Title: Rub Until it Bleeds
Author: CGB
(luberluber@yahoo.com.au)
Category:
CJ/Toby
Rating: NC- 17
for a whole pile of reasons
Archive: Sure
Disclaimer:
Characters belong to the Sorkin-man. Let's all drink to the Sorkin-man!
Summary: "She
is cocooning, building up walls."
For Luna
because this was inspired by her challenge (which was something to do with hot
weather, silver and doing something illegal - one out of three ain't bad...). She
does this sort of thing great and well... this is my humble offering to the
challenge queen.
The title is
thanks to PJ Harvey and about five years of riot-grrl action.
Everyone else
got to write their own TFGTKY post ep, why can't I?
*
She slides her
napkin across the bar to him, while he's trying to attract the attention of the
bartender. Out of the corner of his eye he catches black writing on a bleached,
white weave. On it, the word "criminals" is written in black felt tip pen. Its
edges have started to feather and run.
He contemplates
the faces at the bar trying to fathom her meaning. The bartender reaches him
and he orders red wine for her and scotch for him. When he has paid, he turns
his attention back to the napkin in front of him and realises she is referring
to them.
He hands her a
glass of wine.
"You don't think
that's a little melodramatic?"
Her eyes are
glazed. He hasn't been counting his drinks and neither has she. This could be
their fifth, or fifteenth.
She takes the
napkin from him and scrunches it into a ball. She places it in the ashtray on
the bar.
"Fuck you
Toby."
He raises his
eyes to the roof and lifts his hands up in a "what did I do" gesture.
She scowls.
"Don't trivialise me."
"Trivialise
you? Have you forgotten that we're all
affected by this?"
"I have an
appointment with White House Counsel in the morning."
"I heard."
"I hate
lawyers."
"Well," he
shrugs. "That must be tough considering the proportion of your job spent in the
company of Josh, Sam, Leo, myself..."
Her eyes shift
right to briefly glance at the napkin in the ashtray. It is ostentatiously
white against the black bar top and 'shades of midnight' decor. She looks at it
like its existence is incriminating. He resists the urge to stuff the napkin in
his pocket, if only to get it out of her sight.
"I once stole
five pairs of ear-rings in one day from the same department store," she says,
and he notices her words running into one another.
"I stole a book from the air port in LA," he says.
"When?"
"When I was
nineteen."
"What did you
steal?"
"'Thus Spake
Zarathustra'."
"Uh huh..."
"I also smoked
pot."
"I dropped
acid."
"LSD?"
She shrugs.
"Who knows? It looked like cardboard to me. I looked in the mirror and my face
was fat then thin, fat then thin - it was spooky."
He "hmms" his
assent. She drinks slowly, and looks anywhere but at him. He notices and
scratches his beard.
She is
cocooning, building up walls. He thinks he's not in the mood to let CJ martyr
herself.
"You want me to take you home?" he says.
She puts her
empty glass on the bar and nods.
Moments after
then leave the bartender empties ashtray and the napkin is relegated to the
garbage disposal below the bar.
He pins her
against the wall in the apartment. The seam in her skirt tears as he pushes it
up around her waist. He feels her panty hose rip underneath his insistent
fingers. She maneuvers her feet out of her shoes and leans her back into the
wall, so she can lift a leg around him.
He kisses her
neck, her throat, her collarbone and his teeth graze against her shoulder. His
hand slides underneath her blouse and his fingers press, hard, into her
ribcage. She flinches slightly from the pressure. His other hand is in her
underwear frantically trying to push it to the floor.
The sex is
uncomfortable and Toby is not gentle. Each thrust pushes the base of her spine
hard against the wall.
When he is
finished he slides a hand between them almost as an afterthought. She grabs his
hand and holds it for a moment. She feels hot. Too hot. She closes her eyes and
when she opens them again the room is spinning.
"Toby... wait."
In a tangle of clothing and limbs she struggles away from him and runs for the
bathroom. He follows her at a slower
pace and stands outside. He listens to her retching and considers whether an
offer of assistance would be well received. He fears the negative but goes in
anyway.
He hands her a
glass of water over her shoulder. She is kneeling in front of the toilet with
her forehead against the porcelain.
"Are you OK?"
"Go away."
He remains,
still holding the glass. She turns to look at him and takes the glass.
"Thank you,"
she says, in a choked voice. She takes a sip from the glass. "Now go."
He hesitates
momentarily before turning to leave. He is almost out the door before he stops
and turns to face her.
"You think you
can't be lower now," He speaks in a voice that is low and cold. "You think you
can't be lower because you're drunk and staring into you're toilet bowl, and
you've screwed the guy you work for. You want to think that this is what you
deserve because CJ Cregg is a screw up."
He looks away.
There is a small window high up in her bathroom but all he can see of the
outside is the pitch black of a cold night.
"Toby I can
really do without the sanctimonious bullshit right now..."
"Well I could
care less CJ, because you're going to hear it!" His voice is loud and she jumps
slightly.
"You'll meet
with Babish, and then you'll do the morning press briefing and be the best
goddamn Press Secretary in the history of the White House because I don't care
how low you think you are, and I don't care what you think you deserve, I don't
hire screw ups, CJ."
She lifts her
head up and wipes her face with her hand. Her cheeks are a blotched red with a
thin film of sweat making them shine.
"Get up," he
says.
She does, and
he hands her a towel. He has trouble meeting her eyes.
"I'm going
home," he says quietly. He leaves her in the bathroom, cradling a towel and
still holding a glass of water.
She lifts the
glass to her forehead and rolls it from one side to the other. She sniffs. She
thinks that she doesn't want to cry despite knowing no one would see.
She sniffs
again and pulls the shower curtain back to turn on the faucets. Steam fogs the
room as she undresses. She leaves her clothes in a heap on the floor, and they
lie there like discarded reptile skin about to fossilise into the floor.
She steps naked
into the shower and lets the water wash over her.
Fin