Shades of Gray

by Jess and Sid

CJ and Sam stumble through a one-night stand that leads to something more. (A post-ep series beginning with Manchester.)

6. Debauchery

Debauchery, by Sid

Category: CJ/Sam, post-Ways and Means, bit o'angst, bit o' fluff

Rating: R—language, situations

Summary: On an overcast day, the pale winter city, an afternoon's debauchery.

Disclaimer: All these characters and situations belong to me. Every single one of them. Oh, wait, wait…Somehow that seems wrong.

Thanks: To Jess—One word for you: ZerbeLOVAH!, and to all CJ/Sam fans, without whom we would be a lonely party of two.

_____________________

In the past few weeks I've really gotten the hang of lying. I've never been particularly bad at it, but I've also never been particularly at ease with it, and if the person I'm lying to pays close enough attention, they can usually tell that I'm uncomfortable. But lately, ever since the President's announcement, it's become frighteningly easy for me. I think because I'm doing it so much more often.

I lie to reporters who ask me if I felt betrayed when the President told me he had kept his MS from me; I lie to my mother when she calls me at night to make sure I'm eating right and sleeping well; I lie when Cathy asks me why I look so tired all the time. In the past week alone I've lied to Connie when she wanted me to admit that I felt the President should apologize to the American people, to Toby when he asked me if I felt I could continue to work with Doug, and to CJ when she asked me if I wanted more of her than she was willing to give me.

That, of course, was the biggest lie of all.

There are others; smaller lies, but God, how they add up. I hardly even have to think anymore. I just open my mouth, and out pops something other than the truth. Sometimes I'm shocked at just how easily this stuff comes to me now.

Take today, for example: It's the fifth time, in as many days, that Josh has asked me out for drinks after work. I've turned him down every time, citing everything from a headache, to having to call my mother, to Toby assigning me extra paperwork. The first couple of times I said no, he just shrugged and walked away, but he's beginning to look at me skeptically, and tonight when he asks, his expression is downright suspicious.

"You up for a drink?" He's doing that thing Donna calls his 'Inspector Poirot' pose, where he tilts his head to one side and squints his eyes, studying me. He thinks he can read me better than anyone. He has no idea that I've been honing my self-preservation skills lately.

"Can't," I say automatically. I shuffle some papers unnecessarily, keen on avoiding his gaze.

"What is it this time? A headache? A phone call from your mother? Does your mother have a headache, Sam?" He's irritated, it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

It's none of those things, of course. It's CJ. She's coming over again tonight, for the seventh night in a row. I suppose I should feel smug that she can't seem to stay away, but the fact that she never stays till morning puts a damper on my enthusiasm. I know I should be happy she comes over at all--and I am--but I can't help wanting to find her sleeping beside me first thing in the morning. I can't help wanting to wake up in the middle of the night and feel her body next to mine, hear her soft breathing, smell her warm, sleepy scent. But she never stays. It's driving me crazy.

Anyway. Back to Josh.

"Do you just not feel up to it, Sam?" Josh says with a sigh. "'Cause you know, that's all you've gotta say. 'Josh, I don't feel like a drink'. I can take it."

"Josh, I don't feel like a drink."

"Why *not*?" he asks, his words bursting out in a small explosion. He shifts forward in the chair and leans across my desk. "What the hell is going on, Sam? You don't talk to me anymore. We never *do* anything anymore."

I lift an eyebrow in amusement. "I'm sorry, honey, but you know things have been kind of crazy at the office--"

Josh relaxes then, his forehead smoothing out as he leans back again. He gives me that patented Lyman Smirk and says, "Oh sure, that's what you *say*. Here I slave away every night to have a nice dinner for you when you come home, and you can't even take me out for a drink every once in a while?"

I give an exaggerated shudder. "Okay, stop it. This isn't funny anymore. You're starting to sound like my mother."

"Freaky, huh?" he agrees with a chuckle. "Seriously, Sam, I mean-- what's going on? You disappear after work these days. All joking aside, I could use a drink every once in a while, you know?"

I do know, and frankly, I could use the drink too. Josh may be frenetic and wildly-driven, but despite what people think, his company can actually be quite restful. After the past several days' verbal fencing with Doug and Connie, Toby's vague irritation with everything I say and do, and the insane roller coaster CJ has sent me on, Josh will be downright calming.

He sees me weakening and decides to make his move. "Come *ooooon*," he wheedles. "I hear that new Irish pub has that fermented cider crap you like so much."

"Hudson Blue?"

Josh makes an unpleasant face. "Yeah, that."

"It's good stuff, Josh."

"Okay, Mr Guinness Boy."

I grin. "Mr Guinness Boy?"

"I don't trust you micks and your warm beer," he says with a mock sneer. "God did not intend for us to imbibe *warm* alcoholic substances."

"Wuss," I say simply.

"That sounded like a challenge."

"Oh, no," I say seriously, holding out my hands in a gesture of surrender, "I'm not allowed to challenge you to anymore drinking contests. Donna said so."

"She what--?" Josh breaks off, giving me a fierce glare. "Very funny, Sam."

"You think I'm joking? Six months ago, after I whipped your ass at Quarters, Donna threatened me with bodily harm if I ever so much as let you *near* a drinking game again. Especially one involving vodka shots."

"You did not 'whip my ass'." He pauses, catching my dubious look. "Okay, yeah, but to be fair, Stoli's is the strong stuff. Anyway, does this mean you'll be joining me?"

I think for a moment, carefully weighing my options. If I call CJ and tell her I'll be late, it shouldn't be any big deal. Anyway, I reflect bitterly, it's not like she's my girlfriend. It's not as if she's actually counting on our date this evening.

It's not as if it's actually a date, either. The legal term might even be 'a mutually agreed upon arrangement of physical pleasure'. It's not as if I'll hurt her feelings by postponing our evening.

I nod at Josh. "Yeah. Give me five minutes to finish up here and we'll go."

"All riiiight," he replies with that tone he uses when he thinks he's scored a particularly rewarding coup. "Meet you in the lobby in ten."

"'kay."

"And no shop talk," he instructs me seriously.

"Okay," I agree.

"The word 'subpoena' is not allowed to cross our lips."

"It's a deal."

"Just two guys, drinking as men do. We deserve some pure, unfettered, unadulterated, hedonistic pleasure, Sam."

"Agreed."

Josh rises to his feet and heads for the doorway, disappearing around the corner. When I'm sure he's out of earshot, I pick up the phone and dial CJ's office.

"CJ Cregg."

"You sent Carol home already?"

"Yep," she replies with a throaty chuckle. "Why? You up for a little risqué office action?"

My body tingles at the tempting thought, but I fight back a wave of lust and say, "Actually, I was just calling to tell you I'll be running late tonight."

"Oh?" Damn her. She doesn't even sound interested. In fact, she sounds downright distracted, as if she's rifling through papers or scanning her computer screen while we talk.

"Yeah. We may even just need to cancel," I say petulantly. I'm baiting her, and I hate myself for it.

"Cancel?" she murmurs. "Hang on, Sam, just a second." The phone clatters down and I hear her stirring around her office. I count fifteen seconds before she picks the line up again. "I'm sorry, Sam, what were you saying?"

"Nothing," I sigh.

"Don't cancel on me, Samshine," she suddenly says in this low voice that I pretty much can't resist. "It's been a hell of a day, I need you. I can wait for you. Is it important?"

"Just drinks with Josh. I've been putting him off for about a week now,and you know how pouty he gets..."

CJ laughs, but there's a weary undercurrent. I can picture her glasses sliding lower on her nose, the tired lines deepening around her eyes, and my heart tightens. Ever since she unveiled her new 'strategy' yesterday, she's been a bit more like the old CJ, but she's still so exhausted. "Okay, well you two go have your little male-bonding time thing. I'll meet you at your place around nine, nine-fifteen?"

"Or," I say, taking a deep breath for courage, "I could always just stop by your place."

There is a slight, almost imperceptible pause. Then she says, "Okay, so nine-thirty at the latest."

I groan silently, admitting defeat. "Okay."

"And in case anyone is listening in," CJ chirps in a loud voice, her mouth obviously aimed directly at the phone, "seeing as how we're having this conversation in the *White* House, let me just say that Sam Seaborn and I are meeting for work-related purposes *only*."

"Absolutely," I snicker. "Lots of paperwork to do."

"Absolutely," she echoes, her voice curling around my ears. "Lots and *lots* of paperwork."

I stumble out of the taxi around 10.15 and manage to somehow find the appropriate amount of cash to pay the driver. Josh languishes in the backseat, blissfully drunk, his head lolling back and forth.

"I like drinking games," he says inanely. Donna is so going to kill me.

I belch and the acrid taste of gin fills my mouth.

He gives me a sappy grin from within the dimly-lit interior of the cab. "You're my best friend, Sam."

I'm not nearly as drunk as he is, but his declaration still gives me a warm fuzzy. "Cool, man," I manage.

"And we are men!" he continues. "We drink as men do!"

"Josh," I say seriously as my brain clears in the cool night air, "I don't think Buttery Nipples are manly drinks." I swear the cabbie chuckles as I say this.

"Mmm, that's good stuff, though," Josh sighs. He suddenly sits up, looking as if he regrets it a second later. "Hey!" Oh God, he's got that let's-put-on-a-show voice. "I know! Let's go to Donna's. She likes it when I come over."

I lean down over the still-open door. "Not when you're drunk," I inform him.

"No," he says thoughtfully. "She says I yell at the cats."

"You do."

He sighs. "Okay. I'll go home then. Tell the man where I live, Sam."

I dutifully give the cabbie instructions and slam the door as I hear Josh muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "Take me to Donna's house by way of the President's house, Mr Cabbie, sir."

I make it to my front stoop relatively steadily, pausing only to step over the cracks, whistling under my breath. CJ must be gone by now, I reflect morosely. I'm sure she gave up waiting on my sorry ass ages ago. The thoughts sobers me even more than the crisp night air.

The idea of CJ waiting for me is entirely too appealing. Not in a June Cleaver, how-was-your-day-honey kind of way; just there, curled up on the couch maybe, or poring over papers at the kitchen table, or- -oh, happy thought--asleep in my bed. Yes, I think, as my stomach tightens and my blood begins to race, CJ asleep in my bed, all warm and cuddly, her hair falling over my pillow. I content myself with this visual since I won't be having the real thing tonight, and begin to climb the steps. Which is where I find CJ, yanking her keys out of her purse and muttering under her breath.

"CJ," I exclaim happily.

She doesn't say anything at first, but she glares at me. "Samuel," she replies finally. I can practically hear her teeth grinding together.

"Sorry I'm late," I mumble, ducking my head like a chastened five- year-old.

"I have been waiting for you," she says, her jaw clenched, "for over an hour."

"I'm sorry, we--we lost track of time."

"Uh-huh."

"Really."

"Do you have *any* idea how worried I was?" she demands.

"CJ, I'm sorry--"

"Sitting here, knowing that Dumb and Dumber were out on the streets of DC? Probably three sheets to the wind? Wondering if either of them were stupid enough to think they could *drive*?"

"You *know* neither of us would ever do something that reckless," I say, aghast.

"I know! But I was worried; I wasn't thinking straight."

"We just lost track of time," I say again, more firmly this time.

"You could have called."

"CJ, what the hell is this about?" Our voices are rising now. We're facing off like a couple of prizefighters who've just entered the ring.

"It just would have been nice to know that you thought enough of me to call."

Is she insane? Thought enough of her? Doesn't she know I can't think of anything *else* these days?

"That you thought enough of me," she continues, "as I *stood* here, *on* your porch, for over an *hour*."

"I didn't think you'd wait!" I protest.

"Well, I did. But it's always the same, isn't it, Sam? You never really think of me, any of you. When you get together, I may as well not exist. It's the goddamn He-Man Woman Haters Club, no girls allowed."

"That's bullshit, CJ, and you know it!" I retort in outrage.

"Is it, Sam? Is it really? Because I've gotta tell you, on the outside looking in, it seems pretty exclusionary."

I put my hand to my forehead, trying to ward off the headache I can feel coming. My keys are still in my hand. I have no idea how we got into this argument. I thought we were arguing about my being late, but suddenly it's turned into something wholly unexpected. Choosing my words with care, I say slowly and deliberately, "We got to talking and we lost track of time. I didn't call because I honestly didn't think you'd wait for me, CJ. It wasn't deliberate. It wasn't intentional."

"That's kind of the *point*, Sam."

"Jesus..." I breathe in exasperation.

Her voice lowers, sounding less angry than frustrated, but for some reason it's the final straw. "I deserved a call! I deserved not to wait out here like a damn puppy dog, waiting for your triumphant return. *I* had a prior claim on your evening, if you will recall."

"You know something, CJ," I say, and even as the words come into my head, I know I'm going to regret them, "you're not my mother! You're not my wife! For God's sake, you're not even my *girlfriend*! I realize I acted thoughtlessly, but your anger surprises me, quite frankly. I think when you're using somebody for sex, you pretty much waive your proprietary rights!" I finish with a low growl and then we stand silently, chests heaving in indignation, glowering at one another.

"I am using you for sex," she says in a quiet voice, "thank you for reminding me." And then she spins on her heel and clatters down the steps.

For a minute I consider not going after her. I'm a little shaky on my feet, and I'm confused as hell. But as I watch her walk away, her heels clattering on the pavement, my heart twists inside of me. I can't just let her go.

"CJ, wait." I dash down the steps and catch up with her. She keeps walking. I stop, reaching out for her arm. "CJ!"

She stops, whirling around to fix me with that steely glare again. "Yes?" she asks coolly.

My fingers close around her elbow, feeling her warmth through the thin coat. "Don't go," I whisper.

I'm expecting a sharp retort, or at the very least a refusal, so it surprises the hell out of me when CJ visibly melts and rushes forward to press her body against mine. "I'm sorry, Sam," she says, her voice half-laughing, half-reproachful, "that was so stupid."

I wrap my arms around her and bring her even closer against me. She's in low pumps today so she doesn't seem quite as tall as she usually does; we're almost eye-level. "It's okay. Just please don't go."

She throws her head back a little and laughs, exposing her long, sleek throat. I take the opportunity to press a kiss against the skin there, and she snuggles closer with a happy sigh. "I won't go. I was just being stupid. I mean, don't get me wrong, you were too, but still...I won't go."

I'm happily nuzzling her neck and shoulders, relief flooding through me that this ridiculous argument is over with, when CJ nudges me. "You know, you can do this inside and it'll be a lot more fun."

I pull away from her, gazing back at her cautiously. She runs her hands up my arms and says, "Make-up sex is the best, Sam. Everyone knows that."

God, she's gorgeous. Does she have any idea what she does to me? "So...we're making up?"

"I'd say so," she replies cheekily. She seems carefree now, glimpses of the old CJ shining through her smile. "We had a stupid argument. We'll get over it."

"Yeah," I agree, attempting to play it off as easily as she is. "We fought. That's what couples do." I cringe the moment the words leave my mouth. I can see her expression change abruptly in the streetlight to one of sheer terror.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Way to overplay your hand, Sam.

"Not," I hasten to add, "that we're a couple."

"No," she says quickly.

"By any stretch of the imagination."

"No."

I want to say more, but I know I can't, not if I want to keep this peace between us. "Let's go inside," I say.

The relief on her face should make me feel better, but instead it makes me feel worse. I tell myself to be patient--it's only been a week, after all. But it hurts to know that I'm hurtling toward that scary precipice with every minute that passes, while she seems to be running in the opposite direction.

Hours later I'm trailing my fingers along her bare back, loving the satiny skin there, tracing the curves of her breasts and hips. A woman should not be allowed to look as good as CJ does; it puts a man at more than a slight disadvantage.

My hand spreads against her smooth stomach and she arches her body forward with a little yelp. "Stop; that tickles," she mutters as she spins around in bed to face me again.

"It got you to wake up, didn't it?" I say smugly.

"I wasn't asleep. I was...resting my eyes."

"Sure you were."

"I was!" She's indignant. Indignant CJ is so sexy. She picks up my hand and begins gently massaging my palm. "Okay, so you were--you were lulling me to sleep with these hands of yours. You have great hands, Sam."

"So I've been told."

She raises an eyebrow and drops my hand, giving me an expectant look. "Have you now?"

"Let's just say that if Leo knew what I'd done to Mallory with these particular appendages, I probably wouldn't have them right now."

"What!" she squeaks in amazement. "I thought you said that Mallory wouldn't let you touch her with a ten-foot pole."

"Yeah, *now*." As she continues to glare at me, I can't help but laugh. "CJ, come on. It was a memorable first date, what can I say?"

"Hmph," she snorts. "So you've used your magic hands on other women."

I stare at her, astonished. "What? You thought I was the vestal virgin?"

"Hardly."

"CJ...Are you jealous?" I think I'm smirking. Josh would be so proud.

"Hardly," she says again, one hand making a slow journey over my chest. "After all, I do believe you're naked with *me* at the moment, not Mallory O'Brien." She kisses me briefly, sending a jolt through my system. "Or Connie Tate. Or Ainsley Hayes. Or any of the number of women who salivate over you."

"You sound smug."

"I am. Because you're with me." She beams at me and it's like sunshine after the rain, I swear to God.

"Stay with me tonight," I suddenly blurt out.

CJ stops what she's doing, which is a shame, let me tell you. Then she gives me that look I've come to know and fear in the past several days: the deer in headlights, 'oh my God, Sam's pushing for intimacy' look. It's not the most encouraging expression in her repertoire. "Um," she says.

"Look, Leo gave us the day off tomorrow. We could--" I'm making this up as I go. Something Josh said earlier springs to mind, "we could have a day of--of pure, unfettered, unadulterated, hedonistic pleasure. We could sleep late and stay in and just have a Lazy, Crazy Day. You know, rent videos and--"

CJ cuts me off. Now her expression has softened to one of amusement. "What did you call it?"

"A Lazy--" I break off, feeling the blush creeping over my cheeks. "Nothing. It's just something my mother used to say."

She chortles with laughter for a moment, no doubt thinking of 'nervous hoolelias' and 'tater joes' and any number of my mother's sayings I've shared over the years. "Sam," she says, and I know I'm not going to like what's coming, "I really don't think--I mean...Staying over is kind of a--a big step."

"A step you don't want to take," I fill in, more gruffly than I intended. She just looks at me. "CJ, I think we've pretty much established the physicality of this relationship. I'm not asking for more. I'm asking you to spend one night with me. It's not nearly as big a step as sex, and we've managed that hurdle just fine."

But that's yet another lie, and we both know it.

"If I spend tonight with you," she says slowly, "will you promise not to ask me again?"

Now here's a dilemma. I can't honestly promise her I won't ask again, because waking up with CJ in the morning has become one of my prime goals in life. When she's with me, I can't help but want her to stay. But the lie comes easily. "Okay," I say, hoping I won't actually have to say the words 'I promise'.

"It's not that I--Sam, you know I care about you. But this--us--we're a mess. If we start taking these steps, spending the night together, going out on *dates*...It's not what I want." Her eyes are intense as she searches my face.

"It's not what I want either," I say.

It's apparently sufficient, because CJ relaxes again and her body melts into mine. I put my arms around her and close my eyes. I try to sleep and I try not to think of how the lies are building, one on top of the other, like a structure of weights on my chest that may collapse at any moment.

We sleep late the next morning--well, late by our standards. I awaken at nine-thirty, the sun streaming through the curtains onto my face. I mumble contentedly, feeling warm and safe, and find that I am wrapped in CJ's arms. She's curled up behind me, her arms holding me close. I feel her breath tickling my scalp.

Oh yeah. Waking up in the arms of a beautiful, naked woman. This is definitely right up my alley.

Just as I'm settling in to enjoying this, I hear CJ's breathing pattern change, becoming heavier, and she sighs sleepily. "What time is it?" Her voice is husky with that just-awakened fogginess.

"Nine-thirty."

"Ack!"

"Relax. We have the day off, remember?"

"Ohhh..." A smile tangles in her voice. "Yeahhh. That's right. And we're going to have a day of pure, unadulterated...What was it you said?"

"Pure, unfettered, unadulterated, hedonistic pleasure."

"*That's* it."

And true to my word, that's exactly what we spend our day doing. We stumble out of bed around ten--me in my sweats, CJ in one of my tshirts and a pair of my shorts--and fix a big, fattening, unhealthy breakfast with not only bacon and eggs, but also waffles and heavily- buttered English muffins. We brush our teeth afterward, but otherwise make no concessions toward the usual daily toiletries. I turn the phone's ringer off and we both toss our cell phones and pagers into an unused closet. Then we flop on the touch together and turn on the tv, where to my great dismay, CJ finds a Behind the Music marathon on VH-1 already in full swing, and insists on watching it. And not just the cool ones--the Fleetwood Mac and Duran Duran episodes, for instance--but also the lame ones. For example, the Monkees special.

You can learn a lot about a person from their musical tastes. I'm sorry, but it's true. The moment Davy Jones prances across the screen in tight hip-huggers and a flouncy poet's shirt, CJ squeals and I know I'm in trouble.

"I thought you liked the Beatles," I protest.

"I do! The two are not mutually exclusive, Sam."

"I beg to differ."

But she ignores me, because Davy is crooning 'Daydream Believer' and I no longer exist. She similarly tunes me out when I issue a loud protest during the first few minutes of the Journey episode. Let me just state, for the record, that I hate Journey with a fiery passion that burns in me like the heat of a thousand suns.

"You can't not like Journey!" she says during one of Steve Perry's interview scenes. I'm tempted to laugh, but she looks deadly serious.

"CJ, I don't 'not like' them. I hate them."

"But--but they're *Journey*." Her expression is utterly dejected and she gestures toward the screen helplessly. "I mean...They're *Journey*, Sam."

"Yes they are, CJ, and they suck."

"I can't give my body to a man who doesn't like Journey."

"In that case, they're my favorite group *ever*."

"Nice try," she giggles.

I nibble on her earlobe. "Seriously. Sing me 'Faithfully'. I'll cry and everything."

"I can't. I'm still in shock."

She gets her revenge during the Moody Blues episode, however, calling them 'a bunch of Pink Floyd, poser wannabes'. She also gets in a few pot-shots when we find ourselves in a heated Neil Young vs. Neil Diamond debate, likening the voice of my Neil (Young) to that of 'a whining yodeler'. "Put it this way," she says. "Neil Diamond's voice inspires women to throw their underwear on the stage. Neil Young's voice inspires them to throw their boyfriends on the stage for dragging them there in the first place."

But God, we have so much fun. We sing-along to the Fleetwood Mac episode, reminisce about the first time we each heard 'Imagine', berate Van Halen together, and both get misty-eyed as Pete Townshend recounts Keith Moon's death. We empty the meager contents of my liquor cabinet and send out for Chinese from Wok It To Me. After a while we zone out Behind the Music--everyone's story is pretty much the same, anyway--leaving it playing in the background.

Outside the day grows overcast and the rough wind sends tree branches pelting against my windows. CJ and I go on talking and laughing and making love, and we pretend that there is no world beyond the safe confines of my house. We don't discuss subpoenas or Grand Juries or strategies or debilitating diseases. We don't discuss anything of any import.

Winter is coming to DC, and the unknown is coming to the Bartlet Administration, but together CJ and I lower our bodies to the floor and by some tacit agreement, decide to leave it all till tomorrow, and comfort each other in the only way we know how.

-FIN-

_________________

Drunken ferry boat woman

swaying on your sea

if I turn on the gasfire

by the rain rattled window

won't you sail over to me

The hail storm tumbles

the rail line rumbles

you move on the porch with me

on an overcast day

the pale winter city

an afternoon's debauchery

Your blouse your skirt

undo them so gently

with beautiful care

I'm a lonely man

with five bottles of wine

I'd like you to share

Orange street light

afternoon becomes night

you drink your wine from a mug

there's cats at the backdoor

the snow it two inches

you roll down your tights on the rug

--Debauchery, David Gray--