Hour of Gold, a west wing fanfic

Title: Hour of Gold
Author: KeladryB. keladrywritesaol.com
Fandom: The West Wing
Summary: Weeks and years, and he is torn and she is made of ashes.
Pairing: CJ/Danny
Rating: PG
Notes: Thanks go out to Eodrakken, KrazyKitKat, Clairealison, and Bobby Jo. Oh yeah, and this is quite angsty.

I have seen your soul turn black and then retreat
To that dark place where no one else may follow
I waited here for your returning
To roll your cigarette and wash your bloodied feet.
--Emmylou Harris, "Hour of Gold"

It's been three weeks, and she's still wakes up at four thirty every morning, still finds herself reaching for the remote before her glasses. Sometimes she is alone. Sometimes, she's not. But it's been three weeks, and she still can't sleep more than five hours a night, and she still can't get the adrenaline out of her system.

He was there, for her last briefing. He came back for the occasion. Somehow, she always knew he would, but it was still a surprise to see him. It was more of a shock when he stood in her bare office afterwards. 'Carol,' he'd said by way of explanation, and she understood everything. She kicked the door shut while he tapped the side of Gail's bowl, and then she was pinned against it and he was kissing her.

It's been three months, and Toby is writing a book, and Josh is writing a book, and Will is working for the new President, and Carol is in New York, and Donna and Charlie are at Georgetown. She is taking time off, she tells herself. She is spending time with family. But the truth is, she's not sure what to do anymore. She tells him this, sometimes, and he doesn't know how to respond, so he kisses her instead. Sometimes she tells him this just because she wants to be kissed.

After Russell's inauguration, they went out for drinks at Hawk & Dove, and it hit them then: they were no longer the White House Senior Staff. They sat in the back room and drank beer and remembered the good times, remembered the bad times. She was drunk, and they were laughing about secret plans to fight inflation when suddenly he was there, handing her another bottle of Sam Adams. He always did manage to show up at just the right moment, she had joked, and he ducked his head for a moment, then grabbed her and kissed her.

It's been three years, and she can't decide if she wants him around more or less. She calls him every night when he's away, and when he's there, they make love in her childhood bed and her father doesn't remember what those noises mean. She can't sleep afterwards, and he has stopped expecting her to. He'll sleep, and she'll wrap herself in a terrycloth robe, check in on her father, then sit on the couch and watch CNN. Sometimes she remembers to go back upstairs, sometimes she falls asleep on the sofa.

He held the door open for her, and she stumbled in, collapsing in a drunken heap on her couch. He removed her shoes, her stockings, her skirt. He helped her into pajamas, kissed her forehead, and put her to bed. When she woke up, her head was pounding and he was snoring in a chair. She downed two aspirin, then left the bottle by his hand and climbed into the bathtub.

It's been four years, and she's finally gotten used to his presence in the bed beside her. Her father's house is on the market, and she won't stay in Dayton, but she's not sure she can go back to Washington, either. He is still with the Post, still at the White House, and she can't help but be jealous of his career. Her brother is in Napa, and she announces over coffee that she's moving back to California. She says this, and she expects him to follow.

She knew he was there without opening her eyes, but she feigned ignorance until he nudged her forward and slid into the tub behind her. Her legs were too long to share a tub, and she propped them up against the faucet and was about to make a joke about how presumptuous he was, when his fingers found her shoulders and began to knead. At each knot he found, she groaned a little, and each time she felt him shiver behind her. When his hands were cramped and the water was cold, she leaned her head back against his shoulder and kissed him.

It's been six years, and she is teaching communications at her Alma Mater. He is writing a book, and he swears it's not about her. She thinks he's lying, but he silences her skepticism with goldfish crackers and mint milanos, and no woman can argue in the face of Pepperidge Farms. Sometimes she catches him fingering the pages of the Post, wistfully, and she cheers him with kisses and laughter. In these moments, she remembers what he's given up, but she doesn't let herself ask why.

She led him back to her bed, and he eyed her hesitantly, before she beckoned him closer. His hands were shaking when he touched her, and when he trailed kisses up her legs, she could only giggle at the scratch of his beard. They took their time, and she wondered if she'd forgotten how to do it at all. But then they were, and all of the old rhythms were new again.

It's been nine years, and his book has risen and fallen on the best-seller list. Many of her students are too young to remember the Bartlet administration, and she feels like a part of her has been lost. Sometimes he catches her watching tapes of old briefings, and he makes chamomile tea and sets it on the coffee table for her. He writes a column for the San Francisco Chronicle, and she thinks his talent is wasted on such a paper. His eyes go hard when she says this, and she tells herself it's out of pride, not regret.

She watched the first briefing of the new administration, and threw lipstick tubes at the television. Then he was asking questions, and she stopped to listen, then threw lipstick at the answers. She was good at what she did, and now she had nothing left, but he was back in that pressroom, and he was still at the top of his game. Katie called her afterwards, and CJ said she didn't miss the old gig. She wasn't sure if she was lying.

It's been twelve years, and he is holding her hand while Leo delivers the former President's eulogy. Abbey is leaning heavily on Elizabeth's arm, and both are crying silently. CJ does not allow herself tears in the church, but as the casket is lowered into the cold New Hampshire ground, she has to turn away, and he wipes the tears from her cheeks. Toby stands at her other side, and Andy Wyatt, beside him. Danny smoothes her hair and Toby grips Andy's hand so tightly his knuckles are white.

She was going back to Dayton, she told him, and his eyes grew wide then narrow. He kissed her cheek and mumbled a goodbye, and impulsively she told him to come with her. He shook his head 'no', and she left without him. Three weeks later she called him crying, and he told her he didn't know if he could help her. That Friday night, she drove out to the airport to pick him up, and when they got back to the house they played dominos in silence at the kitchen table. The kitchen light flickered over them, and the only sound was the sharp click of the tiles on the tabletop.

It's been fifteen years, and they are saying their vows at the Berkeley Rose Garden. Abbey is there, along with the senior staff and assistants, and Katie and Sandy are standing in the background. Donna is pregnant and Carol is married and Leo is leaning on a walker. Andy is there with Toby, and CJ notices that she's started wearing her ring again, although they have no plans to remarry. The sun is hot on the top of her head, and she stares past the priest, and all she can see is roses. For a moment the scent overwhelms her, and she feels like it's summer in Washington. Then she feels his hand squeeze hers, and it takes her a second to find her voice.

Each day at home left her more drained than a full week at the White House. She ran up the long distance bill every night, for no other reason than to hear his voice. It was clear and strong, and her father's was more confused than anyone's should be. Over the phone, he made fun of the new Press Secretary and spread gossip about the Press Corps, and more than once, she fell asleep listening to his voice on the other end of the phone. At her urging, he started flying out on weekends, but she could never convince him to stay.

It's been eighteen years, and Leo is gone, and Toby's twins are in college, and he finds a lump in her breast. He holds her hand when the second doctor confirms just how far the cancer has spread, and later, she catches him crying over old briefing tapes. She makes chamomile tea, and they sit not touching on the couch, and she tries to joke about how young she used to be.

When the doctor looked up from her father's bedside, he was the one whose arms she went to. She didn't hear the words, but later, Danny repeated them to her, and she cried into his chest. She retreated to bed and stayed there for two days, until he lured her downstairs with promises of ice cream. She'd taken one look at the carton of vanilla, then dumped it into the blender with Bailey's and vodka. He moved with her to California, and she told herself there was no reason to feel guilty for it.

It's been twenty-one years, and her ashes are being scattered over the Potomac. Once, during the MS scandal, he found her in Old Town Alexandria. She was sitting on the edge of the grass with her toes dangling into the water. She comes here on bad days, she had told him, and the water renews her strength. In the years to come, he will return to the same spot, and he will sprinkle goldfish crackers in the tide.

---
But the world will be my witness when they excavate my heart
And find the image of your face
imprinted there like some shroud of Turin
That neither time nor tundra could erase
--Emmylou Harris, "Hour of Gold"