CJ, Josh, Sam, Jed, and Toby belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. The others are ours. The title's from Natalie Merchant. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback.
Certain Of My Life
Cinnamon & Violet
"Senators Lindauer and Mahoney will be there; Governor Zbornak may join them by phone. Are there any other questions?" C.J. looked up from the podium and was met with silence. "I'll see you on Monday. Thank you."
Exiting the briefing room, C.J. absently fingered her necklace. She jumped slightly when she felt a hand on her arm.
"Hey."
"Hey, Josh."
"I didn't mean to scare you."
C.J. shrugged and began walking down the hall. "It's okay. What's up?"
"How are you?"
"I'll live," she said, then caught herself. "Bad choice of words, huh?"
Josh followed her into her office. "Are you heading out? Why don't you let me drive you home?"
"Actually, I'm staying here."
Josh sat on her couch. "What the hell for?"
"I've got a lot of work to do, Joshua."
"C.J., that can wait for a few days."
She sighed. "It already has been waiting here for a few days. If I leave it until Monday, I'll never get through all of it."
Josh studied C.J. as she sifted through a stack of papers, and noticed that her hands were shaking. "C.J."
"What, Josh?"
"You need to go home."
C.J. pushed up the sleeves of her black sweater. "I have work to do."
"Hey." Sam poked his head into the office. "Why are you here?"
"To buy an egg. This isn't Safeway?"
Sam smiled grimly. "Cute. Are you waiting for a ride? Because I can take you home."
"She's staying because she has work to do, Sam."
"Oh, that's right. She has work to do." Sam shook his head and stepped back into the hall. "Go home, C.J."
"Are you going to listen to him?"
C.J. opened a folder and began taking notes. "Not likely there, buddy."
"Okay, here's what's going to happen." Josh stood and walked to the doorway. "I'm going to humor you and let you work for an hour." He looked at his watch. "In fifty-nine minutes, I'm coming back and you're going home."
After Josh left, C.J. stared at the wall, trying to remember the last time she'd had such a long day.
"C.J.! Did you know that the moose -- what are you still doing here?"
Looking up, she saw the President standing in her doorway. "I'm doing my job, sir."
Jed surveyed her office and walked to her desk. "Give me your hand."
"Sir?"
"Give me your hand, C.J."
Confused, she placed her hand in Jed's. He forced her to stand, then led her to the door. As she looked on, he walked back to her desk and gathered up her things.
"Here," he said, helping her slip into her coat. "You're leaving."
"May I take--"
"No, you may not take any file or any sort of work-related document with you." Jed placed his hand on her back and helped guide her out of her office. "You are going home."
"Did Sam tell you--"
"Go." He strolled away.
C.J. couldn't have argued with him, even if he'd given her the opportunity. Resigned, she walked down the hall, then stopped just outside Toby's office. "Hi."
He was caught up in the report he was reading, and barely glanced up when she spoke. "You're back."
"You're real quick on the uptake there, huh?" She leaned on the door frame. "I've been here all morning."
"I've been busy," he said, indicating the papers in his hand. "Catch me in an hour and I'll have figured out some kind of coherent explanation for this airline thing."
"I'm on my way out." She paused, then corrected herself. "Actually, Toby? Take me home."
He scoffed mildly and ignored her. It took a few seconds for him to register that she was still watching him. He raised his eyes slowly.
"Take me home," she repeated.
He blinked. "Do you not see that I'm working here?"
Her voice was very quiet, but charged. "My brother died. My mother's been hysterical. We had to handle all the arrangements. I've been awake for thirty-six hours, and God knows how long before that. I am tired, I am frozen, and I need something else to focus on or I'm going to lose it. So I'm heading out to the garage now. If you're not there in ten minutes, my friend, I'll be disappointed in you."
C.J. turned, striding rapidly away down the hall. Toby shrugged and went back to what he was reading. Seven minutes later, he swore under his breath and tucked the report under his arm, grabbing his coat as he walked out.
He found her waiting next to his car, as he'd expected, and unlocked the passenger door for her. Neither of them spoke, and they were still silent as he opened the front door of his apartment. She walked in past him and stood uncertainly in the middle of his living room. He closed the door, and they contemplated each other.
After a moment, C.J. looked down and hugged herself. She seemed to be trembling, which bothered Toby more than he wanted to reflect on. He could think of nothing else to do, so he stepped closer to her. He reached out and unfolded her arms gently. She slid her hands to his upper arms and held on, letting him guide her.
He pulled her to him, tentatively at first, and kissed her. She kissed back, not forcefully but deeply, with mingled weariness and longing. His mouth lingered on hers, discovering her taste and her need, and they both had trouble remembering to breathe.
Time passed.
C.J. spoke for the first time since she'd walked out of his office. "I like this."
Toby glanced at her. "What?"
She laughed. "Your sheets," she clarified, smoothing them around her.
"How was the funeral?"
"It was very festive," she told him dryly. "It was a funeral. Can I ask you something?"
He leaned back against the headboard. "If you must."
"You remember when I went home, when my brother was first in the hospital?" He shrugged vaguely, and she frowned. "It was only six months ago."
"I remember."
"And when I called you from my parents' house?"
"I remember," he repeated.
"You said something about your first wife. And I didn't forget that, because I didn't know you had a first wife, as opposed to--"
"Yeah."
His tone was a warning, but she was not deterred. "I've known you for a very long time, Toby. If you wanted to tell me...."
Toby spoke very deliberately. "There are reasons I don't talk about certain periods of my life."
C.J. studied his face for a long moment and gave up, with a sigh. "...Okay."
She turned away, curling up close to him, and shut her eyes. She was asleep quickly. He listened to her even breathing and stared into space, lost in his thoughts.
* * *
"And through this process, we eventually reach the pre-conditions for take-off...."
It is November 1972. He tunes out the lecture, tapping his pencil against his notebook in boredom. He is not buying into the developmental theory; no one in the classroom is listening, and the rhetoric is wearing thin. On the other side of the room, a girl suddenly interrupts with a question about trickle-down economics. He looks her over: long dark hair falling around a pale face; quick, intelligent eyes.
He tries to turn back to his notes, as the professor dodges the question with icy contempt, but finds it surprisingly hard to stop watching the girl across the room. At one point, she glances in his direction. He applauds her silently, and she smiles at him warmly before turning away.
As the class is dismissed, he leaves the lecture hall slowly, and somehow finds her walking beside him. She asks his name.
"Toby."
"Is that short for Tobias?"
"No, it's bad enough by itself."
She introduces herself as Deborah; he asks if she prefers Debbie. She shakes her head no and laughs, and he can't take his eyes off her.
In April 1984, he is holding her hand.
In January 1973, Toby kisses her goodnight outside her apartment. He tastes the wine from dinner on her mouth, and it makes him smile. She always makes him smile.
Deborah steps away and unlocks her front door. She pauses on the threshold, then reaches for Toby and draws him in with her. He pulls the door shut behind them with one hand, while his fingers gently brush her hair back from her cheek. The room is dark, and her roommate is out of town for the weekend. They do not make it to the bedroom. They barely get as far as the couch.
"I love you," he murmurs, sometime later, and does not realize that he is holding his breath until she says it back.
April 1984. He listens to her breathing and the ceaseless ticking of the clock on the wall. She makes a small wordless sound in her sleep. Carefully, trying not to disturb her, he interlaces his fingers with hers.
It has just struck midnight, somewhere between October and November, in 1973. She is walking out of the apartment they have shared for six months, with an overstuffed suitcase. Tears stream from the corners of her eyes as she whirls around in the hall and yells at him.
"So tell me what I don't understand, you bastard!"
"You want that list alphabetized or in chronological order?"
What began as a debate about the Watergate scandal has somehow devolved into an ugly personal battle, and Toby is no longer listening to what either of them are saying. Deborah exercises her considerable and colorful vocabulary, her voice rising as his turns colder and more cutting. She accuses him of something, bitterly; he is not sure what she means or whether it is true, and doesn't care. She throws her keys at him; he sidesteps them and slams the door in her face. He hears her crying in the corridor for a good half-hour before she storms away.
Three days later, he takes a cab to her mother's place, and stands outside in the rain for two hours before she finally comes down to talk to him. He is amazed that she forgives him easily, and most of all that she seems to think she needs to be forgiven.
June 1974. His parents throw a graduation party. Overwhelmed by Toby's well-meaning but intrusive relatives, Deborah escapes to the front stoop for fresh air and a quiet moment. With some effort, Toby extracts himself from an endless conversation with his mother about his plans for the future. He steals outside and sits down beside her. She rests her head on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry they're driving you crazy," he says wryly.
"It's okay. They're no worse than mine. Even my baby brother started in on me last week. 'When are you going to grow up?' he says to me."
"I'm sure everyone went well out of their way to remind you that freelance writing isn't a 'real' job."
"Yeah. But who says I want a real job?" She grins up at him. "So far, we've figured things out pretty well on our own."
He looks into her eyes for a fraction of a second before he speaks. "Maybe we should think about making this official."
She leans back and stares at him, eyes twinkling. "You're saying... is that the nearest thing I'm going to get to a proposal?"
Toby shrugs. "I was trying to do it nicer, but I didn't really have any good material."
"That's not very romantic," Deborah teases. "I'm disappointed. You could have come up with something better than that."
He takes the small velvet box out of his pocket and places it in her hand. She stops talking, looks at him curiously, opens it, and gasps. "Toby, it's-- you didn't have to--" She trails off and hugs him tightly.
He slides the ring gently onto her finger. "Is that a little less disappointing?"
Deborah swats him on the arm playfully as her eyes moisten. "Yeah. Yeah, I think you passed."
April 1984. He keeps hold of her hand, as the clock keeps its beat.
In November 1974, two years after their first meeting, a Justice of the Peace pronounces them man and wife.
In August 1978, he slams the morning 'Times' down on the breakfast table. "O'Doherty's a goddamned idiot!"
She looks up briefly from her typewriter. "You've been saying that."
"Well, it's true. Did you read this? Did you see what he said here about rent control?"
"Mmm."
"Doesn't that make you angry?"
"Well, I don't agree with him...."
Toby glares expressively at the offending article. "The worst part is, he'll stay on the Council. Brandt hasn't got a prayer, the way this is shaping up. If he just came out and damn well said something about this, he might get somewhere. He's such a schmuck."
Deborah finishes her paragraph and faces her husband. "So tell him."
Her words take a moment to register. "It's disgusting, is what it is. O'Doherty gets away with -- what?"
"Tell him," she repeats, simply. "Write him a letter. Go find Brandt's office and get in his face, if you have to. Tell him what you think he's doing wrong, and what he should be doing instead."
"It wouldn't make a difference, most likely."
"Right." She rolls her eyes in disbelief. "Honey, you obviously care a hell of a lot about politics. It's not exactly my drug of choice, but you follow these things like my uncle Bruce follows the odds at Aqueduct. You know what you're talking about, and you're smart, and you believe in it. Why would you assume you can't make a difference?"
Toby considers this. "You think I should--"
"Also, you're driving me up the wall with this stuff. Yes, I think you should. At least make some phone calls. I think you'd be glad you did, and what's to lose?"
"My dignity?"
She crosses to him and lays a hand on his arm. "Anyone who's seen you watch the Yankees lose has been there and done that."
It is January 1982, her thirtieth birthday, and she is railing against it. Toby spends much of the evening assuring her that she is still young and beautiful, and she is, but she doesn't want to hear it. He gives up and leaves her sobbing in the bedroom, sits down on the couch and starts proofreading a stump speech. She comes up behind him, leans down and puts her arms around his neck.
"Hey." Her eyes are red, but she sounds somewhat better. "I've been a pain today, huh?"
"It's all right." He sets his rough draft down on the coffee table, cranes his head and kisses her, and they are still for a little while.
Deborah speaks again. "I've been doing some thinking. I've got this weekly gig now, and you...." She breaks off and gets to the point. "What would you think about us having a baby?"
He is startled. "You're pregnant?"
"No! Idiot." She walks around the sofa and sits down. "I was thinking maybe I could try and get pregnant."
He looks down, hiding his amusement. "All by yourself?"
She edges closer to him. "Well, I'd expect you to help."
"I can do that." He puts an arm around her.
"Yeah?" Deborah eases herself onto his lap, facing him, and they share a nervous, hopeful smile.
"Yeah."
September 1983. Toby comes home and shakes the rain from his umbrella. He turns on the light and sees his wife curled on the couch.
"I'm not pregnant," she says. He sits next to her and she lays her head in his lap.
In January 1984, they sit in a doctor's office, their chairs pushed together. Toby looks over and notices Deborah nervously drumming her fingers on her knees. He takes her left hand and squeezes it. Deborah smiles at him and squeezes back.
"Why is he taking so long?"
"It hasn't been long."
"Yes, it has."
She chews on her lip. He leans over and kisses her cheek.
In April 1984, he kisses her cheek again.
February 1984. They wait, in a different office. Dr. McGlone opens his mouth and they hear the same words they heard before.
"It's cancer. We're going to do all we can."
Toby refuses to believe it. "We should get a second opinion," he says, on the way to the car.
"Babe," Deborah takes his arm. "This was our second opinion."
That night, Toby doesn't sleep. He watches his wife, her head on his chest. He doesn't realize that she's not asleep, either.
On March 8, 1984, Deborah throws a pillow at her husband. She sees him asleep in the chair next to her bed, his neck hanging over the edge at a painful angle, his jacket substituting for a blanket. He doesn't respond when she whispers his name, so she throws a pillow to wake him.
He opens his eyes and looks at her. She's sitting up in bed, as best she can. "What'd you dream about?"
"You."
"What was I doing?"
Toby grins. "Guess."
Deborah extends her hand; he takes it and sits on the edge of her bed. "I want you to go home."
"I want you to come home with me."
She looks at him. "I mean it. You need to sleep in a bed. You need to eat something more than a Snickers bar. And, to be honest, you could use a shower."
Toby chuckles softly. "I'm fine."
"So am I."
"Sweetheart--"
"Toby, please? Go home for twelve hours. Eat, sleep, shower, and bring me my green socks."
He sighs. She reaches out and puts her hand on his cheek, rubbing her thumb against his beard. Toby kisses her palm twice, then kisses her forehead and leaves.
When Deborah wakes up on March 9, she finds her husband sleeping in the same chair, and her green socks lie at the foot of her bed.
On March 16, 1984, Deborah is wheeled into surgery. Toby paces the waiting room, as does Deborah's father. Her mother knits furiously and her brothers simply stare at the floor.
Toby's brother David brings them coffee. They thank him, but leave the coffee untouched.
Dr. McGlone enters the room after only an hour. Her mother looks out the window as they are told that the cancer has taken over her insides and that it is simply a matter of time. David squeezes Toby's shoulder. Deborah's older brother does the same thing to his father.
Later, Toby splashes water on his face. He walks down the hall towards her room and stops in the doorway. Deborah's younger brother Miles lays his head on her bed and sobs silently. Slowly, she releases his hand and begins to stroke his hair. Toby steps back from the door, leaving them their privacy. After a while, Miles comes out of the room, barely nodding to Toby as they pass each other.
"He brought me a stuffed giraffe," Deborah says lightly, holding up the toy as he walks to her side. "Is that cute or what?"
"Sure."
"So." She manages a weak smile. "I guess all I get out of the surgery is a cool scar."
"For fuck's sake, Deborah," he says, in a low tone.
She sighs. "Honey...."
And he explodes, blindly walking the floor beside her bed. "No. No. This isn't right. These are doctors, damn it, and they're supposedly the best in the world, and all they can do is dick around and say they're sorry, like that matters! You're -- you're young, and you're supposed to be healthy, and we ought to be living our fucking lives -- and they just stand there and say there's nothing they can do! And there's nothing I can--"
He breaks off as abruptly as he began, and collapses into the chair. "I'm sorry."
Deborah shakes her head. "I'm glad you finally said something, that's all. You're allowed to be pissed off."
"You're not?" He studies her face. "Did you know?"
"I'm not sure." She looks troubled. "I don't think so. But... I wasn't surprised when the doctor told me."
Toby ponders this, a stricken look flickering in his eyes. "Shit."
"Yes," she agrees. "But we already knew it was serious. This doesn't make it harder." She pauses. "At least, not for my body."
"This isn't right," Toby repeats, reaching out to touch her face.
"I know."
April 14, 1984. She awakens from groggy sleep in the late afternoon, alone and scared. In the half-light that filters through the blinds, she mentally counts to ten and then to a hundred, trying to keep from panicking and pressing the call button.
Her husband walks in, carrying a paper cup of coffee and a newspaper. "You're awake."
She speaks with some difficulty. "I didn't know where you'd gone."
"Just down the hall. Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"Hurting?"
"Some." The painkillers make her drowsy and disoriented, but never really set her free. "Toby?"
"What do you need?"
"Will you--" She is reluctant to ask him, but knows she needs to. "I don't want you to leave. I want to know you'll be here. Will you stay?"
His voice falters slightly. "Of course, sweetheart."
"Good." Sleep is already pulling her back. Cautiously, so as not to dislodge the IV, he takes hold of her hand.
The clock ticks the hours off inexorably. He reads the newspaper twice through, turning the pages with one hand, without comprehending much of anything. Every time her breathing is less than perfectly regular, he is nearly sick with dread. He holds her hand quietly, bends to kiss her, and the day wears on toward night.
In 1973, he breathes with relief when she says that she loves him.
More than ten years later, her hand tenses suddenly in his. He is jolted out of his own exhaustion, flooded with fear and adrenaline. She draws a choking breath. He waits for her to exhale, and it does not come.
He hits the emergency button at least a dozen times in three seconds.
In November 1972, their eyes meet across a classroom, while a professor prattles on and enjoys the sound of his own voice.
In April 1984, he has to drop her hand, to move out of the doctors' way. He isn't sure what they are doing to save her, and doesn't care, having lost faith in them. There is organized chaos in the small hospital room, for a few minutes -- or more, since he can no longer hear the clock. Eventually, Dr. McGlone takes him aside and talks to him. He does not listen to the words, and does not need to.
In 1974, Deborah cries happily as she kisses him for the first time with his ring on her hand.
In 1984, Toby is aware that his eyes are painfully dry. He trudges slowly down the hall, trying to get his mind around the reality of a world without her in it. The concept is too vague, too vast, and too horrible for him to take in. He sits down heavily on one of the blue plastic chairs that line the hospital corridors. His heart does not feel broken. There is no pain yet, only a dawning sense of a huge emptiness. With his elbows resting on his knees, he bows his head, runs his hands through his thinning hair, and waits for it to hit him.
* * *
The sunset glowed through Toby's window and into his eyes. He blinked and shifted on the bed, the weight on his mind making it impossible for him to be comfortable.
He glanced down at the woman -- his friend -- nestled at his side, and lightly touched her shoulder. A beam of red sunlight illuminated her relaxed face. He knew how much she needed the rest, a welcome escape from her fresh grief.
Through an effort of will, which had taken years of practice, Toby pushed the memory from his mind. Despite all the intervening time, it was still more than he could handle, let alone talk about. Being careful not to wake C.J., he reached for the legal pad and pen he kept on the bedside table, and started to jot down notes for work. Soon his conscious mind was focused on what he was writing, letting the past sleep.
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