When The Lights Go Down

by J9

To the rest of the room, they were just two co-workers, enjoying a dance... Post Ep to Dead Irish Writers, Charlie/Donna

Title: When The Lights Go Down

Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

Rating: PG

Pairing: Charlie/Donna

Spoilers: Dead Irish Writers and everything up to it

Feedback: Makes my day

Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

Archive: At my site The Band Gazebo (helsinkibaby.topcities.com) Anywhere else please ask first.

Summary: To the rest of the room, they were two co-workers enjoying a dance…

Author's Note: So I was supposed to be writing something else, and this came out instead - it's a disease that appears to be afflicting me at the moment! I'm not sure about this one, but I figured that I should really post it before this year's West Wing Christmas episode airs and renders my continuity redundant!

***

When the lights go down
And there's nothing left to be
When the lights go down
And the truth is all you see
When you feel that hole inside your soul
And wonder what you're made of
Well, we all find out
When the lights go down

***

She watches spellbound as the couples whirl under the sparkling lights, the opulence of the room, the elegant men, the beautiful gowns never failing to dazzle her. She sees the leader of the free world, a man who just now gave the most beautiful toast to his wife, glide by, the aforementioned wife in his arms, the same woman who she fears she insulted badly earlier on. A tingle of shame runs up her spine, quickly chased away by the wave of unabashed sentimentality that tells her that the First Lady isn't thinking about what was said in a private sitting room over a very good bottle of wine. She's not thinking about anything except the man who's holding her; and the man who's holding her isn't thinking of anything or anyone but her either.

Around them dance more people she works with, and it amazes her every day that these phenomenal people have come to think of her as their equal, as their friend. CJ dances by in the arms of Lord John Marbury, her cheeks flushed pink from either the dancing, the man or the wine, she's not sure which, though it could be a combination of all three. She can see Toby and Sam from where she is, sitting at one of the tables, glasses of champagne forgotten in front of them as Sam gestures wildly with one hand, and there's an amused smile on Toby's face as he listens patiently.

Her vision is blocked by her boss and his girlfriend, lost in a world of their own, dancing to the music. Whatever Josh had done to have Amy calling him a jackass all night, whatever Amy had done to have Josh forgive her is all forgotten now, as they look like they haven't a care in the world, dancing in such a way that it's clear to her, to anyone who's looking at them that they're going to be getting out of here pretty soon. As she watches, Josh's fingers traces a path down Amy's shoulder, down her arm, as he smiles down at her, her laughing at something that he's saying. For now, for this moment in time, they look like the perfect picture of the happy couple, and she can't help but sigh as she looks at them.

She's so lost in thought that she doesn't notice the man who's standing beside her, doesn't notice him until his arm brushes against hers, and she swears she can feel the heat of his skin against hers, even through his tuxedo jacket. Again, a tingle runs up her spine, but this has nothing to do with shame. This is something else altogether, and she can't help but smile over at him when she catches him looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

***

The band is in full swing, and it seems as if everyone is out on the floor dancing, save those few die-hards still sitting down. They're the ones like Toby and Sam, both of who came without dates, and who, in Toby's case, don't dance anyway. Or they're the ones like Leo, who also came dateless, but who's working the room, talking to Congressmen and Senators, making sure that everyone who needs to be seen to is seen to, never leaving anything to chance. The man never quits working, not even at the birthday party of his best friend's wife.

That, he realises, is something that he has in common with Leo, because it seems like he never quits working either. He can't remember the last time he got home before midnight, can't remember the last time he had a full, uninterrupted eight hours of sleep. Hell, some days, it seems like eight minutes of sleep would be a stretch. Even tonight, he spent most of the party listening to the President tell stories about him and the First Lady, trying to fashion it into some sort of a speech. He'd asked him why he didn't just say that he loved her very much and have done with it, because in his experience, the simplest approach was usually the best. The President had replied, "In my house, anyone who uses one word when they could have used ten just isn't trying hard." He hadn't said anything in reply, because he didn't think pointing out that the straightforward approach had worked just fine with his youngest daughter, choosing instead to continue listening to the President as he hammered out a toast.

It had been worth the effort he'd realised as he listened to him, saw the tears in the First Lady's eyes, and not only in hers, but in the eyes of most of the ladies in the room, and not a few of the men. It had been a vintage Bartlet speech, vintage Bartlet delivery, and he'd been proud of him.

Josh had been right all those months ago - that feeling never went away. Through scandal, triumph and disaster, it was always there, mostly in the background, on occasion sneaking up on him unawares.

Another feeling sneaks up on him unawares as he looks at the President and First Lady dancing; a pang of sadness as he remembers the Bartlet who isn't here tonight. He tries not to think of her often, and most of the time, he succeeds pretty well; one of the benefits of working all the hours that God sends. But every once in a while, he remembers how she used to look at him, remembers how good they were together, remembers the tears in both their eyes as they agreed that they should end things, that she should go off to Europe with no strings to hold her back. He knows he did the right thing by her, and given the chance, he'd do it again. It just doesn't stop the occasional tug at his heartstrings when he sees her mother look at her father the way that she used to look at him.

A sigh from beside him breaks through his reverie, and he sneaks a peek out of the corner of his eye at the woman standing there. She's a million miles away, he can tell, and her thoughts, like his, appear to have taken on a certain melancholy tint, if the look in her pale blue eyes is anything to go by. He shifts slightly, brushing her arm with his, a gentle reminder that he's here, a plea for her attention, a query as to her welfare, all wrapped up in one little touch of cloth against flesh. She glances over at him, and a smile comes to her face, just a small one mind, but it makes a smile come to his as well. He holds her gaze for a moment before he extends his hand, inclining his head towards the dance floor.

"Shall we?"

***

She's surprised at his invitation, but she's not going to turn it down. She's tired of standing on the sidelines as everyone else has a nice time, has some semblance of a life, so she puts her hand in his, bestowing upon him a beaming smile. "I thought you'd never ask," she tells him, and he doesn't reply to that, just leads her on to the dance floor, out into the middle where they're surrounded by people who are concentrating on one another, where they're not likely to be noticed. In no time, they're moving in perfect formation, hands joined in mid-air between them, her free hand on his shoulder, his high on her back, enough space between them that a marching band could parade through. If anyone does notice them, she'll know that they look like two co-workers who don't do this very often, two single people who are just enjoying the social function.

She knows that that's what people will think, and she also knows how wrong they would be.

They move in silence for a long time, then he gets brave, or she does, because their stance shifts slightly, taking a half-step closer to one another. Closer than they were perhaps, closer than might be permitted for just friends, maybe. But not enough for anyone to notice anything, not unless they're looking hard. It is, however, close enough that when he speaks, only she can hear him. "Canadian?" is all he asks, and she smiles, shaking her head in amusement.

"Long story," she tells him dryly, and he nods sagely, because nothing around this White House is ever a short story, and she knows that those words are a promise that she'll fill him in on all the gory details later on. "It was a beautiful toast."

He rolls his eyes, and that tells her all she needs to know about the preparation, and how he's been spending his evening. "Let's just say I'm grateful that it's out of the way," is all he says, and for him, that's admitting plenty. "Thank God that birthdays come but once a year."

She tilts her head, looking around the room, at the decorations, the people, all the fanfare that went along with tonight's gathering, and despite her nationality problems, despite the fact that she might have insulted the First Lady, the magic sweeps over her again. "It hasn't been that bad," is all she says, and that makes him pull his head back, looking her up and down, as much as he can given their close proximity.

"You look lovely by the way," he tells her, and a blush that's both pleasure and embarrassment crosses her cheeks.

"You think?" She's not fishing for compliments, she really does want his opinion, as she continues, "Because I love this dress, but I wasn't sure because everyone says that blondes shouldn't wear red…"

Her voice trails off as he chuckles, pulling her closer to him for just a second, then letting her go, a reassuring squeeze. "You look amazing," he affirms, and she grins. That's when another rush of heat that had nothing to do with pleasure, and everything to do with embarrassment races up her cheeks, and he stares at her in shock before he bursts out laughing.

***

He's amazed when she says that she wasn't sure about that dress, because he can't remember ever seeing her in anything more perfect. The dark red makes a startling contrast to her pale skin - alabaster, he reminds himself - and her blonde hair, and the material is soft and silky against his hand, much like the skin underneath. The long, full skirt swishes against the ground as she walks, as she dances, and he fancies that she's floating, literally walking on air, as he remembers how his breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat as he saw her tonight. He'd only hoped that the President hadn't noticed, and sure enough, he hadn't, too caught up in his speech.

"You look amazing," he tells her, and he hopes that he was right earlier on, that short and to the point is usually better, because words fail him at that point. From the smile on her face, he thinks that his theory might be right, but instead of a reply from her, the only sound he hears is a strange rumbling sound, almost a gurgle, and it takes him a split second to realise what it is. His suspicions are confirmed by the rapid colouring of her face, and he can't help but laugh, cutting it off quickly when he sees her grow even redder. "Was that you?" he asks, and she looks heavenward, obviously mortified.

"I missed dinner," she points out. "Because of my immigration thing. I was going to get something later, but I forgot…"

That banishes all jocularity from his mind and he frowns. "You haven't eaten anything tonight?" he asks, and she shakes her head.

"Josh brought me some olives," she tells him, and he shakes his head, dropping his hand from her back, missing the contact the moment that it's gone, settling for gripping her hand in his, leading her off the dance floor. "Where are we…" she begins, but her voice trails off as she follows him, and he guesses that she doesn't want to make a scene at the party.

They don't speak as he leads her through the halls of the White House, though he drops her hand from his as they move, for obvious reasons. No-one stops them as they go up to the Residence, both of them being well-known to the Secret Service guards, him in particular being a regular visitor there. Once there, she reaches out and takes his hand again, squeezing it tightly, and she whispers to him, "Are you sure we should be up here?"

He looks back at her, gives her what he hopes is a reassuring grin. "Come on, let's get you fed," is all he says, but the anxiety doesn't lessen on her face, and she renews her protests.

"Charlie, I don't think we should be doing this-"

Her voice stops mid-word as he brings her into the kitchen, leaving her standing at the island in the middle of the floor, going to the refrigerator, studying it for a second before pulling out a block of cheese and a bowl filled with chicken pieces, then going to another cupboard, finding a box of crackers. He places his bounty on the island in front of her, shrugging his shoulders before going in search of cutlery. "It's not miniature ravioli of foie gras and smoked goose confit…" he says, and she's shaking her head, already reaching for the chicken.

"It's better," she tells him, popping a piece into her mouth, and he grins, finding knives and forks, and they pull up a stool, and there they sit, enjoying their feast.

***

If someone had told her that she'd have as good a time sitting in the White House kitchen, eating finger foods, as she'd have at the party, perhaps better, she's sure she would have laughed at them. Nonetheless, she can't deny the truth of the matter, that she's having a nice time here, with him. The silence is easy, companionable, which makes it all the more stunning to her when she hears her own voice break it.

"How did you find out about where all the good stuff is?"

She knows the answer before she's finished asking the question, and even if she didn't, the flash of emotion in his eyes would have told her plain as day. "Zoey," he admits with a shrug, and she fights to keep her face impassive. The younger girl has always been somewhat of a ghost between them, and she doesn't want to think about her, not now, not tonight, not when they were having such a nice time.

Except now that she's opened the bottle, she can't put the genie back in, and her traitorous mouth asks him, "What happened between you two?"

He looks up at her from across the island, shrugging his shoulders. "She went to Europe. I didn't." She blinks at the coldness of his tone, and he shrugs again. "We could've stayed together, done the long distance thing. I just didn't think that was fair to her. She deserves to have that experience without worrying about her boyfriend back home." Her eyes widen at what he's telling her, but he's surprisingly matter of fact about the whole thing. "No big deal."

"You did that for her?" She can't keep the amazement out of her voice, and he looks down. She can't seem him too clearly in the dim light of the kitchen, but if she could, she'd bet that he's blushing.

"I did pretty good out of it too," he tells her quietly, and he stretches out a hand, covering hers, the weight of his palm comforting and solid, and now it's her turn to blush, this time with a mixture of pleasure, embarrassment, and something more.

Her natural inclination is to make a joke, so she does, quipping, "Do you say that to all the girls?"

A shake of his head, a quiet "No," is her only response, and the smile fades from her face, because she knows that he doesn't.

She also knows that it doesn't alarm her as much as it should.

Maybe that's why she turns her palm up under his, so that their fingers can intertwine, and she never takes her eyes off him. "It's late," she tells him, her voice low and teasing.

He nods, but doesn't speak.

"Take me home?" she asks, and he smiles.

***

He'd thought that it would be more awkward, talking about his ex-girlfriend, the first woman with whom he'd truly been in love, with the woman that he was now kind-of, sort-of seeing. It hadn't turned out that way, although he sensed that she was worried about his feelings for Zoey, that he was still in love with her. He, on the other hand, knew that while a part of him loved Zoey, indeed, that a part of him always would, that he'd moved on.

He'd known that for a while, though when Zoey had first gone to Europe, at the same time as he was being offered immunity, when everyone had been pressing him to take it, he'd wondered if he wouldn't be better moving away from the White House completely, going somewhere where no-one knew him. He'd realised quickly that that would be impossible, and he'd decided to stay with his team. He'd never regretted that decision, but on the night that he'd told Toby that, the night of the Nobel Dinner, he'd been heading home for the night when he'd walked into her. He'd braced himself initially, sure that she was going to start in on him about the deal that he'd been offered, but when she'd barely even acknowledged him, he'd looked at her closely, seen how pale she was, how her eyes were filled with tears that she was barely keeping back. She resembled nothing so much as a woman who had just lost her best friend, and he'd put his own troubles to one side, asking her if she was all right. She'd told him that she was, but he hadn't come close to being fooled, and when she told him that she was taking the metro home, he'd insisted on driving her. It hadn't taken much to get her to give in, and she'd invited him in for coffee, where she'd ended up telling him about her date with Cliff, about Josh's reaction to it, and that night she'd told him what she hadn't told Josh, that she'd seen Cliff more than once.

He hadn't said anything, just listened to her, and he'd told her that everything was going to be fine. She'd thanked him, watched him from the window as he got into his car and he drove home, the image of a pair of pale blue eyes haunting his dreams that night.

He hadn't known at the time that that was the start of them.

He'd been worried about her when she was called to testify, but not unduly so. He'd been sure that she'd be fine, that is, until he saw her face when he saw her around the office that Sunday afternoon. He'd had to wait until midway through the next week to find out just what had happened, and had only found out by accident, once more walking into her as they were both leaving for the day. She'd looked like she was in need of a drink, and he'd offered to buy her one, and in a little bar halfway to her place, she'd told him about Cliff and the diary and the fight with Josh, and how he still was hardly talking to her.

Once again, he'd told her that everything was going to be fine, and this time, he'd been sure that he was lying, and he'd known from the look on her face that she thought so too, but that she appreciated the pretence.

Ever since then, they're been talking to one another, sharing secrets, confidences, worries. But it had never been anything more than that, even though they'd both begun to notice a distinct vibe in the air. It might never have grown into anything more than that had the President not burned down the house the night of the State of the Union, had Joey Lucas's polling numbers not been as good as they were. The relief was high, the champagne was flowing, and both of them were in immensely good moods when they met in the corridor outside his office. They hadn't seen each other when the poll results came through, and they'd pulled one another into a hug, and while he'd hugged plenty of people that night, the one he'd exchanged with her had been tighter, longer, and when he'd pulled away, he'd seen something in her eyes that had made his stomach twist. He'd taken hold of her hand, leading her into his office, thankfully deserted, and he'd made sure that all the doors were closed before turning to her, pulling her into his arms and pressing his lips to hers. He'd been half-afraid that she was going to slap him, pull away from him, do anything but what she did, but her response had been enthusiastic, and they'd gone home together that night, and several nights since then.

"Take me home?" she asks now, and he smiles, wanting nothing more than to do that.

"Deanna's got some friends staying over," he tells her, hoping that she understands what he's saying. Because while Deanna knows about them, while they got along fine the one time that they met, he doesn't want her staying over while Deanna's friends are there. There are precious few people who know about them, and that's the way they both want to keep it.

She smiles, squeezes his hand. "Kate's away on business," is all she says, and he smiles brightly at her.

"Then let's go," he says, rising, careful to put everything back just where they got it before he leads her out of the kitchen and back to the party.

***

She smiles at his reaction to the news that they'll have the apartment to themselves, knowing what's going through his mind. She doesn't mind not going back to his place; while she's met Deanna once, and got along fine with her, she's not comfortable with staying over while she's there, especially not if she's got friends there too. Far better to go to her place, even if it means that the times he can stay the whole night are few and far between.

She knows the other reason behind the smile too, the knowledge that Kate's not there to pass judgement on them. Kate knows about them, only because she came home one night when she was supposed to be staying out late, and caught them on the couch, making out like teenagers, clothes in various stages of being thrown across the room. She'd held her tongue while he was there, waiting until he'd left to ask what the hell she thought she was doing, and she's made no secret since then of her disapproval. It's something that they don't talk about; either the roommates, or the couple, it just hangs in the air between them. It means that he doesn't feel comfortable going there when he knows Kate will be there though, and she doesn't blame him a bit.

Nor does she blame Kate for her reasoning. Her friend is afraid that she's going to get hurt, citing the age difference, the race thing, the job thing as perfectly good reasons why she's lost her mind, why she should end it now before it's too late. What she can't explain to Kate is that by the time she'd caught them, by the time she'd made her disapproval known, it was already too late.

How can she explain that while she'd known him for more than two years, seen him as nothing more than a workmate, that now she's seeing him a whole new light and that she can't go back? That the race thing doesn't matter to her; that he's funny and kind, and a great dancer and he makes her laugh, makes her feel special, and that that's all that counts? And that as for the age thing, that while she may be older than him by quite a way, he's an old soul trapped in the body of a young man; that in actual fact, he's more mature than she is?

She can't explain it to Kate, so she doesn't try, and truth be told, she doesn't even try that hard to explain it to herself. All she knows is that when she's with him, everything in her world makes sense. It's been too long since she's felt like that, and she's afraid that if she looks too hard at it, it's all going to disappear. So she just enjoys the talks and the silences and being with him. She doesn't worry about anything else.

***

He drives them back to her place, the excuse ready on his lips that he hasn't been drinking and that she has, and that's why he's bringing her home. If anyone had noticed them, that's what he would have told them, but the party is still in full swing in the ballroom, and everyone is more concerned about what's going on there than what two friends and workmates are doing.

So they leave the grounds of the White House undetected and he negotiates easily the near deserted streets on the way to her apartment, a journey that at this stage he could make with his eyes closed. She doesn't speak on the way and nor does he, but when he pulls into a car parking space near to her place, the luck of finding a place near to the front door auguring good for them he thinks. He would open the door for her, but she does it for herself, waiting for him to come around the car to join her, entwining her fingers with his before they walk up the steps to her apartment.

She slides the key into the door, and he steps back, allowing her to enter first, taking her coat from her shoulders as she walks ahead of him, hanging it up on the coat-stand, his going on the hook beside it. He follows her into the living room then, stops at the door for a second so that he can observe her. She's switched on the lamps around the room, but not the overhead light, and she stands at the stereo, flipping through the songs on whatever CD is in there at the moment, looking for one that she likes. She's kicked off her shoes somewhere between the front door and here, so the dress is trailing along the floor, and her long blonde hair falls forward, obscuring her face and his fingers itch to brush it back. When she selects the song, a soft grunt of satisfaction confirming her choice, she looks up to see him there, and bestows upon him a smile that takes his breath away. He finds himself moving towards her without quite being aware of it, until he's standing right in front of her, his hands settling themselves on her waist, her hands going up to his shoulders.

"You're so beautiful," are the words that come out of his mouth and she looks down momentarily, a pleased blush racing up her cheeks.

"You owe me a dance," she tells him flirtatiously as she looks up at him, and he blinks in surprise, the apparent non-sequiter taking him by surprise. He'd always heard about her leaps of logic, had seen them close up more than once, but he'd never realised quite how endearing he found them.

"I danced with you at the party," he tells her, petulance warring with amusement in his voice, because he's sure she's going somewhere with this, he's just not sure where.

She tilts her head, the tiniest of pouts coming to her lips, even as her eyes sparkle in the dim light. "A formal dance," she points out. "Not a proper one." She takes a step closer to him in illustration, her body pressing against his, obliterating all concept of personal space entirely, and he doesn't mind in the least, welcoming the intrusion. He doesn't recognise the song, but the music is slow and sultry, and they're not dancing, more swaying back and forth in one spot, but he doesn't point that out to her either.

"What the lady wants…" he murmurs instead, pressing her even closer against him, resting his head against hers, losing himself in the music and her.

The song changes, moves on to something just as slow and sultry, and she pulls her head back, meeting his eyes, and it's then that he lowers his head, kissing her, feeling her respond enthusiastically. He's only barely aware of the fact that she's moving him, or he could be moving her, but there's some dim and distant part of his mind that knows they're moving towards her bedroom, and then they're there, and the slippery material of the dress he's spent great parts of the night thinking about is sliding through his fingers and down to the ground, and the tie that he spent great amounts of time trying to tie is coming undone under her nimble fingers, as are the buttons of his shirt, and he stops thinking after that.

When he's thinking again, she's lying asleep in his arms, head pillowed on his chest and his fingers are running through her silky blonde hair. She's smiling, and so is he, and he can't think of a single place where he'd rather be. He knows it's not perfect, keeping this a secret from everyone around them, and there's a part of him that's worried that in days to come, she's going to change her mind, realise that this isn't what she wants, and he doesn't know what he's going to do if that happens. But for now, he's here with her, and he's content to enjoy that. He doesn't think about anything else.

***

When the music begins to play, she presses herself against him, holding him close the way she wanted to at the party, but couldn't. This is one of her favourite songs, and when it changes into something else, she looks at him, her eyes sending him an invitation that she hopes he'll accept. He does, and when their lips meet, she knows that this is what she's spent all night waiting for, why she lost so many hands of Solitaire sitting alone in Josh's office. Somehow, they contrive to make it to the bedroom, where clothes are flung every which way and she thanks her lucky stars that she saved for that dress for weeks, because it's going to be creased as all giddy-up from lying on the floor all night, and there's no way she'd be able to take it back, even if she wanted to. After all, considering the effect it's had on him, it was well worth the money.

She knows as she lies pressed against him is that this is what she could never explain to Kate, what her friend could never see, the feeling of safety and security that she gets from being in his arms like this. The way that she trusts him utterly, and knows that he feels the same way about her. Knowing that he's going to be there for her, no matter what, that she's got someone that she can count on, someone who's going to be there for her when the lights go down. She's wanted that for a long time, and now she's got it, and she's not going to let it go. That's her last thought as she falls asleep.