Silence
Author: Oro
Disclaimer: If I were Sorkin, I'd write these things directly into the show.
Notes: Writing this in sunny California, in an unsunny mood with the help of Tahlia. Angsty CJ/Toby campaign sex for July 31, also known as the birthday of Harry Potter and Orgasm Day.
You end up in Toby's hotel room, of course; because you can't hold your breath long enough until the night is over and you break against the wall and sob because you want something you can't have. Because for once, you were lonelier and more fragile than usual, standing in front of him as he looked at you and made you this thing that you try not to be. Because it doesn't mean anything if you're campaigning, everybody knows that; because Andi's not there and you were a sucker for his confession of loneliness. You blame yourself for his betrayal behind his kisses, in the elevator, in the hallway and on his door and the floor, even if you're too old for this shit. You're too old for his games but that doesn't seem to bother you tonight.
The creak of the bedsprings and the shade of the walls here, you think, seem so appropriate for inappropriate behavior; you assume the puns in your mouth and he kisses them with alcohol, his silence making you understand why he's in charge of the words. Always the words with him, and for you it's the sounds. The bed creaks again and you laugh nervously and say something meaningless, which he catches with a dark gaze; you try to listen to his moves and feel the guilt that leaks from his fingers. You stupidly ask, in a semi-playful tone, if he remembers telling you that it only hurts if you get caught.
He kisses you; hard on the mouth, and knocks the sentiment out of you with the muffled claim that it's harder to do this when you babble out anecdotes from god knows how long ago. And there's that silence again, but it's not as embarrassing like it had been when you were younger, or actually like it was just a half hour ago, when you clumsily took off his pants and it seemed like the sleaziest thing (and most asked-for, come to think of it) to do during a campaign. It occurs to you that maybe you shouldn't mention that.
And you stare at the ceiling and count the stains, trying to let go of the guilt and the history, and you find yourself drowning in him on the most uncomfortable bed in the middle of nowhere, and it's somewhat peaceful. Dirty language rolls off your tongue like all the things you've been avoiding in public, and he likes it – loves it – and you tell him to fuck, to go harder, and oh baby yes yes yes; you listen to lust in his moves. And you hide your pleasure in a whisper as you die seven times and come to life eight, with that shudder you hate and the Toby you borrowed from another woman.
You listen carefully for signs of regret in the kisses he trails on your lips and your face and your neck and your chest, until you can't hear anything anymore. You hope it's a good sign.
FIN