Title: "A Shadow and a Silhouette"

Author: CretKid aka Cal

Rating: PG

Summary:

Category: CJ/Toby, Toby POV

Disclaimer: Not mine. Borrowed without malicious intent.

Author's Note: A companion piece to "Gravity Fails Me". Title again comes from a Guster lyric ("Scars and Stitches" for those of you interested). I figured I should climb into Toby's head for a while, get his perspective and carry on from there.

Like this? Want to read more? Go to www.oocities.org/rdcottrell/ and click on Fiction.

"A Shadow and a Silhouette"

There really isn't any reason why I want to be here. There are no scheduled appearances for the President that requires my immediate attention. The regular cast of delinquent characters in Congress has taken a holiday, so there is no one I need to hound into submission. Sam is the go-between guy between the Administration and Bruno's campaign team, so that perpetual headache is only on the edge of my brain. I could be working on the President's answer to The Question. However, that would distract my peripheral attention from the touch Nerf football game currently in play in my bullpen.

The only advantage to being in the West Wing on a Sunday afternoon, other than the entertainment value of watching Josh and Sam make complete asses of themselves, is the satellite dish that provides different game feeds on the multitude of television sets around this place. It comes in rather handy when the game I want to see is blacked out on my cable carrier in favor of something of local flavor. Rather than channel surf and curse the Redskins at home, I could TV-set surf around the office and curse the Redskins in several time zones if I were so inclined.

I am rarely so inclined. I will gladly sit back and read my newspaper, thank you very much.

From the eruption of television and hallway noise, I surmise the Eagles have yet again made it to the end zone. For some insurmountable reason, this game has been chosen as the bread-winning contest, so everyone has a stake in the outcome. It's not a matter of choosing the winning team, but guessing what the score will be at the end of each quarter. The Eagles are playing the Vikings in Philadelphia. This really isn’t a contest. There are better, more grandiose things to hold my interest: watching paint dry, for example.

As I peruse the remnants of the New York Times scattered on my couch, I look out into the hallway to see the morass of people huddled around three different football games and spy maroon silk weaving in and out of view. The wearer strong-arms through the throngs of desk chair quarterbacks and game announcer wanna-be's to make a mad dash for the sanctity of someplace non-football. I don't have to be in the hallway to hear Josh and Sam's loud disparaging remarks about Minnesota and CJ's affinity for falling into water. It's a lame connection between the Land of a 1000 Lakes and CJ's gravitational attraction to pools but then again, it's Josh and Sam.

But as she brushes off the mockery for what it is, there is a set to her shoulders that I recognize. There are not many people who would notice it at all. But I can tell that something is running through her head that she's not entirely comfortable with because she's simply staring at Josh and Sam rather than threatening to create a new body orifice for one or both of them.

It is more the expression on her face than anything else that is setting the alarm whistle off in my brain. She is standing there as if waiting for the punch line, rolling her hand in an 'and what else?' manner as her focus switches from Frick to Frack. When neither rise to the challenge, she uses her arms as a wedge and plows an escape route between them.

Apparently neither Josh nor Sam see anything wrong as they continue to watch the game. Those two can be quite perceptive, when the planets are aligned and sunspot activity is high. Maybe I'm blowing this all out of proportion.

Maybe I'll just walk past her office just to make sure.

On second thought, I'm going to grab my coat.

I've known CJ for more than half of my adult life. Depending on who is telling the story, we met in a bar or a campaign office or a fundraiser. She was a graduate student or not working on a congressional race in California or I was a campaign manager recruiting help from the poli-sci department at Berkeley because I knew some people there. CJ would say misery loves company because she refused to leave me alone to drink in a bar as my candidate sacrificed his entire platform on the lance of ingratiated disaster.

I can’t help people who don't listen to me.

I once asked her to leave California to come to the East Coast, work on another campaign with me. She said no. EMILY's List was actively recruiting her talents for various races in California. I argued that the Washington D.C. office could use her skills even more so and I was not above calling in as many favors as possible to make it happen. She didn’t want to leave California.

I can't help people who won't listen to me.

Despite the fact that for most of our friendship, she was on the West Coast and I was more often than not on the East Coast, we've remained steadfast friends and sometimes something more. After I had met and married Andy, I had not taken as many jobs in California races as I had in the past, but we still talked even if it was only by phone.

I listened to her rant about the people she had to work with at Triton-Day. She listened to me rage against the latest of political disaster candidates to whom I had gotten myself attached. She called to congratulate us - me - us when Andy was elected to Congress, my one and only victory prior to the Bartlet campaign. I called to congratulate her when the candidate she'd been working for won a key race in the California 32nd district. I tried to allay her fears when her father was diagnosed with Parkinson's. She wrestled me out of a depressive funk when Andy said she was leaving me.

When Leo had asked me that night in Nashua who we needed to get a good man elected President, CJ's name came to mind immediately, but I wasn't sure if I could convince her to come. She hadn’t worked seriously in politics for a while. From our not infrequent phone calls, e-mails and letter writing campaigns, I knew she missed it.

I wasn't sure she would come.

For all the self-confidence she exerts on the stage and behind the podium, there are times when she seriously doubts her abilities and her decisions. I know this, I've seen it happen and I've watched her crash and burn because of it. And I know she hasn't taken on jobs because she thinks it could happen again. These episodes, for want of a better word, can last five minutes or they can last five weeks. It happened last May after the 'relieved' incident. I honestly didn't see it coming until it was too late.

I can't help people who can't hear me.

I'm nobody's white knight; I don't ride in gallantly to save the day. CJ never wants someone to tell her she's doing a good job but sometimes needs to hear it. She doesn't want to say she needs help but sometimes needs for it to be offered. She's not about platitudes and pats on the head and she doesn't want someone to tell her everything will be all right when there the sharks are starting to circle.

But sometimes she needs exactly that.

She's not in her office. The lights are off except for the floor lamp in the corner. There's music in the background that I don't recognize. A briefing book is open on the corner of her desk closest to the couch, highlighted in a number of obtrusive and garish colors. There is a stack of newspapers on the middle of her couch and from the trail of pillows, discarded coffee cups and empty water bottles, she's spent most of her time on the floor.

I grab her coat from the rack in the corner because I know exactly where she's gone. I drop mine on her couch and fish out the scarf from the sleeve.

She's leaning over the railing, her shoulders hunched over as if she is trying to keep her head in place by holding her shoulders close. What weight isn't supported by her arms on the railing is taken up by her left leg, with her right sort of swinging of its own volition. She's standing in the shadows and I know it's a deliberate decision. From a cursory glance no one would even know she was there.

As I open the door I see her tense ever so slightly. If she thinks I'm out here to check up on her, she's going to tighten her defenses with vise grips.

"I can't believe you chose the Vikings over the Eagles."

I watch as her shoulders slacken and her head drops. She's laughing at least. I drape her coat over her shoulders, letting my hands linger there just a little too long. I need to know that she's not ready to bolt, that she's not in over her head with whatever is running through her mind right now. Ever since May, I have tried to be acutely aware of her flight versus fight reactions. I just hope this isn't the end of the fight cycle.

"I'm not going to justify my football picks to you," she says with a hint of a smile. The fact that she answered me is encouraging: monosyllables and grunts usually denote danger of sailing into the Sargasso Sea with no hope of getting anything out of the quagmire. The fight is still in her.

"But the Vikings? They are 0-3 on the road. How the hell did you pick your list?"

"I flipped a coin," she replies with enough sarcasm to tell me she doesn't really care about the damn game or what I think of her betting strategy. Football is a game of probability and statistics and strategy but I know CJ doesn’t feel that way.

"That's just … wrong," I finally say to end the conversation. I turn towards the door and lean against the railing next to her, in part to make sure no one interrupts us. I know from experience that it's okay if I disrupt what CJ calls her 'alone time to confer with nature' because I also know not to ask her why she's standing outside in less than 40 degrees F weather without her coat.

I think about the weather and the date and it suddenly dawns on me that another god-forsaken holiday is around the corner. "Are you going to Napa for Thanksgiving?"

CJ stands straighter, looks at her watch in comical disinterest and stares at me with unadulterated surprise on her face. She is never going to let me live down last Thanksgiving.

"I'm making up for last year when I asked you two and half hours before dinner by asking two and a half weeks in advance," I explain.

"No. My parents are visiting my brother and his family in Santa Cruz."

I catch a glimpse of the First Lady trying to navigate the hallways with her crutches. The work is slow going, and she's stopped to talk to Josh in the hall. She notices me standing out here and sends me a stern 'what the hell do you think you're doing outside?' look. While I am standing under one of the overhead lights in a vain attempt to keep warm, I realize that Abby probably can't see CJ from where she is and I nod in CJ's direction. Josh's head is bobbing up and down with his end of their conversation. Both of our audiences are oblivious to our silent discourse.

"So, you’re free? No more glamorous invitations for you to pick and choose from?"

"I'm all yours."

Unless, of course, the President decides to make us celebrate with him. God, save us all.

Abby has sent Josh off on his merry way and looks towards me again. I shake my head ever so slightly. She seems to accept that I've got control of the situation, whatever it may be, and she ka-lumps to her original destination. I turn around and watch the setting sun.

The set of CJ's shoulders has changed. In just the last few minutes she's relaxed a fraction. Maybe she's worked through whatever sent her out here in the first place.

"I thought you weren't coming in again today," she asks just as the last bit of color drains from the sky.

I shrug my shoulders and think of a competent lie. "I wanted to go over next week's radio address with What's His Name." If I had said I had noticed she was a little off kilter on Friday and decided I wanted to be near should anything happen, I would have had my head served to me on a platter.

"Tommy," she says and I have to think hard about to what she's referring. That's right, radio address.

"I knew it began with a 'T'." Now I should actually check up on Tommy, or whatever his name is, to cover my tracks. "He's finishing the next draft. I should go look in on him in a few minutes. Make sure he's not drowning in a sea of no punctuation and superfluous language. Best not to leave him to his own devices."

A swift bit of breeze blows at us and I shiver just a bit. I try not to look at my watch to see how long we've been outside, but I'm beginning to regret not bringing my own coat. I'm fairly confident that CJ won't bite my head off if I vaguely make reference to why I think she's out here in the cold.

CJ thinks too much at times. In our profession, we need to be careful about what we say to make sure the right message is being conveyed. For example, she has this obsessive need to know minutia and practices these conversations in her head and with other people so she doesn't come off as someone that doesn’t know what she is talking about.

"Have you driven the voices from your head yet?"

She turns and looks at me with a wry smile. "I'm going to regret telling you that, aren't I?"

I shrug my shoulders and then notice the red poppy pinned to her jacket. It's Veteran's Day. For as long as I have known her, CJ never forgets to talk to her father on Veteran's Day. For some people, this holiday is more special than Memorial Day. CJ's father is one of them. "Have you talked to your father?"

"Yeah. Told him that I bought my poppy from the VFW stand on the Mall."

"Good." I nod. CJ's close to her family. I'm not particularly close to mine. "Are your parents still planning to visit sometime before the administration ends?"

"Latest scenario is in the spring. Possibly for Easter. He wants to see the Korean War Memorial."

I've sat and talked with CJ's father only once. I know where her stubborn streak comes from. For all her parents' promises to come here to the East Coast, the fruition of such a trip is about as probable as me winning the New York State lottery. CJ's accepted this. She doesn't want to, but she has.

I step a bit closer and reach for the collar of her coat. I know she isn't ready to leave yet, but I'm starting to go numb. "At least put this on properly."

I hold out the coat for her and she finally slips into the sleeves. Turning her like the recalcitrant child I know she must have been, I start to thread the oversized buttons through their respective holes.

"I'm not five years old, Toby. I can do up my own coat."

Placing my hands on her shoulders, I give them a gentle squeeze. "I will not be the one to have to call your father to say you've caught pneumonia and are spending the Thanksgiving holiday in the hospital," I say softly. I pat my pockets to remind me where I put my scarf. It's not that cold outside, but maybe she will get the hint that I worry about her. "Don't stay out too much longer."

I look one last time in her eyes to make sure she's okay and move to leave. As I step away, I feel her grasp my hand and it takes all my will power not to look down in surprise. She's rarely this … clingy is not the word I am looking for but it will suffice.

"Give me an hour to finish what I need to do here," I say and I almost smile at the look of relief on her face.

There's always been an unspoken understanding between us, a two way street. We don't have to ask, only acknowledge that it's hard to work without a safe haven. Even the best of tightrope walkers have a net on which to rely.

"Sit down or take-out?" I ask necessarily. I could say it's a gauge for how tired she is. The circles under her eyes are starting to show.

"Take-out's fine."

"Okay. I'll come find you in an hour and it had better not be out here," I add, squeezing her hand before I let go.

CJ lingers for a moment before turning back to watch the sky. I turn and head to the door. Abby is waiting for me when I reach my office. I can't say that I'm surprised.

"Is there anything I should know?" Abby asks. She looks far too comfortable on my couch, smiling like the cat with the canary. I'm not going to dignify her question with an answer.

I start to pack up my office for the night when I hear crumpling of paper and then feel a thud of something solid against my back. As I turn around, there on the floor of my office is a large wad of newsprint that used to be the financial section of the New York Times.

"Let me rephrase: is there anything I need to know?"

I can scare away a majority of the junior staff with a simple glare. This unfortunately does not work with Abby. Leave it to my extremely bad karma to work for a busy-body President and his busy-body wife. "If there is, I certainly won't be the one to tell you."

It's not as if I have to tell Abby anything; I'm sure she's conjured up enough details on her own.

"You know the friendship you have with CJ is special, don't you, Toby? Different from the friendships you have with Sam or Josh or me."

I don’t really want to know where she is going with this. I pick up the phone and dial the number of an Italian place I frequent. I turn away from Abby to place my order in peace. They put me on hold before I even answer that it is fine to put me on hold.

"I was just thinking about this when I saw you two outside. It's like the difference between a shadow and a silhouette," Abby continues.

I can't stop myself from straightening and I know that is my downfall in the course of this conversation. I don't like it when I'm the subject of anyone's conversation or mental wanderings, let alone when my name is in conjunction with CJ. And I'm still on hold with the restaurant. I tap my foot impatiently on the floor and realize that I'm only adding fuel to the First Lady's anti-misanthropic fire.

"I know you've known her a long time, Toby. I'm not going to ask you to explain your relationship; she can't do it either. It's something special that maybe comes once in a lifetime. But I do know you're aware that she talked to Leo and my husband about leaving this administration. What I want to know is why didn't you try to talk her out of it?"

As I turn around, I hear someone take me off hold and ask what she can do for me this evening. I give her my name and thankfully it's someone at the restaurant that recognizes me. After quickly placing an order for lasagna, bread and house salads to go, the young woman says she will add the cost to my tab and now I don't have to worry about stopping at an ATM machine on my way out of here. I try not to scowl at Abby's knowing glance at the meal ordered for two.

"Toby?"

I make a show of shutting off lights and closing down my computer. It's delaying the inevitable as I know I will not get out of here alive without going through the gauntlet.

"Toby, I'm as ornery as an old mule and twice as stubborn. Answer the question."

"Because she didn't want me to tell her to stay," I answer quietly. I could have shouted it from the rooftops but nothing I could or should have said after that briefing would have been heard.

"But she needed to hear it from my husband," Abby adds with a knowing smile. "And you did, too. Every one of you needed to hear some sort of apology."

I simply shrug and continue to put my office in order. It's over and done with and I'd rather not dwell on it.

"Do you know why it was Leo that told CJ about the MS and not the President?" she asks.

I have my suspicions, but I would never dare to say them out loud. In answer to her question I simply shake my head.

"I had to tell our girls. I wanted to be there when they told CJ. Odds are I was going to be the one to tell CJ if I had been here. Do you understand why?"

In a strange sort of way, I do. I handled the President's news in much the same way I would have handled the same information if my father had been the one with this illness. I'm not proud of how I handled the news.

"She's not thinking of leaving again, is she?"

I want to scream and yell and ask out loud why am I the one people come to when they want to gauge CJ's reactions and moods, but I don't. I am the one people ask because I am the one that knows her best. Leo came to me when CJ mentioned she thought it might be best if she left her post. He asked me if I thought she might be serious. I told him the truth: CJ was completely serious. Had she talked to me about it, Leo asked. I replied with a 'no'. He wanted me to talk her out of it.

I told him I wasn't the guy to do it.

"No," I reply and I am fairly certain in that assessment.

"Good. Now, help me up off this couch. I can't wait until this damn cast is off."

I do as I am told and willingly hand off the First Lady to her Secret Service detail. I check my watch and realize that I've lost 15 minutes that I may never get back. It's time to collect CJ, despite the fact she still has 45 minutes to brood outside. As I look around for my coat, I hear Abby yelling from the hallway, "Check CJ's office."

CJ still hasn't come inside when I reach the portico entrance where I left her, but she has stopped leaning over the railing. She's standing ramrod straight with her hands in her coat pockets. There's considerably less tension in her posture than there was 20 minutes ago. I wait to hold the door open for her when she decides it is time to come in.

"Are you ready to go?" I ask quietly as she leads the way to her office.

"Are you? I thought you had some things to take care of."

"Done."

"Then, where's your coat?"

"In your office. Did you walk or drive?"

"Walked."

It figures. Her jacket is too light, she's not wearing the proper footwear and she doesn’t have a hat, gloves, or scarf. CJ does this specifically to mock me. She must recognize my look of disapproval because she's laughing at me now.

"It was a lot warmer this morning, Toby. And my sneakers are under the couch."

When we arrive at her office, sure enough, the Reeboks she sports are sitting side by side under the couch. I grab my coat and refuse to let her enter her office to get any work to bring home. She tries to stare me down, but I am impervious to her look of consternation.

I'm parked in one of the staff parking lots outside. The indoor parking garage is being repaved or repainted or some such nonsense. We walk in companionable silence to the car and it continues while I stop to pick up the food and drive to her apartment.

There's a strange feeling of domestic familiarity once we're inside her apartment. As I reheat the food in the microwave, she sets the small dinette in the kitchen that serves more as a place to drop mail. I know she has wine somewhere in her cupboards, but I boil water for tea instead. CJ leaves to change out of her silk blouse and I get everything to the table.

She's changed into a flannel pullover shirt that I recognize from several family photographs sitting in CJ's living room. Only in those pictures, her father is the one wearing the shirt. She asks about my brother and sisters, I ask about her brothers. We swap sordid details of family Thanksgivings and ponder the probability of having to know the Latin word for every conceivable food stuff associated with the holiday in the coming weeks.

The dishes are cleared and cleaned, the left over food safely stashed in CJ's barren refrigerator. I suggest we watch some television, if only to get the football scores and she elbows me in the ribs. I know she has the remote programmed to bypass all the sports channels unless you directly dial in the channel. She tosses it to me as she hunts down her mutant cat, hopefully to lock him up in the spare room. That cat hates me and the feeling is reciprocated.

Not surprisingly, C-SPAN is the pre-set channel when the television finally gurgles into focus. I surf until I find something, anything, outside the realm of world politics, medical malpractice, civil rights and sappy holiday fare because, really, it's too early to seriously consider Christmas specials. One of the entertainment channels is doing a special on Paul Newman or Robert Redford, I can't really tell, but I think for sanity's sake we should stay away from references to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

I know CJ is a sucker for the black and white movies of the '30's and '40's. I change the channel to one of the classic movie channels in hopes of finding something decent. Cary Grant. Can't go wrong with Cary Grant. Katherine Hepburn is breaking a golf club over her knee when CJ emerges from the hallway.

"'A Philadelphia Story'?" she asks, staring at the screen.

I look from her, to the screen, back to her. "Umm, okay." I have no idea what this movie is called. Cary Grant has just shoved Katherine Hepburn through a door. This can't be all that bad.

"You want to watch this? I didn’t think you liked this movie."

I honestly can't remember if I've ever seen this movie. "What's not to like? Hepburn in pants, Grant being tossed out of this house on his ass. No guns, no gratuitous violence as far as I've seen."

"You're only 2 minutes into the movie," she counters, standing over me with her arms crossed over her chest.

If I had known she was going to make a capital case out of whatever we watched on television, I would have left the remote control alone. "Are you going to sit down and watch this?" I ask, moving over on the couch so that I am closer to the corner. I've moved my arm so that it's draped over the top of the couch and I point to the spot next to me.

This is what this evening is about. This is our net. This is our harness. Sit in companionable silence, not feeling the need to say anything of consequence. No stress, no anticipations or anxieties. Watch a movie, listen to music. Sometimes you just need down time. Sometimes you need someone to share it with.

She settles next to me with her head automatically on my shoulder. My arm naturally falls across her back and I feel her relax. The floor lamp near the window turns on for no apparent reason until I search the wall outlets. I see that it is plugged into an automatic timer set for 7 p.m. It's glaring and bright and right in my eyes, but CJ doesn’t seem disturbed by it, so I will leave it be.

Obviously CJ has seen this movie before, she's laughing before the punch lines. She explains what I missed while arguing with her over what to watch. The floor lamp has turned itself off and CJ mumbles something about fixing the damn timer.

Half way through the movie I realize CJ's half-asleep and yawning. "How much sleep have you had this week?" I ask quietly. I have never had a problem with sleep deprivation, but I know that is not the case with CJ.

"Not enough," she murmurs. She snuggles closer and I absently recognize that she is tapping the rhythm of my pulse on her leg.

"Any particular reason?" I could probably name a half dozen or so, but she shakes her head and tries to pay attention to the movie. I move my free hand so that it's resting over the hand that's doing the tapping. Her fingers are ice cold and I start to search for a blanket within reach. There's an afghan draped across the back of the couch. I pull it down and try to wrap it around CJ's legs.

After a few minutes, CJ's eyes are again at half-mast.

"Why don't you go to bed?" I suggest and immediately she starts to sit up.

"This is the best part of the movie. Jimmy Stewart is going to start singing to Katherine Hepburn."

It will be fighting a losing battle to continue to argue with her, so I switch tactics. I push her forward so I can lean into the corner of the couch without mangling my back or neck. I pull a not so unwilling CJ across my lap so that she's reclining against my chest and I can properly wrap both arms around her. Grabbing the afghan from where it has fallen on the cushions, I cover her as best as I can.

Her hands are still cold and I hold them against her stomach with my own hands to warm them. She turns ever so slightly so that her right ear is resting above my heart. I remove one hand from under the blanket to softly stroke the hair from her face to behind her left ear, again and again even though there are no more wayward strands to mollify.

Katherine Hepburn is scowling at the bright sunlight.

CJ's fast asleep on my chest. The cadence of her breathing can't mean anything else.

Cary Grant saves the day.

I reach up behind me to turn off the table lamp. It's not even 9 p.m. and I can let CJ sleep for a few more hours before old bones and joints force me to move. Fishing for the remote control, I turn down the volume and change the channel to ESPN to catch the latest scores. CJ can yell at me later if she wakes up.

The living room is bathed in the glow of the television and I can't help but think of what Abby said of shadows and silhouettes. The difference between diffuse and sharpness. Need and want. Need and should. Butch and Sundance. Grant and Hepburn. The Eagles and the Vikings.

The Redskins actually won today. Will wonders never cease?