This is a short section, a bridge between the days if you will.
But I hope you will still like it, and let me know wether you did or not;)
Thank you too cpneb, dolphin18paradise and Sapho's daughter for your kind words and the smile they brought to my face.
This is for you.

Love,
Jellicos

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This time you really did go for drinks, in the singular sense of the word. It was all the pretence you could muster; one drink, trying to prove to each other but more to yourselves that what you were doing was legitimate, more than it really was.

You still don't know why she goes through the charade, stalling from the inevitable while heated glances and tension so thick it could burst a plane at its seams, are exchanged across the table. You feel it to be cruel and harsh, the way she swirls her glass in her hand as she gazes at you, how her eyes hold more promises than you'd want them to because you know it's just the heat of the moment.

She likes the hunt; at least this is the conclusion you draw. As she takes you out for drinks and possessively glares at the expressionless suits that occasionally try to focus their drowning eyes on you.

It's a fantasy between you two in that moment, a sideways dance around the object of desire. You toy with the thought that it turns her on to not be able to touch you or completely control you in that moment, and as the heated glances turn into desperately subtle touches and she drags you home, you find that you were right.

She never says anything in the car, she never has. It's as if the suddenly so pliable presence of her human shields are not only guarding her body. The barriers they put between her and the public seem to shrink when she's inside that metallic confinement and wrap themselves around her being.

She sits on the other side of the backseat, watching the road vanish in front of her eyes. The first time you saw her like this, you had to convince yourself it wasn't because of you but the secret service. Now you know it's a little bit of both.

You wryly think that the same restraints would not be present if you were anyone else. And you are sure the sight of her pressed so closely to the thick metal door is not one you share with Toby.

For him, she'd put on a show, a façade of wits and cleverness you so rarely see these days. It's the CJ Cregg who two years ago would draw you into your television set where she was directing an orchestra of dozens of waving ink-stained hands. It's the Chief of Staff that charms and persuades men of self-deluded power to dance to her song.

With you she is never forcefully clever or witty, and now as you watch her finger trail over the cold, invisible shield against the outside darkness, you wonder if she lets everyone share her silence.

At first you thought the quiet bothered her, that sound soothed her over-worked mind. Now you know it's not true. And you find yourself quietly asking if she lets you see her silence because she doesn't care or if it's the opposite.

She never asks you up anymore.

As the faceless suit lets her know there is no harm awaiting her on her way to bed, you let your eyes follow her long legs as they slowly stretch out of the car.

And you follow.

Like a faithful pet you follow in her wake, watching her move as if her long muscles hold the secret to all your hopes and dreams.

With a heavy heart you realise they could if she'd let them.

You don't make it in the doorway before she pulls you in. Those first nights, the secret service reacted to the initial loud thuds as she slammed you against the door. Now you can almost feel them smirking to themselves as your back hits the door and her lips make a hungry attack at your neck.

You can always tell by her day how your night will be, and before your mind loses the ability to connect silent words together into thoughts, you reflect on how right your assessment this afternoon was. She's nowhere near gentle.

But she doesn't make you beg. Instead you feel your heart soar as her pleading voice whimpers your name, along with utterly undignified impetrates for satisfaction.

You wish you could deny her, tell her you'll trade her release for her heart. But it's the look of desperation and trust in her eyes that crumbles everything but your desire to comply to her every need.

You never made it to her bedroom. Instead you sit on the cold kitchen tiles next to a table that will never be what it was before, and ignore the way the hard surface hurts your naked skin. She lets you hold her and you think that maybe, just maybe, this time she'll ask you to stay.

As you gently pull the sweat soaked strain of hair from her forehead, you watch her catch her breath, marvelling in the feel of her arms clasping at your body as if she was still falling of that edge. And you notice that her perfume really has mixed with yours.

She's shaking and you wrap your arm around her, noticing not for the first time that her slim body is withering away from too much stress and too little nutrition.

Her head is resting on your chest as she sits next to you and for a moment you think you might have dosed off as you feel her soft lips so lovingly pressing against the wet skin over your breast.

It's in the next moment, as her body shifts away from yours that you know you weren't dreaming but caught up in a fleeting moment of, well, you'd guess gratitude.

As she stands you know she's heading for the shower. She doesn't speak, but you know she doesn't expect to see you when she's done.

And again you sneak out in the cloak of darkness, just like you swore you'd never do again.

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You know, I really think I deserve a pat on the back for the lack of cliffies in this story;) Or maybe just less yelling;)
Nah, feel free to yell, it's disturbingly incouraging.