Brick Walls, by Sid
Category: CJ/Sam, post-On the Day Before. Let them have angst!
Rating: R--language, vague sexual references
Summary: I just don't care--don't care at all. I've banged my head too long on these brick walls.
Disclaimer: Would that they were mine, but alas, they are not.
Thanks: To Jess--you fill up my senses, like a night in the forest, like the mountains in spriiiiiiingtime, like a walk in the raaaaaaaaain...
________________
"I got good news and I got bad news," says a voice from the doorway.
I look up to find Connie standing just inside my office, her ankles crossed, her head tilted to one side as she studies me, smiling. There's a copy of this morning's Post in one hand and the other hand is casually pressed against the doorframe. I arrange my features into some semblance of welcome and try to fight back a surge of irritation. I'm not in the mood to see anyone who isn't CJ--and I don't know if I'm even in the mood to see her.
"Hello," I say.
"Aren't you gonna invite me in?" Her smile falters. I'm pretty sure she knows she's not one of my favorite people these days. "I mean, it would be the polite thing to do."
"I don't know. You know what they say about your kind-once you're invited in, you can pretty much come back at will."
Her smile broadens again, evidently taking this as a form of teasing. She saunters into the room, dropping down into a visitor's chair. She tosses the newspaper onto the desk in front of me. "Now Sam, surely you're not implying I'm out for your blood."
More like my job. Only I don't say that. "Of course not," I reply with a wry smile. "So what can I help you with?"
"Good news or bad news," she reminds me.
"I'm not really in the mood for good news-bad news games, Connie." I'm in more of a 'wallowing in self-pity' kind of mood, actually.
"Humor me."
"Bad news."
She looks at me, startled. "Well, aren't we Mr Glass-Is-Half-Empty today."
"But then the good news will sound so much better, won't it?" I retort lightly. I don't have the patience for this today. CJ's words are still ringing in my ears, and every time I think of them I feel sick to my stomach.
'I was doing just fine before you came along, and I'll be fine when you're gone'. The woman really has a knack for using the fewest, simplest words to make the most shattering impact, you know what I'm saying?
Connie shifts in the chair and smiles at me again. "Okay, bad news," she agrees. "Someone inside Victor Campos's inner circle has revealed to the Post that the Bartlet Administration is in a weak spot."
"That's hardly news one way or the other, Connie," I remark, wondering why the hell she's wasting my time with inanities. "It's not as if the entire country is harboring the delusion that the Bartlet Administration is at its fighting weight."
"Yeah, but this source goes into great detail as to the meeting certain 'prominent' staff members held with Campos." When I don't reply, she grins. "Actually, I was kind of flattered to be labeled as 'prominent'."
"Is there a point to this?" I ask. My patience is waning. "It's far from the first time the details of a meeting have been leaked, and you know it sure as hell isn't going to be the last." I think briefly of my meetings with Campos and Kimball and anger surges through me in waves. How dare they? *How dare they?*
"Well, the details that have been leaked are pissing people off, Sam. William Wiley--you may remember him," she interjects with soft sarcasm, "he challenged the president and Hoynes for the Democratic nomination in the last election and nearly won? He's issued a statement saying that even *considering* immunity for illegal Mexican immigrants shows that the Bartlet Administration is so desperate for votes they're willing to favor one demographic over another. He's saying you're treating other immigrants poorly just to boost your own approval rating, and that--"
"'We're'," I interrupt.
Connie stops abruptly and fixes me with a curious gaze. "Excuse me?"
"It shows that *we're* desperate for votes. It shows that *we're* treating other immigrants poorly." I can feel my face tightening as she looks more confused by the second. "You said 'they' and 'your', as if you're not a part of this administration just like the rest of us."
"Sam--"
"As if you weren't the very person who stepped in and as good as promised Victor Campos the immunity in the first place. You're part of the 'you', Connie; you and Doug and Bruno, even though you may like to pretend otherwise."
"All I was saying--"
"I know what you were saying," I tell her quietly. "And all *I'm* saying is that you're just as much a part of this administration as I am; not in the same capacity, maybe, but you're a part of it all the same." I inch closer to my desk and lean over it, staring at her intently, our gazes locked. My voice grows stiffer and more controlled. "You were brought in to facilitate a re-election for the president, but you're also taking it upon yourselves to worm your way into domestic and foreign policy. Well," I shrug, "if you're going to do that, you should be willing to stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest of us when it backfires on you."
Connie just looks at me, her face awash in surprise. "Sam," she says softly, "I came in here to apologize."
That totally throws me. "What?" I ask stupidly.
"I'm not going to say anything as trite as 'you were right and I was wrong'," she continues, "because I still think I'm right and *you're* wrong, but..." her voice trails off and she avoids my gaze, "I took you somewhat to task and I wanted to apologize for it."
"A week later?" Okay, I know that doesn't exactly sound grateful, but still.
She looks back at me, her vivid green eyes like lasers. "Bruno wanted me in that meeting, Sam," she says, avoiding an explanation.
"Yeah, and we both know *why* he wanted you in that meeting," I challenge her.
"Oh, let's not start that whole 'us against them' bullshit, Sam. We're grown men and women, we are *not* the gang at Rydell High."
I groan in frustration, pulling my glasses off my face and tossing them to my desk, where they land with a clatter. "Connie--"
"I went into that meeting and I did what I was supposed to *do*, Sam." Connie emphasizes her words with a soft pounding on the arm of the chair.
"So, Bruno gave you *specific* instructions to undermine me and promise things to Campos that I was refusing."
"This isn't about you, Sam!" she exclaims. Neither of us are raising our voices, but somehow we're still managing to get our frustration out. "Jesus, why are you all *like* this? Why is everything a personal slight against *you* or *Josh* or *CJ* or *whoever*? Why can't this just be about what's best for the election and what's best for the President?"
"If you think we're not as concerned about this election as you are, you really need to pay closer attention," I remark in a low voice. "What are you guys, the Holy Trinity? Sweeping in to save the president from his evil, self-involved staff? Every decision we make-- "
"Sam--"
"--every strategy we plan, every compromise we negotiate, is done for the good of the president, Connie, and for the good of this administration. Now, I appreciate the fact that you've been hired to do a job, but when you start shooting me down in meetings that have been specifically garnered toward *my* job and *my* qualifications and *my* place in this administration--meetings that you are, in effect, tagging along to--you *cannot* fault me for reacting on a personal level."
Silence passes between us, lingering for several moments, almost tangible in its potency. The only sounds are the people passing by my office and the distant ringing of phones and fax machines. Connie and I just look at each other.
"Well," she finally says, exhaling slowly, "this isn't usually the reaction I get when I apologize to someone."
I feel the anger ebbing away and I suddenly relax, leaning back into my chair. "I think I've been holding that in for the past week," I confess.
"I still think I'm right," she says with a wry smile, "but I do apologize, Sam. I didn't handle it the way I should have."
"Apology accepted," I respond after another quiet moment. "And, you know, just for future reference--telling someone to 'suck it up' and 'show a little humility' isn't what you'd call a surefire way to get in their good graces."
Connie raises an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I'm the least bit interested in getting in your good graces, Sam?"
Heat crawls up my neck and burns my face. Dammit, why do women have this nerve-wracking ability to embarrass the hell out of me? "I just meant..."
In response, Connie peals with laughter. "I'm just messing with you, Sam. Lighten up!"
That only makes me flush harder. I pick my glasses up off the desk, just for somewhere else to look, and say, "Well, I've got work to do."
"Yeah, me too." Rising to her feet, Connie heads for the door and is barely into the hall before I remember something.
"Connie?" I call.
She pokes her head back in. "Yeah?"
"What about the good news?"
"Oh!" A mischievous smirk curls on her lips. "Check out the front page of the Post there, bottom left-hand corner." She disappears once more into the hallway, leaving me to straighten out the crumpled edges of the newspaper.
There on the front page is a small, but prominent article detailing a statement from Victor Campos pledging unswerving loyalty to the Bartlet re-election campaign. "The willingness of prominent staff members to right past wrongs and hear the voice of the Latino people, only proves to me that this is an administration that should be given the chance to propel the President to greater heights and stronger actions," the article quotes him as saying.
'Prominent staff members'.
I think of Connie's words and grin.
The pseudo-meeting with Connie is the best thing to happen to me all day. The two meetings I have scheduled are canceled--more Democrats jerking us around, surprise surprise--and rescheduled for the next day; Toby and I argue over something extremely stupid, and studiously avoid one another for the rest of the afternoon; and instead of writing the President's address to the Illinois caucus as I should, I decide to spend my day torturing myself by replaying my fight with CJ over and over again in my head.
It is not a productive day.
I need to know what it is about CJ Cregg that drives me to distraction. It's more than the sum of her parts--although she has some damn fine parts, let me tell you. I can't believe that in such a short period of time she's become so important to me that the very thought of losing her takes my breath away.
She shouted at me in her kitchen this morning, wearing only a blouse, looking fresh-faced and gorgeous, and her words cut at my heart. I looked at her, at the sleek lines of her neck, at the droplets of water clinging to her collarbone and bare calves, and I just wanted to kiss every inch of her. But I was angry; I was so angry with her. I wanted to hurt her the way she was hurting me, but I knew I couldn't. I don't have the power over her that she has over me, and it was never clearer to me than during those few minutes when she told me in no uncertain terms, that I was a temporary part of her life.
When I walked out of her apartment, I felt nauseous. I stumbled into the cab, my head spinning, my body aching as if her words had pummeled me from the inside out. And I thought, 'If she can do this to me in two minutes with a few words, what will she be able to do to me weeks from now--even days from now?' I'm falling, and I'm falling fast, and every day that passes, every day that I spend wanting her, only increases her power to hurt me.
God, I'm pathetic.
"Well, don't you look pathetic." I recognize Connie's voice and look up to find her watching me with a smirk of amusement.
"You're like a bad penny today, you know that?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "I was just passing by and I saw you sitting there looking like a little boy who just found out there's no Santa Claus, so I thought I'd see what was up."
"I'm fine."
Her amusement only seems to increase. "You always do that."
"What?"
"You always say you're fine. I could walk in and find you in tears and you'd tell me you were fine."
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Her forthrightness surprises me; I don't think she and I know each other well enough to be having this conversation. I have to give her credit for at least trying--which is more than Bruno and Doug have ever done--but I don't feel up to playing True Confessions, either. "I'm fine. Really," I say. Like I'd tell her otherwise.
"Ooookay." With another shrug, Connie turns around to leave, immediately bumping into CJ. The two women regard each other for a moment: Connie with a cautious smile, CJ with her inimitable death- ray glare.
"Hey, CJ."
"Connie," CJ returns coolly. The moment Connie is out of view she slips into my office and shuts the door behind her.
We stare at each other.
She looks gorgeous and rumpled, her hair slightly mussed, strands pushed behind her ears. Her shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show the tiny beads of perspiration clinging to the hollow at the base of her throat. The sight of her long, stockinged legs is enough to make my mouth go dry.
"So," CJ says finally, still leaning against the door, "that's, like, the fifth time I've seen Connie in here today."
Be casual, I tell myself. Be casual. Showing CJ how much I want her-- how much I've missed her--will only damn my cause. "I'd say that's a slight exaggeration."
"Not really," she dismisses me coolly.
"CJ."
"So you're ignoring me," she continues.
"I'm not ignoring you."
"Josh has pointed it out, Sam."
Dammit. If Josh has noticed, I must not be playing it as subtle as I thought I was. "I'm just--busy."
"Ginger said both your big meetings were canceled today."
I fumble around on my desk for the two paragraphs I've written for the President's speech and point to the sheet of paper. "Writing," I say, "I've been writing. 'Cause, you know, that's what they pay me to do."
She sighs heavily, the exhalation propelling her across the room, all endless legs and exasperation. She stands in front of my desk and looks down at me. "Sam," she says reproachfully.
"What?" I give her my best blank face.
"I think we should talk about this morning."
I feel my lips tighten in an unyielding line. I don't want to talk about this morning. I haven't had enough time to think about it, let alone form a strategy, so I'd really rather we didn't talk about it yet. Why are women like this?
"Don't give me that look," she instructs me.
"What look?"
"The one where you try to seem all cool and casual, but wind up looking ten times more pitiful for your efforts." She eases elegantly down into a chair opposite me, all the while holding eye contact.
"You really know how to bolster a man's ego, CJ," I retort bitterly.
God, this is awful. I'm still angry with her, angry at her words, angry at the easy way she dismisses hours of laughter and lovemaking, while I'm left re-evaluating my entire existence at the merest touch of her hand.
"I didn't mean to snap at you this morning," she says softly, looking down at her hands. Before I can respond she glances back up at me, her eyes dark and wary. "But you know, Sam, you're really pushing my buttons lately. And not in a good way. And I think--I think we need to talk about that."
Her words are a sucker punch. For a moment I can't catch my breath. This is it. She's ending it. She's ending us--because we *are* an 'us' now, whatever she may think.
"And I think--" she says. Here it comes. Oh God, "--that the lines need to be drawn a little bit clearer than they have been in the past couple of months."
I dare to draw in another breath, a waiting, hopeful one. I can't tear my eyes off her. Her next few words, no matter what they are, will change everything.
"This isn't real, Sam. Us--you and me--we're not real."
My chest tightens, restricting every attempt at breathing normally. "Are you sure? 'Cause when we're in bed together, it feels pretty real to me."
"Sam, don't."
"Okay," I whisper miserably.
"We're not real," she says again. "This isn't--this isn't something..." Her voice trails off and she runs both hands through her hair, looking almost haggard for a moment before fixing her eyes on me intently. "You're driving me crazy, you realize that, don't you?"
I give her my best Gary Cooper, aw-shucks grin. "Well, that's just part of my charm."
CJ giggles, then shakes her head imploringly. "Sam, what am I going to do with you?"
"What do you want to do with me?" I ask, thinking, Anything--you can do anything you want with me.
"I want to shake you is what I want to do."
"Kinky." I decide to go the flirtatious route since it seems to work well for us. When all else fails, when things get too heavy for her and too scary for me, we fall back into this playful banter, this we're-only-in-this-for-the-sex façade of words and witticisms. I wonder if it will always be this way. And I wonder if we'll be together long enough for the word 'always' to apply to us in the first place.
"Sam!" she exclaims in mock outrage.
"I didn't say I wasn't up for it."
She laughs again, throwing her head back. I want to kiss her throat. I want to unbutton that floaty, flimsy shirt and pull off that silky camisole and feel her bare skin under my hands. It's been about twelve hours since we made love and my body is so hungry for her.
"You're always 'up for it', if memory serves." CJ's lips curl into a saucy smile and it's my turn to laugh, even as I fight down a sigh of bitter disappointment. "Anyway, listen...Sam..."
I hold up my hand and she stops. "I know what you're going to say, CJ."
"Yeah," she agrees, "I know you do. That's what makes this so hard." I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. "We keep having this conversation. Or rather," she amends, "we keep kinda, sorta having this conversation. It never goes anywhere. I try, but then you give me those bedroom eyes, and I just...God, we really have to talk about this."
She doesn't say anything, just stares down at the floor, hands clasped around her knees. She's wondering how best to deal with my desire for more, how best to handle what she sees as my delicate feelings. She's doing what everyone does, working out the best way to protect poor, sweet, fragile Sam.
And in a split second I know what I have to do. It's not just a matter of lying--if it were, she and I wouldn't even be having this conversation right now--and it's not just a matter of convincing her that I don't want anything from her she's not willing to give; it's a matter of keeping myself from wanting more. It's a matter of preserving what little is left of my sanity. CJ is getting under my skin in ways I never imagined were possible. No woman has ever done this to me in such a short span of time. Hell, I don't think any woman has ever done this to me, period. If I'm not careful I could lose myself in her, and that's dangerous to contemplate.
The problem isn't that I'm falling for her; the problem is that I'm *letting* myself fall for her. So I'll stop. It can't be that hard. If CJ's able to do it, then so am I.
To quote the woman herself, I'll put a lid on it.
The moment I make the resolution, I feel the change: My posture relaxes, the fear loosens its death grip on my lungs, and I feel freer somehow. This is it. This is what I have to do.
"CJ, it's fine." The dismissive tone to my voice surprises me. I could be discussing what I want for lunch for all the emotion I feel. "I mean...I'm sorry if I've made you feel uncomfortable. I'm sorry if I've pushed. It won't happen again."
CJ softens. "You don't have to apologize. It's not something--I mean, I'm very *flattered*--"
"It won't happen again," I repeat.
She looks puzzled now. She was expecting me to be defensive, to plead with her, maybe, or to argue my case; she's not prepared for my acquiescence. "It's not that I don't care about you, Sam."
"I know."
"Because I *do*. A lot."
I smile wanly. "CJ, I know this."
She licks her lips nervously, unsure how to continue in the face of my very unSam-like behavior. "Because, you know, we can *talk* about this. This morning, at my place, I think things were left unsaid."
"No. It's fine, CJ, really." Or at least, it would be fine if she would stop looking at me with those big, gorgeous eyes. This would be a hell of a lot easier if I didn't want her so badly. But then, if I didn't want her so badly we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.
Yeah, it's official. She and I are a mess.
"It's just very wrong for us to get involved, Sam. Barring grand juries and subpoenas and depositions and, you know, a scandal-tainted administration, you and I--we don't make much sense." There's a hard catch to her voice. Is she testing me? Is she deliberately trying to hurt me?
Well, it won't work. As of right now she loses the ability to hurt me. I won't let her.
"You're right," I nod agreeably, picking up my pen and the speech I should be working on. "We're good as friends, we're great as lovers on a physical level, but more than that?" I roll my eyes, hoping I'm not overdoing the nonchalance.
"More than that would be ridiculous."
"Absolutely," I say.
"Right." Our eyes meet. Hers are curious, and I fervently hope that mine are blank. "So," she says, "I should really go."
"Okay." I turn my eyes back to the speech and start scribbling. She'll get no arguments from me. As of now, I am no longer the anxious lover, eager to please. If she wants me, she'll ask for me.
I won't be the one to beg.
The impassivity slips for just a second and my body burns with hurt and frustration. Dammit, why do I get everything wrong? A beautiful, intelligent, incredible woman likes me as a friend and enjoys me as a lover; why do I have to push for more? Any other man would be happy with status quo, but oh no, not me. Not Sam Seaborn. I have to take it ten steps further till the woman is practically running in the opposite direction.
"Sam?"
She's watching me. Time for the blank face again. "Yeah?"
"Your place tonight?"
This is it. Every fiber of my being is screaming for CJ, my fingers are practically reaching for her of their own volition, but I have to be stronger. "I have plans tonight," I reply after a moment.
"Oh. Well, okay. I just thought--I mean, we kind of made plans the other day to rent that new Emma Thompson movie, so..."
"Yeah. Sorry about that." I'll leave it at that. I get myself into trouble when I start expanding on lies. Short and simple is safest.
"Okay," she says brightly. "Well, if your plans change, give me a call. I'm sure I'll be up late."
"I will."
I don't watch her leave. I don't listen to her heels clatter down the hallway. I don't call her or stop by her office or glance in her direction for the rest of the day. I sit at my desk and I write the speech I'm supposed to write, and I keep my thoughts away from CJ and her arms and her eyes and her voice and her laughter.
If you don't want to fall in love with someone, you just stop falling in love with them.
-FIN-
________________
I just don't care
don't care at all
I've banged my head too long
on these brick walls
Every seed I sow
shudders and falls
Perishes betweens
these brick walls
And I feel like the last hair
on a head gone bald
Not much point being there
no point at all
How many more years
years 'till they fall
On the blind eyes
and deaf ears
and these brick walls
These brick walls
These brick walls
These brick walls
These brick walls
And I'm long past worrying
and I'm way past being appalled
I know history is hurrying up
and time can't be stalled
So don't try to run, no
before you can crawl
Just wait and the time will come
hey for these brick walls
These brick walls
These brick walls
These brick walls
Oh these brick walls
--Brick Walls, David Gray--