He Cooked; She Did The Dishes
Author's Notes & Disclaimer: This is a "West Wing" fanfiction, and I own nothing. Though I sure wish I did own something because then I'd have money and I wouldn't be in major student-loan debt. :sigh: Anyway, I'll put everything back when I'm done, and it'll all be only slightly less off for the wear.
I got the idea for this tale while I was washing dishes. The inspiration to write "WW" fanfic comes from reading Angie's stories. Thank you!
Oh, and yes, I am a big fan of Mary Chapin Carpenter, and let me also note right now that Bruce Springsteen was quite hot in his day.
Pairing: CJ/Toby
Rating: 'PG-13' for mature themes
The week so far had been hell, and it was only Tuesday.
Donna chalked it up to Murphy's Law: "Anything that can go wrong, will."
Josh proclaimed that the last two days had been, "Shit, plain and simple. Just pure, unadulterated, rotten, and nothing-but shit."
CJ threatened to blow up the pressroom and then set fire to a certain religious-right, conservative psychopath's office.
And Toby…well, Toby said nothing. Articulate, prone to anger, never at a loss for the perfect explanatory explicative Toby. That's how she knew there was something more than quiet contemplation in those chocolate eyes. So when Toby met her in her office at just past six that night to ask her if she wanted to join him for dinner, she worried, and she agreed.
"You wanna stalk the college bar scene? I bet we could scare something up that'll get us on the front page of every newspaper in America by tomorrow morning," she teased, half-hoping he'd say yes and they could get bloody drunk and stupid and he'd cry on her shoulder later and tell her what was wrong and it wouldn't be so embarrassing for him to cry because he'd be drunk, see, and it's okay to cry when you're drunk. When he cried on CJ's shoulder whilst dead sober, he always felt sheepish the next day, and she knew it. She knew it because she felt the exact same discomfiture whenever she dropped her guard in front of him. "And if you're good, I'll let you see my belly-button ring."
"Nah. I was thinking I'd make something at my place and you could come over and –" His gaze shifted from the goldfish in the bowl to a low button on her blouse and then to her face. "Wait. Claudia Jean, tell me you didn't get a belly-button ring." He voice rumbled into a growl.
"And if I did?"
"Then lie to me." Toby's stare was dangerous.
"I didn't get a belly-button ring," she replied morosely, like a freshly-punished teenager, hanging her head in mock-shame.
Toby rolled his eyes. "Did you or didn't you?"
"I thought you wanted me to lie."
"Now I want to know."
CJ rose, crossed to the front of the desk to where Toby stood expectantly, and took his hand. They were practically nose-to-nose, but Toby refused to flinch or step back. He was used to her oddities and teasing, and he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of thinking that she'd unnerved him. She'd untucked her shirt ages ago for comfort, and now she slipped his hand under the silk to let him caress her navel. Perfectly smooth: no ring. "Happy?"
"Not really. Be at my place at seven-thirty?" His eyes never left hers. She noticed the dark circles underneath his coffee-brown peepers.
"Whatever will I wear?" She kissed the tip of his nose. "Yes, Tobus. I'll be there."
xxxxx
Naturally, she sought out a fine wine. A good whisky too. They were going to need it, she was sure. It wasn't that she really wanted him to get trashed, though if he wanted to, that would be okay too. She'd match him drink for drink, easily. A little feeling good was right up CJ's alley. No, she just wanted him to relax a little so he wouldn't feel, well, too "manly" to share with her what was wrong. Certainly, Toby was her best friend, and CJ was his. Best friends talk to each other. She planned to tell him that if he clammed up. But then he would throw right back in her face the fact that she wasn't always exactly forthcoming when she was upset either. 'We're not talking about me, Toby, we're talking about you.' Yes, she'd say that.
CJ was early. She had a set of keys to Toby's house, just like he had a set to her apartment, and she let herself in like she always did. Forget doorbells and knocking when you know someone as well as CJ and Toby knew each other. It was Toby who had started the habit of walking in unannounced, CJ remembered. The first time, he'd waltzed into her apartment and caught her rocking out to a Bruce Springsteen music video. And she wasn't just singing along at the very top her voice: she was dancing too! Crazy, jumping on the furniture, '80s-headbanging, playing-air-guitar dancing. She didn't notice Toby's presence for two whole minutes, not until he could no longer hold back the laughter, and then he laughed so hard she thought even Bruce stopped singing to glare at his unappreciative audience. She'd sworn up and down she'd get even with him for that, and she did six months later when she snuck into his house before he got home from work, undressed completely and left a trail of clothing behind her up to his bedroom. She left a note on his bed instructing him to get naked and meet her in the bathtub. 'Adoringly, Claudia Jean,' she'd signed it. The bathtub, naturally, was full of hot water and heavenly-scented bubbles when Toby came in entirely stripped of clothing. She was in the tub too, of course. Holding a camera. As Toby, in all of his naked glory, entered his bathroom, she'd snapped a full-body picture. "That's for Bruce!" she'd announced triumphantly. He threatened to destroy her camera, then kill her and dump her body in the Potomac. He'd get off by reason of insanity. "Try it, Tobster. You just try to live without me," she'd teased, then made it up to him that night by giving him the most mind-blowing sex he'd ever had. Still, he vowed to get his due revenge, and now it was a running gag between the two.
Tonight, however, was not a night for one-uppings. As CJ stepped through the porch, leaving her trainers and jacket behind, she heard the familiar musical poetry of Mary Chapin Carpenter's latest CD on Toby's stereo. They'd made love to every song on Place in the World, and now CJ couldn't listen to Chapin without Toby. Judging by the lyrics, the song currently spinning was "Elysium." Slow, but hopeful. CJ wondered if Toby listened to MCC only when she was nearby. With a sigh, she wondered, 'Why can't we just let go in front of each other? Why do we make it so hard on ourselves?'
Her nose led her to the kitchen. Spaghetti sauce. CJ loved spaghetti. Toby would rarely admit it, but he was a truly masterful cook. He could make boiled water taste fantastic. She planned on announcing herself as she entered the chef's studio, but when she saw Toby, she was caught unexpectedly breathless.
Toby's clothing was nothing special: faded, ragged blue jeans and his alma mater's sweatshirt, protected by a pink frilly apron, one Andi had left behind. Toby was facing away from the kitchen entrance, bent over his stove, stirring the pot of sauce and tasting it periodically. He'd add a bit of this and a bit of that, stir some more, taste. Add, stir, taste. CJ, in the doorway, cocked her head to the side and smiled. He looked so, God, relaxed, like this. And vulnerable. Very vulnerable, though she wasn't sure quite how. 'And he has no ass,' noted CJ. He'd lost a bit of weight, so the jeans were almost hanging off his hips. 'Even scrawny Joshua has an ass.' What he did have for a rear end, CJ felt the sudden urge to grab. She wanted to kiss his neck, wrap her arms around his waist, tell him everything would be okay.
"I've never been so turned on in my life. Whoever thought a man in an apron would do it for me?"
"I'll start wearing one at work," he deadpanned without turning around.
"You'd better not, or you'll never leave your office. All of the women on the West Wing will be in line to untie the strings."
"So long as you're the first one. Set the table, would you?"
She knew her way around his kitchen as well as she knew her own. Two plates, two forks, two knives, two tall glasses, two wine goblets. "How about candles?"
"Candles? This isn't a proposal." The pain of Andi's rejection to re-marry him still haunted Toby daily, but he found he could occasionally appreciate a joke about engagements and marriage when it was on his own turf.
She rummaged around in his "miscellaneous crap" drawer. "Found some!"
"Terrific." No enthusiasm.
She rolled her eyes. "God, Toby, I won't light them if you really don't want me to. I'll just put them on the table."
"If they're going to be on the table, they're going to be lit. Why don't we find some firecrackers and shoot them off too?"
"At least look at me when you're being sarcastic."
"Who says I'm being sarcastic?" But he did turn away from the precious sauce to glance at her. One glimpse told him she was nothing less than gorgeous tonight: loose jeans, fitted green sweater, just a little makeup, hair back in a ponytail. Her eyes shone, too. She was trying to be cheerful for his miserable sake. "Christ, CJ, those candles don't even match!"
"Oh, who cares? Give me your lighter."
"I don't smoke any more." Well, not cigarettes anyway. He got rid of those when Andi was pregnant. A good cigar, though, now and again…
"Bullshit. I'll get it myself." She stepped up to him and slipped her hand into his right front pocket.
"That's not my lighter."
She winked at him, extracted the little Bic from his pocket and disappeared into the dining room with the candles.
He was right of course: the candles didn't match at all. One was short, blue, and bumpy. The other was tall, red, and smooth. CJ grinned. They were a funny pair, but they worked so amazingly well together nonetheless, especially when they were under flame. These mismatched candles reminded CJ of herself and the man in the next room. So different, yet so perfect together.
xxxxx
She liked spiraled noodles, and Toby remembered. She liked parmesan cheese, and Toby remembered. She liked an ice-cold glass of milk, of all things, with pasta, and Toby remembered. So CJ had two drinks in front of her: one, milk; the other, wine.
He liked Bordeaux, and CJ remembered. He liked being slightly complimented on his cooking, and CJ remembered. He liked to play "footsie" underneath the table, and CJ remembered. So Toby got a thrill each time CJ teased her toes up and down and underneath his pantleg.
They conversed about subjects that made him happy, like Huck and Molly: Huck had learned to say "press corps," Molly was showing skill at tossing a ball, Huck could fit his whole fist into his mouth, Molly ate a Lego. CJ sometimes had a hard time talking about Toby's babies because they induced a pain within her that she tried so hard to bury: she wasn't a mother. Still, she would have gushed over them all night if it seemed like it brought him any joy at all. Normally, even the mere mention of Molly or Huck's name tugged Toby's lips into a delighted grin; his eyes always lit up. His little boy and girl comprised his world. Tonight, though, he didn't even smile. So she mentioned that she liked his new CD.
"I only play Mary Chapin Carpenter when I know you'll be here to enjoy it with me," he confessed.
She grinned and ran her index finger around the rim of her wine glass. "Do you remember the night – ?"
"Of course." They laughed. Toby laughed. It wasn't full, throaty, and warm, but it was something.
"Toby?" 'Should I broach the subject now, or let him lead into it?'
"Mmm-hmm." He sipped his wine. This was his third glass.
"I'll do the dishes." Her second.
He looked at her with surprise. "Uh, thanks. Though I'd like to finish eating first."
'What am I afraid of?' "Of course. I'm just offering, you know, for when we're done."
"I…uh…I hoped we might…uh…talk…when we're done." There. He'd said it. The rest of the wine in his goblet slipped down his throat. He wished he was drunk. This would be easier. 'Why can't I just let go in front of her? Why do we do this to ourselves?'
She smiled at him. Her fork resting on the china plate, CJ reached out her right hand to squeeze Toby's left. She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. "Okay."
xxxxx
In order to put off what he'd asked her over for, he inquired whether she wanted dessert.
"Whaddya got?" She cleared the dishes from the table and loaded them into the sink.
"Popsicles." He followed her into the kitchen and stuck his head into the freezer.
"Really? I haven't had a Popsicle since I was…God, in college."
"What color do you want?"
"What color?"
"Yeah CJ, you know, those pretty 'things' that you see when light hits an object and certain wavelengths are –"
"I know what a color is, you jackass. Normal people ask what flavor you want."
"Kids go by colors," he reasoned.
"Yellow, then."
He found banana Popsicle for her and chose a lime one for himself. Lime would go well with the whisky he planned on opening. Toby and CJ moved together into the living room. She carried two clean glasses. The whisky was already waiting for them. They sat on the sofa; he handed her the yellow treat and she peeled the paper off expertly. Then she did his.
"Really, Toby, you ought to be able to get into a Popsicle. Do you let your kids eat these with bits of paper still stuck to them?"
"Of course not." His hands were trembling. She felt like a jerk. Steady hands can tear into Popsicle paper: shaking hands have trouble.
"Whisky?" She wanted to change the subject, and she needed another drink.
"Definitely. Hold this." He handed her his frozen lime juice on a stick and opened the liquor bottle. Even shaking hands can do that. He poured her a long drink, then filled his own glass. "Do you want ice?"
"No, I think this Popsicle will cool my mouth sufficiently." She opened the door for an easy quip.
"Okay." He didn't notice.
She sipped. He sipped. "Banana and whisky should never be combined. Tastes like shit," she remarked.
"Thanks for the tip. I'll make sure to never let Huck or Molly drink their whisky while eating a banana Popsicle."
He drained his glass. She followed suit. A long moment of silence ate up the room. He sank into his end of the couch, nibbling at his dessert. He didn't want to admit how awful he felt. Bloody awful. So horribly bloody awful he couldn't stand himself. He didn't want to admit it to CJ because first he'd have to admit it to himself.
On the other end of the sofa, CJ curled her legs underneath her. Her treat was gone, and the ice headache made her squeeze her eyes shut. The second minute of silence ate up the entire downstairs. When she opened her eyes again, she looked over at Toby. His whole face was cloudy with pain. And his hands were still shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but Toby beat her to words: "Lime works with whisky," he noted. "I bet this Popsicle would make a fine ice cube." He slid the rest of his dessert off of its stick and into his freshly-poured poison. He licked his finger and took a sip from the glass. "It does. You want to try?" He offered her the drink.
CJ slid over to his end of the couch, so that she was sitting right next to him. She accepted his still proffered glass and set it on the coffee table. Taking his hands in her own, she squeezed them, then intertwined her fingers with his. "Talk to me, Toby."
His sigh was heavy. He looked down at their hands. These were his lifeline: her hands around his. "I can't," he whispered.
"Why not?" It was a gently-asked question. She moved even closer to him so that their legs touched and their shoulders pressed together. He didn't respond; he just kept staring at their hands. "Toby? Please talk to me."
"CJ, it's bad. It's really bad." He wouldn't raise his eyes. She could feel him tremble beside her.
"What's bad?" She'd seen Toby depressed before, but this was wretchedness on a far grander scale.
He shook his head, slowly at first, then violently. He burst up from the sofa. "Fuck! I can't, I just can't. I won't. It's too… You don't deserve… Oh! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He spun away. His hands flew up to his face and he broke. He cried. He sobbed. His whole body shook.
She was at his side in an instant, arms around him. He yanked away, crossed the room, smashed his fists down onto the desk. The pictures, the lamp, the papers, the files, everything came off in a swoop. He punched the wall next with both fists, kicked it too. His strength ripped into the paint and plaster, leaving honest-to-goodness holes. A vase was his next victim; a mirror smashed under his knuckles. For a shocked second, she watched him on his tirade, then she flew after him, grabbed him around the torso and arms and held him in a death grip. "Toby, stop this right now! You're scaring the hell out of me, and you're hurting yourself."
"That's the point!" he bellowed. "That's the point." Snap. He couldn't take it. He wanted to die.
"Toby. Oh, Toby." Her voice was his angel; he melted into her. The waves washed over and through his body. Waves of utter despair. Waves of fear. Waves of self-hatred, of failure, of loss, of guilt. She held him, now gently, now soothingly. Her hands quieted the wracking sobs that were his shoulders. Her kisses comforted his sodden cheeks. She eased him into a sitting position on the floor and rocked him. "Shh, shh. I'm here, Toby. It's all right. I won't let you go." Tears burned in her own eyes, but she wouldn't cry. He needed her strength.
Thoughts of eternal night – peaceful, quiet, blank nothingness – rolled over his fumbling brain. The worst part was the sheer inexplicability of it all. He didn't understand himself any more. Didn't know where his next smile would come from. Feeling nothing would be better than feeling like this. Loud darkness. Not the silence of white nor even the whisper of grey: it was screaming black. He knew that he wanted to turn it off. He was getting lost in it. He was lost.
xxxxx
There were no more tears, and his chest was too heavy to raise another sob. He leaned on CJ, too exhausted to hold himself up. His head rested on her shoulder. Her hands ran over his back soothingly. She still rocked him as if he was a child. Her worried lips kissed the top of his head. This wasn't Toby. 'Where are you?'
"You're bleeding." She had to say something, and the blood oozing out of the glass slices on his hands wasn't cauterizing like it should: shards of mirror still stuck up angrily. "Let me help you." That had far deeper meaning than the words alone expressed.
She half-lifted him to his feet and led him to his upstairs bathroom, the same one in which she'd snapped the revenge photo. He kept staring at his hands, watching the dripping trails of red. How amazing that hot blood still ran through his veins when he felt nothing but cold lately. CJ sat him down on the closed toilet, then dug in the medicine cabinet and under-the-sink drawers for alcohol, a tweezers, some sort of antibiotic cream, and gauze. Lots of gauze.
He hadn't breathed a word since the tears started, nor would he look at her. She wondered whether he'd closed all of his doors and windows: could she find him again? Moving, helping, fixing kept her from panic. She pulled the twins' stepstool in front of Toby's hunched figure and perched herself on it, armed with her necessary healing tools. "Right hand," she directed. He obeyed.
"Your writing hand, Tobster. This one has to be fixed first." When she'd been near the sink, she'd poured a bit of alcohol over the tips of the pincers in order to sterilize them, though it wouldn't really matter now that the metal poked into a puddle of blood. "I'd say you should wash your hands before I pull the glass out, but that might push the bits further under your skin. This will have to do." CJ kept talking mostly for her own sake, to keep from screaming her fear. Pieces of glass plopped in the trash basket, now at CJ's right side, as she dropped them in. Long minutes seemed like hours. She eased tiny shards out of his flesh. Being gentle didn't stop the glass from often tearing more skin as she wiggled the bits loose. He never flinched. Just watched. It was like he couldn't feel the ripping, the bleeding, the physical pain. Ten minutes on his right hand, then she started on his left. Seven more minutes. Every time she thought she was done, the light would reflect up another piece. Some were so deep; they were all tiny. She shifted on the little bench, turned his hands over, peered at them from this angle, then that. She couldn't see any more glass, but that didn't mean a thing. The whole time, he remained motionless. And silent. That bothered CJ most of all. Toby was not silent. Not her Toby. Perhaps she was sitting with a ghost. He was cold enough. But ghosts don't bleed. She kissed his wrists because they were smooth and unblemished and she thought he might need something nice.
He watched her work expertly and so very gently. He watched himself not flinch every time even her best attempts cut a new line into his flesh. He watched. He didn't feel the ripping, didn't even feel the cool metal against and in his skin. He didn't feel. Until he felt her. Her lips. He was here, and she was here with him.
"I don't know if I got them all, Toby."
"You did just fine." There. Words. Something that Toby did well.
She looked into his face. Haunted eyes met hers. She didn't surprise even herself when she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."
"What the hell for? For ruining your sweater with my dripping life force?" He dropped his gaze to his hands in hers again.
"For coming back to me."
He snorted. Now or never. He had to let her know. Had to let her in. Had to be ready. Deep breath. "There's a locked metal box on the top shelf of the towel cabinet. Get it for me?" Her eyebrows drew down in confusion, but she rested the tweezers on a piece of gauze on the rim of the bathtub, rose, and retrieved the required object.
"Now what?"
"Now open it." He rattled off three numbers: the date – day, month, last two digits of the year - of his mother's death. She spun the dials on the lock and it popped open. A bead of sweat slid down her temple. She knew she wouldn't like what she found inside the box. CJ paused, her fingers hesitating to pop the top. Her eyes searched his face. Perspiration decorated the top of his head. This was scary for him too. She blew out a breath and lifted the lid.
A gun. A gun and bullets. A gun and bullets and they were in Toby's house. A gun and bullets and they were in Toby's house locked in a box way up high so that Molly and Huck couldn't reach it. A gun and bullets and they were in Toby's house locked in a box way up high so that Molly and Huck couldn't reach it and he had purchased it in order to kill someone. A gun and bullets and they were in Toby's house locked in a box way up high so that Molly and Huck couldn't reach it and he had purchased it in order to kill himself.
His heart raced. Did she know his intent? Would she understand?
Now it was her turn to tremble. The stepstool became her chair again: her legs couldn't hold her up. She couldn't touch the gun, so her fingers gripped the sides of the cold metal box instead. She stared at the trigger. "Please, Toby. Please tell me. When were you going to do it?" Yes, she knew. Tears threatened. Hot, angry, worried, terrified. Her heart was in her throat, her stomach a block of ice.
'Or should "were" be "are"?' The thought made her nearly throw up. Her most wretched nightmare was coming true: he would leave her willingly and violently and in a shower of sparks and tears.
"Sunday. I was going to do it on Sunday."
"Past-tense Sunday? As in, 'I was…going to…but now I'm not.'"
"Past-tense Sunday."
"Toby…" Her relief filled the room with warmth. No, she would not cry. "Toby, why?"
"Why did I want to do it in the first place or why did I chicken out when it came right down to it?" His voice was empty, but she could see every painful emotion known to humankind filthy his face. Her mouth formed an "O". He didn't make her respond. His finger, still bloody but now drying, directed her gaze to a pair of plastic yellow toys inside the bathtub. Huck and Molly's rubber ducks. Gifts to the twins from CJ. "I grew up without a father, CJ. My own children don't deserve that. They deserve to have a daddy. Their daddy. The deserve love. They deserve everything, CJ, everything good and right. And there's nothing good and right about their daddy blowing his brains all over their tub toys." Saltwater tears rolled freely down his cheeks. "I have to be stronger than that. For them." He had been looking at the ducks sitting gaily in the tub as he spoke. Then his eyes focused into hers. "I want to be stronger than that. For them. And for you." He stroked her cheek, found her hands and clasped them tightly in his own. "I thought about my son and daughter on Sunday. Thought about how I utterly adore them. How my life only really began when they entered it. And…" He squeezed her palms. "And I thought about my best friend. My lifeline. In my body, my mind, and my soul, there is nothing but screaming blackness right now, CJ. I can't explain to you why it's there or even where it came from. I don't know the right words. But the light I need to find my way out lies in my children, and in the woman who completes me. I don't say this often enough, but I love you, Claudia Jean. Molly and Huck stopped me from pulling the trigger on Sunday. You made me lock the gun away again. Tomorrow, I'm getting rid of it."
"Promise?" She leaned close to him.
"Yes." He nodded. "Yes, I promise."
She wrapped her arms around him, and he wrapped his around her. "I love you too." They cried together.
xxxxx
The digital clock beside Toby's bed read four-thirteen. He usually hated that number because it always woke him up. This morning, he welcomed it. She was here, sharing his bed. Curled around him. His light to find the way out. The tiniest glimmer of hope warmed the center of his heart.
Fuck, but he would have to pee. Slipping out of bed noiselessly, he padded down the hallway to the bathroom. Flicked the light on before he remembered what a bloody mess they'd left this room. He had to squeeze his eyes shut and open them slowly to get used to the flood of brightness. When he could focus, he wondered if he was still dreaming after all. The room was spotless. Not a drop of blood nor a bit of glass. CJ had cleaned up his mess.
Exactly sixty-three seconds later, Toby peered into his kitchen. She'd done the dishes too.