All Those Old Clichés
Disclaimer: No surprise here: I don't own 'em, and I never will. That means I'll never make any money off of 'em!
Pairing: CJ/Toby
Rating: PG, I guess. Angst really shouldn't go any lower.
Spoilers: None
A/N: Here's another story that fell into my head while I was doing chores. Maybe I ought to quit school and my myriad day jobs and just run my folks' farm…and then write by night…you know, just for fun…
WWWWWW
She used to believe in all those old clichés.
She thought that every story had a happy ending.
She decided that good things came to those who'd wait.
Every dog had its day.
What would go around, would come around.
Everyone had a soul mate.
She used to wish on stars.
She thought there was a reason for everything.
She decided long ago to let God or Fate or Whatever lead her to her Destiny.
Tonight, she sits in the swing on his front porch, the breeze bringing her the scent of apple blossoms on its waves. The screen door clicks, but he walks silently, surprising her with a kiss on the top of her head before he weaves around the swing to sit beside her. He offers her a glass of wine.
"I hope you brought the whole bottle out here." She lets him get comfortable, then leans into him.
He holds the bottle up, showing it to her like it's a prize trophy. He's drinking right from it.
"That's not fair." She downs her glass. "Trade."
"And that will make things fair how?" His arm is draped over her middle, her head against his chest. He refills the glass, taking it for himself and letting her hold the prize.
Her reply equals turning the bottle up to her lips. The potion fills her mouth and trickles down her throat. This is expensive wine, and it certainly tastes like it. Like summer's glory in a glass casing.
"You're going to spill it," he notes, watching her get drunk on booze and him. Mostly him, and they both know it. She separates the drink from herself; he takes the advantage and wraps his hand gently around hers, holding the bottle carefully upright. "My turn." Just within his reach is the white wooden banister; he sets useless glass there. Tonight is a night to ignore niceties like glasses. Tonight let's drink right from the bottle.
He drips just a bit into his closely-cropped beard. She chuckles, wipes the drops away with her thumb, licks her appendage clean. "Now who's the one spilling?"
He shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm drunker than you are."
"Is that a word? 'Drunker'?" She takes the bottle for a dip of her own.
"It is now. I just invented it. I'm a word-god, you know." His fingers trace over her ribcage. He can feel her bones: she's lost weight.
She shivers at his touch. He does that to her. "Anyway, you're not 'drunker' than I am.
"Yes, I am. I started first." As if to prove his point, he captures her hand around the bottle again and brings the poison to his lips.
Her free fingers play with a non-existent loose string on his shorts. "Doesn't matter. I've had more to drink."
"I doubt that." He knows where her hand is headed.
They could argue this point all night. They could argue and it would be fine. They could argue all night and they would be fine. But why argue? She wants another swig. "We can be drunk the same amount," she offers.
"Now that sounds like concession." He smiles a rare grin. His hand is under her shirt.
"Whatever."
The lightning bugs make their appearance. They dance over his garden, flitting here, now there. She remembers catching fireflies in jars-with-holes-in-the-top during summertime trips to her uncle's farm. She always let the bugs go after they'd spent a few fleeting seconds in captivity. There was something about their magnificence and mystery that made her want to set them free.
"Was today so bad?" she inquires suddenly.
He is surprised by her question, and just as surprised that he needs a minute to consider it. "No worse than others," he finally replies.
"No better, though." She sits up to look at him. The bottle is three-quarters gone.
He shrugs and stares off into the night. Their bodies are no longer touching. "But no worse," he repeats.
Her eyes focus on the little bits of light over his tomatoes. She already misses his warmth. "It could be worse, you know, Toby. It could be so much worse. We could…I don't know…we could have cancer or be living in poverty or…or be sixteen and pregnant and scared or –"
"I couldn't be that," he teases, but his voice is gentle. He reaches for her hand, thinks better of it: extends his arm to envelope her.
His touch is so welcome, so comforting, yet she is open now, and the flood isn't going to stop, "We could be in abusive relationships. We could have AIDS. Our families could hate us for this or that or some other stupid thing. We could be part of the majority of people who never have the opportunity to get an education. We could be homeless. We could be addicted to drugs." She stares at the bottle she holds as if it is a bomb. "We could have multiple sclerosis," she whispers. He pulls her close to him, knowing that the best way to reach her at this exact second is by holding her.
He tickles his hand over her bare arm. "Where are you going with this, CJ?" he asks softly.
Her head rests on his shoulder. "Everything could be so much worse for us, Toby. Really, life isn't bad. It's good! We've got important jobs, and we're damn good at what we do, too! We've got our health…" She forks a hand through her hair, trying not to cry. "We have homes, families and friends who love us, a little money in our pockets. We can read and write. We have our freedom." Her voice trails off. She feels so utterly guilty for having everything, but feeling horrible anyway.
He nods, his bristled cheek rubbing against her hair. "Yes, things could be much worse. Much, much worse." He rescues her from the almost-empty bottle, finishes it off and tosses it into the lawn. The word-god has a novel of support for his best friend on the tip of his tongue, but he decides to use the KISS rule: Keep It Simple, Stupid. She needs to talk tonight. "But…?"
She sighs, reaches for his now-empty hand and holds it between her own, playing one of her thumbs over his lifeline. She is at a loss for words. How can she speak of this depth of emotion? "But…" The fireflies continue their dance. They are so free! Her mind wanders over President Bartlet and his multiple sclerosis, over the young Lydell boy who was beaten and killed because he was gay, over the homeless soldier for whom Toby had arranged a funeral. Her finger runs his lifeline right off of his hand. That surprises her. "I don't know, Toby. I'm really tired."
He understands. He is her best friend; of course he understands. He understands because sometimes he feels the same way. And when he does, he comes to her. "It's okay to be tired sometimes. Even the richest, smartest, strongest, most loved man in the world gets tired." His words are so rock-solid.
Warm tears flow down her cheeks. "I'm tired of being tired. I don't know how to stop." She draws her knees close, curling into as tiny of a ball as her six-foot frame allows.
He kisses her hair. His response is so simple, "You rest for a while. You rest on someone who's not tired." He wraps both arms around her. His presence and reassurance build her up and hold her safe. "And I'm wide awake, CJ."
The swing rocks back and forth, a smooth rhythm in tune with her tears and his solid heartbeat. For the first time in years, CJ chooses two bright, twinkling stars. A wish for her and a wish for him. There is a reason for tonight. She is here, safe, with her soul mate. She decides to let God or Fate or Whatever to continue its lead. Maybe all those old clichés will get her there after all.