Rating: PG
Archive: At my site, The Band Gazebo Anywhere else, just ask me
Disclaimer: If you know it from the show, it's not mine. If you've never heard of something, I probably made it up.
Spoilers: General season one and two to be safe, but we're well into AU here.
Summary:Toby thinks about Ginger on the night of the Inaugural Ball.
Author's Notes: This is something that a lot of people have asked for - something from Toby's point of view in the Novembers Past universe. This takes place in January 2003, a month after The Gift of Hope
I sink down onto my couch with a grateful sigh, which has as much to do with the very good Scotch sliding down my throat as the comfort of the couch. My bow tie flies untied across the room, landing somewhere unseen, and I know I'm going to have to go searching for it tomorrow morning. Which is, of course, later on this morning. My tuxedo jacket was hung up with my coat on the coat-stand, and I'm pretty sure that my shoes are resting beside that.
And I sit back on my couch and I raise my glass in silent toast, and think to myself that we finally did it.
Of course, that's not really true. We did it two months ago, when President Bartlet won his second term in office, against all laws of probability, against all predictions. Still though, there was a part of me that didn't want to celebrate prematurely. CJ and Josh and Sam had mocked me and rolled their eyes as I warned against the dangers of tempting fate, reminding them about the very bad luck that we'd had during our first term. "We won Toby," CJ had reminded me, a broad grin splitting her face. "What do you think is going to happen?"
I hadn't replied to that, had no reply to that. But I still couldn't get past the idea that something was going to happen, something bad, to screw this all up. I didn't relax until I saw the President stand up today and take the oath from Justice Mendoza, until he gave the speech that Sam and I had worked so hard on. Until we all arrived at the Inaugural Ball this evening and really had the chance to let our hair down for the night.
I didn't relax until I saw her.
I thought her dress was white at first, until I got a little closer to her. In fact, it was off-white, almost a pale ivory, with some sort of sheen to it. It was plain, unadorned, with one of those high necks that hid her throat, but with very little back to the dress. I had to swallow hard at the sight of that expanse of bare skin, only partially occluded by the long red hair that she'd left loose.
She looked more breathtaking than I'd ever seen her.
But of course, I remember saying that about her the night of the last Inaugural Ball as well.
That time, her dress was blue, sparkling and shimmering with sequins in the lights. She was shy then, quiet, still getting used to her place in the organisation, still getting used to life in Washington. And I'd kept an eye on her throughout the night, as surreptitiously as possible, just observing how she fit in with everyone else. I knew she'd been worried about upping sticks, about selling her house and moving full time to DC. And I knew, from careful questions asked over the previous two months, that there seemed to be no-one else who knew about Ginger's personal life. No-one else who knew that I'd caught her crying in the gardens of the campaign headquarters two months before, no-one who knew that only slightly more than a year earlier, she'd buried the love of her life.
I found her in the garden that time quite by accident. I'd stepped outside to get some air, to take everything in, and had been surprised to see her there, more surprised still to see that she didn't have a coat with her. Who the hell went outside in New Hampshire in November with no coat? Aside from me of course, but I'd consumed quite a lot of Scotch and was more or less impervious. I'd stayed back, unsure if I should approach her. After all, I only knew vaguely who she was, although the good-looking redhead who had shown up at campaign headquarters one day and gone about her work quietly and efficiently had attracted more than passing looks from some of the male volunteers. Not me of course - at the time, my thoughts were centred on a different redhead.
But what little I knew of Ginger, I liked. I told her to do something and she did it, and did it well. I knew that she was one of the few staffers that Leo was going to offer a job to over the next couple of days, and I was expecting to see her in the White House for the next four years.
I didn't expect to meet her in the garden, having stepped outside for some air. Certainly didn't expect to see her crying there. She didn't hear me approaching her, jumping when I said her name, and I think I must have caught her in a moment of weakness, because she told me that that night was her wedding anniversary, that she would have been married for four years, had her husband not been killed a year ago, on their wedding anniversary. And I remember my heart breaking for her, remembering how devastating it was to lose Andi, wondering how much worse it must be for her. I didn't know what to say to her, I've never been good in situations like that, so I settled for giving her the remainder of my drink, because, let's face it, she needed it. And I coaxed her inside, and the one time that I managed to tear my eyes off "The Jackal" I saw her laughing with Donna, and that eased my worries about her somewhat.
I've kept an eye on her ever since then, strictly as a friend, although I never would have called us friends for a long time, not really. I can't quite remember when my thoughts about her began to change. It could have been that night that we won the first election. It could have been after the shooting, when I hugged her in the bullpen. It could have been a few months after that, on the night of the Midterm Elections. It could even have been the night I found myself at her apartment at five in the morning, so that she wouldn't hear about Mrs Landingham on the news, or from someone who didn't know that she'd lost her husband the same way. It could have been then, when she collapsed in my arms, out cold, and I spent who knows how long sitting on her floor, trying to bring her back to consciousness.
Or it could have been two months ago when I saw her in the Sculpture Gardens, the night of the Election. This time though, unlike four years previous, unlike the Midterm Elections, it wasn't chance that brought us there. I knew she'd probably slip out at some point during the night, to be alone with her ghosts. And I kept my eye on her, and when I missed her in the room, I procured two glasses of scotch and went to where I knew she'd be.
She was confused when she saw me, but she took the glass from my hand when I told her to. Once I was settled, she began to ask me what I was doing there, but I didn't give her the chance. "I remembered the last two Election Nights. And I thought that it would be a shame to break this little tradition we have going." Which was the truth. The night of the Midterms, I ended up with the rest of the Senior Staff on Josh's stoop, and he told me that Election Night wouldn't be Election Night without a speech from me. And somewhere along the way I realised that to me, Election Night wouldn't be Election Night without meeting Ginger in the garden. I continued, "And I remember that the first time we did this, you took half my drink, so I decided that I'd bring one just for you."
She didn't seem upset that I'd interrupted her, and raised her glass, a grin on her face as she asked, "So, what are we drinking to?"
And since I was the one crashing her party, I let her pick. "Lady's choice."
There was a long silence before she spoke. "To Novembers past,"
Ah. I knew that she would be thinking about the past, about her ghosts, and that toast made me think that she hadn't entirely put them behind her yet, that I really was intruding. But there was something about the smile on her face, the light in her eyes that made me raise my glass, clinking it against hers. A sip of Scotch each later, and I couldn't help but chuckle. "That's a pretty crappy toast there Ginger."
It may not have been the smartest thing to say to a woman that I'd very much like to get closer to, but that's what came out. And she didn't seem to take offence, luckily for me. "Well excuse me, Mr Speechwriter to the President of the United States! What do you have in mind?"
"I'm all out of speeches."
"Ha."
And then it came to me, a way to ensure her feelings, an insight to what she was thinking. So I leaned towards her on the bench, proffering my glass. "How about this? To Novembers future?"
An eternity seemed to pass before she spoke, and I swear that my heart stopped beating before she smiled and touched her glass to mine. "To Novembers future," she repeated, and I drained my glass as she did likewise, and we sat there beaming at each other, until I suggested that we go back inside. And she told me that we didn't want to miss "The Jackal" and I stood and helped her up. I kept a hold of her hand, and my heart sank again when she took hers away. That is, until she tucked her arm through mine, and continued walking as if nothing had happened, as if things between us hadn't changed.
Once back to the party, we were total professionals. She dropped my arm, and my hand on her back as I guided her through the dancing crowd was strictly courtesy, or could be interpreted as such. And she vanished into the crowd of secretaries, although I did catch a glimpse of her every now and again, and I couldn't stop thinking about how beautiful she was.
In the cold light of day however, I wasn't sure what to do, what to say. She's still my assistant; she's still younger than me. And it's not as if anything physical happened between us. It was more than that. But by unspoken agreement, we were back to boss and assistant roles, although over the last two months I've noticed that she's less guarded around me if we're alone. I've also been noticing her more when she's busy doing other things, and there have been times when I thought that I saw her doing the same thing.
But there was nothing overt about it, and I almost thought that I'd dreamed the whole thing until tonight.
I couldn't take my eyes off her, and I'm surprised that more people didn't pick up on it. As it was, it took CJ, who's known me so long, to do so, and she took her out onto the dance floor, ostensibly for a victory dance between two old friends, but in reality to check my sanity.
"Do you know what a bad idea this is Toby?" she asked me. CJ is the only woman I know who can issue questions like that, in a tone usually reserved for disparaging the Press, with a smile on her face that looks entirely genuine.
"CJ, nothing's happened between us."
The truth didn't get me very far. "That's not going to matter to the Press my friend. And you and I both know it."
I sighed, wondering how I could get through to her. "I know that anything between us is a bad idea CJ. But there's just something about her…" Another sigh. "She's something special."
Something in my tone, possibly the two sighs in as many sentences made CJ stop, look at me hard. "You're serious about her, aren't you?" I tried to evade her gaze, but she wouldn't quit. "I know you Toby, you wouldn't talk like this if you weren't."
I sighed again. "We haven't even kissed CJ. But yes…I think I could be very serious about her."
That caused CJ to sigh, and she looked across the floor to where Ginger and Bonnie were talking. "Just be careful, OK?"
"I won't give the Press anything," I promised, but CJ shook her head.
"I'm not talking about the Press Toby. I'm talking about your heart. And hers." I must have looked surprised, because she continued. "I'm not blind Toby. I don't know the details, but Ginger's had her heart broken in the past, am I right?" I nodded. "And so have you…and when something gets broken that badly, it's more fragile…easier than usual to break again. So be careful."
I nodded, appreciating the advice, not sure of what to do with it. But Sam took the matter out of my hands later on in the night. I was talking to Bonnie and Margaret when he came up with Ginger on his arm, having just come off the dance floor. "Toby!" he greeted me cheerfully, and I found myself wondering just how much champagne he'd consumed. "I was wondering where you were."
"Sam. You look like you're enjoying yourself."
"Well, I am," he told me. "Having just danced with one of the best assistants in the White House Communications Department, I now intend to dance with the other." He held out his arm. "Bonnie?" She laughed and took it, and Sam then delivered the killing blow. "You should do the same Toby," he told me. "Have you danced with Ginger yet?"
"No." I looked into her blue eyes and had the strangest sensation of drowning in them. "No, I haven't."
I was dimly aware of Sam making some kind of disgusted noise, and Margaret telling us not to worry about her, a laugh in her voice, as I held out my arm and Ginger took it.
I hardly remember dancing, because I really don't think that my feet touched the ground. And I don't think that hers did either. I could smell the scent she was wearing; the same scent she always wore. It was the same one that I'd given her as a Christmas present; the one that I'd overheard Bonnie telling Carol that she'd borrowed from Ginger, and that it was Ginger's favourite. I remember telling her that she looked lovely tonight, an understatement to be sure, but her proximity and the perfume were wreaking havoc with my brain, and that was when she was a respectable distance away from me
A blush stained her cheeks. "Thank you," she murmured. "Carol and Cathy talked me into the dress…I wasn't sure about it."
"It suits you," I told her. "Brings out your red hair."
"It's almost the same colour as my wedding dress," she told me, and I didn't miss the instant of hurt in her eyes when she spoke. The mention of her wedding made me check for something, and I could see the telltale marks of a chain underneath her dress, could make out the shapes of the rings underneath them. I knew that she wore both his and her rings around her neck, had even seen them.
The mention of her husband made me pull her to me a little closer, close enough that I could whisper in her ear, "He would have been proud of you Ginger. You are an incredible woman."
She looked up at me, plainly surprised, and I could see the sheen of tears in her eyes before she looked back down again, and we danced the rest of the dance in silence, and if anyone noticed anything when we came off the dance floor then no-one said anything.
That was the only time that I danced with her, the only time that I talked to her all night. The rest of the time, she was with her friends, and I was busy schmoozing politicos. Which is why I'm in my apartment, with only Scotch for company. In a certain light, the colour of the liquid in my glass is almost the colour of her hair, and I suppress the urge to call her apartment, just to hear her voice.
I reach to pour myself a drink, stopping halfway when the light hits the ring on my own left hand. The glass goes onto the table, and I lift my hand in front of my face, staring at the ring as if I've never seen it before. And in fact, I haven't seen it, not for a long time. It's just been there, like the sun coming up in the morning, something that's so natural, so much a part of your everyday life that you don't even notice it. Andrea put that ring on my finger more than fifteen years ago, and even after the divorce was final, I never took it off. I don't know why, it wasn't any conscious decision that I made; it was just there.
I don't know why it's still there, and with a sense of purpose and certainty that I haven't felt in a while, I pull at the ring. It gives more easily than you might have expected for a ring that hasn't been taken off in so long, and I start at the thin white line that's left on my ring finger. In a certain light, the off white colour reminds me of the dress that Ginger had on earlier tonight, and the thought of her makes me smile as I put the ring on the table, spinning it, watching it sparkle as it rotates in the light.
I noticed Ginger's chain earlier tonight, knew why it was there. And unlike me, it's not because she's just forgotten to take it off. It still means something to her, a link to a life that's lost to her, but one she's not ready to lose hold of yet. And I know that no matter what she thinks, no matter how she might feel about me, no matter how long it's been, no matter how much she wants to move on with her life, she's not quite ready yet. She thinks she is, but I know better.
And while I'm ready, I don't want to start anything with her until she is. But that's ok I tell myself, as I refill my glass and lean back on the couch. Because I can wait.