Standard disclaimers apply. This is slash of the f/f variety, although not explicit (rating PG; let me know if you think it should be otherwise). The West Wing characters are not mine, of course, and unfortunately no one is giving me any money for borrowing them. Spoilers for "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen." I think I violate minor details of canon in a place or two, but nothing really big, I hope. Everything that isn't Aaron Sorkin's is mine. Steal and die.

In the Dark Hours
Kat McFall

The rain was falling like it would never rain again, and although rain that heavy is never a joy to drive in, especially at night, and CJ's windshield wipers had no hope of keeping up with the deluge, the mad pounding glory of its fall was almost inspiring. Even with the crack of hot lightning periodically shattering the sky, the interior of her car was cool and silent, and she drove without the radio, her fingers sure and relaxed on the wheel. She found herself noticing the smell of the fresh leather seats. She was no longer making Hollywood money, and the car was a reminder of what she'd given up, but she was driving tonight to meet the people for whom she'd given it up, and bland, sunny California was a washed-out, pale vision next to the slick black New Hampshire Turnpike asphalt. She drove on in the silence.

Leo finally thought he had "his" staff together (Jed, of course, was still memorizing names), so he'd bullied them all into getting together at the Bartlets' house for dinner to meet their candidate and one another. Even in the rain, Jed insisted on barbecuing, so he was exiled to the screened-in back porch to grill his hamburgers and Polish sausages under the halogen lights, arguing college baseball with Leo. Sam and Josh were there, wandering around in tandem like nervous dogs sticking to known territory; Toby, stressed out, was rubbing his forehead a lot; and Mandy had a drink in her and was already talking people's ears off. CJ was late.

She was late, and Abigail Bartlet, in her capacity as hostess, was forced to notice and worry, between trying to put a damper on Mandy and get Sam and Josh to talk to someone other than each other. But the doorbell rang softly, fifteen minutes late. Abby heard it in the kitchen and on her way to the door stripped out of the oven mitts and apron she had, so very domestically, been wearing while trying to get the hamburger buns toasted. The door opened and there was CJ Cregg, press secretary for the Bartlet campaign, all six drenched feet of her. She was wearing a suit, she had a basket in her hands, and she was thoroughly rained on.

"Ms. Cregg?"

"Yes, do you think I could step in?"

CJ looked like a displeased cat, come to think of it, and Abby stared, with that thought in her head, as she stepped hurriedly aside. "Yes, come in. I'm Abigail Bartlet. What's..?" She peered at the ridiculously cellophane-festooned basket as CJ brushed past her and stood in the middle of the foyer, dripping. Looking self-conscious, she thrust the basket into Abby's arms and then stepped back, as though dissociating herself from it.

"Gift basket." A long, dry pause. "Soap."

Abby laughed, surprised. "Thank you. Here, I'll..." She meandered off into inconsequential social prattle, setting the basket on a side table and shepherding CJ into the living room to meet her new colleagues. A timer dinged from the kitchen in the middle of introductions, so she fled the room to rescue the hamburger buns, leaving the CJ the wet cat to dry by the fire with Toby, Sam and Josh. It did not occur to Abby that CJ's reticence (tongue-tied awkwardness, she might more accurately have called it) might be due to anything other than the unfamiliar circumstances, and of course she didn't see the slitted eyes that followed her out of the room.

Over the years following, Abby could very well have thought CJ disliked her. The press secretary had a defense shield to rival the military one Leo liked so much; it came of dealing with hostile questions from the press every day. Since keeping her composure was what CJ did best, it was no strain on her to remain professionally cool and distant with the First Lady. (This occurred to CJ, once, and she was in the middle of mildly congratulating herself for exhibiting such excellent self-control before it occured to her to wonder what impulse she was controlling. Then her equally-impressive talents of self-deception kicked in, and it suddenly seemed very important to think about an upcoming briefing.)

But it wasn't as though CJ had daily opportunities to be cool to Abby. They saw one another only at formal events, receptions, speeches. CJ was unfailingly polite, but she never took her eyes away from Abby's when they talked, and at the same time she spoke in short, clipped sentences and excused herself quickly. At a state dinner, once, Abby turned her head to glance over the other tables, and caught CJ, in a far corner, staring across the room at her with a strange tautness in her face. A split second later, CJ's gaze had smoothly shifted its focus away from the First Lady, but there was a residual stiffness in her features. Abby never brought it up.

Then there was the shooting, which ripped through and left a chaotic whirlwind behind: the President and Josh shot and injured, maybe killed, and not a blessed thing any of them could do about it except hold onto that hard-earned composure and do their jobs.

CJ conducted press conferences with a droop to her eyelids and a darkness in her eyes that made her look even more like a baleful cat, although languid had given way to exhausted. Her head ached fiercely, and even if she couldn't remember her head hitting the ground, she could imagine what it must have felt like against the concrete.

The damned fluorescent lighting in the briefing room was so bright it hurt her eyes. CJ headed for her office, absurdly relieved to see that the lights were off. She let herself inside and turned to the desk, leaving the lights off, and saw, backlit dimly by the moon through the windows, Abby Bartlet sitting stiffly in one of the chairs. She stopped. "Mrs. Bartlet?"

"CJ?" Abby's voice was soft and hoarse. "What time is it?"

"It's two in the morning, Mrs. Bartlet, what..."

Abby lifted her head, and the moon turned the lines of tears on her face silver. "I'm—sorry," she managed, looking around as though she didn't know how she'd ended up in CJ's office. "I..." She hitched a breath and twisted a little, her shoulders tightening and sinking inward, but CJ was there suddenly, her palms on Abby's shoulders and her face suddenly inches away.

"Ma'am—Abby," she whispered desperately, her hands somehow brushing back Abby's hair, her fingers smoothing away the drying tears and soothing the hard lines cut at the corners of her mouth. "It'll be all right, it'll be fine," words she knew were nonsensical, promises she didn't have the power to keep and reassurances she had no reason to think were true.

"He's going to die." The words were spoken with ragged, hopeless conviction.

"No. No, he's not." Any jealous twinge CJ might have felt and valiantly ignored for Abby's husband was lost in a wave of aching for the peril of a man she liked and respected, and for the pain of a woman she lov—No. None of that, she snapped at herself. "He'll be fine," she said again, sinking to an ungainly crouch in front of the chair and searching the dark to see Abby's face.

Abby drew in a breath and leaned slowly forward, her hands clinging to each other in her lap, looked into CJ's eyes and breathed with the surety of the religious or the crazy, "I know. He's going to die. He has—he's sick, no one knows, he won't live..." Her voice choked, and without thinking CJ slid her arms around her and pulled her close.

Abby sank forward into CJ's chest, slipped off the chair in a brief awkward tangle of arms and knees, and eventually settled half-sitting on the floor with her face pressed to CJ's shoulder, small shudders running through her shoulders in the extremity of her exhaustion and grief. After a few minutes of sitting stiff and bolt upright with her arms loosely wrapped around the First Lady, staring at the bars of moonlight on the far wall, CJ began to relax by degrees, and soon the two women were half-reclining, CJ's back against the wall, her fingers tracing gentle circles on Abby's back. Abby silently cried herself out into CJ's shoulder, and of course she fell asleep. When CJ realized the warm weight in her arms was unconscious and breathing evenly, without the occasional hitches and gasps of tears, she was too tired to see any choice in the matter. She laid her cheek against the top of Abby's head and followed her into sleep.

The warm, butter-yellow glow of dawn through the windows in her office woke CJ, and the first thing she was aware of was that she had a crick in her neck and her head didn't hurt anymore. Then she felt the warm solidity of an unfamiliar body pressed against her chest, her stomach, her hips, and when she felt one arm hooked around her waist under her jacket and the warm spicy smell of the thick hair under her cheek, she remembered, and a soft sound vibrated in her throat, equal parts consternation at her position and reluctant enjoyment of Abby's presence, her warmth and the feel of her breath on CJ's neck. Abby twitched once, and CJ held her breath, but the First Lady relaxed into quiescence again.

It occurred to CJ, lying on the floor of her office with the First Lady sleeping in her arms, that as press secretary it was her job to shield the President, and by association his staff and his family, from a certain kind of invasion. The idea appealed to her, in that half-awake haze; at that moment, anything that protected Abby seemed a vital necessity.

CJ wrapped her arms tighter around Abby's shoulder blades and ducked her head, her jaw grazing Abby's cheek, her temple brushing Abby's, and then suddenly Abby was alive in her arms, awake, turning her head to CJ's, her breath warm on CJ's cheek, and then their lips were touching, they were kissing, I'm kissing the First Lady, Abby, oh—

"CJ?" Abby's voice was soft and indistinct with sleep, but she was there, she was awake, she knew.

"Mrs. Bartlet, I—ma'am—" CJ jerked back and scooted away, pressing her shoulders back against the wall in an irrational attempt to escape, but Abby only sat up, then stood slowly and straightened her clothes, peering thoughtfully down at CJ and then glancing around the office. For once in her life, the First Lady's expressive face was unreadable.

CJ picked herself up, feeling tall and awkward, and ran her fingers through her hair, but it was tousled beyond all help. "Mrs. Bartlet—" she began, but there was a knock, and Charlie was there to tell them that the President might be coming to. Abby's face took on its drawn look again, but she only nodded and thanked Charlie, and he went away, closing the door gently behind him.

CJ, harried, opened her mouth to protest or apologize, but the First Lady was thoroughly herself again, and her dark eyes snapped at CJ and silenced her. "CJ."

"Ma'am, I realize—" CJ began, but before she managed any talk of resignations or the press or approval ratings, Abby stepped close to CJ and reached up to brush her hair away from her face, rose on tiptoe to kiss her on the cheek, then murmured in her ear, "Thank you." She took a step back, then another, and smiled.

CJ felt tears rising, her eyes burning, so she gestured towards the door and said tightly, "Mrs. Bartlet, your husband's awake." and she was desolately glad that her voice didn't break. Steel composure to the bitter end.

Abby answered quietly, "Yes." She stood in silence for a few seconds, then walked slowly to the door. She passed close by CJ on her way, and her knuckles brushed the back of CJ's hand. Then she was gone.

The President was awake, and he was going to live, and even though Josh was still in surgery, under general anesthesia that he still might never awake from, everyone was relieved and grateful that the President, at least, was alive and would recover.

CJ watched from the door of Jed's hospital room as he kissed Abby good morning and argued with his nurse about whether he could get out of bed. Abby didn't look at her, and after a while CJ turned and went to tell the world that the President was awake.

I won't go
I won't sleep
I can't breathe
Until you're resting
Here with me.

— Dido