Title: Smoke (A Prologue)
Fandom: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation/The West Wing
Characters: Sara Sidle/Toby Zeigler
Prompt: #1; (002 Back Alley)
Word Count: 1, 497
Rating: Teen/Older Teen
Summary: They spoke with their eyes, somehow promising each other that this would not be the last time they saw each other.
Author's Notes: The first in what will now be a 100 part series.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine and no copyright infringement is intended.

Washington D.C
January 20, 1998
(Josiah Bartlet’s First Inaugural Ball)

The door, she hoped, led to a back alley. She needed air and God, did she need a smoke. She could have smoked in the ballroom, she knew, but the air was too thick, and the puffed up men and elegant women made her feel like a little girl playing dress up in her grandmother’s clothes. No, she just needed some fresh (if freezing) air. Looking around wildly for a minute, she made eye contact with Maggie and chucked her head toward the back door. Her friend nodded and then returned to tending to Leo’s needs while Sara moved to the coat check to gather her wrap and clutch.

The Secret Service agent glared at her as she approached, and she’d never been more grateful for her law enforcement identification. He checked her credentials before opening the door with a cursory nod, allowing her out into the frozen January night. Leaning against the wall of the Hilton, (she’d never forget this moment as long as she lived – out in the back alley of the D.C. Hilton the night of the Inaugural Ball) Sara plucked a cigarette from her case and then realized, sadly, as she rifled through her clutch that lighter was probably still in Margaret’s apartment. She’d known she’d forgotten something when she left the one-room place Maggie called home.

A hand appeared in front of her, a Zippo lighter identical to hers in the palm. Knowing better than to accept flammables from strangers, she looked up the tuxedo-clad arm and into the most beautiful brown eyes she’d ever seen. “Thank you,” she whispered, taking the lighter to light the clove cigarette. (She preferred Camels but had splurged for the weekend.) Once the smoke was trapped in her lungs, she handed the Zippo back to the oddly familiar man.

“You’re welcome.”

The man with the beautiful (yet sad, so sad) eyes took his lighter and shoved it into a pants pocket. He seemed uncomfortable in his monkey-suit, shifting, nervous. Any other man would have transferred his nervousness to her and she’d have backed up to give herself good enough room to run. But it only seemed that he was anxious in his own skin, a condition she could completely identify with. Yet, even in his nervousness, Sara thought he was beautiful.

Then she recognized him.

“Toby Ziegler?” She blinked a few times. She was standing three feet away from the Communications Director of the White House. Hardly political, Sara had taken the time to learn the names and faces of the senior staff for the President. (Partly because Margaret had grilled her on it.)

“Yeah.” He ducked his head a bit and the light from the hotel caught his eyes.

The long drag she took on her cigarette allowed her to gather her wits. Her ease with Margaret came from long nights in a tiny dorm room on the Harvard campus – Margaret double majoring in Physics and English, Sara in Physics with a concentration in DNA and Chemistry. But Toby Zeigler was in a class all his own – and she wasn’t even a political groupie. What on Earth could she say to this man and not sound completely trite? “Beautiful speech.” She smiled, inwardly wanting to kick herself. An Ivy League education and all she could come up with was “Beautiful speech”?

“Thank you.” He smiled at her, genuine in his acceptance. Her two words meant more to him than all the praise he’d received today. He didn’t know why.

Toby stared at the woman, knowing that she could tell he was staring, but completely unable to take his eyes off her. She was beautiful, even in the dim light of the alley he could tell her skin was white porcelain, and the dark of her hair made her seem waiflike. She was thin, slender to the point of skinny, but he had a feeling that she could take him where he stood. Yet, beyond her striking beauty, something actually spoke to him when he looked at her. He didn’t know anything about her yet – except that she smoked clove cigarettes, and, like him seemed to need air after any amount of time in a smoke filled ballroom. But, there was something else about her, he wanted to put his finger on it but found it impossible. No, it was darker, it was that wall in her dark eyes – she wore her feelings on her sleeve, but refused to let anyone see her heart. Bad poetry raced through his mind.

Everything about her presence caught his attention much more than Andrea or even CJ ever had. For a moment he wondered if it was wrong to not feel guilty about referencing CJ against Andrea, but he pushed thoughts of his wife away. He wanted to touch this stranger; to run his fingers up the arm he could guess was bare underneath the thick wrap she wore firmly around her shoulders. “You have me at a disadvantage.” For a moment he considered coming onto her here, in this back alley, but decided she was too classy for that kind of animalistic tendency.

“Sara …” she ducked her head, conscious of his scrutiny, suddenly wondering if he was wondering why someone like her was at a ball like this. “Sara Sidle.” She felt the need to defend her reasons for being here, “I’m a friend of Margaret Hooper’s.” She stopped herself before she began to ramble.

“Ahh.” He blinked, wondering how Margaret knew this vision. Suddenly, Leo’s over qualified and over zealous assistant seemed far more interesting. Knowing Margaret might give him the chance to know Sara. He lit another cigar.

Her cigarette burned to the filter. Time to go back inside. But she didn’t want to turn and walk away from this man who seemed, somehow (she didn’t believe in fate but there was special about this moment) to have been outside waiting for her. They shared a sad smile; both of them wanted more than this moment.

Toby stopped her, reaching out, his hand on the fur (fake, he realized) of her wrap. “Sara,” he paused, working his tongue sensuously around her name, aching to kiss this woman with whom he’d shared only a cigarette lighter.

Sara did her best to ignore the flutter in her stomach as he said her name. She turned, put her hand over his, and just smiled. They spoke with their eyes, promising that somehow this would not be the last time they saw each other. She felt like she was in a bad romance novel – the bookish, nerdy girl meeting the debonair politico and being swept into a flood of lies and adventure while he hid the relationship from his powerful wife.

Wife. She could see the wedding ring on his left hand. She took a step back.

He sighed as his fingers slid from her wrap, and he looked down at his wedding ring and realized that the reminder of his wife had pulled her away from him. (Andrea would be wondering where he had disappeared to.) “I’m sorry,” he whispered, unsure if he was apologizing to himself and to Andrea for wanting to make love to Sara, or if he was apologizing to Sara for even meeting her.

Sara just shook her head. “Be nice to Margaret, okay? She’s ten times smarter than you’ll ever hope to be.” Her fingers reached for his and squeezed.

“You have to go down to the front,” Toby said as she approached the door. “They won’t let you in that way.” He stayed behind, stepping back into the shadows, knowing the rumors that would fly if they reentered the ballroom together.

“Makes sense.” Her uncomfortable heel caught in her dress as she turned, but she recovered well. She smiled, embarrassed; he smiled, sadly.

Toby sighed as she walked away. The bad poetry in his head told him he would see her again and he had to hold onto that idea, the poetry told him that something had changed tonight. Maybe it was fate (even though he didn’t believe in fate) that had brought her out into the alley. Fate, though, would not bring Sara back into his life and so he decided he would get to know Margaret better. Knowing Margaret would give him that link to Sara.

Sara looked back over her shoulder as she reached the end of the alley. Toby still stood there, watching her, and she wondered if she should go back, if the tabloids were lurking, if he was really looking at her or through her or if his mind was already elsewhere – back on his wife and his duties to the President. With a soft sigh she turned and headed back into the ball, ready to disappear into the smoke and the people and Margaret’s endless chatter.

The rest of the night, her eyes lingered on the door to the back alley.