Title: Shelter From the Storm 1 - Words and Risk
Author: juxtaposed
Category: CJ/Toby, Angst
Rating: R for a little language, and a little sex
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC and The West Wing. No infringement intended. The song is "Shelter From the Storm" by Bob Dylan.
Archiving: Please, just let me know where!
Spoilers and Timeline: No Spoilers, but this takes place somewhere early in Season 3.
Notes: This my first trip into TWW fandom (Writing X-Files fic is fairly pointless now). This is Part 1 of a planned 3-part series. Feedback will make me finish parts 2 and 3 faster.
Also, special thanks go out to Malisita (malisita.com) for betaing this, and for encouraging me.
Parts 2 and 3 will go up at www.geocities.com/juxtaposed666 when finished.

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Shelter From the Storm 1 - Words and Risk

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Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
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She'd never been in love. Never been loved. The thought would have depressed her, if it didn't scare the hell out of her.

"Josh, have you ever been in love?" CJ swirled her glass with mock idleness and tried not to think that maybe she'd set herself up for this fall.

"Claudia Jean, are you hitting on me?" Josh threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his side. "I usually like my women shorter than me, but you'll do in a pinch." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he downed the last of his beer.

"I'm serious, Josh. I'm, well, I'm not young anymore, and I'm well on my way to a rocker and 10 cats." She wouldn't think about him. She didn't know what she and Toby had, but she knew orgasms and vulnerability weren't love.

"Ah, CJ," He didn't know what to say. "Well, some of us just aren't made for love. We're meant for...other things, bigger things." He waved his hand erratically, and the vague gesture could have encompassed their coworkers, the Hill, the country.

"What, having a career means giving up companionship, giving up having someone to come home to at night?" Her own hand flitted in the direction of the West Wing staffers gathered in the tiny bar. "This won't last forever, you know. I'm starting to run out of time."

'Or maybe I gave up already,' she thought.

"Time has a way of tricking you into panicking, CJ."

"Or waking you up to what's in front of you." CJ nodded her head at Donna, who was currently across the bar, engaged in an awkward tango with a drunken Sam, her blonde hair falling in her face, the two of them laughing their asses off. "Speaking of, looks like you're about to lose your woman to Spanky."

"CJ…" Josh started, then gave up when he saw the look on her face. They'd been down this road, and he knew better than to argue with her about it. "I better go rescue her from Sam's feet, at least. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Go on, have fun. Don't end up on the news. I'm gonna be too hung over tomorrow to spin a story that involves you, Donna and Sam tangoing down Pennsylvania Avenue."

He grinned. "We'll be good." He kissed her cheek and was gone.

She sipped her beer, the crowd moving around her, nameless, faceless. Unconsciously she began to pick them out one by one, noticed one person missing. Did he leave already? He didn't usually go without saying good-bye, but then, maybe that was a good thing tonight.

She wouldn't allow herself to want him, not in this mood. She raised her beer to her lips, and as she sipped, she decided Josh was lucky. He had someone who loved him, who worried about him, even if he didn't know it or appreciate it. No one had ever loved her, not the way she wanted. Breathless men using her body, drinking her wine and calling cabs at 4 AM was the closest she'd ever come to love.

She wished she could stop thinking about him, about the vulnerability in his voice and the way his eyes watched her. She knew that wasn't love either, and she'd decided long ago to accept that. Usually she could. But some nights, when the light was just right and she was tired enough, she wanted more from him, wanted the chance to be the one to make the rules they followed so ruthlessly, or to just break the rules and hell with the consequences.

Once, she thought love should be light and happiness and daisies left on her desk. Now, watching Josh and Donna dancing, their bodies understanding what their minds denied, she thought perhaps love was something darker, born of desperation and fear. The thought made her sad, then it made her think that maybe she needed another beer.

"CJ." She jumped slightly. The feeling of the word whispered against her neck was as familiar to her as the voice speaking.

'No!' she screamed in her head. She didn't need this right now, couldn't be what he wanted, couldn't be carefree. She was vulnerable and wrung out, too tired to do the careful dance she had to do to make this work.

"Hey." He moved to take Josh's vacant seat. Deep breath, regain composure, small smile. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to." 'I was hoping, for my own sake, that you'd forgotten me.'

He gestured to the door with his half-empty scotch glass. "Went outside for a cigar. Can you believe they don't allow them in here?"

"A classy establishment like this? Preposterous." She grinned slightly, more at ease. This she could handle. This was work Toby and she thought that maybe she was wrong, the she'd misheard the undercurrent in his voice. Then she saw his eyes, shuttered and considering, despite his light words. No, she was never wrong. She always knew before he said it.

"Wanna share a cab?" She surprised him, and herself. She was never the first one to suggest it. In this, in them, Toby had unconsciously made the rules, and she had unconsciously followed them. It was a game, and she'd always played each inning perfectly. But now, she'd broken the pattern, swung out of turn. Strike one. He would know why, know what she was trying to do. She had to decide, now, if she wanted to keep playing, or just end the game and step off the field, and finally discover what came next.

"You sure?" She nodded. He tossed back his scotch, stood. Aside from that brief moment when his lips brushed her neck, he'd yet to touch her. "Ready to go?" She nodded again, turned away to gather her bag and coat, suddenly unable to look at him. She knew she shouldn't do this now, wasn't in the right frame of mind, but suddenly didn't care. She felt reckless and indecisive, acting on instinct and hoping that when the time came she would play this the right way.

They didn't speak in the cab, Toby sitting on the far side of the seat, looking out the window, down at his hands, at anything but her. The rule was that they spoke little once the decision was made. Words were everything to them, but they didn't fit into this thing they had. She was playing it close, not swinging at them all. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do yet, knew she had to play carefully.

She watched the quiet dark and thought about childhood dreams. About love and daisies and walks on the beach, and all the things she was getting too old to have. Her conversation with Josh had left her naked and open, wishing she could have what Josh was too stupid to recognize as right in front of him.

She knew what Toby wanted, knew he thought he couldn't give her more. What did she want? To take what he wanted to give, let him live inside himself, except for the occasional moment when he lived inside her? Or did she want to challenge him? After the challenge of her final swing, would he walk away? They balanced on a thin line of rules and unspoken words. Did she really want him off balance, not knowing which way he would fall?

She didn't know if they were strong enough, either of them, to face the fall, not knowing if it would kill them or save them. But the man beside her was her last chance in a wrinkled suit, so she thought maybe she had to try.

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Inside his apartment, she dropped her coat and purse on a chair, curled up on the couch, tucked her feet under her and waited.

"Did you want a drink?" He headed toward the kitchen, pulled out two glasses.

She always had a drink, keeping up some strange pretense for being there. "No, thanks. I've got a thing tomorrow." Shit. Another strike. Better make the next one count.

He came back to the living room, a low-ball of scotch in one hand. Stood before the couch, looking down at her. The shadows made him seem taller, made her feel strangely fragile as he simply watched her, waiting, patient.

He made her want to scream, to explode into a million fragments and shower down over him, make him see into her, the particles that created her being. She wanted to be more than a body, more than the play of light on skin, to be greater than the sum of her pieces. But right now, in the shadow of his living room, she knew better. She knew Toby. She could shatter, and he would just pick up a broom.

Finally, "What are we doing here?" His voice sounded tired, and she knew he saw through her, that she was trying to end the game, but knew she would never admit it. They were good at pretending. Three years of practice will make you an expert at anything.

She knew better than to say, 'We're here because I need to feel alive, because fucking you is the only thing that comes close for me anymore. Because there is only one thing in my life that makes me feel loved, and I can only get it from you.'

She knew if she said it, she would splinter, and the pieces would be so small he wouldn't need to sweep them up. She would disintegrate in the darkness of Toby's living room, become shadow and light and a dust that would coat his furniture, and he would turn away and drink his scotch and breathe her in, and maybe one day he would realize he missed her.

"We're sharing a cab." She kept her voice light, knowing she only had one strike left, not yet ready to end the game. She wasn't ready to face the end yet, what she feared would be defeat rather than triumph.

"Really?"

"Really," she lied, stood up. His proximity to the couch, to her, put them chest to chest. He slipped an arm behind her back, hand sliding under her sweater, mouth catching hers. He tasted of scotch and smoke and bitterness, and in that kiss she forgot everything but him.

Her hands stayed at her sides, limp arms dangling like a doll as he bent her back slightly. Tall as she was, in these moments he always seemed to loom over her. He still held his half-full scotch glass in one hand, the other roaming over the skin of her back. His mouth moved to her jaw, nibbling, tongue in her ear, and she felt his breath on her neck and remembered again to want something she couldn't have. Her eyes squeezed closed, and tears she didn't know were there slid down her cheeks, landing on his skin.

He pulled back from her, his eyes sad, and dropped his hand from her back. Turned, walked toward the bedroom, dropping his glass on a table on the way.

When she reached the bedroom, it was dark. She could just make him out in the sliver of light coming between the curtains from the moon and the street lamp outside. He'd removed his jacket, but the rest was waiting for her. She pushed the door shut, leaned against it, watching him come towards her, his eyes dark.

His hands reached her waist, his mouth on hers. He slid his fingers up her sides, catching her sweater as he went, removing his mouth from hers only briefly to pull the shirt over her head. They always undressed each other, their one concession to romance. She pulled at the buttons on his shirt, he fumbled with her bra.

At last, he pushed lightly on her shoulders, and she fell back to the bed, bouncing slightly. He pressed her to the mattress, his hands on her hips. Once again, she felt small and insignificant, wondered why it was always her he came to. Release, without obligations. He wanted nothing more from her, had nothing to give. For three years, it had been enough.

His mouth found hers, and he pressed himself into her, filling her body with his. The tears broke free again as she wrapped her legs around his waist and arched her back and breathed his name. His mouth found her neck, tongue swirling circles on her skin as he slid deeper.

He slipped a hand between them, flicked a finger against her clit, and she sighed and tightened around him, used her long limbs to draw him closer. His body was tuned to hers, he never left her behind.

He murmured her name against her neck as he came. He always did, and once again she buried her face in his shoulder and pretended that the vulnerability she always heard in his voice as he came was the same as love.

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Toby rolled to the side, wouldn't touch her. She made no move to touch him, knew she wouldn't be welcome. The count was full, and her next move could be her last. But she couldn't seem to move at all just yet.

They lay side by side, not speaking. She began to doze softly, woke when she felt his weight leave the bed. He pulled on his pants and left the room, returning seconds later with his left-behind scotch.

She sat up and pulled the sheet across her breasts. She knew what was expected now. She would get out of bed, go home. They would go in on Monday and they would work, and one night he would whisper against her neck and they would begin all over again. And in her head she heard the clock, and she got ready for the final pitch.

It wasn't enough for her anymore. She felt too old for something as childish as this, the propriety and eggshells and lack of words. If she couldn't have love born of daisies and moonlight and softness, she would take love drawn from desperation and bitterness and his mouth on her neck, or she would take nothing at all. She would pull him off the line and see where they fell.

He sat down in a chair across the room, and watched her with quiet eyes, waiting for her to do her part, murmur the right things, and take her leave.

She stood, dropping the sheet and crossing the room, the moonlight on her nude body highlighting her ribs, emphasizing the weight she'd lost, the stress they were all under. This man was her last at bat, this moment the last pitch she was going to get. She walked toward him, passed her discarded clothes, took the empty glass from his hand.

His eyes watched her approach, waited as she looked down on him, widened as straddled his lap. Instinctively his hands came up to cup her shoulder blades as she leaned into his body and whispered his name against his neck. Swing away.

-FIN-

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This story is continued in Shelter From the Storm 2 - Walls and Signals, and will be completed in Shelter from the Storm 3 - Flowers and Thorns. Feedback makes me write faster. [email protected]