Title: Rub Until it Bleeds Author: CGB (luberluber@yahoo.com.au) Category: CJ/Toby Rating: NC- 17 for a whole pile of reasons Archive: Sure Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Sorkin-man. Lets all drink to the Sorkin-man! Summary: "She is cocooning, building up walls." For Luna because this was inspired by her challenge (which was something to do with hot weather, silver and doing something illegal - one out of three aint bad!). She does this sort of thing great and well- this is my humble offering to the challenge queen. The title is thanks to PJ Harvey and about five years of riot-grrl action. Everyone else got to write their own TFGTKY post ep, why cant I? * She slides her napkin across the bar to him, while hes trying to attract the attention of the bartender. Out of the corner of his eye he catches black writing on a bleached, white weave. On it, the word "criminals" is written in black felt tip pen. Its edges have started to feather and run. He contemplates the faces at the bar trying to fathom her meaning. The bartender reaches him and he orders red wine for her and scotch for him. When he has paid, he turns his attention back to the napkin in front of him and realises she is referring to them. He hands her a glass of wine. "You dont think thats a little melodramatic?" Her eyes are glazed. He hasnt been counting his drinks and neither has she. This could be their fifth, or fifteenth. She takes the napkin from him and scrunches it into a ball. She places it in the ashtray on the bar. "Fuck you Toby." He raises his eyes to the roof and lifts his hands up in a "what did I do" gesture. She scowls. "Dont trivialise me." "Trivialise you? Have you forgotten that were all affected by this?" "I have an appointment with White House Counsel in the morning." "I heard." "I hate lawyers." "Well," he shrugs. "That must be tough considering the proportion of your job spent in the company of Josh, Sam, Leo, myself..." Her eyes shift right to briefly glance at the napkin in the ashtray. It is ostentatiously white against the black bar top and shades of midnight decor. She looks at it like its existence is incriminating. He resists the urge to stuff the napkin in his pocket, if only to get it out of her sight. "I once stole five pairs of ear-rings in one day from the same department store," she says, and he notices her words running into one another. "I stole a book from the air port in LA," he says. "When?" "When I was nineteen." "What did you steal?" "Thus Spake Zarathustra." "Uh huh-" "I also smoked pot." "I dropped acid." "LSD?" She shrugs. "Who knows? It looked like cardboard to me. I looked in the mirror and my face was fat then thin, fat then thin - it was spooky." He "hmms" his assent. She drinks slowly, and looks anywhere but at him. He notices and scratches his beard. She is cocooning, building up walls. He thinks hes not in the mood to let CJ martyr herself. "You want me to take you home?" he says. She puts her empty glass on the bar and nods. Moments after then leave the bartender empties ashtray and the napkin is relegated to the garbage disposal below the bar. He pins her against the wall in the apartment. The seam in her skirt tears as he pushes it up around her waist. He feels her panty hose rip underneath his insistent fingers. She maneuvers her feet out of her shoes and leans her back into the wall, so she can lift a leg around him. He kisses her neck, her throat, her collarbone and his teeth graze against her shoulder. His hand slides underneath her blouse and his fingers press, hard, into her ribcage. She flinches slightly from the pressure. His other hand is in her underwear frantically trying to push it to the floor. The sex is uncomfortable and Toby is not gentle. Each thrust pushes the base of her spine hard against the wall. When he is finished he slides a hand between them almost as an afterthought. She grabs his hand and holds it for a moment. She feels hot. Too hot. She closes her eyes and when she opens them again the room is spinning. "Toby... wait." In a tangle of clothing and limbs she struggles away from him and runs for the bathroom. He follows her at a slower pace and stands outside. He listens to her retching and considers whether an offer of assistance would be well received. He fears the negative but goes in anyway. He hands her a glass of water over her shoulder. She is kneeling in front of the toilet with her forehead against the porcelain. "Are you OK?" "Go away." He remains, still holding the glass. She turns to look at him and takes the glass. "Thank you," she says, in a choked voice. She takes a sip from the glass. "Now go." He hesitates momentarily before turning to leave. He is almost out the door before he stops and turns to face her. "You think you cant be lower now," He speaks in a voice that is low and cold. "You think you cant be lower because youre drunk and staring into youre toilet bowl, and youve screwed the guy you work for. You want to think that this is what you deserve because CJ Cregg is a screw up." He looks away. There is a small window high up in her bathroom but all he can see of the outside is the pitch black of a cold night. "Toby I can really do without the sanctimonious bullshit right now..." "Well I could care less CJ, because youre going to hear it!" His voice is loud and she jumps slightly. "Youll meet with Babish, and then youll do the morning press briefing and be the best goddamn Press Secretary in the history of the White House because I dont care how low you think you are, and I dont care what you think you deserve, I dont hire screw ups, CJ." She lifts her head up and wipes her face with her hand. Her cheeks are a blotched red with a thin film of sweat making them shine. "Get up," he says. She does, and he hands her a towel. He has trouble meeting her eyes. "Im going home," he says quietly. He leaves her in the bathroom, cradling a towel and still holding a glass of water. She lifts the glass to her forehead and rolls it from one side to the other. She sniffs. She thinks that she doesnt want to cry despite knowing no one would see. She sniffs again and pulls the shower curtain back to turn on the faucets. Steam fogs the room as she undresses. She leaves her clothes in a heap on the floor, and they lie there like discarded reptile skin about to fossilise into the floor. She steps naked into the shower and lets the water wash over her. Fin
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