TITLE: Hail to the Pumpkin King
CATEGORY: CJ/Sam, angst a-plenty
RATING: R—for adult situations and language
DISCLAMER: Either Aaron Sorkin's, Patti Smith's, or mine.
SUMMARY: She can see how she could lose herself in him.
THANKS: This is for Jess—the apple of my eye, the wind beneath my wings, the Jim to my Marlon Perkins—for giving me the idea.
NOTE: This was supposed to be posted before Halloween. Yeah, that didn't happen.
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But who here would ever understand
that the Pumpkin King with the skeleton grin
would tire of his crown, if they only understood
He'd give it all up if he only could
—"This Is Halloween", from Tim Burton's 'The Nightmare Before Christmas'
She is wearing tight, black jeans and a white man's shirt, unbuttoned to show a hint of strong collarbone and delicate wrists. There is a skinny black tie hanging around her neck, a black blazer thrown over one shoulder, and her hair is mussed and sticking up at odd angles. She is looking at everyone in irritation.
"Philistines," she says. "I can't believe you can't figure out who I'm supposed to be."
Josh and Sam exchange a look of confusion. Toby just blows a smoke ring and stares at her blankly, rolling his cigar between his thumb and forefinger.
"Pray enlighten us," he says.
"You already have a hint!" she protests. "I told you there was a theme—rock legends of the 1970s. That's not enough for you to go on?"
"Nope, you're gonna have to give us more," Josh answers.
CJ grins wickedly, the left corner of her mouth turning up, which gives her a decidedly impish look. "You want me to, what, do a little performance here?"
Sam nods with great enthusiasm. A CJ performance is always a good thing, particularly if, as he currently suspects, she isn't wearing a bra. He's not proud of the thought, but there it is.
He nods again, seeing that Josh and Toby aren't backing him up as quickly as he'd like. "Go on," he tells her, "we're on the edge of our seats."
"Edges of our seats," Toby corrects him with a long-suffering sigh. Sam doesn't care, because there is the possibility of CJ doing some sort of 1970s-rock-legend-braless-dance-type thing, and he's not about to worry about something as trivial as grammar.
Again—not proud of it, but no point denying it either.
"All right, fine." She tosses the blazer over onto Toby's visitor's chair and clears her throat. She appears to compose herself for a moment before slouching lower than her six-foot frame ordinarily allows; after a moment her voice comes out in a throaty, frenetic growl. "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine. Melting in a pot of thieves, wild card up my sleeve, thick heart of stone. My sins my own, they belong to me." Her shoulders twitch as she sings and her hips do a slight rocking motion that forces Sam to cross his legs in as subtle a fashion as he can manage. Damn but the woman gets into her music.
There is a pronounced stretch of silence when this mini-performance is over, and CJ's eyes just gleam as she stares at the men before her. She can see the utterly blank expressions on their faces and wants to laugh.
Finally Toby says dryly, "Impressive."
CJ snorts. "Pathetic. Pathetic! Jesus, don't you boys know Patti Smith when you see her?"
"Ah, Patti Smith," Josh says with mock-knowing, though he is no more enlightened than when CJ strolled through the door ten minutes ago on her way to the party.
Sam knows a little about Patti Smith, enough to know that if she had even one-half the magnetism and energy in the 70s that CJ's just shown in forty-five seconds, it's no surprise she inspired a generation of hapless musicians. "You'll knock 'em dead, CJ," he says gently.
At the sound of his voice CJ glances over at him, her eyes widening as if seeing him sitting there for the first time. Of all the men she works with, Sam has always been the sweetest, but now—after New York, after a rainy evening and a blood-soaked corner store and a cold, wet bench on a busy street—he is the very embodiment of gentleness wrapped in black hair and tired blue eyes. When he looks at her, she feels as if he sees past the smiles and the laughter, into the hurt and the ache that have taken up permanent residence in her heart. And she doesn't mind. When he speaks to her, she wants to pull the rich warmth of his voice over her body like the protective blanket it seems to be. She doesn't mind that either. In fact, she almost thinks she likes it.
Toby watches, and Josh frets, but Sam is just there. And it's nice. It's safe and open and honest and demands nothing. CJ knows that she definitely likes that.
But even if she does it's not something she can acknowledge. She can't accept his gentle sympathy, even as much as she wants to, because she has no right to it. She has no right to grieve for Simon as deeply and achingly as she has, and therefore she has no right to the sympathy that goes along with it.
She smiles, fighting back a sigh. She doesn't want to go to this party, not really. Halloween is for kids in drug store costumes and teenagers with eggs and toilet paper. It's not for forty-year-old women with tired eyes and a body that misses a man it never knew. But Emma was persistent, as she always is, and gave her the usual spiel about getting out and moving on, and CJ was so tired of hearing the speech she gave in and agreed to come.
She almost dressed as one of the girls from Abba until she found the black blazer at the back of her closet and remembered old footage she'd watched of a young Patti Smith, back when she herself was only a vodka-swilling, poetry-spouting innocent at Berkeley. She remembered the crazy, jerky movements of Patti's body and the free and easy way she danced, so unconscious, so effortless. She remembered that grainy, husky voice pouring out poetry, and that a forty-year-old Patti looked back on herself at twenty and called it a perfect pocket of time. So she stopped looking for the number to the costume shop and had the blazer dry-cleaned.
Sam is watching her again. She's used to it by now. Two years ago she could almost ignore it and pretend that Sam's hands on her arms, his body pulling hers to the ground as a hail of bullets screamed over them—that it was an anomaly, a mistake, a one-time aberration. It didn't mean anything; he just happened to be there. The fact that it was Sam was good and it kept her safe, but it didn't have any great cosmic meaning. At least, that's what she thought at the time. She started to wonder about the cruel bitch people called 'fate' last May when she looked up from that cold, wet bench through hazy eyes to see Sam closing in on her.
She wonders if she should resent him for being the one to hold her when she falls.
Toby is shoving his arms into his jacket, muttering something about Andi and nighttime cravings. Josh is grinning indulgently at him, but his head is tilted in defeat and there is a look of utter exhaustion in his eyes. CJ wonders how she can afford to take an evening off for the sake of pleasure she doesn't even want, but then she remembers that she doesn't have to answer to anyone even if it feels as if she does. She's been in the office since seven this morning, and yes, they're in the middle of re-election, and yes, it's a weeknight, but dammit, she's going to go.
"So what are you three amigos planning for the big bacchanalia of paganism?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.
"I don't plan for Halloween, CJ," answers Toby. "I'm going to Andi's. With any luck, I can scare away a couple of trick-or-treaters, gorge myself on peanut butter cups, and call it a night."
Josh just shrugs. "I was supposed to go to this party with Amy, but…" He lets his words trail off and everyone finishes the sentences in their heads. They know that Josh and Amy's relationship is only looking for a suitable time to implode
"And what about you, Spanky?" CJ asks, skimming over the silence that follows Josh's response.
Sam flashes her a brief smile before mirroring Josh's shrug. "A book, a beer, and then bed."
CJ clucks at them in disbelief. "You wild and crazy guys." She ignores the slight flare of heat in her chest at Sam's soft intonation of the word 'bed'. Dangerous.
Sam's eyes meet hers but he doesn't say anything. He just looks at her in that soft way of his, the way he's been looking at her ever since the night he found her miles away from the theatre, sobbing and bruised on the streets of New York. It's a look that leaves her open, exposed. She doesn't understand how he manages to convey such understanding when she's never explained herself to him.
She grabs for the blazer with a sudden movement that startles the men around her. "I am so very late to this party," she says under her breath to no one in particular.
"I'll walk with you," Toby says.
"Have a good time," Josh says.
Sam says nothing, which is unlike him, but CJ chooses not to question it. Sometimes when he looks at her, there is something there she is not altogether sure she likes seeing. Heat, intensity, and a little bit of passion. Maybe.
If it's real, she doesn't want to know about it. If it isn't, she doesn't want to think about why she imagines it there.
* * *
The party is full of men who leer at her cleavage, women who stare at her Patti Smith costume as if she's a carnival freak on display, and Emma's twenty-something students who squeal with recognition as they work out just who she's supposed to be. One of the students spills half a keg of beer on Emma's new rug, and instead of screaming she laughs drunkenly, and for the rest of the night the house reeks like a brewery.
CJ nurses her vodka Collins and slumps against the wall like she's back in junior high, tall and awkward with no one to dance with. She hates being here. She doesn't know anyone except Emma, and no one seems to particularly care that she's here, cleavage-gawkers notwithstanding.
She wonders why she came, but the answer comes to her immediately: To pretend. To pretend she's normal, that she's back to being CJ again. To pretend that Simon's death was just a little bump on the road back to herself. And it's so much more complicated than that.
Nothing in life is easy, but she has felt this heavy tiredness deep within her since that night in May when two men filled with hate tried to take the lives of people she loves. She thought she was okay, and maybe she was, a little, but she has lived with this weight on her heart ever since. She didn't remember what it was not to feel tired all the time until Simon came into her life and reminded her.
He was light and ease and calm, cool assurance. He smiled more than anyone she knew and he never seemed fazed by her sarcasm or indifference. He challenged her without meaning to. He made things easy. She liked Simon, very much.
And that's the hard part, the hardest of all. She liked Simon. It wasn't love, because she isn't like that, she doesn't fall in love easily, no matter how handsome a man is or how much he smiles or how easy he makes life. But she liked him, and she wanted it to be more. Hoped it would be more.
So maybe the potential is what breaks her heart; the endless possibilities that existed between the two of them. There was so much to learn, so many new things ahead of them, and they were taken away. She was feeling good for the first time in much too long. Her heart was light and she walked with a spring in her step, and it was good. There was potential. But now it's gone and she doesn't have the right to grieve the way she still grieves.
She never slept in his arms or kissed the ridge of his jaw. He never placed a possessive hand on the curve of her hip or felt her bare skin under his fingertips. They never made love, they never danced, they never met each others' parents, they never did anything. There was just the potential. But potential doesn't give her the right to mourn him this deeply.
"Having a good time?" asks an unfamiliar voice.
When CJ looks up she is startled to see Sam's eyes looking out of a stranger's face. The man smiles easily at her and raises his glass of whiskey at her in greeting. He is handsome, mid-forties maybe, dressed like Mick Jagger in leather pants he actually manages to wear well.
Something about those familiar eyes inspires honesty. "Not especially."
"Yeah, I didn't think so. You look like you'd rather be anyplace else but here."
"That's a fair estimation," CJ agrees before taking another sip of her drink, thinking that it's not fair for the man to have Sam's eyes and not be Sam. She could use a friend at this party.
The man extends his right hand toward her, and a quick glance at his left shows the pale circle of skin on his ring finger where a wedding band used to be. She refuses to analyze what that could mean. "Ian Bennett."
"CJ Cregg."
They shake and he smiles at her again, faintly predatory. "I know. I'm a news junkie."
CJ stifles the urge to groan. Oh God. Not another one. There was no way she could have known, when she took this job, how many men would want to nail her just because she stood at a podium with the presidential seal behind her.
"Are you?" she responds inanely.
Ian Bennett smiles again, and it's disconcerting how quickly it's turned into a leer. "So. CJ. If you'd rather be anyplace but here, I can certainly think of an entertaining suggestion or two."
For a moment he's encouraged by the way she stands and stares at him. He shifts his body closer toward her and grins, before starting with surprise as CJ throws her head back, drains her drink, and slams the glass down on the table nearest to her.
"Good night," she says.
* * *
Somehow he's gotten sucked into watching a 'Facts of Life' marathon on cable. He has no idea how, and he has no idea why they're showing 'Facts of Life' on Halloween night. Sometimes maybe it's best not to question these things too closely.
Trick-or-treaters have been coming in waves, every ten minutes or so, and he quickly exhausted his supply of candy. He started giving out change, which earned him more than a few dirty looks, until finally turning off his front light and curling up on the couch with a beer, a battered copy of 'The Fellowship of the Ring', and the luscious Jo Polniaczek. Screw Halloween, anyway.
Halloween is for kids in drug store costumes and teenagers with eggs and toilet paper. It isn't for thirty-six-year-old men who want political miracles and women they'll never have.
He's a bastard, and he knows it, for wanting CJ so badly while she's in so much pain. He's sick and twisted somehow, for staring hungrily at her legs, her neck, her lips, even as she winces at the sight of the Secret Service agents who surround the president. He wants to help her, wants her to feel better, happier, but he also resents the hell out of Simon Donovan. For being yet another man to get close to CJ. For being yet another man to let her down.
Resentful of a dead man. He disgusts himself.
The doorbell rings and Sam groans. He decides to ignore it, but it rings again, and then again, and then it's accompanied by knuckles rapping on the door. Trick-or-treaters are getting bold.
Finally he rises from the sofa and trudges toward the door. "I'm not giving out any more candy," he calls out as he gets closer to the door. When he opens it CJ is on the other side.
She shoves a small brown paper sack toward him. "So long as you have lime for my tequila, I don't give a damn about the candy."
He can't stop it, that rush of pleasure and warmth that floods through him at the sight of her. He wonders if loving her this much makes him less of a bastard, if it maybe cancels out some of the selfishness and lust. "You're in luck," he says, "I'm in the middle of a Corona phase, so limes are in plentiful supply."
Without being invited, CJ pushes past him and into the house. She smells like cold air and her cheeks are flushed bright pink. When she takes off her jacket she's still dressed like Patti Smith.
Sam checks the hall clock. 9.45. "Didn't have a good time at the party, I take it?"
"I needed to see a friendly face," is all she says, before heading to the kitchen.
He doesn't let himself think about how much he likes seeing her there, in his house, making herself comfortable. He joins her in the kitchen and begins cutting up the limes.
* * *
CJ wants to tell him so much, to talk to him about things she thinks maybe he is the only one to understand. About love and loss and acceptance and wanting what you can't have. She doesn't allow herself to question if maybe she is one of the things he wants. It's too dangerous to think that way, too intoxicating. As intoxicating as the bottle of Jose Cuervo currently nestled against her thigh.
She can see how she could lose herself in him; could run her hands up the hard planes of his thighs and ask him for more than he should ever give her. She can see that happening, can see the guilt and desperation taking over till she's reduced to nothing but need. And that's not fair to him. Some men are made for casual flings, for one-night stands and empty promises. Sam Seaborn is not one of them. He was made for everything beautiful and good. He belongs in a fucking Jane Austen movie, for God's sake, not a letter to Penthouse.
Because even with the maturity and solemnness age has brought to his beautiful face, he is still too—much. At least for her. Too good-looking. Too perfect and precious. Too kind, too generous.
Sam would understand, she knows that. If she turned to him and said, "Sam, I'm so lonely. Be with me tonight." If she begged, "Sam, I need to feel something other than numb." If she kissed him without warning or pressed her body to his, he would know. He would understand and he would give her what she needs. A pity fuck.
No, not pity, she corrects herself. Sam gives out of generosity. He gives out of humbleness. He gives what he can, when he can, no matter how much wrong the world does him. That's why she can't turn to him out of desperation. He deserves better than that.
Somewhere along the line she's forgotten she does too.
* * *
Sam is a happy drunk. His friends love to plaster him with alcohol because he turns beguiling, engaging, drops his guard entirely. He coerces bartenders into giving them a free round. He charms and schmoozes and flirts. A drunk Sam can make ten friends in five minutes, just by flashing that big smile, that smile that makes you feel like you've made him the happiest man in the world. There are men and women who would drop everything for a glimpse of that beaming face directed at them. There are so many different kinds of smiles, and Sam's is the best of them all: innocence and bliss bursting from perfect lips.
After six beers, with CJ curled up next to him on the couch, the smile is out in full force.
She smells like limes and is pretending to cringe in terror as they watch 'Nightmare on Elm Street'. It's either part two or part four, Sam can't remember. Ask him if he cares.
He wants to kiss her. He wants to cup the back of her head in his palm and lick the curve of her lips. He wants to hear her whisper his name while the sheets rustle around them.
He'd settle for holding her hand.
His heart is full to bursting for her. He thinks he would give her everything—anything—anything she asked for. He wonders if she's ever had that, had a man lay himself open for her. For a woman like her, it's the least of what she deserves.
Maybe he can tell her. He can say, "CJ, tell me what you need and let me try to give it to you." He can say, "If it helps, I love you. I don't mind." He can offer kind words or ask her the right questions, but maybe no matter what he does it will be the wrong thing. She doesn't want him. He's seen her face slack with grief at the funeral of a man he hardly knew. He's seen the pain in her eyes when Toby's words bite and sting. Those men are worth ten of him. He is small and insignificant; what he is, is not enough.
So what he says is, "I've never been a big Freddy Krueger fan. Can we turn to something else?"
* * *
It's midnight and her buzz has faded. Sam's not smiling anymore and there's a definite hint of tension in the air. For a minute CJ tells herself it was stupid to come over here. Maybe she's been misreading the looks in his eyes these past few months. Maybe Sam doesn't care at all, and if he does, maybe it's no more or less than anyone else.
Suddenly she feels old and ridiculous. What the hell is she doing, staying up till midnight, drinking a bottle of tequila on a work night? Why did she show up at Sam's doorstep? When will she ever learn?
Sam sees her searching around the room for the shoes she's scattered on the floor. "You know," he says, "I was kind of wondering if you came over tonight for a reason."
A flush creeps over CJ's cheeks. She shrugs and says nothing.
"Do you want to..." His voice trails off for a moment, before he continues in a soft voice and doesn't meet her eyes, "...talk?"
She laughs at that, a desperate, bitter sound. "Talk? Yeah, Sam, let's talk."
"I know that...I mean, I know that..." He stops again, sighs, looks down at the floor. He doesn't find the words to continue.
"You don't know it. You don't know it, so don't say you do."
"I just want to—to help, maybe, that's all."
CJ doesn't reply to that. She finds one shoe—the left—and shoves her foot into it. "I should go."
"You don't have to; you could stay here. If you want," he adds hesitantly.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because it's midnight. Because it's cold and you're not in any condition to drive." Sam sighs in irritation. "Christ, CJ, this doesn't have to be complicated. Not with me."
"Everything has to be complicated. Especially with you."
For some reason that stings, and he can't figure out why. "You can take my bed and I'll take the couch." He says it like it's a done deal, like she's already agreeing to this instead of staring at him in outrage.
"I just wanted to hang out and drink, Sam, it wasn't some sort of great cosmic decision." She can see she's switched gears too quickly for him because he takes a second to blink at her and recuperate. "I mean, it was a lousy party and I got hit on by this guy who, I don't know, he kind of looked like you, and I thought...I just thought, 'Maybe I could hang out with Sam'. That's it. No big deal."
"And yet two minutes ago everything with me is complicated."
CJ sighs in irritation, exhaling loudly. "If you don't want me here, you can just ask me to leave. You don't have to be a jerk to get me to go."
"If I didn't want you here, I would never have opened the goddamn door."
It's a simple statement and it doesn't have to mean anything, but somehow CJ is sure that it does.
"I'm not a mind-reader, Sam," she says finally. "I don't know what I'm supposed to infer from that."
"You want me to spell it out for you?" he asks, challenge rippling in his voice.
She glances over at him, his blue eyes bright with defiance. Suddenly she is sure that she doesn't want it spelled out for her. He's not Simon or Toby; he's never had a claim on her the way they have. And she doesn't want him to. Not yet, maybe not ever.
"You've had too much to drink," she says, "and I should go."
Sam watches her head droop tiredly. "You've had too much to drink, and you should stay. Take the bed."
"Okay," she says. Then, "You know, it doesn't matter. I wouldn't understand anyway."
'Yeah,' Sam thinks, 'you would. You would understand too well, and then where would we be?'
* * *
Sam's bed is bathed in dark blue sheets and a matching comforter, like something out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement. He is, not surprisingly, neat as a pin—the bed is made, there are no socks thrown on the floor, no dresser drawer opened with clothes spilling out of it, no empty plate on his bedside table. Just a slightly disorganized tie rack and a Nevil Shute paperback lying face down on the bureau.
It smells nice in here, warm and vaguely spicy, like Sam.
Tequila burns in the back of her throat as she unbuttons her shirt, slips it off her shoulders, tugs her slacks down and kicks them off. She reaches for the shirt Sam's given her and before she can do something horrible and maudlin like tracing its buttons or rubbing the soft fabric against her face, she slides into it and then pulls the comforter back.
Oh God.
Her tired muscles almost cry with relief. She's never been in a bed this comfortable—so soft, so luxurious. She can feel her body relax gratefully. The sheets are cool and fresh against her bare legs. She feels a pang of guilt for every morning she's ever called him to yell at him and drag him from this bed to come to work.
There is a brief, perfunctory knock, and CJ says, "Come in."
Sam is wearing a white tshirt and baggy flannel pajama trousers. He belongs in that Ralph Lauren ad, lying on this bed with a beautiful, curvaceous blond at his side. Maybe a red-cheeked little boy bouncing at the foot of the bed. Maybe a dog—a golden retriever. An advertiser's dream made manifest. Something as perfect as he is, something that shines as much.
"Sam, how can a man like you not have a wife and kids?"
Sam blinks, startled. "Nice segue, CJ."
"Just a random thought," she says. "Brought on by the dazzle of perfection I'm bearing witness to tonight."
"Dazzle of perfection?" he repeats with a rare lift of one black eyebrow.
"Oh, you know." She waves her hands around as if to emphasize her point.
"No," he says slowly, edging toward the bed, stepping past her Patti Smith costume pooling on the floor, "enlighten me."
"Surely I'm not the first person to notice you are remarkably close to perfect, Sam."
"Oh. Right." Sam sounds almost angry and she's not sure why. "Right," he says again, and then laughs angrily. "I forgot. Thanks for reminding me."
"I didn't mean—" She's fumbling now. She hates it when she fumbles. "It's just—God, I mean look at you. Don't you ever just, you know, look at yourself?"
"Jesus Christ, CJ. Just because I happen to have a straight nose and all my teeth intact doesn't mean my life is a Norman Rockwell painting. All right? So just get that thought out of your head."
It's there, something she hasn't seen on his face, in his eyes, since his father admitted to a mistress of almost thirty years and his family was shattered a continent away. Pain, lots of it. Anger. Regret. Self-loathing, which is the most disturbing of all.
"Sam."
"I'm sorry." He rubs his forehead tiredly. "I'm sorry, I just…I get a little tired of it. Don't you?"
"Me? What could I possibly be tired of?"
"People's expectations."
CJ sucks in a sharp breath. She wasn't expecting that and for some reason his simplicity devastates her. "What expectations should I be tired of?"
'Everyone's,' she thinks.
"You don't think people expect a little too much of you? You're beautiful, so they expect you to always look good. You're smart, so they expect you to know everything. You're confident, so they expect you to never fall apart. That doesn't get a little bit draining?"
"They don't expect those things, Sam."
"No, they demand them."
Sometime during this exchange he has settled on the bed by her feet. His face is deceptively calm, and she realizes, not for the first time, that there is so much stirring beneath this easy-going, gentle façade; this man they sometimes insist on treating as a boy. He is not like Toby, who simmers with every look, every gesture, and feels no need to hide himself. He is not like Josh, who wears his emotions like a suit of armor. He is not like Leo or the President or her father, or any other man she has known. Sam is depth and complexity, and the most you can hope is to skim the surface of what he is.
'Nothing special,' she thinks. 'God Sam, how wrong can you be?'
"CJ," he breathes her name in a soft rush of air.
She turns her head on the pillow to look at him, and sees that expression in his eyes again. Hunger. It sends a slight shiver down her spine. But that doesn't mean she likes it.
"Sam. I'm not ready."
Sam draws back as suddenly as if her words were a whip cracked across his face. He looks away, his face burnt with shame. His mind whirls, trying to think of an excuse, trying to laugh off the need that was obviously so clear in his eyes. But he can't laugh it off. He can't pretend it wasn't there.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Don't be," she tells him, sitting up and reaching over to put her hand on top of his.
"I'm sorry I'm not him," he clarifies.
Now it is her turn to flinch. Her face flushes with color. "Why'd you have to say that?"
"I'm sorry."
"Stop saying that. Stop apologizing for who you are. I don't want you to be…him. I want you to be you."
"I don't," he says, with naked honesty.
Sam. Beautiful, perfect, precious Sam—how could he want to be anyone else?
She puts long, cool fingers to his lips, presses against them. She smiles at him indulgently, ignoring the tears prickling at her eyes. "You're a good man. You should be proud of that."
"Yeah," he sighs.
"That's why I came over here tonight—because you're Sam. I like that about you."
For some reason that makes him smile. He leans his forehead gently against hers. "You're CJ. I like that about you."
CJ laughs. "Go to bed, Samshine. We have to be up in five hours."
"Okay."
She can still taste the tequila and feel the grime of the day on her face, and she is tired. So tired. She watches Sam leave, her gaze brushing over his shoulders and exhausted posture.
"Sam?"
He turns around. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
His eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles like this, huge and unabashed. She likes that. "Happy Halloween, CJ."
"Good night," she says with a soft laugh.
"Good night."
Sam closes the door behind him, and even though CJ shuts her eyes and expects sleep to come, it doesn't. Too much alcohol swimming in her bloodstream, too many thoughts and memories clouding her brain. Simon's smile and Sam's eyes and the reflection of the skyscrapers and lights in the puddles at her feet and the word 'sunshine'.
Agent Sunshine.
Samshine.
For the first time she makes the connection and wonders at the hilarious irony, wonders if it means anything that she equates these two men with goodness and light. Wonders if it means anything at all or if this is only the somewhat drunken musing of a tired, overworked, heartbroken woman. Wonders if she misses Simon, or misses the idea of him.
I got to say, there are times when it seems like you like me.
I do like you.
No, not the idea, she thinks as tears spring to her eyes. The reality of him. The warmth and the scent of him. The tilt of his head and the tremor of his voice, that look on his face, half-castigating, half-amused. The potential.
There was never heat in his eyes, not like she has seen in Sam's. Flirtation, yes, and attraction. Playfulness. But no heat. No passion. Maybe there would have been, eventually, but a man like Simon was trained to be guarded and careful and wary. Heat and desire weren't luxuries he could afford. Not the way Sam can.
She's not ready yet, she knows that, for anything Sam wants to offer. She's still feeling tender, bruised. She needs time and space, and of all the men she has known, Sam is the most willing to give those things to her.
Maybe it's a new beginning. Maybe it will lead to a kiss or a bed or at the very least…
Sam has saved her life. He has given into his instincts and pulled her body down to the ground, away from a torrent of bullets. He has held her as she cried after the president's revelation, the betrayal that was not a betrayal. He has brought her blueberry muffins and stolen her chapstick. He has looked at her with desire, and with laughter, and with affection, and with understanding. He has given and given; given so much, in fact, that she can never begin to repay him. But the most beautiful thing of all the beautiful things about Sam is that he doesn't want compensation. He will never look at her and weigh the pros and cons, the reciprocity. He will never find her lacking. He will only smile and open his arms and offer more.
CJ closes her eyes and smiles sleepily to herself. She breathes freer. Sleep comes easily now, now that she knows.
She doesn't want the very least. She wants the most. She wants all of it, whatever Sam will offer. Just not yet.
-FIN-