Title: The Difference
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Rating: PG-13
Category: Toby/Ginger; Toby/CJ; angst
Summary: There's a difference between what he wants and what he needs.
[The Difference]
There's a difference between what he wants and what he needs.
He likes his scotch on the rocks and he doesn't care who knows it. There's a burn that slides down his throat with the first swallow that he cannot get used to. He fights a cringe every time. After that, it all goes down smooth. The scotch taste being masked by the musty taste of the Cuban cigar he lets rest between his lips. The smoke fills his nostrils, and he fights a cough just like he fought the cringe.
His elbows rest on the dark mahogany bar. He is the picture of relaxation now, leaning there. The room is dark, lighted only by the candles on the table and the light from the stage.
He watches one woman, across the room, elegant in her dress, timeless in its simplicity. She is ignorant of his presence just like he knew she would be. She speaks with her colleagues and feels privileged just to be invited to just a prestigious event. She smiles when politicians introduce themselves; she blushes when they tell her that they know that she works for Toby Ziegler, when they tell her that he speaks of her from time to time.
He does speak of her from time to time, only because he cannot help it. She is on his mind constantly, occupying the corners of his mind that the other woman does not.
He wants to smell her perfume, kiss her collarbone, find out if she tastes like her name.
Guilt. He feels guilt, allowing his eyes to trace over the subtle curves of her body. True, she is much younger but she is wise beyond her years. He can see it in her eyes when she speaks to him. She flirts, and though he wishes he could retaliate, he puts on a hardened look, and glares. Little does he know that when he glares, she is turned to flames.
She sees him now, a blush crawling up onto her delicate skin. Smile, a smile that she wears as she grasps her champagne flute and raises it to her lips. Lips, lips that are curved as she swallows the bubbly liquid and makes him want.
The other woman is much more outgoing, flitting from group to group, holding her shawl tight against her skin because she is moving so fast. She smiles, dazzling onlookers with her pearly whites. Her laughs bubbles up, sincere in amusement. This woman belongs in a motion picture, circa 1940, on the arm of a regal gentleman.
He needs to smell her perfume, kiss her collarbone, find out if she could ever be at a loss for words.
He thinks that he needs to feel the slide of her skin and remember what it feels like later, much later when he is lonely. She spots him immediately and makes her way over, comments on how sophisticated he looks in his tuxedo, sipping Jack Daniels. Her hand reaches out and steals the glass; her lips, like ones he had seen earlier, curve around the edge of the glass, and the alcohol slides down her throat easily. This woman takes the glass and places it on the bar, signaling that it needs to be refilled.
His hand sneaks out and squeezes hers for a moment. The gesture can be taken for a plethora of things; love, comfort, reassurance, need.
He looks from one woman, back to the woman who is standing beside him. He can see the difference, he can feel the difference. There's a difference between what he wants and what he needs.
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Rating: PG-13
Category: Toby/Ginger; Toby/CJ; angst
Summary: There's a difference between what he wants and what he needs.
[The Difference]
There's a difference between what he wants and what he needs.
He likes his scotch on the rocks and he doesn't care who knows it. There's a burn that slides down his throat with the first swallow that he cannot get used to. He fights a cringe every time. After that, it all goes down smooth. The scotch taste being masked by the musty taste of the Cuban cigar he lets rest between his lips. The smoke fills his nostrils, and he fights a cough just like he fought the cringe.
His elbows rest on the dark mahogany bar. He is the picture of relaxation now, leaning there. The room is dark, lighted only by the candles on the table and the light from the stage.
He watches one woman, across the room, elegant in her dress, timeless in its simplicity. She is ignorant of his presence just like he knew she would be. She speaks with her colleagues and feels privileged just to be invited to just a prestigious event. She smiles when politicians introduce themselves; she blushes when they tell her that they know that she works for Toby Ziegler, when they tell her that he speaks of her from time to time.
He does speak of her from time to time, only because he cannot help it. She is on his mind constantly, occupying the corners of his mind that the other woman does not.
He wants to smell her perfume, kiss her collarbone, find out if she tastes like her name.
Guilt. He feels guilt, allowing his eyes to trace over the subtle curves of her body. True, she is much younger but she is wise beyond her years. He can see it in her eyes when she speaks to him. She flirts, and though he wishes he could retaliate, he puts on a hardened look, and glares. Little does he know that when he glares, she is turned to flames.
She sees him now, a blush crawling up onto her delicate skin. Smile, a smile that she wears as she grasps her champagne flute and raises it to her lips. Lips, lips that are curved as she swallows the bubbly liquid and makes him want.
The other woman is much more outgoing, flitting from group to group, holding her shawl tight against her skin because she is moving so fast. She smiles, dazzling onlookers with her pearly whites. Her laughs bubbles up, sincere in amusement. This woman belongs in a motion picture, circa 1940, on the arm of a regal gentleman.
He needs to smell her perfume, kiss her collarbone, find out if she could ever be at a loss for words.
He thinks that he needs to feel the slide of her skin and remember what it feels like later, much later when he is lonely. She spots him immediately and makes her way over, comments on how sophisticated he looks in his tuxedo, sipping Jack Daniels. Her hand reaches out and steals the glass; her lips, like ones he had seen earlier, curve around the edge of the glass, and the alcohol slides down her throat easily. This woman takes the glass and places it on the bar, signaling that it needs to be refilled.
His hand sneaks out and squeezes hers for a moment. The gesture can be taken for a plethora of things; love, comfort, reassurance, need.
He looks from one woman, back to the woman who is standing beside him. He can see the difference, he can feel the difference. There's a difference between what he wants and what he needs.