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Antiacousticophobia
A West Wing story
by Cagey (cageyklio@taiyin.net)
February 2000 



Disclaimers: They don't belong to me.
Spoilers: Mild spoilers for "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" and 
"The Leadership Breakfast"
Archive: Please don't archive or repost without permission.
Rating: NC-17. Sam/CJ. Don't bother flaming me -- I wrote it as a 
lark. And enjoyed it thoroughly.
Notes: Jen's The Off-Ramp (aka the unconventional couple and "the 
old single bed hotel room cliche" story) got me thinking.... Thanks 
to Karen and Jill for the improbable award brainstorming.


Antiacousticophobia
By Cagey 


CJ Cregg briefly considered wrapping the phone cord around Sam 
Seaborn's neck and giving it a good yank. "This is not funny." 

"It's a little bit funny." Sam folded a pillow in half and used it 
as a ledge. He was stretched out on the double bed. His tie was 
undone. He looked remarkably comfortable. 

She replaced the phone in its cradle, and considered telling him to 
get his shoes off the puke green bedspread. "No. It is not funny in 
the least. Not funny at all. So incredibly not funny that it's... 
it's..."

"Not funny?"

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam shut up. 

She glared at the non-responsive phone directory. "No car, no other 
hotel rooms. Not even pizza delivery in twenty minutes or less. Whose 
bright idea was it to schedule a basketball tournament and a dentists' 
convention on the same weekend in this middle of nowhere town?" 

Sam practiced shutting up.

"We were supposed to be at Josh's thing sixty-three minutes ago," CJ 
continued, warming to her one-woman monologue. "And your car had to 
pick seven on a Friday evening to break down?" 

Sam opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. 

"What the hell are we going to do now?" She staggered slightly as she 
kicked off her high heels with more force than necessary. "Sam, I 
asked you a question." 

He pointed to the television. "Watch the game?" At her look, he 
scooted over on the bed and patted the spot next to him. "Look, 
we'll get the car fixed in the morning. And Josh can get his Man 
of the Year award from the Society for the Preservation of Ancient 
Citizens without us."

"Preservation of National Monuments," CJ corrected, flexing her toes 
against the stubbled carpet. "Obviously they don't know that he did 
his best to burn down the White House."

"Hey, I helped too."

CJ sat in the space he'd made for her, and nudged him sharply with an 
elbow. "Why is the Society for the Preservation of National Monuments 
giving Josh an award, anyway?"

He rearranged his pillow, punching it into shape. "A more pertinent 
question would be why is the Society for the Preservation of National 
Monuments giving Josh an award in Maryland. Are you hungry? I'm 
hungry." 

"You are such an infant sometimes."

"You are so..." She shot him a dark look, but he just smiled. 
"Beautiful sometimes. Really CJ, you look stunning in that dress. 
A real knockout."

"You wrestle adjectives for a living, and that's the best you can 
do?" She transferred the glare to the bed. If she watched closely, 
she'd probably be able to track the faded green of the bedspread 
leeching the shine out of her emerald velvet. 

"I'm off duty."

"Well, that's the problem isn't it? If we were still at work, this 
never would have happened." She rolled off the bed and wiggled for a 
moment, then stopped when she caught his raised eyebrow. "This dress, 
as stunning as it may look, is remarkably uncomfortable." Surveying 
their cramped quarters with little enthusiasm, she considered the 
prospect of televised basketball. "I'm going to take a shower."

When she emerged from the bathroom half a minute later, Sam had the 
TV on, his shoes off, and was browsing the room service menu. "What?" 
he protested, at her look.

"I need some help."

"Help? In the shower? I'm not sure that --."

A smile, her first real one of the evening, emerged. "Not in the 
shower, you idiot." CJ turned her back to him. "I need you to unzip
me."

"How did you get into a dress that you can't get out of?"

She pointed insistently to the fabric at the back of her neck, where 
the zipper remained sheathed. "It's a girl secret, Sam. I'd tell you, 
but then you'd start shaving your legs and plucking your eyebrows." 

"How do you know I don't already?"

She waited while he scrambled off the bed. The dress was both 
stunning and agonizing, like most good eveningwear. It was not, 
however, well suited for standing on the side of the road, watching 
Sam smudge his shirt cuffs while pretending to have the slightest 
clue what to do about the recalcitrant engine. It also stood out 
rather sharply in the garish orange and brown of the Worst Western's 
lobby, drawing a half leer from the desk clerk as he insisted that 
there were no other rooms in town. The next time Josh had an awards 
dinner, he could definitely --

An involuntary shiver surprised her. Sam's fingers were warm against 
her neck, as he took her hair in one hand and twisted it forward, 
towards her face. She was acutely aware of his hand moving to her 
shoulder, and the slight pressure there as he held her in place while 
loosening the teeth of the zipper. She sensed his head move down and, 
for a moment of lunacy, thought he was going to kiss her shoulder as 
the dress slipped forward.

"Can I get you something?"

"Huh?" CJ blinked, and raised a hand to her chest to hold the fabric 
in place.

Sam stepped back, and sat heavily on the bed. "From room service. Can 
I get you something to eat?"

"Oh. Um, a chicken salad?" She didn't turn around; her cheeks were 
hot. Idiot.

"Right," he answered, and rolled over to retrieve the menu. 

***

The shower washed away the worst of her irritation. She had just shut 
off the water when there was a slight tap on the door, and she froze.

"I have a gift," Sam spoke through the door.

"A new transmission for your car?" She cursed inwardly at the skimpy 
hotel towel as she wrapped it around her. When she'd opened the door 
slightly, a hand appeared. Bearing gifts, even, in the form of a 
t-shirt. "Who or what are Dead Milkmen?" 

"The desk clerk dragged it out of lost and found. I thought you might 
want something that didn't require pantyhose as an accessory."

CJ chuckled as she nudged the door shut. Thank god she'd actually 
worn underwear with said pantyhose, she reflected. And the former 
owner of the shirt, whoever it had been, had either been very large, 
or routinely dressed in circus tents. Transferring the towel to her 
wet hair, she escaped the now-oppressive steam of the bathroom.

Sam had stripped to his undershirt, but was still wearing his dress 
pants, minus socks. He gestured to a covered plate on the miniscule 
table by the window, and chewed on a french fry from his own dinner.

"Sam, what is this?"

"Chicken salad." He turned the sound down on the television with the 
remote.

She stepped over to the bed and stole one of his french fries. 
"I didn't say chicken salad. I don't like chicken salad."

"You did," he protested. "I heard you."

"A chicken salad," she corrected, snatching another fry. "You know, 
lettuce, chicken, a salad with chicken in it?"

He looked puzzled. "Chicken salad is not the same thing as chicken 
salad?"

She sat down on the bed, bunched the t-shirt around her knees, and 
commandeered his plate. Sam glanced at her, then without comment went 
around the other side of the bed, took the plate from the table, and 
bit into the sandwich.

"Not bad," he said around a mouthful. He stood, chewing, and returned 
his attention to the TV. 

"Are you planning on sleeping in those?" CJ asked, indicating to his 
pants with her elbow. "I think your dry cleaner would object."

He smiled slightly. "I was waiting."

"Waiting for?"

"For you to tell me it's okay to take off my pants."

She swallowed another fry. "Sam," she said solemnly, "please take off 
your pants."

***

The ceiling had square tiles, twelve of them over the space of the 
bed. They were speckled with bumps and dark spots. She'd turned out 
the light beside the bed; flickering images from the television set 
were barely enough to illuminate suspicious blurs. CJ stared at one 
smudge, trying to decide if it was moving. 

Sam was on the edge closest to the television, leaving her as much 
room as possible. He had needed no persuasion to opt for the bed 
rather than the floor, and had, as she expected, proved remarkably 
solicitous. As she adjusted the covers slightly, he stirred. "Is the 
noise bothering you?"

"Not at all." It was just loud enough for muted, familiar company in 
the darkness. She could easily be at home, trying not to notice how 
few hours stood between nodding off to the sound of the television 
and muttering dire threats at the alarm clock. "Sam, do you think 
there's a word for fear of silence?"

He flipped from the news to something with a laugh track. "I don't 
know. Antiacousticophobia? Why?"

She tucked the bedspread more snugly around her shoulder, and wondered 
whether Josh would believe her if she told him that she'd skipped his 
award so she could sleep with Sam. "Sometimes I don't like going home 
by myself."

He changed the channel again. "Me neither."

She mulled that over, then asked tentatively, "What about Mallory?"

He shrugged, as best he could laying on his side. "She's seeing a guy. 
A teacher at the school."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't be." 

His tone was casual, and she wondered how far their relationship had 
progressed. Don't be coy Claudia Jean, she chided herself. So she 
wondered whether Sam had slept with the boss' daughter. That made her 
human, if somewhat nosy.

She was idly studying his back when he spoke again. "Do I get to ask 
you something personal now?"

Caught. "Sure. If you want."

He turned enough that he was flat on his back, his face toward her. 
She stifled a nervous laugh, wondering what he was about to spring 
on her.

Sam rolled towards the TV, and changed the channel again.

"Hey. I thought you were going to ask me something now."

"Nah." 

He yelped as she slugged him on the shoulder. 

"What's that for?" he demanded, turning back to her.

"I'm not interesting enough to play twenty questions with?" she 
demanded.

He let the remote slide to the mattress, and propped his head on 
one hand. "CJ, there's nothing I need to know about you."

She rolled her eyes.

"You don't go to movies, but you have a collection of Hepburn and 
Tracy on video."

She blinked at him, and he looked smug.

"You like dark beer, not light, and won't drink anything that has 
light spelled l-i-t-e anyway. You eat other people's french fries, 
and like chicken salad but not chicken salad. You look fabulous in 
emerald green, even standing on the side of the road yelling at my 
car."

"You can't help it, can you?"

"What?"

"Flirting."

He just flashed the patented Sam Seaborn smile. "You're beautiful, 
and you don't know it. You're good at what you do, and you don't let 
it go to your head. And you always land on your feet. When you aren't 
falling into pools." He closed his eyes against her playful swat.

"I was pushed. At least one of the times."

"See, I knew that. I know all of the important stuff." He picked up 
the remote again, and clicked off the television. "What do you want 
to know about me?"

She considered it seriously, tracing a circle on the thin, hard sheet 
with her forefinger. What did she want to know about Sam? "Are you a 
better Deputy Communications Director than you were a lawyer?"

He didn't hesitate. "No. I care too much about this."

She smiled to herself. Maybe she knew all the important stuff too.

The last traces of the television's glare faded from her eyes, and she 
could make out the silhouette of his body, framed by the sheet. He was 
still turned to her. Somehow she wasn't surprised when he leaned 
forward. 

"You know CJ, we are sharing the same bed."

His expression was determinedly blank. She'd played poker with Sam 
before. 

She closed the distance between them, and placed a light kiss on his 
nose. "Get over yourself."

He grinned good-naturedly.

*****

CJ was considering free sex. Not, she hastened to remind that 
obstinate voice that was playing devil's advocate in her head, that 
she'd ever paid for sexual relations. But no-strings-attached sex 
certainly had its appeal. Just carnal, sweaty, gratifying intercourse.

So she didn't know for sure that it would be gratifying. But somehow 
she didn't think that a lackluster sex life was the underlying cause 
for Sam's inability to hold a relationship for more than five minutes. 
Since she'd known him, anyway. 

Was that the reason she'd turned him down cold? Not wanting to be a 
Sam Seaborn conquest?

Why shouldn't he play the field? He dressed nicely, his breath was 
sweet, and he was certainly attractive. Face it, Sam was not just 
handsome. He was striking. He was nearly pretty. Could she really 
sleep with someone prettier than herself?

You're beautiful and you don't know it.

Okay, he knew exactly what to say sometimes. But he was also 
impossibly young. Not that young. But younger than her. Idealism shed 
years from him better than clean living ever could.

Sam, she suspected, preferred only enough clean living to keep those 
who mattered from getting hurt. 

Oh hell.

*****

"I changed my mind."

"Wuh?" The covers were bunched around his chest, and she tugged at 
them. His fingers closed, grasping at nothing as the sheet slipped 
away. He raised his head slightly.

"Samuel, wake up. I changed my mind."

"Your mind?" he repeated, still fuzzy.

"Coconut oil," she said distinctly.

His eyes widened, and he sat up further. "Really?"

"Yes. I mean no," she corrected herself. "I mean... I don't know what 
I mean. Except that I do."

When he moved, she expected his lips, or his hands maybe. But he kept 
going, almost past her, to rub his cheek along hers, a tentative 
friction. His skin was incredibly smooth; he'd shaved that evening, 
she thought. Sam always looked good. 

And smelled good. She breathed in, tasting the musky remnants of his 
aftershave, letting him hear the catch in her throat as he followed 
the curve of her cheek with his own. When he spoke, it was a whisper 
in her ear.

"Are you sure now?"

Heat radiated from him, pushing back the cool blackness of the room, 
and she felt like she was drowning in it. She felt like drowning in 
it. There was probably some scientific explanation for the way he 
could just flip his pheromones on. The way he could, with the barest 
touch, make her dizzy with the unsettling realization that he was 
acutely male.

Maybe not so unsettling. Maybe very, very satisfying.

His lips were gentle, testing her intent, and she opened her own to 
receive him. His fingers brushed her cheek, temple, twined into her 
hair as she deepened the kiss. She echoed the motion, learning the 
line of his neck, the sharp edge of the shoulder arcing into knotted 
muscle at his upper arm. 

CJ threaded her fingers through his, and Sam let her trap his arm 
against the pillow as he swept the other across her chest. With his 
forearm he charted a path across one breast, molding the fabric of 
the shirt to her skin. She forced herself not to crush his captive 
hand when his mouth touched the sensitive juncture at the base of her 
ear, just as he coaxed her nipple into a soft nub beneath his hand.

"What?" he asked, hearing her sharp intake of breath.

"You can multitask," she managed. "Handy."

In answer, he slid his other arm from her grasp. She let him go, 
moving her hands to his hips, urging him closer. 

Sam kicked the covers away impatiently, and leveraged himself forward, 
straddling her. He helped her roll his t-shirt up, away from his 
torso and over his head. She grazed the tips of her fingernails down 
his chest as he let the shirt fall away; he smiled down at her as he 
dropped it.

"You look better in yours," he said softly.

"Flirting again." CJ slid her palms forward, skidding past the curve 
of his hip, resting for a moment at the obvious evidence of his 
intent. "I have, in my bag --"

He caught her hands. "Not yet. I promise. But I'm not done with you." 

She smiled and let her hands fall away. 

She heard her own heartbeat in her ears, mingled with the sound of his 
sharp, shallow breathing against her skin. As his tongue touched her 
chin, throat, the skin framed by the shirt's threaded collar, his 
hands started at the bottom, slipping past the hem to caress the 
curve of her belly. He rested there, feeling her body rise and fall 
under his touch, until she was nearly ready to cry or yell or growl 
in jagged anticipation.

He touched her with... reverence. It scared her silly, and stirred a 
quaking warmth somewhere she couldn't even begin to identify.

Except the obvious, of course. She'd barely begun to contemplate how 
to get the t-shirt, now bunched at the swell of her chest, off without 
tangling them both in it, when he pressed his thumb across her hip. 
Her underwear proved little barrier, thumb giving way to a single 
finger, and he could have no doubt how badly she wanted him to move 
further. Faster. Quicker.

He entered her with one finger, then two, sliding easily past the 
sensitive outer skin to fill her. She arched her hips against him, 
and he moved with her, drawing her up, then back. 

CJ realized that she was biting the fabric crumpled at her chin, and 
chuckled into it. Sam raised his head, catching her gaze and sharing 
the smile. He helped her struggle out of the shirt. Just as it cleared 
her head, he lowered his mouth to her chest. First one nipple, then 
the other, teased by his tongue into hard, impatient points. She was 
left with the borrowed t-shirt dangling from one hand, her other arm 
clenching the rough sheets for balance. 

At some point, she lost the shirt. She must have, because both hands 
were on his back, then his shoulders, as he traveled down her body. 
Finally she was left with only the touch of his smooth, short strands 
of hair between her fingers, as he nuzzled the line of her hip. He 
thumbed her underwear aside, then down, and she could think of nothing 
but the joy of his tongue dipping between her legs. 

Clean living, she thought with some amusement. Clean living never 
left her quite this dizzy, quite this torn between pleasures.

"Sam." She dug her nails into the sheet, hardly able to turn the 
languid moan of his name into a command. "Sam."

He caught her eye, his fingers continuing their lazy trail across her 
thighs.

"Now, Sam."

"Which is closer," he asked, attempting a conversational tone. She 
was absurdly pleased to catch the ragged note of lost control in his 
voice. "My wallet or your bag?"

CJ turned her head, gratified to catch sight of her miniscule evening 
bag on the small table beside the bed. She fumbled towards it, then 
in it, until she grasped the battered packet lodged at the bottom. 
She sat up, reluctant to move further away from him, and tore it open. 
"Come here, you big flirt."

He did as she said, and CJ was surprised to discover that his hands, 
resting on her shoulders, were shaking as she peeled away his briefs.
"Did I say big?" she teased, cupping him in her hand as he fumbled to 
discard the last of their clothing. "I meant enormous."

"I take back every nice thing I ever said about you," Sam groaned, as 
she ran her hand along the length of his erection.

"I'm not a flirt." She rolled the condom down, sheathing him. "I don't 
say things I don't mean."

"I meant every word." He claimed her lips for a long moment, until she 
raised her hips to his. He rocked back, and entered her. 

Moving against him, tumbling into the shadow of his eyes, reveling in 
the pressure of him inside her, whispering to her. He moved with her, 
and she found harbor for her hands at the small of his back, her 
gentle pressure guiding him. He coaxed her to climax with him, until 
she lost track of any sensation except that final, shuddering release. 
Finally, knowing she'd be lost in the darkness without him, she folded 
him into her arms.

CJ dozed in his warmth, barely aware of the light trace of his fingers 
on her shoulder. 

"You okay?" he asked, finally.

She resisted a satisfied, feline stretch of her muscles the length of 
his body. "Fine," she responded lightly. "More than fine. We should 
do this again sometime."

She felt him smile, and he ran his thumb across her lips, down her 
chin. "Does this mean you're going to use me for sex whenever you 
want?"

She met his gaze. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No." The smile broadened, a gleaming grin in the dark night of the 
room. "Just checking."

*end*