Title: "Immune"

Author: CretKid aka Cal (AIM cretkid)

Category: post-ep to "Posse Comitatus", CJ/Toby

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: general season 3, mostly "Posse Comitatus"

Summary: "Then it's true we aren't immune / but there's a way … to right a wrong / to understand / to figure out / it's in His plans / to leave alone / to find a way / to figure out / it's not your fault"

Disclaimer: Not mine. 'Nuf said. Title and summary from the lyrics of Guster's "Dissolve" (yes, the Guster stories are back). Others can be found at www.oocities.org/rdcottrell/parachute.html. This story follows "Tones".

"Immune"

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Toby found her where he thought she might be, sitting on one several benches that lined the paved paths weaving in and away from the Memorials near the Tidal Basin. In the pre-dawn light, the air, the marble, the water and the statues were painted in varying shades of pinks and blues. Ghostly shadows enhanced by the early morning fog that rolled in from the Potomac settled over the area to give it a life all its own.

He waited patiently as she held her cell phone with icy fingers, and from simple instinct he knew she was calling her father. He gave an involuntary shiver as she wrapped her left arm across her middle and lean over, a pain every bit as real as if she herself had been the one to be shot. She was rocking gently back and forth; to keep warm, to stave off nausea, or to maintain any semblance of grounding she had, Toby did not know. He couldn't hear the words, but he imagined the hitch in her voice with each spasm of a sob.

The trip back from New York had been somber for everyone. CJ was already aboard and in a corner seat where the Senior Staff normally sat on Air Force One before anyone else arrived from the theatre. Her eyes were closed, but her posture betrayed her conscious state. Leo had steered everyone away from the compartment to other areas of the plane and everyone respected CJ's want of privacy.

Ron Butterfield had stayed on in New York, under direct orders from the President, to supervise the investigation of Simon Donovan's death and to make sure the downed agent got the respect he deserved. The President had called Donovan's family personally when he returned to the Oval Office. Arrangements had been made to bring the body home; the President had asked for an honor guard to escort the Secret Service Agent.

Between arriving back at the White House with the Presidential motorcade, checking in with Josh on the sure win vote, being briefed by Leo about the Qumari Defense Minister and reading the latest wires from the AP and the never ending 'we said/he said' battle with Ritchie's campaign juggernaut-wanna-be, Toby had lost sight of CJ. Leo had pulled him aside after the impromptu senior staff meeting and asked him to find CJ and bring her up to date on what had happened in the convening hours.

It hadn't been hard work to find the wayward Press Secretary. Despite the cessation of Secret Service protection, every agent Toby had come across seemed to know exactly where she was. On his way to the Mall, he had spotted three agents keeping a discreet distance from the only woman in the park. Toby leaned against a tree and simply watched her.

She now held the phone loosely in her hand by its antenna. Breathing deeply, the thin wrap fell from her shoulders and he couldn't help but notice she was wearing a dress he had never seen before. Her right arm was now stretched along the back of the bench, bent at the elbow with her hand supporting the weight of her head. From his keyhole he could see that her legs were crossed discretely at the ankle as she leaned her right side against the back of the bench. She seemed calm, serene, and he had to wonder how long the sleepless nights would last this round.

Her eyes were closed, her cheeks blanched pale. Try as he might, he wasn't sure if any of his overtures would be welcomed or rejected. He couldn't ever imagine what it was like to be in her position, and the words of comfort that seeped to the tip of his tongue seemed trite and pedestrian in comparison to the pain he knew she was feeling.

Toby drew his finger tips over his forehead several times, wondering exactly how he could approach her, and not break the slender glass tether that seemed to exist between them. He could not pinpoint exactly when they had mutually decided, with no words spoken, that they, again, were meant to be better friends than lovers, as they had danced to that song a number of times throughout their long friendship.

Sometimes the old and familiar felt safe and secure.

They had kept their distance while she was under Secret Service protection, for her safety as well as his. She had argued, when he had asked her to join him for dinner, that it was better off that they not see each other outside of work.

"What if this sicko," she had said, "decides that you make a better target? I couldn't live with the guilt that you were shot because of me."

It had been the first admission of how frightened she had been at the time, masked by a joke that Simon was around to take a bullet for her, not him. For all the bellyaching she did and proclaiming steadfastly that Secret Service protection was over the top for a deranged individual that liked to send threatening email, Toby knew she was relieved to have someone looking out for her. Someone with a license to use a gun and who knew how to use it well.

Toby turned his head when he heard foot falls behind him. Ron Butterfield stopped next to him, hands held behind his back. The ever present ear piece was hanging off the back of the agent's collar. The agent's expression was weary, tired. It had been a long night for all of them.

Without preamble, Ron spoke quietly, "We caught him. He was trying to toss the gun in the sewer about 2 miles away from the grocery store when a foot patrolman recognized him from the APB that was posted."

"New York's finest," Toby mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at the woman sitting on the park bench in much too expensive morning attire.

"The confession and testimony of the kid Simon apprehended should be more than enough to lock both of them away for a long time," Ron added.

"Good."

They stood silently watching CJ. She turned the phone over and over and over again in her left hand as she worried her brow with her right.

"The stalker," Ron continued, "Ryan Gossling, will be arraigned this morning. The District Attorney will argue for the maximum sentence, but for the District of Columbia, that's a $500 fine and 12 months in jail."

"And if in 8 months time he gets out on parole and does it again?" Toby asked, avoiding the obvious question about who would protect CJ if the time came. "He didn't have a weapon with him this time. What if next time he does?"

Toby remembered another 'what if/if only' discussion he had had with CJ nearly a year ago, concerning the President's MS. Only she was the one that wanted the answers that time.

Ron's voice was steady, direct. "The penalties change. Since he was caught getting on a train bound for New York, the District Attorney may be able to file federal charges, with a maximum sentence of 5 years."

"That's not enough time."

"It's not my job to legislate for tougher anti-stalker laws and stiffer penalties," Ron replied. "My job is to protect the President."

Toby nodded, the only motion he thought he was capable of pulling off without falling down. He watched as Ron stepped away and approached the woman on the bench.

Though Toby couldn't hear their conversation, he deciphered its contents by CJ's reactions. Ron stood in her line of sight, hands held at parade rest in front of his body. CJ for her part simply tilted her head upwards, still leaning into the palm of her hand.

He spotted the fresh tears and the slight smile of acknowledgement as Ron told her about the arrest of the shooter. As the discussion turned towards the stalking case, she sat a little straighter on the bench, the professional in her taking over as they discussed the logistics of the next few days.

Toby imagined that CJ would be asked to come to one of the DC police stations to see if she recognized the man that had been sending her threatening emails and followed her from her home to work, through everyday activities for the last several weeks. She would be asked to meet with the District Attorney about the possible outcomes of the court trial to come. And Toby imagined she would be inwardly cringing at the thought of ever stepping into another courtroom after the number of appearances they had all made prior to the House Resolution to censure the President.

Ron hesitantly touched a hand to her shoulder as he passed by the bench to take his leave. She turned in her seat to watch him leave and it was then she noticed Toby standing by the tree. The expression on her face was neutral, still in professional mode, as she locked eyes with him.

Recognizing an invitation, Toby slowly stepped forward, one slow stride at a time. Though he had cast his eyes down as he walked, he could feel her gaze on him the entire time it took to walk the short distance to the bench. As he neared, he took off his tuxedo jacket and placed it around her shoulders.

"You looked cold," he said, joining her on the bench, sitting close to the end to refrain from knocking her arm.

"Thanks," she replied with a voice rough and hoarse.

CJ returned to her study of the Tidal Basin, adopting the same posture as before, only now holding his jacket closed in the front with the fingers of her left hand.

"We won the vote," he stated, keeping things work related at the forefront of the conversation, sensing that anything more personal than that would get him no where fast.

"We'll talk about how much we really won at a later date," CJ mused as she sniffled quietly behind her hand and used the pad of her thumb to sequentially swipe under her eyes.

Toby reached into his pants pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to her. "Based on the wires, we got some good press last night. Ritchie's camp, however, did not."

After dabbing her face with the corner of the handkerchief, she checked the linen to see if her makeup was still running. "I wouldn't want to alienate the Catholic bishops of New York."

"I think Sam has made it his mission in life to take down Kevin Kahn."

His comment elicited a small laugh, for which he was pleased. CJ folded the handkerchief into a neat little square so that a clean corner was facing up in her right palm, then propped her head up again.

"Everyone needs a hobby, I guess."

Toby leaned forward over his knees, threading his fingers together as he rubbed his palms together. "There are few other things that you need to be briefed on. Developments since yesterday."

He paused, taking a moment to glance at her with a slight twist of his head. Her eyes were closed again, her forehead crinkled in a way that bespoke of the headache anchored firmly within her skull.

"Minister Shariff's plane crashed as it approached Bermuda."

If CJ heard him, she didn't give a verbal or physical sign.

"It's already in the wire reports. There's an investigation under way. It will come up at the briefings today," he continued.

CJ cleared her throat before speaking. "Someone needs to bring Henry up to speed."

"Okay," Toby replied, grateful that he wouldn't have to ask her to take some time for herself. The tacit implication that she would not brief only scratched the surface of how much she was hurting and in a way confirmed a few of the cobwebs slowly building in his brain.

He had known her long enough to recognize the signs of CJ-infatuation. From the almost silly grin that was plastered on her face through the first act of the play, he assumed the seeds of something new had been planted already in her brain. If Simon had not been shot, Toby was sure something more would have come from that relationship beyond protector-protectee.

He wasn't sure what he thought about that. It was a topic that he didn't -- he hoped -- didn't need exploring in any way, shape or form.

The sky was turning an orange hue as the sun began its ascent above the horizon. The trees along the Tidal Basin blocked most of the direct sunlight. Morning joggers and walkers started to appear along the pathways, ignoring the couple on the park bench.

"You know, you can ask me, Toby," she said after a time. "I'm not going to fall apart."

"I'm sorry about Simon," he finally whispered.

"Yeah," CJ replied, her voice shaking. "Me too."

"He was a good guy."

"Yup," she exhaled with a deep sigh.

"They, the uh Secret Service and NYPD, found the shooter," he stammered, wondering how much she was willing to talk about it.

"Ron told me."

Toby leaned back against the bench, his shoulder just touching her elbow.

"It's not your fault, you know."

He heard the hitch in her breathing and turned away for a moment to let her compose herself.

"I'll believe that in about a day or two." She secretly smiled amidst the new tracks of tears to trickle down her face. "You're not saying anything I haven't already run through my head dozens of times already. For right now, I'd just like to wallow in misery, if you don't mind."

She took a moment to wipe her face with the handkerchief before looking upon the dawn of day.

"Misery loves company," Toby ventured, taking careful stock of her reaction.

Again the secret smile adorned her face. "Maybe later. I just need to go home right now. Be by myself."

"I'll take you," Toby replied, standing. "I assume your car is still in storage."

He offered her his hand, which she took. Standing, she straightened the tuxedo jacket around her shoulders so that both arms were within the material.

CJ stood for a moment. A shaft of sunlight broke through the canopy. She turned into it, closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face.

"You know," she supposed, "for about an hour, I had a touch of normalcy. No fear of being stalked. A guy to meet for drinks after a show, a show that I had wanted to see for a very long time. "

She held Toby's gaze while she said, "It was … normal."

Toby shrugged his shoulders. "Normalcy is overrated."

"Right now, I'd give anything for a day of it."

He took her by the elbow and led her towards the White House. After a few steps, he felt her link her arm through his, leaning some weight against his side. He covered with his other hand the area where her hand rested on the inside of his forearm and squeezed lightly.

Maybe things were back to normal.

End