"So, CJ..." Toby stuck his hands in his pockets, leaning in the doorway of her office. "You...wanna get some coffee, or something?"
"No." She kept her head down on her desk. She really did look a mess, Toby thought, biting his lip. Like she hadn't even bothered this morning, or the morning before, or the one before that. And she probably hadn't slept, either. He knew he hadn't, and she had even more on her mind than he did.
"I'll pay," he ventured. He hoped that wasn't a false promise, jingling what little was left in his pockets. Where had he gone last night? He couldn't remember. That wasn't a good sign. Maybe that was why he was out of cash.
"Sure, fine." Her voice was flat, uninterested. As she rose from the desk, she knocked her chair over, and didn't bother to stop and right it again. Grabbing her crumpled coat off of the floor, she stuck one arm into it, then lost the initiative halfway, and just let it hang like that. "Go get the car."
This wasn't going to be easy, Toby realized. In point of fact, he wasn't at all sure that he really wanted to bring this into the daylight. But she needed to out, she needed the air, and she needed to eat. She wasn't going to do it without assistance.
He'd never quite seen CJ like this before, he mused as he walked through the halls. He didn't feel too sorry for Simon Donovan anymore. Simon was dead. He wasn't feeling pain. It was CJ he pitied. She was still quite alive...but she was pretty useless, now. Bartlet wasn't going to stand for it much longer, and they couldn't lose CJ. They all needed CJ. And CJ needed help.
She stepped into the car, almost tripping on her heel, and cursing softly as she slid into the seat and slammed the door. Toby took the wheel. He knew they could get coffee right where they were. But he didn't want to be so surrounded by people, right now. He didn't want anyone to come up to him and declare that there was another crisis on their hands. If anything happened right now, it would have to wait. A man had to have priorities in life. Right?
"Toby?" CJ looked over at him out of heavy-lidded eyes.
"Yeah?"
She shuffled her feet on the floor of the car, and shook her head. "Nothing. Nevermind."
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Ok." Damn, why were they so uncomfortable? Simon, probably. Simon, and Bartlet, and the campaign, and the fucking reporters who kept bugging her, asking her, pressuring her, killing her, because she didn't want to think about their prying questions. She hadn't told them everything, but somehow, it got into the papers. Toby wasn't really surprised about that, because somehow or another, everything got into the papers. But it was still in the papers, and that's what bothered him. Because every morning, they had to read it, usually on the first two or three pages, some stupid speculation about the martyr and his grieving lover. They hadn't even gotten that far. At least, he didn't think they had. Why was he thinking about this?
They stopped outside the little coffee shop, where nobody went, and which most people hadn't even heard of. CJ didn't ask questions, but got out of the car when he opened the door. He reached out a hand to help her, so she wouldn't trip again, but she ignored it, and seemed to do just fine on her own. She would always do just fine on her own. Wouldn't she?
"What do you want?" He asked, as he held open the door for her. She shrugged, still uninterested, still unsure.
"Coffee."
"That wasn't very helpful," Toby said, but he ordered what he wanted, and let her take her time. She did. She took a very long time.
"CJ?"
"Yeah?" She looked up at him again, from where she'd been carefully scrutinizing the knots in the wood of the table.
He didn't say anything, but just looked at her, suddenly worrying. She was so fragile, now, not the CJ he knew, not the CJ who got on his nerves, and was overly flippant and confident, and who teased and taunted and always knew exactly how to save the situation. This was someone else, and if he wasn't careful, she just might break his heart.
"I don't know," she told him, the dark circles blatantly obvious on the pale skin of her face. "I really don't know." And then she started to cry.
It was like some great hand had come down and squeezed all the life out of her, Toby thought, a few seconds later. She just crumpled down on to the table; one arm sprawled over the side like a bit of ragdoll, and sobbed. He just sat, and watched her, and was there for her, like he was always there for her, like he knew he needed to be. He didn't dare reach to touch her hand, or hair. She was still CJ, and she wouldn't like that. She wanted to be unbreakable. And only he would know.
"No." She kept her head down on her desk. She really did look a mess, Toby thought, biting his lip. Like she hadn't even bothered this morning, or the morning before, or the one before that. And she probably hadn't slept, either. He knew he hadn't, and she had even more on her mind than he did.
"I'll pay," he ventured. He hoped that wasn't a false promise, jingling what little was left in his pockets. Where had he gone last night? He couldn't remember. That wasn't a good sign. Maybe that was why he was out of cash.
"Sure, fine." Her voice was flat, uninterested. As she rose from the desk, she knocked her chair over, and didn't bother to stop and right it again. Grabbing her crumpled coat off of the floor, she stuck one arm into it, then lost the initiative halfway, and just let it hang like that. "Go get the car."
This wasn't going to be easy, Toby realized. In point of fact, he wasn't at all sure that he really wanted to bring this into the daylight. But she needed to out, she needed the air, and she needed to eat. She wasn't going to do it without assistance.
He'd never quite seen CJ like this before, he mused as he walked through the halls. He didn't feel too sorry for Simon Donovan anymore. Simon was dead. He wasn't feeling pain. It was CJ he pitied. She was still quite alive...but she was pretty useless, now. Bartlet wasn't going to stand for it much longer, and they couldn't lose CJ. They all needed CJ. And CJ needed help.
She stepped into the car, almost tripping on her heel, and cursing softly as she slid into the seat and slammed the door. Toby took the wheel. He knew they could get coffee right where they were. But he didn't want to be so surrounded by people, right now. He didn't want anyone to come up to him and declare that there was another crisis on their hands. If anything happened right now, it would have to wait. A man had to have priorities in life. Right?
"Toby?" CJ looked over at him out of heavy-lidded eyes.
"Yeah?"
She shuffled her feet on the floor of the car, and shook her head. "Nothing. Nevermind."
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Ok." Damn, why were they so uncomfortable? Simon, probably. Simon, and Bartlet, and the campaign, and the fucking reporters who kept bugging her, asking her, pressuring her, killing her, because she didn't want to think about their prying questions. She hadn't told them everything, but somehow, it got into the papers. Toby wasn't really surprised about that, because somehow or another, everything got into the papers. But it was still in the papers, and that's what bothered him. Because every morning, they had to read it, usually on the first two or three pages, some stupid speculation about the martyr and his grieving lover. They hadn't even gotten that far. At least, he didn't think they had. Why was he thinking about this?
They stopped outside the little coffee shop, where nobody went, and which most people hadn't even heard of. CJ didn't ask questions, but got out of the car when he opened the door. He reached out a hand to help her, so she wouldn't trip again, but she ignored it, and seemed to do just fine on her own. She would always do just fine on her own. Wouldn't she?
"What do you want?" He asked, as he held open the door for her. She shrugged, still uninterested, still unsure.
"Coffee."
"That wasn't very helpful," Toby said, but he ordered what he wanted, and let her take her time. She did. She took a very long time.
"CJ?"
"Yeah?" She looked up at him again, from where she'd been carefully scrutinizing the knots in the wood of the table.
He didn't say anything, but just looked at her, suddenly worrying. She was so fragile, now, not the CJ he knew, not the CJ who got on his nerves, and was overly flippant and confident, and who teased and taunted and always knew exactly how to save the situation. This was someone else, and if he wasn't careful, she just might break his heart.
"I don't know," she told him, the dark circles blatantly obvious on the pale skin of her face. "I really don't know." And then she started to cry.
It was like some great hand had come down and squeezed all the life out of her, Toby thought, a few seconds later. She just crumpled down on to the table; one arm sprawled over the side like a bit of ragdoll, and sobbed. He just sat, and watched her, and was there for her, like he was always there for her, like he knew he needed to be. He didn't dare reach to touch her hand, or hair. She was still CJ, and she wouldn't like that. She wanted to be unbreakable. And only he would know.