Filed memories.
When you're really tired you get the strange idea that maybe the papers on your desk found a way to procreate under the dim light of your desk lamp. They seem to be never-ending and it's when you're sitting in your office at one in the morning with nothing else to distract your mind from the thoughts of her, that the thoughts of how those folder bound sheets increase in numbers without your knowledge.
It's been a quiet few days, and for the rest of the world it's a good thing when the Deputy National Security Adviser has little to do. You however find yourself to be torn on the subject. The obvious benefits of peace aside, you know perfectly well were your ambivalence comes from.
You can tell that it's raining out from the sound of tiny droplets of water hitting the window that is so high up on your wall it almost touches the ceiling. Not being able to see the rain is the worst thing about having your office in the basement. But right now, having as much privacy as the White House allows, and the distance between the military offices and the West Wing, overweighs anything else.
You doubt she's even noticed that you've been avoiding her. Neither she nor the man whose right hand she plays has had any reason to visit this part of the building.
You are disgusted with yourself for wishing she'd notice your absence, for hoping she'd care why McNally was the one briefing her and the President yesterday instead of you.
And somehow, even if you knew all this, because you knew this was how it was going to be, you hate yourself for feeling rejected all over again.
So you sit there, in your basement office behind the secure protection of the Situation Room, pretending to read self-begetting memorandums with content you could care less about, simply because the emptiness in your apartment is much too thought provoking. The last thing you want to do right now is to think.
This is why you welcome the soft knock on your door and silently ask whomever it might be to please come in and give you something else to focus on, because after several days, those memos simply aren't working anymore. Aloud you settle for a polite reply of 'Come in' but as the door is hesitantly swung open, you desperately wished you'd gone home instead.
"Long day?" Her voice is too breezy, too carefree to really be hers.
"Yeah." You stay with the simple answers because you know she'll grow tired of having to dig for the information and walk out. Silently you curse your body for giving a not nearly subtle jab at the thought of her leaving.
So you ignore how the warmth spreads in your body at the sight of her, you tell yourself you don't notice where her skirt ends just around her knees, or how exquisite her neck looks when she pulls her hair back like that.
She doesn't speak right away, and you try not to watch her as she walks along the walls of your office. You know from the way she moves that she's had a tiring day. Her shoulders are slouched and she trails the tip of her feet behind her ever so slightly while her fingers glide listlessly over the texture of your walls. It wasn't a bad day, her demeanour is different then. This is more along the lines of simple matters turning into hour long heated discussions over party politics.
"Same here, Harley stiffed us on the tax-thing." She divulges, proving your theory right.
"I'm sorry." You offer, pretending to read your file because it's the only way your eyes won't glue to her exposed legs.
Her presence drives you mad, and the battle within you is getting out of control. You want to scream, shout, and a big part of you wants to do it naked underneath her.
"Did you need something?" Your voice is polite, but your meaning is not lost. Your chest is stabbing at you for your rudeness, but quietly, your heart is sending it's gratitude for the pain spared.
"You think I don't notice?" Her voice is forced, and you can feel her hesitation even with her back still towards you. And even if you're not sure what she's referring to, you know where this conversation is headed. So you brace yourself before you answer as casually as your voice will allow you.
"Notice what?" You don't look up, but you hear her turning to face you.
"That you've been avoiding me." The sudden frankness is so uncharacteristic that you feel your eyes rise up to meet hers. It doesn't take more than a second before you realise your mistake, but it's too late, she has you.
"I miss you." She almost whispers as she looks away, and you feel your treacherous heart jump at a declaration it reads far too much into.
In a vain attempt to keep it captive, you wrap your arm over your chest and around the back of your neck. You can't do this again.
"CJ…" You choose her name as you plead for her compassion, to relent the attacks upon your naïve and wounded heart. But she doesn't hear the cry for surrender, or maybe she doesn't care.
"Your touch, the taste of your skin…" She moves closer and your eyes flutter shut at her words. It's when you realise you cannot deny the affect she has on you that you decide you'll have to change your tactics. Your body is pulling up the memories of lust filled nights, displaying them as a presentation for the argument of relenting to her requests. "The way you cry out my name…" She's advancing on you and you stay frozen to the floor, as if her words have poured concrete over your legs.
"CJ…" You voice your argument in tone, her name just the ship to carry it to its destination. But somewhere on the way, it sinks.
"Why are you fighting this?" She wonders as her feet bring her close enough to you to let her hands wander up your arms. The feel of her fingers against your skin adds sound to your body's slideshow of memories.
"Please…" You beg, your face being the only part of you strong enough to avert from her gravity.
"Please what?" She hisses huskily as she closes the remaining distance between you. Its then, as your lower abdomen involuntarily gets flung into a summersault, that your limbs remember the pain she caused them, and decide for once to take your lead.
"No." It's but a whisper of the panic that is etched into your being, but it shakes your feet into remembering how to move.
You don't look at her as you pull away, hiding in the safe sanctuary behind your desk. But you feel her eyes on you, you know she's confused.
Not knowing were to go from here, how to endure the torture of the moment, you force your gaze down onto your desk, waiting while she struggles to find words to hurt you with.
You're not ready for it when she turns and walks out the door, it was too sudden, too real, and her absence brings too loud a void. Hurt, you think to yourself that she could have left something nicer behind when she strode off with a piece of you stashed in the pocket of her jacket.