he pulls her to him again, her skin slick and wet against his. He trails kisses all over her face, down her neck, until he hits the spot just between her neck and collarbone. Then he runs his tongue there and she lets out a slight moan. He moves her slowly backward, all the while kissing and touching and experiencing her. He has missed her, missed this, missed them.
He lowers her to the lounge chair, whose padding is completely soaked by now, but if she notices she doesn't seem to mind. And as he starts to slowly make love to her everything flies out the window. He is making love to her on the back porch of what was supposed to be his dream house with his ex-wife, where anyone could see them. He has lost college funding in the tax cuts. He is at odds with himself about whether or not to let the Chief Justice stay on the bench. He is even a little angry with Will for going over to the Vice President. And he knows she has her own plate full of disappointments. But none of that matters now.
The only things that exist anymore are him and her. And the rain.
Fin