Author: Elina

A/N: Once again, this hasn't been betaed because my beta already has, what, is it four of my stories (?) to work on and I wanted to get this up. I mean right away.

100 Ways to Say I'm Sorry - Chapter 1

I was already standing in the back of the room as she walked in. I watched her determined figure silently as she moved to the podium. The reporters took their places as soon as she entered and they're completely silent now, waiting for her to begin.

"Good evening," she starts with a steady voice. It's a voice that has no marks of the battle that has been going on all day.

I notice that I haven't breathed for awhile.

"We have two birthdays today, so we have cake. One cake. It's nice to share." There a little beat, hardly noticeable though, to say that the subject is changing. "Quickly, before I take questions, a late edition to Monday's schedule: the President will be at the opening of the Smithsonian exhibit commemorating the sixtieth anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. That's three in the afternoon, and I'll have more information Monday morning. Labor Secretary Carl Reed will brief from this podium in one hour's time on our school-to-work initiative, and, let me check, yeah, while that's going on, there'll be a briefing at the Department of Health and Human services by USDA director David Rhinegold. Sometime Tuesday you'll be briefed at the Pentagon. The DOD will be announcing that we've renewed our lease another ten years with the Khalifa Airbase in Qumar. I understand they've promised to paint and add new carpet."

A little wave of laughs flow over the briefing room and I give my heart a permission to start beating again.

"A delegation from..."

Her eyes wander at mine for a brief second. I can't read them, she's pulled down the mask again, but I know she's noticed me standing there in the doorway. I press my hands against my chest, over my heart, to send her a silent thank you across the room.

There's a spark in her eyes that I can't understand. Before I get the change to try to comprehend it, her eyes turn to glance at her papers and she continues. No one even noticed that there was a pause. "... state and the UN will be sitting down to go over some last-minute language for Vienna, and for that trip we'll have your schedules ready middle part of next week. Who's got questions?"

The questions fly by my acknowledgement, they fail to interest me. All I know is what she didn't say, and how much it took from her.

Sometimes I'm just amazed how powerful she can be. Every wind can blow and she won't flicker.

I know that isn't exactly true. I've seen her shatter, but... It's funny how even in her most vulnerable moment she has a fire burning in her eyes, how she can just straighten up and take the world in her hand. She can do that, she can. She has strength. She has fire.

I don't ever want to see that fire die.

I back out of the room and leave her to finish off the briefing. After all, she can handle it. She always has.

***

About five minutes after the briefing has ended, I'm sitting in my office, waiting for her. I can hear her before I see her. Her voice carriers around the corner and I shoot up from the chair to confront her.

I step out of the office to see her talking with Carol with her back towards me. "Claudia."

Her name is like a blade cutting through their conversation. Both women turn to look at me questioningly.

"Could I talk with you for a minute?"

She doesn't say anything, just turns to Carol, giving her a memo. I barely hear her mumbling: "Get this to Jeremy and find out when he's planning to take the commission." The young woman nods, scribbling something shortly into her notebook and walks away.

As she turns back to me, there something in her eyes that makes me feel guilty. It's anger, I realize. She's angry at me. No, not at me, I correct in my mind as she brushes by me to the office. To us.

She takes place in front of my desk as I close the door behind me, her arms folded defensively across her chest.

"It's not right," she states before I have the change to even open my mouth. Her voice is firm, disappointed.

I bow my head and stare at my feet, tucking my hands in my pockets, not willing to look at her disapproving expression. The blinds are closed and the lights are off -- the only light is coming from outside from the setting sun -- and I consider turning the switch, letting brightness fill the room again, but it just doesn't seem appropriate.

"It's not right," she says again, this time softer, quieter, and I raise my head to meet her eyes. They look at me sadly, lost.

"What is?"

She doesn't answer. I know what she's thinking, her face tells me everything. The sadness she wears is unbearable. Her eyes close as she leans against the edge of the desk as if searching for support from it, and a hardly hearable sigh escapes from her lips.

I don't want to see her like this. I don't want to see her sad.

Come on CJ, I want to say. Come on, you have the fire, I know you do. Smile for me.

But I don't say it. Instead I just take a step closer, then another, and another, until I'm standing right in front of her.

"A woman's husband poured burning hot water on her because she'd went out without his permission. She hit him on the head with a saucepan in self-protection and she was sentenced to life imprisonment." Her voice is shaking, with rage or with tears, I can't tell which. "She was sentenced. To life. I -- I just can't --"

"I know," I whisper softly, brushing a lock of hair away from her face, wanting to brush away her sadness with it. My hands land a bit uncertainly on her shoulders, sliding gently down her arms. "I know."

"How can we give weapons to them?" Her voice is silent, like a little child asking his father where do puppies go when they die, as I pull her closer, into my arms. Her head lowers to rest against my shoulder, her hands press against my chest.

I don't respond to her. I can't. How could I when I don't know the answer?

Her body is warm against mine. I can feel her heartbeats. Steady thuds. One, two, three. My arms have wrapped around her, and I lay a little kiss on the top of her head. The steady beats of her heart echo in my ears. One, two, three.

Neither of us says a word.

I can hear people outside in the Operations bullpen, moving, talking, louder voices, quieter voices, someone laughing briefly. But inside this room there's only the steady heartbeats. There's a world out there, but inside here... there's just us.

"Toby...?"

The voice is barely a whisper. Her movements are slow as she pulls apart a bit to meet my eyes. There's no mask on her face anymore. I can see right through her, through her power and her self-control, through the calmness and the steady voice. It frightens me in a way, but it also comforts me -- to know that I have the power to break her barriers, that I have access.

She doesn't say anything more. She doesn't have to. Her eyes, her face, they speak for her mouth, things that can't be formed into words, and leave space for her lips to move closer; her head dips, leaning slightly sideways.

She tastes sweet. She tastes like strawberry. She tastes like coffee and toothpaste. She tastes like phantoms and cherrypoppings. She tastes exactly as I've always imagined.

The kiss deepens; what started as a gentle touch, lips only barely brushing against each other, is now growing, flowing over me, drowning me under it. As if I've been in a daze, I soon find myself on the couch, not knowing how we'd ended up there from the other side of the room, but there we are, our bodies tangled up together, our lips desperately pressing against each other as if any second now something will happen to break us apart for good. Our hands rush to touch and caress, and she pulls me on top of her.

We make love on the couch, silently, longingly, needing, clinging on to each other as if our lives depend on it.

The world's out there, but inside here... there's just us.

TBC

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P.S. Somebody's bound to ask what are cherrypoppings. In reality? Nothing, I guess. I just remember this story I heard when I was little that was about this fantasy world that had all kinds of weird things growing out of trees and there was a cherrypopping tree and the fruit were these sorta candies that tasted like sugared cherry. I have no idea who wrote the story or what it's name was, but anyway, the cherrypoppings are there in a fairy-talish sort of metaphor. Or something... Oh, and one other thing I wanted to mention is that the story about the woman who got life is true, it actually happened. Something to think about.