Between These Lands
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I never said I wanted them.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Like hell.
Pairing: More like two people stuck in a traffic jam. (CJ/T)
Feedback: You take the wheel.
Summary: "…our love by hour may we two stand when we're dead. Between these lands the sun sets, behind his eyes …"
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In like a lion, out like a lamb. There wasn't an animal for this month, she thought. Running her hands up his bare thighs, she leans forward, her hair covering her face like a curtain. There's no spotlight, but she's performed in the dark before. Prefers it. Expelling a breath, the hair opens up, and swallowing, she sees her encore.
She's a star. Falling star, maybe.
She's on her knees, his hand on the back of her head, and he's saying "ohgodohgod" but this definitely is not something holy. She could make it holy but it's as close to God as she gets and she's not going to waste it on this.
«»
She spends her days weaving words, stories, with her mouth as the needle. Then she spends her nights in some endless circle, weaving her own fiction, and whether he comes or doesn't or if they come together, it's part of her story. Sometimes. Other times she watches television, only news channels, and laughs because they have about as much an idea of what's going on than she does. Marvin Gaye was on to something.
She's lying on the sofa in her office reading some apparently vital information regarding another country. Unknowingly, she's using eight and a half by eleven sheets of paper as a makeshift blanket, her feet dangling, when he shuffles in; he looks grumpy, disheveled, and either dead or really tired. Well. She might love him.
She hates wasted space, "Toby?"
He responds by looking at the feet that shuffled him into her office.
"You wanted something?"
He finally drags his gaze to her face, but not before it stopped on her legs and her mouth. Has he ever gotten straight to the point?
"Yeah, uh. You want to get something to eat when you're," waving his hand around, "done with this?"
She's shaking her head before he's finished talking, "I don't--"
He looks upset. Did she miss something?
"You're sure? I mean--"
"Toby."
She shifts a little on the sofa; her shoe falls off and lands on the floor on top of some newspapers.
He moves to pick it up for her, "Your shoe."
"Don't, please."
Confused, "CJ?"
"You can't have me all the time, to yourself. I never said I'd be your dream."
«»
He sits in his old, brown leather chair. Holding the requisite end-of-the-day glass of scotch, his cigar remains wrapped and unlit in his shirt pocket. Dylan's got him 'strolling through the lonely graveyard of his mind,' but he drums fingers on his covered thigh and thinks about her frenzied breaths expelled against his shoulder.
Ring, ring, ring, "Hello?"
He's calling her at four in the morning, on a Saturday; she's obviously been sleeping. He can't say he cares.
"CJ."
Predictably angry, "What the hell. Toby, it's--"
Cut her off at the knees (she'll still be taller), "Four. I just want--"
"It's--"
"Put the phone down, don't hang up, and go back to sleep."
Doubtful, "What?"
"I want to listen to you. Breathe."
"Okay, um, goodnight."
"Yeah," he stops himself from correcting her statement.
He finishes his drink, puts his glass down, on a table with no coaster, and unwraps his cigar. The phone at his ear, he loosens his tie, her breathing providing a somewhat dismal soundtrack to his day.
It's just that nothing seems worth saving.