Part Eight
"Oh," CJ sighed, a contented grin working across her face as she stretched upward, easing forward in her seat, "That was good."
"Last time we went for food, Claudia Jean, you refused to eat steak. I thought you hated it," William remarked, grinned almost stupidly.
She shrugged and chuckled, "So did I."
"Some women crave peanut butter and pickles, CJ wants meat," Toby put in, lifting his glass. "Still hungry?"
The Press Secretary shook her head. "Nah. Hey, at least we know Rachel's not a vegetarian."
Matthew snorted, "Or a picky eater. Ow!" he cried, reaching down and rubbing his shin before turning to look at CJ, who was grinning rather smugly. "Claudia…" he whined.
Toby laughed out loud before he could restrain himself, eyes twinkling with mirth. "You sound like Josh Lyman."
"My favorite little brother," CJ shot Matthew a glare.
"Oh, now that was low, Beanpole!" his glare fell short of hurt, isntead making him appear somewhat miffed.
"Be nice to your brother, Claudia Jean."
Toby grinned at the Creggs, mind conjuring an image of pizza dinners spent with laughter, teasing, and sibling rivalry. He could only imagine a tiny CJ, then corrected himself – CJ was never tiny, never short… shorter, perhaps – with sun-lightened red hair tied back in pigtails, pummeling her brother as she shrieked with tickle-induced laughter. That, he sighed, was an image he'd never forget, and a photograph he'd love to have.
Moments later, CJ and Toby exchanged stares as their pagers beeped in unison. CJ pulled the annoying device to eye level and groaned. "911."
"Must be big," Toby sighed.
"Isn't it always?"
---
"Your office or mine?" Toby asked, his hand sneaking protectively across her back.
"How about both?" CJ groaned inwardly, her earlier annoyance in regards to being treated very much like the invalid she wasn't resurfacing. "Toby," she added, watching as he opened his mouth and steeled himself. Whether he had planned to gape and follow as if it were all a grand game of Simon Says or to argue as he usually did, she didn't wait to find out. Stepping slightly away, CJ "The Press Secretary" Cregg continued. "This is the White House, there are between one and three hundred Secret Service agents working here and in the surrounding area at all times, and several armed marines on or near the premises," she paused, punctuating her point with a finger in his chest. "The White House, Toby."
"Yeah," he ran a hand over his face, gazing toward an unknown something off to the side.
"We need to see Leo, find out what the 911 is for anyway. Come on, Ziegler."
Sighing, Toby nodded, watching her back for a moment and wondering if she'd ever take his name. Independent, Toby huffed to himself, yes, his CJ was independent.
"Slow down then, Cregg," he chuckled out loud, hurrying to catch up. "We don't all have long legs."
"Isn't that a shame?" she raised an eyebrow, and soon they stood in the Chief of Staff's outer-sanctum.
"Hey Margaret, where's Leo?"
"Leo? He's not here, CJ. It's the day after Christmas," she paused and stood upright from her bent position, gift and purse in hand. "I was just getting something…" she trailed off nervously, and Toby's raised eyebrows soon matched CJ's. "What are you, uhm…?"
"We both got paged, why…" Toby looked at Margaret, whose face was flushed with embarrassment and he finally realized whose gift she was preparing to deliver. "Go on home, Margaret, Merry Christmas."
In seconds, the flapping of her trenchcoat signaled her exit. She'd paused at the door with a hurried "Are you sure?" and CJ reflexively urged her on.
"Well," she said a moment later, turning to look at Toby who'd stood, unmoving, behind her. "Your office or mine?"
"Yours is cleaner, larger, cooler…" he suggested, eyebrows raised, though he had to force himself not to comment on her repetition of his earlier phrase. Pregnant women, he summarized mentally, had strange moods, strange cravings, even odder habits, and short tempers. Angering one of them was not recommended.
And so, he followed her quasi-obediently until she stopped at her office door with a frustrated moan.
"Wait for me in here," she pushed open her office door with one hand, obviously in one of her more commanding moods, while the other supported the bottom of her stomach. "Bathroom."
"Why don't you let me walk you?" he began, observing her obvious and rather sudden discomfort.
"Call one of the deputies and find out what's going on. For a problem of 911 status, this place is awfully quiet." Turning fully, she glared at him. "There's a phone, stay here."
Toby rolled his eyes and chuckled, sitting back in her executive chair before picking up the phone receiver and beginning his assigned task. If nothing else, she'd taught him to be patient.
CJ groaned again, a hand now pressed against her lower back as she shuffled by the Press Room door. Seeing it was open, she raised her brows and sighed, poking her head through the door, observing the quietly seated Press Corps and smelling the tension in the air. She stepped further into the room, eyes flicking either way in search of Simon or another deputy. Walking into their line of sight, CJ watched quizzically as Danny, while others stared, paled, or did nothing, leapt to his feet, "CJ, go…" he began but didn't finish as she jumped, the door slamming shut behind her shortly before two hands clamped over her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, feeling the color drain from her face and leaving her pallor an ashen gray shade, and quietly wished she'd let Toby escort her and that she'd actually made it there.
CJ squeezed her eyes shut quietly, unable to hold back a cry of agony as he squeezed the sore muscles of her back and shoulders. He leaned in closer, sour breath permeating her shield, and spoke, "We've been waiting for you, Claudia."
Somewhere in the corner of her mind, she began to pray more reverently than she had in a while, remembering Rosslyn and her cries of 'not Josh… please not Josh'. Only this time, her cries caused her stomach to roll and her muscles to tighten in tension and fear, 'not my baby, not my baby, please help me protect my baby'.
Snapping her eyes open as recognition set in, she struggled to step forward and away from his tight grip. "Don't move, Claudia!" he commanded, voice loud and intrusive, and causing her, Katie, and various others that she could not see or identify to wince. "I'm doing what's best for you – don't you see that? What's best!" He pulled her backward against him, and the force of the impact seemed to shake him from his emotion-induced stupor. Again, he shoved her forward, seeming to forget the child he'd dreamt of possessing and where she lay inside her mother. "I've waited for years," he whispered, "and planned for days, we could've been alone, but you just had to push me… so these paparazzi," he spoke the word with distaste, "had to be here. I knew you'd come for them Claudia, when you wouldn't even come for me." He loosened his grip on her arm, stepped backward, and pressed a blunt object at her spine. "Go to the podium, call for them."
She didn't move, instead standing with drawn, troubled face and clenched fists, praying to wake from a nightmare she feared to be of her own making. With the muzzle of the gun pressed into her back, cold metal causing her to shiver, CJ turned inward and thought of her family, the source of her strength, her Toby. "Oh God, Toby's gonna be so upset," she couldn't help but think to herself, "and to think, I was angry because he was guarding me. Stupid, Claudia Jean, really stupid." Her emotions finally snapped into action along with her rational mind.
She curved a hand under her stomach, pulling the button-up shirt tight against her body, seemingly for support. The gesture made several of the reporters grimace at the accentuating of her shape. Scott sighed from his seat, features hardening. He didn't know her as well as some of the others, but he knew she had to be frightened, probably terrified, and feeling awfully vulnerable. Hell, he pondered, she was vulnerable. She looked more like a scared child, waking from a nightmare and trying not to call for her mother, and then he looked again, and it seemed that she transformed before his eyes, turning from a scared child, to a frightened mother, to the Press Secretary he'd always seen before. His head snapped up as his mind clenched around that thought – CJ Cregg was vulnerable – and suddenly he felt afraid.
Danny had eased over to sit by Katie, who had dropped her still- recording microcassette player and notebook upon his entrance, and he laid a hand on her arm in an effort to receive comfort as well as to give it. He could hear his grandfather's wise but long-ignored words – "Where there's a will, there's a way, Daniel" – echoing around his mind, and realized getting out alive wasn't much of a viable option until they better understood the situation. He straightened and looked forward, catching the eye of the Press Corps' leader, who had just arrived at the lectern and was gripping both sides as if to hold herself up.
Their assailant had strayed to the other side of the room, pressing against the top of the pouch at his side as if to ensure himself it was still there. The man appeared to be lost in his own world, and Danny decided to, at the very least, share his idea. Communicating his thoughts with a series of barely detectable but urgent hand gestures, he watched her nod, open her mouth, and glance at the man from the corner of her eye. At his side was strapped a box, rather unassuming but still appearing somewhat ominous, and a gun she identified as something similar in style but much smaller than an UZI – one the guards sometimes carried – was slung over a better-than-standard-issue Kevlar vest. He stood quietly then, gazing at her, or perhaps leering, and for a moment she was torn between speaking and hiding. But, CJ thought, these were her reporters, her Press Corps, her colleagues – her friends. She turned widened eyes back to them, smiled as reassuringly as she could, and promised herself to protect them – after all, it was she he'd come for. Unfortunately, CJ realized, her efforts were in vain, for her smile looked to be more of a grimace, her eyes had clouded with tears she would not shed, and she could not promise them it would be 'okay'. It wasn't that simple anymore.
Clearing her throat, CJ noticed the lack of cameras and laughter, then prepared to speak in her patented, calming tone. She looked downward to ensure her footing before stepping slightly sideways, then prepared to turn her gaze back to the Press Corps.
But then, she saw the blood.
"Oh," CJ sighed, a contented grin working across her face as she stretched upward, easing forward in her seat, "That was good."
"Last time we went for food, Claudia Jean, you refused to eat steak. I thought you hated it," William remarked, grinned almost stupidly.
She shrugged and chuckled, "So did I."
"Some women crave peanut butter and pickles, CJ wants meat," Toby put in, lifting his glass. "Still hungry?"
The Press Secretary shook her head. "Nah. Hey, at least we know Rachel's not a vegetarian."
Matthew snorted, "Or a picky eater. Ow!" he cried, reaching down and rubbing his shin before turning to look at CJ, who was grinning rather smugly. "Claudia…" he whined.
Toby laughed out loud before he could restrain himself, eyes twinkling with mirth. "You sound like Josh Lyman."
"My favorite little brother," CJ shot Matthew a glare.
"Oh, now that was low, Beanpole!" his glare fell short of hurt, isntead making him appear somewhat miffed.
"Be nice to your brother, Claudia Jean."
Toby grinned at the Creggs, mind conjuring an image of pizza dinners spent with laughter, teasing, and sibling rivalry. He could only imagine a tiny CJ, then corrected himself – CJ was never tiny, never short… shorter, perhaps – with sun-lightened red hair tied back in pigtails, pummeling her brother as she shrieked with tickle-induced laughter. That, he sighed, was an image he'd never forget, and a photograph he'd love to have.
Moments later, CJ and Toby exchanged stares as their pagers beeped in unison. CJ pulled the annoying device to eye level and groaned. "911."
"Must be big," Toby sighed.
"Isn't it always?"
---
"Your office or mine?" Toby asked, his hand sneaking protectively across her back.
"How about both?" CJ groaned inwardly, her earlier annoyance in regards to being treated very much like the invalid she wasn't resurfacing. "Toby," she added, watching as he opened his mouth and steeled himself. Whether he had planned to gape and follow as if it were all a grand game of Simon Says or to argue as he usually did, she didn't wait to find out. Stepping slightly away, CJ "The Press Secretary" Cregg continued. "This is the White House, there are between one and three hundred Secret Service agents working here and in the surrounding area at all times, and several armed marines on or near the premises," she paused, punctuating her point with a finger in his chest. "The White House, Toby."
"Yeah," he ran a hand over his face, gazing toward an unknown something off to the side.
"We need to see Leo, find out what the 911 is for anyway. Come on, Ziegler."
Sighing, Toby nodded, watching her back for a moment and wondering if she'd ever take his name. Independent, Toby huffed to himself, yes, his CJ was independent.
"Slow down then, Cregg," he chuckled out loud, hurrying to catch up. "We don't all have long legs."
"Isn't that a shame?" she raised an eyebrow, and soon they stood in the Chief of Staff's outer-sanctum.
"Hey Margaret, where's Leo?"
"Leo? He's not here, CJ. It's the day after Christmas," she paused and stood upright from her bent position, gift and purse in hand. "I was just getting something…" she trailed off nervously, and Toby's raised eyebrows soon matched CJ's. "What are you, uhm…?"
"We both got paged, why…" Toby looked at Margaret, whose face was flushed with embarrassment and he finally realized whose gift she was preparing to deliver. "Go on home, Margaret, Merry Christmas."
In seconds, the flapping of her trenchcoat signaled her exit. She'd paused at the door with a hurried "Are you sure?" and CJ reflexively urged her on.
"Well," she said a moment later, turning to look at Toby who'd stood, unmoving, behind her. "Your office or mine?"
"Yours is cleaner, larger, cooler…" he suggested, eyebrows raised, though he had to force himself not to comment on her repetition of his earlier phrase. Pregnant women, he summarized mentally, had strange moods, strange cravings, even odder habits, and short tempers. Angering one of them was not recommended.
And so, he followed her quasi-obediently until she stopped at her office door with a frustrated moan.
"Wait for me in here," she pushed open her office door with one hand, obviously in one of her more commanding moods, while the other supported the bottom of her stomach. "Bathroom."
"Why don't you let me walk you?" he began, observing her obvious and rather sudden discomfort.
"Call one of the deputies and find out what's going on. For a problem of 911 status, this place is awfully quiet." Turning fully, she glared at him. "There's a phone, stay here."
Toby rolled his eyes and chuckled, sitting back in her executive chair before picking up the phone receiver and beginning his assigned task. If nothing else, she'd taught him to be patient.
CJ groaned again, a hand now pressed against her lower back as she shuffled by the Press Room door. Seeing it was open, she raised her brows and sighed, poking her head through the door, observing the quietly seated Press Corps and smelling the tension in the air. She stepped further into the room, eyes flicking either way in search of Simon or another deputy. Walking into their line of sight, CJ watched quizzically as Danny, while others stared, paled, or did nothing, leapt to his feet, "CJ, go…" he began but didn't finish as she jumped, the door slamming shut behind her shortly before two hands clamped over her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, feeling the color drain from her face and leaving her pallor an ashen gray shade, and quietly wished she'd let Toby escort her and that she'd actually made it there.
CJ squeezed her eyes shut quietly, unable to hold back a cry of agony as he squeezed the sore muscles of her back and shoulders. He leaned in closer, sour breath permeating her shield, and spoke, "We've been waiting for you, Claudia."
Somewhere in the corner of her mind, she began to pray more reverently than she had in a while, remembering Rosslyn and her cries of 'not Josh… please not Josh'. Only this time, her cries caused her stomach to roll and her muscles to tighten in tension and fear, 'not my baby, not my baby, please help me protect my baby'.
Snapping her eyes open as recognition set in, she struggled to step forward and away from his tight grip. "Don't move, Claudia!" he commanded, voice loud and intrusive, and causing her, Katie, and various others that she could not see or identify to wince. "I'm doing what's best for you – don't you see that? What's best!" He pulled her backward against him, and the force of the impact seemed to shake him from his emotion-induced stupor. Again, he shoved her forward, seeming to forget the child he'd dreamt of possessing and where she lay inside her mother. "I've waited for years," he whispered, "and planned for days, we could've been alone, but you just had to push me… so these paparazzi," he spoke the word with distaste, "had to be here. I knew you'd come for them Claudia, when you wouldn't even come for me." He loosened his grip on her arm, stepped backward, and pressed a blunt object at her spine. "Go to the podium, call for them."
She didn't move, instead standing with drawn, troubled face and clenched fists, praying to wake from a nightmare she feared to be of her own making. With the muzzle of the gun pressed into her back, cold metal causing her to shiver, CJ turned inward and thought of her family, the source of her strength, her Toby. "Oh God, Toby's gonna be so upset," she couldn't help but think to herself, "and to think, I was angry because he was guarding me. Stupid, Claudia Jean, really stupid." Her emotions finally snapped into action along with her rational mind.
She curved a hand under her stomach, pulling the button-up shirt tight against her body, seemingly for support. The gesture made several of the reporters grimace at the accentuating of her shape. Scott sighed from his seat, features hardening. He didn't know her as well as some of the others, but he knew she had to be frightened, probably terrified, and feeling awfully vulnerable. Hell, he pondered, she was vulnerable. She looked more like a scared child, waking from a nightmare and trying not to call for her mother, and then he looked again, and it seemed that she transformed before his eyes, turning from a scared child, to a frightened mother, to the Press Secretary he'd always seen before. His head snapped up as his mind clenched around that thought – CJ Cregg was vulnerable – and suddenly he felt afraid.
Danny had eased over to sit by Katie, who had dropped her still- recording microcassette player and notebook upon his entrance, and he laid a hand on her arm in an effort to receive comfort as well as to give it. He could hear his grandfather's wise but long-ignored words – "Where there's a will, there's a way, Daniel" – echoing around his mind, and realized getting out alive wasn't much of a viable option until they better understood the situation. He straightened and looked forward, catching the eye of the Press Corps' leader, who had just arrived at the lectern and was gripping both sides as if to hold herself up.
Their assailant had strayed to the other side of the room, pressing against the top of the pouch at his side as if to ensure himself it was still there. The man appeared to be lost in his own world, and Danny decided to, at the very least, share his idea. Communicating his thoughts with a series of barely detectable but urgent hand gestures, he watched her nod, open her mouth, and glance at the man from the corner of her eye. At his side was strapped a box, rather unassuming but still appearing somewhat ominous, and a gun she identified as something similar in style but much smaller than an UZI – one the guards sometimes carried – was slung over a better-than-standard-issue Kevlar vest. He stood quietly then, gazing at her, or perhaps leering, and for a moment she was torn between speaking and hiding. But, CJ thought, these were her reporters, her Press Corps, her colleagues – her friends. She turned widened eyes back to them, smiled as reassuringly as she could, and promised herself to protect them – after all, it was she he'd come for. Unfortunately, CJ realized, her efforts were in vain, for her smile looked to be more of a grimace, her eyes had clouded with tears she would not shed, and she could not promise them it would be 'okay'. It wasn't that simple anymore.
Clearing her throat, CJ noticed the lack of cameras and laughter, then prepared to speak in her patented, calming tone. She looked downward to ensure her footing before stepping slightly sideways, then prepared to turn her gaze back to the Press Corps.
But then, she saw the blood.