Part One

Part One

They reminded her of his blood, the roses. Not because she pricked her finger with the thorns, leaving a stain from thorn to leaf, before she held the pad of her finger to her lips to soothe the wound, but simply for the fact that they were as deep a red as Josh's or her blood had ever been, and the envelope, in contrast, was as white and silent and desolate as the snow. 'Neil Bowman', the card read, '311 Walsch Avenue, Apartment B', but on the back he had scrawled, 'Call me. Yours, Neil'. But he wasn't hers and somehow, she felt dirty and drained all over again. He, her one-night-stand twice removed, had sent her a dozen perfectly formed, beautiful blood-red roses, and the fact that he could and dared to do so almost frightened her.

Though drunk, CJ was not drunk enough to give him her name, or perhaps she was too drunk to do so; of course, she was the Press Secretary and her face was on television on a near-daily basis, everyone knew her. Naturally, Neil Bowman, her twice-made mistake, would know her too. And he sent her beautiful flowers, symbolic of beautiful things and promises and love, yet they reminded her of pain and desperation and dirty, ugly things.

After a few minutes of contemplation, she picked up the phone and informed the answering machine that identified itself as 4B that the flowers were an unnecessary but kind gesture, and that she was sorry but things could not go any further, or rather, she amended, anywhere at all. And then, she called Carol and asked her to have the roses disposed of.

With an odd look, Carol left with them, and CJ watched as a single drop of her own blood fell on the business card before she threw it away, then she placed her head in her hands and sighed. Tired and sore and old she felt, but the press briefings were approaching and so she stood, stretched, and walked with her files, ignoring Carol as she answered the phone, blood red roses at the base of her desk.

"Donna," she paused, her voice sounding a little too breathy even to her own ears, "Advil?"

"You too?" Donna grinned, "Josh will never admit that we're not joking about the delicate system thing," blond hair billowed out around her face as she shook her head and bent to retrieve the bottle. Dropping two tablets into CJ's hand and holding up a small water bottle.

She tossed her head back to take the pills, her eyes tightly shut as flashes of fluorescent light burst beyond her eyelids. And, her sleeve fell towards her elbow, exposing blackened skin, a bruise she'd not taken much care to hide.

"CJ," Donna's voice was low, surprised, perhaps even alarmed, "What happened?"

She replaced the cap on the bottle, turned away from the younger woman, picked up her briefs, and headed toward the press room, al the while calling over her shoulder, "Nothing Donna, I'm fine."

And then, CJ stood at the door to the pressroom, hugging her files to her chest with one hand on the door, and she was sober and lost and the tiniest bit vulnerable.

After Rosslyn and Manchester, she'd been so numb and so lonely that she was dying to feel something anything, regardless of the who or the what. After the scotch and the beer, and his hands and her bruises, and Rosslyn - she felt and she hurt and she still didn't remember it all, but she didn't blame it on the concussion or the alcohol, she just missed it and prayed for it - she'd rather feel the emptiness and the numbness than the hurt and the loss. After the beer and the words, his apartments, his hands, and her pain, she'd been just as angry and dirty and tired, only then she was bruised and lost and angry at herself. Then, she'd prayed for the before. That night, two nights ago, she'd dreamed she was drowning but Toby's hand was on her shoulder and his eyes understood and she felt dry land under her feet. And despite the blood and the hate, Josh still breathed and lived and now he was smiling and even bouncing again.

She chuckled, pushing open the door and forgetting her mistakes and what Donna was probably saying, and felt the tiniest bit better. Thoughts of Toby and Josh made her smile as she reached the podium, and she was CJ Cregg once again.

"Well, good morning all! Let's keep this brief, shall we? Now, about the gun-control bill," CJ began, knowing that when she returned to her office, she'd still carry bruises, but there would be no roses to remind her, and he'd be an almost distant memory - a mistake she would not make again.

And in Apartment 4B, a cleanly-shaven man adjusted his tie, eyes narrowed, as his answering machine beeped. "That's what you think, Claudia Jean Cregg. I'll make you love me, yet." And with that, he grabbed his coat, as charcoal gray as his eyes, and headed from his home, his one-track mind intending a head on collision.

"Oh, Claudia..."

Document created with wvWare/wvWare version 0.6.7 -->