Title: Cliché Author: Scooter Email: sekent_76@y... Rating: PG-ish Category: Toby/C.J. Disclaimer: The West Wing is property of Aaron Sorkin, NBC, and all other powers that be. This is just for fun. I'm not worth bothering. Summary: New and old ways to say the same thing. Spoilers: Nothing major Archive: Please let me know where, and keep my name attached. Note: The ~~~~~~~~~~~ at the beginning and end frame the present. The ******** are scene breaks. Note 2: See Kat, I did promise you something soon. And I got the idea from a conversation I had with Nijijin about bedroom clichés a few months back. Her voice cuts through the haziness. "What are you thinking?" "Hmmm?" He looks up, distracted, and then focuses on the woman lying next to him. She laughs lightly, delighted that she's caught him unawares. "Toby, you were in outer space for a moment. What were you thinking about?" Staring at C.J., he attempts to compose an answer. It's the morning after, and he is trying to think of what he could say to her that would not be ordinary, would not be forgettable, would not be clichéd. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He is a speechwriter, and he knows all about clichés. So much of his job is finding new ways to say the same damn thing everyone has said over and over again for centuries, to avoid the quick joke and the too obvious sentimentality. Years ago he wrote her a love letter. Then he put it in an envelope and placed it in the back of a drawer. He could never give it to her. Aside from the fact that love letters have been done to death, there was no way he'd allow her to find out that he adored her by reading it in a letter. His words were meant to be spoken, not read. He owed it to her to tell her in person. Someday. *********************************** He subtly started to court her the day after Valentine's Day, because trying to woo on the 14th would have made it too common. He would have had to buy roses or chocolates or some stupid card that didn't come close to explaining the tingle in his heart. So he'd waited until the following day, and then picked up a bouquet of sunflowers and left them in her office, along with a simple note that read, 'Enjoy. Toby.' No anonymity or mystery. The idea of becoming a 'secret admirer' terrified him, mostly because he was afraid that she'd be disappointed to discover that it had been him all along. In his mind, it was better to reveal his actions, if not his reasons, from the beginning. C.J. showed up at his door an hour later, arms crossed, looking a bit pissed. "What did you do, Toby?" "Huh." "You left me flowers." "Sunflowers. Yes." "So, what did you do?" "I'm pretty sure you answered your own question there, C.J. I gave you flowers." Impatiently, "Toby!" "What?!" "What did you do that I'm going to have to cover for later with the press that warrants flowers?" He realized that she thought he was trying to apologize for something, that he had created some mess for her to clean up and that this was his way of buttering her up for the unpleasantness ahead. "Nothing." "Toby-" "C.J., there's nothing, I promise you! I saw the flowers this morning; I thought they were beautiful; they made me think of you. That's it." He heard her inhale quickly at the offhand manner in which he'd just complimented her, and then he continued, "Do you like them?" Then she smiled, "Yeah, I do. They're lovely." "OK, then." "Thank you." *********************************** So many great romantic gestures have already been done perfectly by people much better at it than he is. Balconies, for example. Shakespeare had ruined it for everyone else by creating something in "Romeo and Juliet" that no mortal could ever hope to match, much less exceed. Everything else would seem dull by comparison, a cheap imitation. Toby settled for smaller gestures. Several times over the next few weeks, he stopped by her office in the morning with bagels and coffee. When she wasn't too busy, he'd stay and eat with her, watching as she wavered between appreciation and uncertainty. If C.J. seemed a bit touched by his attention, she also appeared confused and suspicious. With no idea why he was being this... *sweet*, she couldn't shake the feeling that there had to be a catch. He realized this but did not say anything. Yes, he might be courting her, but he was doing it slowly. While he knew there would be no balconies, he was still waiting for some unattainable perfect moment to tell C.J. that he cherished her. For all that he understood the ridiculousness of clichés, he still imagined that the right time would magically present itself. *********************************** The right moment ultimately appeared by necessity and demand. One evening in the middle of spring, C.J. finally had enough. He had left her some tulips earlier in the week, and a bunch of irises that morning. Late at night, she walked into his office, closed and locked the door, and took a deep breath. "Toby, what's going on?" "What do you mean?" Sighing, she sat down on the couch and studied the floor for a while before she spoke again. "Everything, Toby. The flowers, the breakfasts, all of it. What's it about?" Now was not the right time. That was the first panicked though running through his mind. He couldn't tell her like this, in his office on a typical night with nothing special surrounding them. So he stalled, "C.J., is there anything wrong with being a good friend?" She looked up. "That's what it is, Toby? You being nice? That's OK, a little weird maybe but OK. I just need to know for sure, because…" and her voice trailed off. "C.J.?" They were looking each other straight in the eye, and she swallowed nervously before continuing, "I don't know what this is." The moment arrived unannounced. Without even thinking, he quietly blurted out, "I'm in love with you." And that was it. Low key, lacking the slow motion tenderness he'd pictured in his mind. He wasn't sure what he expected her reaction to be. Even in his fantasies, he'd never gotten to what she'd say. The brush might draw C.J. launching herself into his arms, laughing at him, letting him down gently or even running out of his office in tears or terror. None of that happened. She took his declaration calmly, kept her expression neutral, and simply nodded. "OK." "OK?" Certainly, he'd expected more than that. "Yeah. That's fine." What the hell did that mean? "Fine? C.J.-" "You don't like roses?" "Huh?" She counted off on her fingers, "You've sent me sunflowers, daffodils, tulips, irises and a few different types of lilies. No roses. Why?" He shrugged. "Roses are just overdone. They're nice, but not particularly original. And too obvious." This she had to laugh at. "And you have to be original, Toby. OK, I'll see you tomorrow." He watched her leave and felt sick to his stomach. No reaction, no emotion. Damn it! Waiting for the 'perfect' moment had cost him anything close to 'perfect', and now she knew how he felt in the most uninspiring, dull way imaginable. He'd wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he'd barely grazed her shoes. When he walked into his office the next morning, a dozen red roses were sitting on his desk. The card read, 'They're obvious, but I hope you like them anyway. C.J.' *********************************** He had expected their first kiss to take place some evening, after dinner, maybe in one of their apartments. Instead, it came in her office, in the middle of a particularly bad day. A dozen UN Peacekeepers had been killed in an ambush in Serbia, including three Americans. As Toby sat in his office that afternoon, reading Sam's draft of the President's remarks on the tragedy, he watched C.J. conduct the sixth briefing in the last eight hours. Fending off questions about the names of the American victims until the families could be contacted, she looked exhausted. Toby waited until the briefing was wrapping up, and then he headed towards her office. He was standing at the entrance to her office when she arrived, and she looked at him, tired and grateful, before turning to Carol. "Hold my calls for about fifteen minutes, OK? I've got to clear my head." Carol nodded, and Toby followed C.J. into her office, locking the door behind him and closing the blinds. Toby turned around to see C.J. leaning against the desk, eyes closed, slumped more than a little. After a few deep breaths, she opened her eyes and looked at him. "Toby, there are days that... you just... don't you want to..." Sighing, she closed her eyes again, and Toby took that as his cue to move closer. Gathering her into a tight hug, he found himself rubbing her back and whispering to her about the incredible unfairness of it all, the arbitrariness of murder, and the pain of having to always be in the middle of it. As she pressed her face down on his shoulder, he reminded her that one of the trade-offs of having to endure days like this was the opportunity to make these days a little less frequent. They held each other quietly for a little longer, and when she finally looked up again, red-eyed and vulnerable, moving closer to her was the only thing he could think of. It was the lightest of touches, a brief brush of lips that offered an ounce of comfort before both of them jumped away from each other. With no time to savor the moment, the kiss was almost anti-climactic for Toby, who smiled ruefully as he headed out of her office. A few days later, C.J. showed up at his apartment with take-out and a bottle of wine. After enjoying a leisurely dinner and cuddling on the couch to watch the news, he found himself reaching for her again. With no crisis in the immediate future, their second kiss could be one he'd have time to savor. *********************************** "I love you." He jerked the phone for a second, and steadied himself before gasping, "What did you just say?" Her laughter echoed over the line. "Toby, I love you." "You're telling me now? On the phone? From - what country are you in - Austria?" "I'm going to be on this trip with the President for another two weeks. Did you really want me to wait until I got home to say it?" He fidgeted a bit before replying, "I don't know. No, I guess I'd rather just know, but it would have been nice to be with you when you said it, so I could kiss you and all that..." "You can be so schmaltzy sometimes." "I love you too." "I know." She paused. "Don't worry, I'll say it again when I get home." "I can kiss you then?" "Yes!" "OK," he replied wistfully. Once again, this wasn't what he'd envisioned. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "What are you thinking?" It's the morning after, and he is trying to think of what he could say to her that would not be ordinary, would not be forgettable, would not be clichéd. He doesn't tell her that, he just gets out of bed, opens a drawer, reaches in the back and pulls out an envelope. It is slightly faded and more than a little dusty. "What's this?" The letter in the envelope is almost brittle at the creases. As she opens it and starts to read, he repeats from memory the words on the page. And when he has stopped talking and she has stopped reading, tears are running down her face, and he pulls her close to him. They spend the rest of the day lying in each other's arms, and it's what he expected, and he doesn't care that it's a bit of a cliché.