Flesh
by, Jess
Category: Post-ep Manchester Pt 1, CJ/Sam
Summary: You pulled me from the wreckage of bitterness and blame, flung open the page and put some flesh on the bones of my dreams.
Rating: R-ish for language and sex. Nothing graphic…
Thanks: My Protestant friend Manda, who really should convert to Catholicism so we can kick it together in Purgatory, and Rosie Guildenstern. And Esti.
Disclaimer: Um, yeah. Don't own `em.
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The taste of expensive White Zinfandel sits under my tongue, mixing in with the betrayal and regret that has resided there for longer than I care to admit. I only had two glasses, but I feel drunk, and I don't know whether it's from the alcohol or the power of having made a decision.
It shouldn't be this easy to rationalize. It shouldn't be this easy to look my friends in the eye. And it shouldn't be this easy to walk away. But it is, and this scares me more than a room full of hostile White House reporters.
The gravel crunches beneath my feet and I smile at my escape. I told Toby I was going to the ladies room because his eyes were too penetrating, and his voice too soft. I left Sam sitting at the table, re-writing the President's speech and ignoring my words.
A hot bath sounds good right now. A hot bath, and maybe some ice- cold Jack Daniels from the mini-bar. And then I remember that the hotel we're staying in doesn't have a mini-bar. Damn.
"CJ!"
I turn around and curse softly because I didn't hear him following me. His eyes are bright as he shoves his hands into his pockets and walks closer. "Look, Sam, I-"
"Where are you going?" he interrupts me.
"Have you been assigned guard duty?"
"What?"
"I'm not running away, Sam. I'm not going to jump off of any cliffs… I don't think there are any cliffs in Manchester anyway. And I promise not to throw myself in front of a tractor. I just want…," I trail off and shrug my shoulders.
"What? What do you want?"
There's sympathy in his eyes, and I hate him for it. I am Claudia Jean Cregg, Press Secretary Extraordinaire, and people simply do not look at me in sympathy. I'm calm, I'm capable, and I'm great at what I do. Only, I'm not.
"I want you guys to leave me the hell alone," I say in frustration as I kick at the tiny rocks and scuff the top of my new Bruno Magli shoes. Fuck.
Hurt flashes across his chiseled features, and I'm immediately sorry. Only, I can't seem to form the words to apologize. So instead, I sigh and turn to walk towards the small hotel.
"So, Doug asked me why Toby doesn't like him," Sam says quietly as he falls into step beside me, ignoring my look of surprise. The wind ruffles his hair and he looks incredibly young.
"And what did you tell him?" I ask, attempting to lighten the tone of my voice because I realize that Sam is making an effort.
"I told him to ask you," he chuckles.
I narrow my eyes and nod my head. "And he did, Spanky. Now that I know you were the instigator, I'm going to have to mete out a little punishment."
"You promise?" he asks as he bumps my elbow.
"You're a big flirt, you know that?"
He just smiles in response and holds the door of the hotel open for me. I nod at the front desk clerk and follow Sam to the elevator. Once the doors slide shut, he exhales loudly and turns towards me, a question forming on his lips.
"I'm going to take a bath, all right? I'm going to take a bath, and then I'm going to bed. You can come check on me later if you don't believe me. Bath, and then bed, ok?" I sound more bitter than I intended, but as the elevator comes to a stop on our floor, I really couldn't care less.
He arches an eyebrow and sighs. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to share the bottle of Jose Cuervo I smuggled in my suitcase, but if you're busy…," he trails off as he walks in the opposite direction down the hall.
"Wait, wait, wait…I think I can, you know, put off the bath part for a few hours," I say desperately as I grab his arm. He smiles arrogantly and I push him a little. "Oh don't look so smug, I can drink you under the table."
He fumbles with the key-card for a few moments, cursing under his breath. I smile at him affectionately as I wrestle the card from his grasp and insert it into the lock, waiting for the green light before I push the door open. "Do you usually get Donna to open your door, too?"
"Smart ass," he says simply as he flips the light switch on and kneels beside the queen-sized bed to rummage through his compact suitcase.
His room is identical to mine. The same ugly green carpet and nondescript beige comforter. His furniture is in better condition and the pictures are different, but the room is the same. He smiles triumphantly as he holds the bottle up and tosses it to me.
I take a satisfying swig and smile at the familiar burn, taking comfort in the warmth that invades my belly. "Want a brown paper bag for that, CJ?"
"Oh don't be a candy ass," I respond as I pass the bottle and slide to the floor so that my back is against the bed. He sits across from me and throws back his head as he gulps down some of the golden liquid in one long draught.
"I hate this stuff," he grimaces.
"Then why did you buy it?"
"Because I thought we might need it." His eyes are wide as I take the tequila back, and he cocks his head to the side. "Toby told me, you know?"
"Told you what?" I ask innocently.
"He told me that you talked to Leo."
"I talk to Leo all the time," I deadpan, even as he sighs in frustration.
"Are you really going to resign?" he asks quietly.
"Damn it, Sam. You see what you just did? You ruined what could have been a fun night with shop-talk," I say as I get to my feet and forcefully shove the bottle into this hand.
"Wait, wait…I'm sorry. I won't bring it up again, I promise." He stands up and blocks the door. "I'm just really worried about you, but if you don't want to talk about it, I won't say another word. Just, don't go."
I close my eyes briefly and pinch the bridge of my nose to ward off the headache I know is coming. He interprets this as capitulation because he tugs my hand and pulls me back to the floor beside him. I fold my legs awkwardly beneath me and turn to face him. The bottle passes between us smoothly for about ten minutes before I get the courage to speak.
"Will you miss me?" I ask quietly.
"You just broke your own rule. You said no shop talk," Sam answers, evading my question.
"I'm not talking about work…I'm just asking if you'd miss me, you know, if I ever left." Did I just slur?
"You didn't ask if I would miss you, you asked if I will miss you."
"Damn Jose," I mutter under my breath. "I didn't mean…hell, I really don't know what I meant."
"So, you are leaving then?"
I meet his gaze and nod slightly. "And before you start in on reasons why I should stay, let me just ask you something. If you were working for someone else, if you didn't know me, what would you think would be best strategically for this re-election campaign?"
"I wasn't going to argue with you. You gotta do what you gotta do," he says nonchalantly as he bangs his head lightly against the wall.
"You're not going to argue with me?"
"You sound disappointed."
"Well, I guess that answers my question," I say, ignoring his observation because, well, he's right. I try to stand up so that I can march out of the room indignantly, but my limbs won't cooperate and I fall back against the wall in an unimpressive heap.
Sam snickers openly and pats my knee. Well, he tries to pat my knee, but he misses and his fingers spread intimately across my lower thigh. "The tequila is kicking in," he murmurs.
"You think?" I start giggling-yes, giggling-and soon Sam joins me until we are both doubled over with the effort. Somehow my head ends up on his shoulder, and his hand slides further up my leg.
I know it's wrong, but I can't concentrate on anything other than the warmth of his hand through my slacks and the smell of his expensive cologne-something by Calvin Klein if my guess is correct. He turns his head slightly so that his lips are grazing my hair as he speaks.
"CJ, I'm not going to argue with you about leaving because I know you won't do it."
I raise my head and stare at the tiny lines around the corners of his mouth. "And what if I told you that I was on my way back to my hotel room to type up my letter of resignation?"
"Well then, I'd remind you that you are indeed human, and that you made a mistake. Welcome to the club."
"I didn't make a tiny mistake. I fucked up at a time when we can't afford to be making mistakes. Damn it, I told those people that he was relieved, relieved, Sam, to be focusing on the situation in Haiti."
"No you didn't. You told them that the President was looking forward to getting back to important matters. The Press deliberately took it out of context because they're pissed."
"And then, I didn't fix it. I couldn't fix it. I just, I froze," I continue, ignoring his soft-spoken words.
He reaches out to graze his fingers across my cheek and leans forward. "And what do you hope to accomplish by resigning, CJ?"
My breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes and I have to remind myself that this is Sam, my friend. I lower my eyes because the intensity of his stare is unnerving. "I just…Sam, I can't concentrate when your hand is on my thigh," I admit honestly because I can think of nothing else to say.
"Good," he whispers huskily as he gently encircles my wrist with his thumb and forefinger.
My body reacts to the timbre of his voice and the gentleness of his touch and before I know what's happening, his lips capture mine in a searing kiss. Or maybe I initiated it. I can't tell at this point, and I really don't care.
I don't care that this is a man I love like a brother. I don't care that this is a man who has unresolved feelings for our boss' daughter and a blonde republican sex kitten. I don't care that this is a man who works down the hall in a place where scandal ruins careers.
All I care about is the desire in his eyes, and the passion in his kiss. His hand is gently kneading my calf and I reach down to entwine our fingers. "This is a bad idea, Sam," I murmur against his lips, unwilling to sever the contact.
"Maybe," he agrees readily even as he slides his free hand up to cup my breast.
I moan and throw my head back. God, it's been so long since anyone has touched me like this. He trails kisses down my throat and I push him back slightly because I know I have to be the responsible one.
"Sam, I don't love you," I whisper.
"I know."
"And you don't love me."
"No."
"So why are we doing this?"
He smiles at me innocently and pushes my hair out of my eyes. And then just as suddenly, his smile fades and he lowers his eyes. "Because I need to forget as much as you. Because I'm angry, and lost, and know what you're feeling. Because you're here, and so am I. Because we're both drunk. And in the morning, we'll use that as an excuse."
"Did Sam Seaborn just suggest we use each other for mindless, no- strings-attached sex?" I tease because his honesty comforts me.
"Well, yeah."
"Just checking," I smile before I lean over and push him to the floor.
Hours later I'm contemplating the stupidity of my actions, all the while nursing a headache that rivals anything I've had before. A combination of stress and too much tequila. I run my tongue experimentally over the roof of my mouth and wince at the feeling.
Sam is muttering something in his sleep, his lips brushing my shoulder and his hand spread protectively against my belly. I gently extricate myself from his grasp, careful not to awaken him. I almost lie back down because my head is wrapped in a fog of dizziness and pain.
My clothes are lying in a pile with his by the foot of the bed, and it's too far for me to walk. So I crawl instead, vowing to never touch Jose Cuervo again. Oh, and also never to sleep with a co- worker. Or soon-to-be ex-coworker.
Don't get me wrong, the sex was great. Better than great, spectacular even. Which I guess explains the two times on the floor, and once in the bed. He's more muscular than he looks, and he's one of the most considerate lovers I've ever had.
But he's Sam. And he doesn't love me. So it can never happen again.
I don't bother tucking my shirt in, or slipping into my shoes. Instead I sit on the edge of the bed and smooth his wrinkled forehead. His face relaxes immediately and I run a hand across his broad shoulder. His skin is warm to the touch, and it takes everything I have not to crawl back beside him, letting the rest of the world wait for a few more hours.
But I have a letter to write, a suitcase to pack, and flight reservations to make. And so I kiss his forehead and close the door quietly behind me as I make my way down the corridor.
-fin-
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As the bell must strike the hour
As the west must stab the sun
So our hearts
must head the flow
of deeper tides that run
Far beyond this bare indifference
That prosperity esteems
Where the spirit
raves and dances
Through our very veins
At winters edge you found me
By the fields of wild gold
My hands still filled with ashes
From fires long cold
You pulled me
from the wreckage
of bitterness and blame
flung open the page
And put some flesh on
the bones of my dreams
On the streets
the blossom snowing
And the drum is beating slow
To hear you speak so clear
Well I'm slicing through the fear
Setting all the beacons
blazing, baby oh!
It's staring out plainer than ever
Brighter than all the fools
gold that gleams
It's simply now or never
Putting flesh on the bones
of my dreams
Putting flesh on the
bones of my dreams
Putting flesh on the
bones of my dreams
And they can plunder
the cave of sorrows
They can strip the gallery bare
Try to build a fence
around the visions
In our heads, choke every spark
In a cloak of despair
But we got something
they can't stifle
With their price tags
and picture frames
Got a flower for every rifle
Putting flesh on the
bones of my dreams
--Flesh, by David Gray--