Pairing: CJ/Toby (with eventual references to CJ/Hoynes, CJ/Danny, Toby/Andi, CJ/OMC, CJ/Will Saywer, Toby/OFC, CJ/Simon, and J/D)

Timeframe: Started following Drought Conditions, but gives eventual spoilers back through the beginning of time. :-) Er, the Bartlett Administration, rather.

Rating: The entire series is being posted under “Adult”, even if the chapter isn’t, because of dark imagery, sex, language, and other … joys.

Disclaimer: These guys don’t belong to me. They may talk to me, but they are the property of NBC, of John Wells, were created by Aaron Sorkin, and I don’t get a penny for writing any of this. If anyone wants to sue, they can have my student loans, my credit card debt, and my medical bills.

A/N: I was reading a fic called "Attonement" by DaniBannani and in it, Toby called CJ "Jeanie". The idea stuck with me and I liked the nickname, so I credit her with the idea, even though I know there are others who have had similiar ideas, including the guys on West Wing.

1984 - New York, NY

“Jesus Christ!”

It was an exclamation like that, in a mostly Jewish office, which caught his attention. After that it was the long legs, the thin body, the long blondish-brown hair, and bright blue eyes that he later learned changed color with her moods.

“He doesn’t work here.” Toby grumbled as he stormed past the new comer, heading straight for his office. But as he reached the door he turned, looking at the leggy blonde, and realized that not only did she work here, but also she’d be a part of the communications staff. Slowly, slowly he looked her up and down, appraising her stance and her character more than her legs, although they weren’t too bad to look at either. “You’re CJ Cregg?” He asked, remembering now, fully, the conversation he’d only listened partly to as he was leaving the office last night. Young hot shot from the PR firm the campaign had hired. Too young, it looked like. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Maybe twenty-five.

“Yeah. And you are?” Having not yet even taken off her coat, he knew he was off to a bad start. Be nice, he’d been told. Be nice. She’s hotheaded and won’t hesitate to storm out if you insult her. He’d been told that, and here he was, obviously insulting her. Somehow.

But he just chuckled and shook his head, “Toby Ziegler. Now get in here so we can talk, okay?” He could fight attitude with attitude. CJ Cregg wasn’t going to push him around just because she towered over everyone in the room. Shutting the door behind her, he motioned to the one chair in his tiny office, not caring that she had to move files off of it before sitting down. “You,” he reached for the resume on the top of the pile, “were sent here because your PR firm thinks this campaign doesn’t have a chance in hell of winning so they aren’t going to waste the high paying gigs when they can send the rookies.”

For a moment she looked like she was going to argue with him, but then just shrugged and smiled. “Yeah. But I’m still here and I’m going to do my best. Point me where you want to go.”

Her complete honesty unnerved him, just for a moment, and he liked it, but found it easier to cover it up under a matching attitude. “At least we’ve got your commitment. Your desk is right out there, close by so that I can yell for you.”

“I’m not your assistant, Tobus.” The name came off her lips easily, and both of them were amused by it, even if he tried to cover it up with even more bluster. Never in his life had he been so quickly unnerved by anyone.

“It’s Toby.” He corrected, rolling his eyes. Handing her a stack of files, he then motioned to the door. This meeting was over and she could craft what she needed to craft without insulting him further.

Settling at the small desk and wondering how on earth she’d be able to get her long legs comfortable, CJ just shook her head, still thrown off by the meeting she’d just had. She wasn’t just some novice who didn’t give a shit about the campaign. Before coming down here, she’d reviewed the resumes of every staffer, memorized the position of the campaign, and taken the time to look at their polling numbers. Toby Ziegler had been handed the communications office after the previous two heads had walked away from the sinking ship. And now she had to work with him to keep this loosing battle from being, at the very least, an embarrassment. The top file was marked with about seven different post-its and she opened it, suppressing the gag reflex that came up when she saw the mishandling of press statements and polling models. Why the hell hadn’t the professionals been brought in earlier? But then again, before Toby, monkeys ran the communications staff. Without even finishing reading the first statement, she was on the phone, rearranging meetings – looking between the penciled in schedule of the candidate and what was available for press time, and finding a pollster who knew enough to explain the models appropriately to her, if not to everyone else. If this campaign failed, it wasn’t going to be because she let it.

Looking up, annoyed at the sudden interruption, CJ pointed to the phone that was to her ear and rolled her eyes at the man who stood at her side. She swiped her notes away from his eyes and waved him away. But he just stood there, looking over her shoulder, and waiting. Waiting while she talked to the news organization, cleared up a quote given by an “anonymous” staffer, and set up a date for a brief interview with the candidate. “What is it?” She asked as the phone slid back into the cradle.

“Are you sure that—“

“Am I sure what, Tobus?”

He groaned. Two days and already the nickname wasn’t going anywhere. “Are you sure –“ “Am I sure that plugging leaks and getting the candidate back out into the field is a good thing? Yes, Toby, I am. Are you going to let me do my job now?” She crossed her arms and looked up at him, cocking an eyebrow.

Again, he found himself just rocked off his heels. How the hell did she manage to do that to him, even sitting down? When standing up, he could understand it. He was only an inch shorter than she was, but when she put those damned high heels on, it made all the difference in the world. But sitting down, when he could tower over her, it shouldn’t happen. And yet it did. Her blue eyes flashed up at him, demanding that he let her do her job. “I was wondering how your job was going.”

“I’m wondering who the hell you’ve been hiring around here.” The eyebrow stayed cocked.

“People who want to make a change.”

“They’re making a change all right, Toby. This campaign –“

“Don’t lecture me on the campaign, CJ! I know full well what the problems in it are.”

“Then I suggest you go back to your boss and the candidate and enact some change around here, Toby! You can’t change New York unless you run a good campaign. And this campaign—“

“I get the point, CJ!”

“Do you? Really? Do you actually understand what you’re telling me?”

“I’ve been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you have, CJ!”

“Don’t be so sure!” He made the mistake of looking around and taking in the looks of every staffer who was looking their way. In that moment he had the choice to continue the argument in his office or walk away. And as much as he wanted to continue it, to listen to her yell at him some more, he had to go and … talk to the candidate and the campaign director. So he just glared at her and then stormed away, toward the main offices, and trying to rid himself of the feeling of those piercing blue eyes burning into his back.

Home was too polite a word for the four walls and a window that she came to every night. But despite the tiny hole she was able to afford in mid-town, it was decorated to her exacting tastes – complete with framed prints of different news banners, her Van Gogh prints, and of course, the poster Ben had done for her as a graduation present – an elephant and a donkey having it out. And the donkey was winning. The futon was wooden, matching her chair and two bar stools, and had been stained enough times that you’d never be able to tell just how old they were. Her large coffee table served as her desk and when she wasn’t in the office, she was here, sitting cross legged in front of the piles of papers and brochures, listening with half an ear to whatever was on the TV at the time, or, when her tiny radio would pick it up, NPR. Piles of cassette tapes sat, collecting dusk, she didn’t have the time to listen like she once did – her mind needing to be in five places at once.

The half-eaten bowl of soup had gone completely cold by the time she reached for it again, and she grimaced, spitting the peas back into the bowl and then set it aside again, again diving back into her work. The campaign was falling to hell, despite their rising numbers. Twenty percent in the past three weeks and it was still not enough to get them home. They’d be lucky to not humiliate themselves, and at this point, that’s all she was asking for. Picking up a memo, she read through it, frowning a bit, wondering why this candidate, a man from one of the “Gayest” areas in New York, still demanded to say nothing about the health crisis that is ravaging the city. This would be the key, right here, to winning, but the man wouldn’t even open his mouth about it. Yet another memo: the poverty in the South Bronx. Another: how women are refusing to report abuse. She stared at the memo, her fingers unconsciously moving over the light scar on her forehead. More and more, if he would just address these issues, he’d win the campaign. But this man wasn’t a winner, he was a politician, and worse than that, a flash. After this, no one would ever remember his name and New York would continue, as it always had.

A buzz made her jump, and she dropped the memo on domestic violence into her soup. “What?” Calling out, annoyed, she got to her feet, heading to the door. Who on earth would be bothering her at this hour?

Honestly, he had no clue why he sought her out tonight. Other than he saw the latest numbers as he was leaving and he knew, now, that they couldn’t hope to win. They could only hope to not be completely embarrassed. So he came to find her, annoyed that he’d become so dependent on her as it is. And he was surprised to find her living in a place like this, and that she could afford it. It wasn’t fancy, but better than the rat hole he lives in. Her irritated “What” comes through the door and before he answered, the door opened and she looked at him, her hands on her hips and he could swear that she’s smirking. “Hey.” He mumbled his greeting around his tongue, looking down at the floor suddenly.

“Jesus, Tobus, what do you want?” Turning around, she moved back into the tiny apartment, letting him follow if he wanted, he figured, by not slamming the door in his face. “And if you’re here to talk about the numbers, I know full well how pitiful they look.”

“Well,” he closed the door behind him, “I came to talk about the numbers.”

Laughing, CJ turned back to him and eyed the closed door. “Well, we’ve already covered that they are pitiful.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, suddenly self-conscious of the tight pink tank top she was wearing. “What else did you want to talk about?”

Sighing, Toby just looked at her. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that, right, CJ?”

“So are you. Don’t take it too much to heart.” She chuckled at that and then moved to the futon, clearing off a space for him. “I’ve figured out why we’re going to loose this thing.”

“Because the numbers won’t climb.”

“They would if he’d open his mouth and deal with any of just three issues he’s ignoring right now.”

“You know that and I know that, but he wants to win the conservative vote too.”

“He can’t be both, Toby. And you know that.” She crossed her arms over her chest again, wishing her sweater was closer.

“Stop preaching.” Trying, futilely, to sound gruff, he finally just pulled out a cigarette and lit up, not asking permission because he could see the pack of Marlboro reds on her coffee table. “I just came over here to tell you about the numbers.” He got up, reluctantly, moving toward the door. “And I’m sorry if that bothers you. It’s your job too, you know …”

For a moment, just a moment, CJ softened toward him. “Yeah.” Rubbing her eyes, she backed over to the tiny kitchenette and poked her head into the fridge, looking to see what she had to offer him. “Want a beer?”

“You mean you’re not kicking me out?”

“Just don’t get used to it. Come on, I’m working right now and you’re sitting here. Maybe, just maybe, we can come up with a program to bring to them that will make this campaign fly.” She cracked a grin as he walked over to take the beer from her. “Never thought you for a gentleman, Tobus.”

“I’m not, Legs.” He winked, thinking he finally had a nickname for her, until she smacked him, hard, on the back of the head.

“Do yourself a favor and don’t call me that again.”

“Okay.” It came out as a partial question. But when her back turned, he could tell she was smiling. And he didn’t like it.

“For the love of GOD, Toby! When the hell are you going to realize that I’m right in this? When, for God’s sake are you going to acknowledge that I might understand just a little bit about what I’m talking about. Sweet Jesus, for the Love of GOD!”

“How many times are you going to mention God there, CJ?” The icy glare that she sent his way kept him from making any other snide comments, no matter how much he wanted to make them. So instead, he just threw the papers at her, not really caring that they careened to the floor. Slowly, he advanced on her, still matching her shouts, not even knowing or caring that the hours were passing and they were alone in the office. And suddenly his lips were on hers and he was pushing her into the wall, and his hand was at the hem of her skirt, pulling it up, and she’d stopped pushing him away and her hands were on his belt, unbuckling, and pulling him closer. But this was his argument to win, and he took her, pushing her harder into the wall, claiming her willing body with his own.

“God ...” she whimpered as she climaxed, clenching around him, and he thrust into her again, clarifying, as if there was any question, as to who won the argument. And as he pulled out and pulled away, zipping up his pants again, he also knew that he would take her arguments to heart and take them to their bosses and he knew that most of his anger came from the fact that they would ignore her, not that she was right. She stayed there, leaning against the wall, catching her breath and he just looked down in shame, realizing how close he’d come to raping her in that moment. “God …” she whispered again.

“CJ …” He still couldn’t look up at her.

“Toby …” He felt, more than heard, her sharp intake of breath and the unconscious smoothing of her skirt. The argument far from over, he hated himself for doing this, for claiming victory like a cave man. “Toby.” She repeated his name again, and this time when he listened to it, he only heard his own recriminations and nothing from her. “Glad you got that off your chest, pokey?”

He laughed. For the first time in her presence, he actually laughed. “God, CJ…”

“I think we’ve covered that part.” Stepping away from the wall, she didn’t approach him, but just crossed her arms and looked at him, carefully. “You done proving your point now?”

Again, he laughed and finally brought his face up to look at her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Probably not.” She reached for her jacket, “But you did. And now I know where you stand.” Flushing more than she wanted, she leaned against the chair a bit, her knees still weak from what he’d been able to do to her in such a short period of time.

He took her words far harsher than they were meant to be. “CJ, really, I’m sorry, I …” but she just silenced him by putting a finger over his lips. “I’m going home now. And don’t apologize when you don’t mean it, Toby. It doesn’t suit you. I’ll see you in the morning.” Casting him one more look over her shoulder, she headed back out into the darkness.

When had the sun gone down? How long had they been arguing? How long had he had her pinned against the wall? He just sank back to his desk, his head in his hands. He knew she wasn’t mad at him for what he’d done, but he couldn’t stay the feelings. He shouldn’t have done that. He definitely shouldn’t have done that. But her scent was still with him, he could still taste her tongue, and tomorrow he had to face her.