All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. The title's from a 10,000 Maniacs song. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. Like The Weather Violet
He's like the weather, she decides, as she heats water for a cup of
peppermint tea. Because sometimes she can predict him, but one in about
every seven times she's entirely wrong. Often, she knows where he's coming
from, and can guess at his motives and his moods. But sometimes he changes
directions, spins them both toward something unexpected, the way a warm front
might suddenly come in and stave off a blizzard.
She's like the weather, he decides, as he waits at a red light. Because
she's inevitable, everywhere he turns. Sensory memories -- the ridge of her
hip under his fingertips, the ripple of her laughter, the half-smile she
wears while she sleeps -- surround him, whether he invites them or not. He
can try to prepare himself, but he can't dodge her, any more than he can
prevent the fog from rolling in off the river.
Toby walks into her apartment like he lives there, and both of them are
highly conscious of it. "I thought you'd be asleep."
"I was," C.J. says wryly, switching on a lamp. "Sam called me up to make me
argue with Ainsley Hayes."
He shrugs his coat off, laying it neatly across the back of a chair. "Yeah.
Because you really need an inducement to argue with her."
"In the middle of the night, I do." She sits down on the couch, placing her
mug of tea on the coffee table. "What's going on?"
"Where were you this evening?" he asks suddenly, though he knows the answer.
"Georgetown."
"You didn't go to Georgetown."
"What do you mean, I--"
"For college."
"This is true. They're doing a series of panels on women in politics..."
She trails off. "You know that. I told you that. I would have come back to
the office, after, but it seemed like a fairly slow news day."
"Yeah."
She blinks in the lamplight and studies him. "It was, wasn't it?"
"What?"
"A slow news day?"
He trudges over to the sofa and drops beside her. "How do you react when you
find out you've been lied to?"
Taken aback, she furrows her brow. "What?"
"When you find out that something you believed isn't true, what do you do?"
She folds her arms. "Remember last year, the Kashmir thing?"
"Yes."
"You guys lied to me about that."
He loosens his tie. "Yes."
"You remember how I reacted?"
"Yes."
"Well, there you are, then."
"I lied to you," he says quietly. She looks at him and says nothing, so he
continues. "The other day, I said I would tell you when I knew what was
happening... I can't. I can't tell you."
"You can't."
"No."
"Why?"
He rubs his hands together nervously. "It isn't -- it's absolutely not that
I don't trust you."
"But you can't tell me this... whatever it is." She shakes her head. "Is it
because of work?"
"Not entirely."
"Not entirely?" she repeats incredulously. "This sounds like exactly the
kind of thing that's going to blow up and make my life hell."
He looks down at her carpet. "I know."
She sips a little of her tea. "So you came by to tell me that you can't tell
me anything."
"Something to that effect," he admits.
"Thank you, Cryptic Boy."
"C.J.--"
"You could just as easily have not said anything at all. You didn't have to
wrack my nerves." She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Did you
just do this to make yourself feel better?"
"Maybe." He shrugs slightly. "I don't like lying to you."
"Good to know."
"It's just not really my thing to tell."
"That's not exactly reassuring."
"I know."
She sets her cup down again and rests her hand lightly on his knee. "I guess
it's not exactly a lie, either."
He covers her hand with his own, gently massaging the indents between her
knuckles. "So Sam called you?"
"Yeah." She chuckles. "I woke up, I was sure some kind of disaster had
happened. When he started babbling about the ERA, I was really relieved.
Then I wanted to kill him. Both of them. Ainsley's a smart young woman,
but..."
"The drawl isn't so charming at two in the morning."
"That's about right." She turns her hand over beneath his, the contours of
their palms sliding together smoothly. "Did I miss anything else?"
He lets his fingers slide between hers. "He amped up airport security.
There's a thing about it on your desk for the morning. And everyone's taking
a shot at the Correspondents' Dinner remarks."
"I should look at that. It's all very well and good for everyone else to
have fun, but I'm the one who has to deal with that crowd the next morning."
"How do you not kill people?" he wonders.
She squeezes his hand. "Inborn kindness and natural grace."
"Something like that." He returns the squeeze, almost imperceptibly.
"Well." She pulls her hand away and stands up, tilting her head and
regarding him with a soft smile. "I'm going back to bed."
He watches her walk into the darkness. His eyes flicker to her half-finished
cup of tea, to his briefcase resting against her desk. With one hand, he
removes his tie the rest of the way, slips out of his shoes, and goes after
her into the bedroom.
She is like the weather, he knows, because she drifts around him and into him
and changes his moods. He shields himself from her as much as he can, but
there is no guaranteed defense, no umbrella that the wind won't tear away.
He is like the weather, she knows, because his hands glide over her body the
way clouds move in front of the sun. He surprises her, sets her reeling
sometimes, and yet more often than not she knows she can rely on him.
It is a force of nature, simple and ubiquitous, mysterious and dangerous, beautiful and strange. They are like the weather, because they are constantly changing. The rhythms and cycles are elaborate and hard to explain, but they are always in motion. The pressure builds. There is a growing chance of rain.