Title: "Pouring Rain"

Author: CretKid aka Cal

Category: CJ/Toby

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Manchester

Summary: "I used to sit and watch the pouring rain / I used to wish to be back home again / I hadn't the strength then / I hadn't the chance to reveal it / but it's all, it's all in your hands"

Author's Notes: This goes along with "May Parade". See, Greg asked for more stories. And because he asked nicely, I am writing them! You can find this and other stories in this genre (I should probably come up with a name for these) at my web site (http://www.oocities.org/rdcottrell/fiction.html). Thanks to my beta readers, you know who you are.

This follows in the same 'universe' as "Gravity Fails Me", "Shadow and a Silhouette", "Stand Clear" and "Hold Ground". And I kinda like this universe, so I think I will continue.

"Pouring Rain"

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CJ stepped outside to get away from the revelry for a few moments. The clouds that had rolled in late in the afternoon had finally let loose their deluge, soaking the ground with enough to spare. The rain barrel sang softly in tune with the gutters as the cacophony of nature swamped out the gales of laughter emanating from the Bartlets' family living room. A warm June wind blew in from the south, bending the leaves and branches in the apple trees. She could almost smell the now gone apple blossoms in the air.

There was another outburst from the house. CJ looked over her shoulder towards the screen door and decided against going back inside. Leaning her folded arms on the wooden porch railing, she took a deep breath and let the rain scented air fill her lungs. It had been a long time since she felt she could breath easily. The tension, the tightness, was still wrapped around her chest. But the clamps had been released: the pressure let off just enough to make it seem like it was gone.

But she knew better.

Their numbers would go up; of that, she was sure. The President knew when he had a captive audience and he knew how to keep its attention. Watching reactions within and without, she knew they had done well that afternoon. At the very least they had the support of the President's home state.

The lawn party at the Bartlet family farm had lasted well into the night. Supporters of the campaign to re-elect the President, local and state politicians, family and friends all gathered to wish the President luck on his re-election bid. With the threat of rain, the party dispersed and all but the die-hards returned to their homes or hotel rooms. As always happened, the talk turned to politics. The Bartlet girls, including the President's granddaughter, had taken refuge in the guest house. Bruno's minions, feeling somewhat slighted at the easy familiarity among the tried and true staff, had left for the hotel.

After the campaign stories had started in earnest, it had taken too much effort to pretend to have a good time. When the opportunity to escape arose, CJ took it.

She knew it wouldn't be long before someone noticed she was no longer in the house. Since they had been in New Hampshire, barely a moment passed where Toby, Josh or Sam had asked if she needed anything, if there was anything wrong, how she was doing. Only Toby knew outright that she was planning to resign. Though, she suspected Josh was picking up the scent.

There was a time when she would have been touched by their concern. After the month she had had in front of the press, everyday considerations of her state of mind seemed an attack against her abilities. While there were fewer op-ed pieces about an alleged cover-up in the Bartlet White House, there were still too many to ignore. Her name had been slandered far more often in the press than any of the President's staff.

Still, she had been forced to look at transcripts of nearly every briefing to verify details of what she may or may not have said concerning the President's health. Those interested in uncovering a conspiracy constantly berated her for details of the President's health when he had made such-and-such a decision or had met with Prime Minister Joe Blow over a matter of foreign policy. Through it all she had to grin and bear it.

In two weeks' time she became an armchair expert in multiple sclerosis.

Buzz phrases were stressed. Inflammatory rather than degenerative. Baselines. Early detection. Nerve damage over brain damage. That there were no such things as `good' days and `bad' days.

Esoteric medical facts dripped from the tip of her tongue.

That women were twice as likely to develop MS than men. That people in northern, cooler climates were more likely to get MS than people with the same genetic disposition in the warmer, tropical climates. That the causes of MS were an unknown mixture of genetics and environmental factors. That the disease was mediated in large part through the immune system.

That most disability associated with MS was related to spinal cord damage, not brain damage. That MS was not life threatening. That bed-ridden patients were robbed of 4 to 5 years of a regular life expectancy on average. That even though the President was diagnosed eight years ago, his baseline between attacks had not changed significantly. That his MS was caught early, that his yearly MRI showed no new active lesions since he started Betaseron treatments. That he had had only one attack since he'd been in office, and that attack was triggered by a fever related to the flu. There had been no onset of new symptoms. That there was no indication that his illness had developed into progressive multiple sclerosis.

She was the face of the Administration. If she showed a crack in the façade…

Maintaining the calm demeanor took a lot of energy. She didn't joke as often as she had in the past with the reporters. She didn't smile when she entered the room; she breathed a deep sigh of relief as she left.

When at times it became clear that the press corps was not interested in the information she had to report, but how the President's reaction might have been different had he not been forced to disclose his MS diagnosis she ended the briefing. If they wanted a quote, they could get from the press release to the web site.

After the second time it happened, the reporters learned not to push too far if they wanted to meet their deadlines with more than a reference to a web page.

She had found Toby more often than not standing behind the glass partition that separated the briefing room from the reporters' area. He stayed long enough for her to see him. Sometimes he stayed the entire time and followed her to her office. Other times, he left after only a few minutes. Some days she would find him in her office when she returned from the briefing; others she wouldn't see him all day.

She had asked him once if he was checking up on her. He denied that he was.

CJ ignored the screech from the screen door as it opened. The wind was nearly strong enough to carry lighter drops of rain under the protective eaves. A fine sheen of drizzle coated her arms and face. She knew that Toby was standing next to her without turning her head. The wooden railing creaked as he lent his back against the load-bearing pillar.

A frosted-glass mug was placed on the railing, within the circle of her arms. CJ dropped her head and stared at the empty glass, then turned her eyes towards Toby. He held a similar mug in one hand and corked brown bottle in the other.

"Abby sent me out here with this." He passed her the bottle. "She said something about owing you some cider, but I suspect that this stronger than she originally intended."

CJ uncorked the bottle. An unmistakable alcoholic odor wafted from the open neck. She puckered her face. "Is this Abby's recipe?"

"I believe so." Toby took the bottle and poured the hard apple cider in both mugs. "I didn't dare ask in front of the President. Otherwise I might have been subjected to the unabridged history of the Bartlet family farm, from the pre-Civil War apple tree blight to how his grandfather refused to cut down the trees during Prohibition."

CJ looked at the tape label on the bottle. March, 2001. "Well, I suppose she has to do something with all those apples in the fruit cellar." She took a sip, feeling the carbonation tickle her nose. "She used less sugar this time."

"I'll take Abby's hard cider over the President's chili any day of the week and twice on Sundays," Toby replied into his own glass.

The alcohol was making a fast track to her brain. It didn’t help that she hadn't had much to eat over the last few days. She downed the rest of the cider in a few long swallows. If all else failed, she could walk back into town. It was only 5 miles. She put her glass on the railing and indicated to Toby that he should do something about the empty glass.

He had barely touched his drink. "You know, there's alcohol inside the house. Has been all day. There's no need to play catch up now."

"I'm going to be playing catch up for the rest of my life. Why not start now?"

Toby shrugged his shoulders. "Why not choose another vice? Sleep, perhaps?"

She pointed at her glass. "Pour."

"You told him you want to resign this morning," Toby said, filling her glass.

She drank the second glass in slow sips as she looked out across the lawn. The hum of the large fluorescent lamp over the barn door was in synch with the humming inside her ears. "The press is still focusing on me. It's hunting season and I've got a big ol' target painted on my back."

"It will die down."

"Not soon enough."

Toby grunted and turned to match her stance at the railing. He took a sip of his cider. "It WILL die down."

"Yeah." She finished off the rest of her cider.

She wanted to believe it. From the tone of his voice, Toby did too. She folded her arms on the railing again, laying her forehead against the inside of her elbow. Her body was nearly bent over square, back slightly arched. She hadn't said she'd stay on. The resignation letter she had drawn up nearly a month ago was still sitting in her coat pocket, now worn and tattered like a talisman.

Toby placed his hand on her back and she felt herself tense. He didn’t remove his hand, however; instead tracing small circles along her spine and between her shoulder blades.

"I've been fired from jobs. I've quit jobs that I've hated with every bone in my body." Her voice was slightly muffled by railing and clothing. She felt Toby's hand pause. "I've never resigned."

He resumed his gentle back rub. "Resigning means leaving something you don't want to."

"Want and need are two different things."

"You don’t need to leave, either."

CJ shrugged her shoulders. Toby moved his hand up to rest on the back of her neck.

"I didn’t think I could actually say the words." She felt her throat started to constrict. Coughing to stave off the tears, she continued. "This morning. In the barn. I must have practiced fifty different scenarios."

Toby leaned in close and whispered, "Would it mean anything to you if I said I didn't want you to leave?"

CJ held her breath; refrained from letting any muscle move that was not under her free will. She wasn't sure how long she has stayed that way, but when her brain started to scream for oxygen, she slowly, surely, reached into her coat pocket.

"Is this what I think it is?" Toby asked as she dropped the envelope on the railing next to her.

She didn’t stand up; she didn’t move other than to put her arm back under her head.

"He said he needed me."

She heard him pick up the letter, half expecting him to open the envelope and read it. Instead she heard a soft tear, not the crisp, clean rendering of new paper. There was a scent of butane in the air as she heard the <phhiipp> of a lighter.

His hand was on her back once more as tiny charred pieces of paper fell into the flower bed below them. She felt all the energy drain from her body as the tiny pieces of carbon drifted and died in the gentle rain.

"I'm taking you back to the hotel," Toby said, guiding her into an upright position.

"Okay."

Toby held her elbow as they descended the stairs. There was another burst of laughter from the living room and CJ looked over her shoulder at the screen door once again.

"Think we should tell anyone we’re leaving?" she asked as they traveled down the gravel pathway to where the cars were parked.

Toby opened the passenger door for her. "No."

"Okay."

CJ wedged her head between the neck rest and the seat belt as Toby climbed in the driver's side door. He pulled down the visor to retrieve the keys. "Rest," he said, putting the car into gear. "I'll wake you when we get there."

"Okay," she replied, nodding off for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

End