Title: They Speak Volumes
Author: juxtaposed ([email protected])
Rating: G
Category: Romance, Fluff
Pairing: CJ/Toby
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC and The West Wing, and are used without permission, without intent to profit.
Archiving: Yes, just let me know. You can find this and my other works online at www.geocities.com/juxtaposed666
Notes: Just a small bit of fluff that came to me last night. I think this will be the start of a series called "Small Details" - so keep an eye out.
Feedback: Appreciated at [email protected].
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They Speak Volumes
He is fascinated by her hands, slender, with long, tapered fingers. Feminine hands, almost fragile, but he can see strength in the way she moves them, power in her gestures.
Her nails are short, polished with a clear gloss. He knows she would worry about the inherent feminine vanity of reds and pinks, would worry about people (men) not taking her seriously. Clear gloss is practical, understated.
She drums her fingers on the table, listening to the conversation around her, and he can tell from the tempo she is becoming more and more frustrated. Her hands often speak for her, saying things that she would never be able to say aloud. Only someone who knows the language of her hands could read her anxiety, the beat of her tapping increasing, the addition of small movement of her thumb indicating that she is reaching her breaking point.
At last, her turn for rebuttal comes and she is angry, passionate. She moves her hands as she talks, clenching and unclenching her fists, pointing a finger, slamming the heel of her palm on the table at the end as she makes her final argument. On the face, it’s a man’s gesture, to slam a hand. It would indicate that she’s given over to this man’s world that she works in, taken on their movements in an effort to be one of the boys, but he knows better, knows that this particular movement has always been hers, the subtle female aspect of an open palm compared to the masculine slam of a closed fist.
She has always talked with her hands, punctuating points with a jab of the finger, waving a hand near her head when she is particularly frustrated. He has sometimes seen her in the pressroom, gripping the side of the lectern or flipping through the briefing book as a physical restraint. She is aware of how she looks at all times, aware that she is the public face of the administration. Waving her hands may make her look out of control, hysterical. She understands the need for control.
Now, she has made her point, is scrawling across an open notebook as she listens to the rest of the arguments around the table. As she moves pen across paper, the cuff of her jacket slides up, and he sees the inside of her wrist, slender, almost delicate. Beautiful, really. He remembers the feel of her wrist against his mouth, the taste of her skin, the tiny flutter of her pulse against his lips. She wears no bracelets, draws no attention to this subtle, frail beauty she possesses, and he likes to think that she saves it for him.
She has finished writing, is sitting back in her chair, one elbow on the table, hand propping up her jaw. Her fingers rest along her cheek, one finger tapping lightly against her skin. He recognizes this movement, too. She has made her point, been heard, and now her movements are idle, relaxed as she listens to the discussion wind down.
Her eyes catch his across the table, sees him staring. She gives him a wink, knows he hasn’t been paying attention. His mouth twitches but he doesn’t smile, and she raises her eyebrow at the challenge.
She lifts her left hand, raises one finger to her lips and then subtly flicks the finger in his direction. He almost misses the kiss, because his eyes are drawn once again to her hand, to his diamond glittering on her finger.
She has beautiful hands, strong and slender. They speak volumes about who she is, what she’s experienced, what she thinks and wants. And for the last 14 hours, her hands have spoken of her love, her choice. Her hands have spoken of them.
He slides into a small smile, still staring at her hands, the diamond catching the morning sun, when he sees her point across the table. He follows her gesture, sees Leo’s raised eyebrows.
“Toby, do you have any thoughts to add?”
-FIN-
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