Title: Starved for a Look
Author: White Star 2
E-mail address: hila-p@barak-online.net
Category: Romance
Pairing: CJ/Toby
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They AREN'T mine and will likely never be. Okay? But
then, other parts *they* don't know about are mine...*evil laugh*
Summary: He was in New York in the seventies. She was a college
student in California in 1980. Between them, they'd accumulated
enough kinky sex to last them a lifetime.
Author's Notes: So my muse said, "Write a CJ/Toby story!" and I said,
"No!" So my muse decided to take things into its own hands and write
it for me. (This might be a good time to mention that my muse is
sounding more and more like Toby every day. Quite a conflict of
interests, don't you think. ;) )
Anyway... thanks to all the advanced readers (Uh.... Chell C, Aris,
Rob, and Ayelet) who managed to convince me that this is worthy of
publishing.
---
CJ could pin down the exact moment when she started feeling old. She
had been in New York City, talking to Cornelius Sykes, arguing about
the politics of backing someone when he's screwed up. And she'd
looked around, and she'd looked at him. And suddenly the world was
populated by younger men. It hadn't used to be.
She felt old.
She'd gone back to D.C. to deal with Sam and the President and the
State of the Union, and she never stopped feeling old. But he would
hold her gazes, and look at her shyly when he thought she wasn't
looking. Or perhaps he knew she was. She would walk by his office on
purpose, on her way to see Sam or Josh, even if it was out of her
way. He would stop typing or reading or throwing his rubber ball at
the wall, and she would be flattered.
It had been a game of looks for three years, since she came to work
for the campaign. Glances shot at each other, gazes held. Most of the
time, they weren't sexual. Some of the time, they didn't have any
reason. It was her move to start teasing. It was her strong side,
while looks were his. And she could tell he understood that, and did
his best to take her every comment standing. It was amusing to see
him struggle to recover, to find her next chance.
It had been a game for too long, but he didn't seem to be growing
tired of it, just taking it more seriously. She wasn't sure when
exactly his gazes began to change. There was something in his eyes
that wasn't there before, a sadness, almost. It took her a while to
really put her finger on it. A longing.
For three years, she'd had the feeling that this is how it would end.
But it was different than she'd imagined it.
He was in New York in the seventies. She was a college student in
California in 1980. Between them, they'd accumulated enough kinky sex
to last them a lifetime. When they first met, it was the last thing
either of them thought of. Now it was taken for granted, so many
years of being in and out of practice.
Back when they first met, when she was still young and he still had
most of his hair, someone who was more than a little drunk and likely
a little stoned had told her that sex should be more than just the
connection between bodies. If it's not a connection between souls,
too, it's nothing. It was long ago, almost a third of her life, and
she'd been holding men to that standard ever since.
With him it wasn't like that. Sex wasn't sweet or romantic or the
kind of amazing sex that would make her wake up in the morning and
think she was in love. It was just the next level, part of that game
between them. There was no connection there. For her, the connection
was when they argued. At work, about the issues, or after it, for
fun. It was everything, the core of the relationship. And suddenly,
she was enjoying her job, the part of it that she spent arguing with
him, a lot more.
She was lying on her side in some awkward position that was going to
make her shoulders stiff for the rest of the day. It would have been
a good idea to move, but she didn't want to. She was in that state
where sleep and reality mingled, where although she knew he was no
longer in bed with her, she could pretend he was.
Her cell phone was in the other room, beeping every few minutes,
gasping to be recharged. That was how long she hadn't been home.
Work, his place, work, his place. And her nails were growing long,
and her hair was starting to feel dry, and she couldn't help thinking
it was only a matter of time before they got caught. Her cell phone
beeped again, three times, and died.
It was small things, at first, easy to hide. A bruise on her arm, a
scratch on his back. But even the small things, when they accumulate,
become hard to hide, and she was wearing turtlenecks and pants more
often than she was used to, and he wasn't making eye contact in
public anymore.
Now it seemed like they were all looking. It was paranoid, she knew,
but it still felt that way to her. Her eyes darted around nervously
at staff meetings, never once falling on him. She spent her exercise
time thinking up excuses for anything anyone might ask. No one asked.
She missed his longing eyes on her, his half-assed apologies for bad
jokes, the well-hidden, panicked search for a retort when she made
one of her teasing remarks. And so she disagreed with him more and
they fought about everything, and it amazed her that no one seemed to
notice.
She wanted to go back. She missed his subtle, stolen glances. She
missed being able to hold his gaze in public. More than, she knew,
she would miss this. She wouldn't miss waking up alone in the
morning, knowing he was already dressed and working in the other
room. Before, she knew he felt something, and it flattered her. Now
she wasn't so sure either one of them felt anything at all.
Maybe if she stopped coming over, it would go back to being the way
it was. It might actually be that simple, she mused. He might
protest, but he'd know she's right. He'd nod silently and scratch his
forehead like he always did when he was uncomfortable. She'd go back
to work, and if things didn't get better, she could always come over
at night.
Author: White Star 2
E-mail address: hila-p@barak-online.net
Category: Romance
Pairing: CJ/Toby
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: They AREN'T mine and will likely never be. Okay? But
then, other parts *they* don't know about are mine...*evil laugh*
Summary: He was in New York in the seventies. She was a college
student in California in 1980. Between them, they'd accumulated
enough kinky sex to last them a lifetime.
Author's Notes: So my muse said, "Write a CJ/Toby story!" and I said,
"No!" So my muse decided to take things into its own hands and write
it for me. (This might be a good time to mention that my muse is
sounding more and more like Toby every day. Quite a conflict of
interests, don't you think. ;) )
Anyway... thanks to all the advanced readers (Uh.... Chell C, Aris,
Rob, and Ayelet) who managed to convince me that this is worthy of
publishing.
---
CJ could pin down the exact moment when she started feeling old. She
had been in New York City, talking to Cornelius Sykes, arguing about
the politics of backing someone when he's screwed up. And she'd
looked around, and she'd looked at him. And suddenly the world was
populated by younger men. It hadn't used to be.
She felt old.
She'd gone back to D.C. to deal with Sam and the President and the
State of the Union, and she never stopped feeling old. But he would
hold her gazes, and look at her shyly when he thought she wasn't
looking. Or perhaps he knew she was. She would walk by his office on
purpose, on her way to see Sam or Josh, even if it was out of her
way. He would stop typing or reading or throwing his rubber ball at
the wall, and she would be flattered.
It had been a game of looks for three years, since she came to work
for the campaign. Glances shot at each other, gazes held. Most of the
time, they weren't sexual. Some of the time, they didn't have any
reason. It was her move to start teasing. It was her strong side,
while looks were his. And she could tell he understood that, and did
his best to take her every comment standing. It was amusing to see
him struggle to recover, to find her next chance.
It had been a game for too long, but he didn't seem to be growing
tired of it, just taking it more seriously. She wasn't sure when
exactly his gazes began to change. There was something in his eyes
that wasn't there before, a sadness, almost. It took her a while to
really put her finger on it. A longing.
For three years, she'd had the feeling that this is how it would end.
But it was different than she'd imagined it.
He was in New York in the seventies. She was a college student in
California in 1980. Between them, they'd accumulated enough kinky sex
to last them a lifetime. When they first met, it was the last thing
either of them thought of. Now it was taken for granted, so many
years of being in and out of practice.
Back when they first met, when she was still young and he still had
most of his hair, someone who was more than a little drunk and likely
a little stoned had told her that sex should be more than just the
connection between bodies. If it's not a connection between souls,
too, it's nothing. It was long ago, almost a third of her life, and
she'd been holding men to that standard ever since.
With him it wasn't like that. Sex wasn't sweet or romantic or the
kind of amazing sex that would make her wake up in the morning and
think she was in love. It was just the next level, part of that game
between them. There was no connection there. For her, the connection
was when they argued. At work, about the issues, or after it, for
fun. It was everything, the core of the relationship. And suddenly,
she was enjoying her job, the part of it that she spent arguing with
him, a lot more.
She was lying on her side in some awkward position that was going to
make her shoulders stiff for the rest of the day. It would have been
a good idea to move, but she didn't want to. She was in that state
where sleep and reality mingled, where although she knew he was no
longer in bed with her, she could pretend he was.
Her cell phone was in the other room, beeping every few minutes,
gasping to be recharged. That was how long she hadn't been home.
Work, his place, work, his place. And her nails were growing long,
and her hair was starting to feel dry, and she couldn't help thinking
it was only a matter of time before they got caught. Her cell phone
beeped again, three times, and died.
It was small things, at first, easy to hide. A bruise on her arm, a
scratch on his back. But even the small things, when they accumulate,
become hard to hide, and she was wearing turtlenecks and pants more
often than she was used to, and he wasn't making eye contact in
public anymore.
Now it seemed like they were all looking. It was paranoid, she knew,
but it still felt that way to her. Her eyes darted around nervously
at staff meetings, never once falling on him. She spent her exercise
time thinking up excuses for anything anyone might ask. No one asked.
She missed his longing eyes on her, his half-assed apologies for bad
jokes, the well-hidden, panicked search for a retort when she made
one of her teasing remarks. And so she disagreed with him more and
they fought about everything, and it amazed her that no one seemed to
notice.
She wanted to go back. She missed his subtle, stolen glances. She
missed being able to hold his gaze in public. More than, she knew,
she would miss this. She wouldn't miss waking up alone in the
morning, knowing he was already dressed and working in the other
room. Before, she knew he felt something, and it flattered her. Now
she wasn't so sure either one of them felt anything at all.
Maybe if she stopped coming over, it would go back to being the way
it was. It might actually be that simple, she mused. He might
protest, but he'd know she's right. He'd nod silently and scratch his
forehead like he always did when he was uncomfortable. She'd go back
to work, and if things didn't get better, she could always come over
at night.