Complicated Piece

By Cappuccino Girl

Genre: Angst. Drama. CJ/Sam

Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None, but I assume you have been watching :-)
Notes: Many thanks to my beta readers, Len and Jess. You girls kick some serious creative ass, and I promise to continue the ‘Trilogy’. Infinite thanks to my dear friend Gary for mailing 2 Cathedrals, I & I, and Manchester out to me in England, which I saw 5 weeks after having written the first draft of this. I was sure before, but now I have no doubts that CJ is perfect for angst in every way. Anyone have any ideas of how we can get Allison Janney act some of the fics? :-)

Summary: She relishes the silence, for with silence comes inner peace, because she need not fear that she might be honest with him and pour her worries onto his beautiful mind





She creeps up the smooth marble stairs, conscious of every step, every abrupt move. They have agreed to meet here. She had long ago put the thought out of her
head that this would ever happen, for colleagues shouldn't do such things, let alone a Press Secretary and Deputy Communications Director. She is a vital part of the White House’s public image. When the press want to know something, they go to her first, as she gives them a picture of what happens in this office. Yet, she had always wanted to be here, for he is special and when he touches her she feels precious.

It had started like that. A joke. A laugh. A touch. Innocent, yet so full of undefinable meaning. He’d bought her a drink one night, and she’d looked into her glass like it could tell the future, and told him how she felt lonely. He couldn’t comprehend that simple idea, so he placed his arm around her, musing how he was offering her company.

She’d laughed at that because she’d had one glass too many, and because she wanted him to look at her like he did sometimes when he thought she wasn’t aware of his presence. She always was. How could she not be?

He is constantly there with his choice comments on any issue which he feels passionate about. He voices his opinions, and some listen and others tease. It is how people behave towards her, she thinks, except that he writes the speeches the President gives, and she just regurgitates the day’s events.

Now she stands in front of his door, checking that she looks as she should do. She’s not wearing anything too fancy because she feels nervous enough as it is, although she doesn’t know why. She extends her slender index finger and brushes over the door bell before pushing down until she hears a faint chime. She fiddles with her hair, and runs the pendant of her necklace up and down the delicate silver chain while she waits.

She can hear the sound of footsteps on floorboards, and when they cease, the heavy white door opens briskly. He stands there. Jeans and T-shirt. He gazes at her intently, taking in every aspect of her presence, and it makes her feel blissfully faint.

“Hey,” he says sheepishly.

She gracefully closes her eyes for a second, checking the reality of the situation, and smiles when she’s sure it’s true. An honest and grateful smile. With that, her nervousness is gone, and all that remains is the positive tension between them.

He beckons her to come in. She moves forward, yet he remains there in the doorway, and his arm touches hers. She shivers a little, which he notices. They play on the moment a little with a gentle kiss, and when they finally move through the hallway and into his living room, he looks at her like she is the most beautiful person he has ever seen.

She removes her soft cream scarf and camel coat, throwing them effortlessly onto the couch while he follows her every move. Neither know what to say in this unfamiliar situation, so looks and eye movement take the place of words, and explain everything with verbal clarity.

They sit next to each other on his sofa, like a couple of many years. Her head is on his shoulder, feet tucked up on the cushion. His arms are around her, holding her like she has always hoped he would.

In a way she feels obliged to talk and kiss him for his kindness, yet there always is noise in her life. Talking, always talking. Can you give us an update on this, that, the other? What is the President’s comment on the latest Supreme Court ruling? Where does the Office stand with regards towards the issue? And she talks, and laughs, and stalls, trying to answer as best as she can, all the while afraid of that unavoidable moment when she might misspeak.

So she relishes the silence, for with silence comes inner peace, because she need not fear that she might be honest with him and pour her worries onto his beautiful mind. He just laughs off his own troubles, a boyish trait, she believes.

He leans down and kisses her head, as if to comfort her inner wounds. She moves ever so slightly so that she can see him, and he can see her. He contemplates her weary blue eyes, wondering whether she has always looked like this.

“You look tired,” he whispers honestly to her as he runs his fingers through her hair.

She smiles feebly, adopting her usual tone of sarcasm. “What a surprise.”

“I was watching you when you went into the press room the other day. You rummaged through your notes in a frantic way.”

She looks down at the lines made in the cotton of the couch. It’s easier to look there, as it isn’t analyzing her.

“Your fingers rushed over the yellow pages, like a pianist playing a complicated piece.” He pauses for a moment, a sincere look focused on her alone. “You play a complicated piece, don’t you?”

She gingerly looks up at him, gazing into his eyes. “Every day, sometimes every hour,” she speaks swiftly. “It’s before an audience, a critical one. They judge every word you say, and then, when you think you’re done, and the curtain has been drawn, you go back to your office, and there are all the internal critics waiting for you. I feel like I’m trapped in this constant ring cycle of performance and critique.”

He leans back as far as he can, trying to take in every aspect of her. “And what a spectacular one it is. Don’t you ever tire of the show?”

She rubs her fingers over her forehead, almost closing her eyes. Pursing her lips ever so slightly, she attempts a laugh so weary that it pains him hear it.

“I’ve been tired for so long now, but I could never stop,” she explains simply.

She cannot bring herself to say that if she would, she’d fall apart before the eyes of everyone, yet he knows this all the same. He has always been able to tell such things, even when no one else could. It’s what makes him special, that she needn’t talk at all.

There is a moment’s silence, and he holds her close, only moving away when he asks her if she’d like some tea.

“Please,” she murmurs.

He slowly gets up from the couch and proceeds to the kitchen. As the clattering sounds fill the previously silent room, she hugs a pillow for comfort. He whistles cheerfully. She used to do that occasionally, and hum in the shower. That was a long time ago, when she was genuinely happy and not some artificial substitute for optimism. Everyone likes that, though. That she’s optimistic and sarcastic. A classy lady, that’s what they have said.

“Do you think I’m classy, Sam?” she questions, regaining a small spark of her true self.

He pokes his head out through the archway which leads to the kitchen. He’s holding the kettle in one hand, and 2 mugs in the other, along with the tea. It’s quite a balancing act, and it make her feel lazy, so she rises awkwardly from the sofa, joining him in the kitchen.

She snatches the tea from him, holding it possessively at her chest. “So, do you think I’m classy?” she prods, smiling.

He hasn’t seen her genuinely smile in so long that he can’t even recall when it last was. He knows that she is on the edge of an emotional cliff, looking into what must be a giant canyon, the valley covered with the better moments which might line her future. It’s a long drop down, and she fears the uncertainty of falling.

“What do you think?” he teases to lighten his thoughts and keep her smiling.

She does a little twirl towards the refrigerator, and playfully flicks her hair out of her face.

“Tea,” he states.

She smiles, throws the black tin in response to his demanding stare, and moves towards him also.

He’s spooning the dark leaves into the filter, probably counting in his head, so he’s not paying attention when she grabs his head, turns it towards hers, and kisses him. The spoon which he was holding clatters onto the tiled floor in pleasant surprise. Rather than pick it up, they move, as one, to the counter, her leaning backwards over it, kissing him, hoping that she can forget tomorrow for just one day.

His hand moves up her back under the smooth blue shirt, counting every vertebrae, eventually resting on her shoulder. It stays there for a moment, resting, hoping that this could be more than a passionate kiss. He notices how she’s so indescribably beautiful like this. Those stunning yet tired eyes of hers. Shirt unbuttoned and crumpled. Hair out of place, yet perfect. When she’s herself for just one moment, and not what she believes they all want her to be.

~* *~

She awakes, trembling and dripping wet. Her eyes dart around the room. She’s not in the briefing room, and no one is next to her, holding an overly large sheet of paper saying ‘Career Obituary. Sign Here’. There is no tree before her eyes, and her cheeks are not covered in glistening shards of glass, mixing with her crimson blood. Twisted metal. Windshield shattered. Red.

Nothing. It’s just darkness. Relieved, she turns around, shoving the pesky sheets from her. He’s next to her, and when she looks at the corner of his mouth, she thinks how he must be having a far more peaceful sleep than she has had in months. Some guy she met in a bar one night told her about how his therapy sessions had cured all his troubles. She’d thought he was a total wimp, and an asshole. She also wondered who came out with their whole life story over a couple of drinks. No one even knew which high school she went to, and she was a public figure.

Infuriated and scared by her nightmares, she squints, trying to read the glowing numbers on her alarm clock. 3:18 am. Not quite time to get up. If she did, she’d probably wake Sam who was sleeping next to her, and he’d give her hell. Mental hell. He’d ask her what was wrong with her, and go on about all the good things she’d done, and how there was no need for her to be so worried.

She pulls at the covers as she’s cold again at the thought of failure. He stirs a little.

“You awake?” a husky voice murmurs into the sheets.

“Huh?”

“Why?” he asks, turning onto his side so that he can see her back.

“Just am,” she whispers, trying to stop herself from crying.

His finger runs a swirly pattern down her bare back. It sticks a little, for she’s still moist from her tormented dreams. He always feels uncomfortable in this situation, for he wishes he could make all her horrors into four leafed clovers. She’s so overly critical of herself, he thinks.

She’s silently praying that he will drift off to sleep before he tries his white knight act again. She tends to appreciate chivalry, so long as it doesn’t result in the discussion of personal issues, but she doesn’t feel up to anything now. The pillow is starting to feel damp around her cheek as the tears form a little stain on the checked fabric.

He’s closed his eyes again, arms around the one beside him. In his sleep deprived state, he hears a tiny whimper, accompanied by a slight jolt up her back. He’d like to sleep. She has to sleep too. She gets so little these days.

He pats his arm around the bedside table until he finds the button, clicking on the light. Leaning over her now illuminated body, he notices how her head is buried in the pillow, trying to suffocate her fear, or what ever else she is feeling that she won’t share.

She can feel his breath, warm on her neck.

“Put the light out,” she gasps.

“CJ,” he whispers, hand on her shoulder, trying get close to her so that maybe he can tell by looking at her what’s wrong.

She flinches and crawls out of bed.

“What are you doing?” he questions desperately.

“I can’t let you see me like this,” she whispers in between her audible tears, pulling his old sweater over her head and moving towards the living room, the only act of evasion she can think of now that she’s in his apartment. In his room. In his bed.

He lies there, feeling a little helpless himself. “For God’s sake, CJ,” he complains, falling out of the comfortable blankets, and trying to find his way out of the room while having a giant head rush.

When he enters, she’s sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around her legs, rocking ever so slightly. Her face glistens a little as the water falls down in delicate drops. She has heard his bare feet come closer, and she buries her head in the crack between her knees, the last step of escape she can see.

He strokes his hand over her hair. He can feel her crying, for her head is trembling slightly. He’s comforted her for so long, done his best to remain silent and supportive.

“What was it?” he asks, moving to sit on the coffee table so he’s facing her.

“Nothing,” she whispers, wiping the proof from her face.

He’s watched her, listened to those few personal words she’s ever told him like they were the most incredible poetry he’d ever heard. They’ve had snowball fights on cold winter nights like 5 year olds, which ended with them in a giggling heap on the ground. They’ve shared embarrassing stories which made her blush so badly that she’s covered her face with her hands, grimacing.

He’s studying her different expression as she moves her shoulders forward, and folds her hands delicately in between her barely separated legs, feet on the parquet floor. She looks up at him, and he thinks how she looks a little small and helpless like that, which really should be an oxymoron, for she is never either.

“I’m going to go for a walk,” she says quietly, moving from her place on the sofa.

“Now? But it’s like-” he stops himself, realising that now is not the time for technicalities. “Let me put on my jeans, ok?”


~* *~

They walk down the oak lined path that cuts through the park just down the road from his apartment. A film of fine rain encompasses them as they walk slowly in the soft light coming from the lamps which are sparsely scattered around the gardens. He’s holding her hand. She hasn’t really looked at him since she’s got up, because she’s embarrassed that she’s outside wandering in the middle of the night, and finds herself tugging at each side of her soft coat in anxiety until the wool across her shoulders tightens and she feels a pain across the back of her neck reinforcing the awkwardness of the situation.

He desperately wants to break the silence because the moment calls for
conversation.  Refraining from questioning her dreams, he puts his arms
around her and asks “Do you ever think about what will happen after?”

She turns her head slightly, focusing her blue eyes on his mouth, where the perplexing sentence originated.

“After what?”

“This. The administration.”

He moves towards one of the cast iron benches positioned between two of the trees. They both take a seat, looking blankly at each other, deep in thoughts previously unspoken.

She knows that ‘this’ had an entirely different meaning, but she can’t bring herself to address that fact , so she flicks her scarf back around her neck to block out the cold. The tasselled ends brush his face, causing him to sputter a little as he tries to get the strands of wool off his tongue. She laughs quietly, and rests her head on his shoulder.

“Where will you go when the President’s term in office is up?” He speaks articulately, hoping she will reply to his subtlety.

“Where will I go?” she repeats, gathering her thoughts. “No idea. I’m doing my best to appreciate what I have at present, rather than rely on the future for happiness.”

“Well, that’s a convenient answer,” he quips, a taste of bitterness in his mouth. He thinks it’s her cleverly chosen words, or what she hasn’t said that he wanted her to say so badly. He moves slightly, and she sits up a little more, head no longer on his shoulder, but looking at him intently.

“What is there to keep you here in D.C.? You’ll be getting so many job offers that you’ll probably dump half the envelopes in the trash without ever looking at them, and God knows how much you’d love to live in some place like California again, with the nice weather, house and a backyard...” his voice trails off.

She tucks her loose hair, which has been blowing around a little, behind one ear. Slightly distracted, she hardly notices his disheartened look and his quiet yet bitter “ ‘Kay.” All she knows is that he has just gotten up from the bench and is walking away from her, causing the pain of desertion to well within her.

“Sam,” she calls calmly, but he doesn’t turn around, just keeps walking across the damp grass. Once he is in the middle of the lawn and realises that he is getting absolutely nowhere, he pauses, back turned to her as she walks briskly up to him. The rain blurs their silhouettes and the awkwardness as she walks around him in an unnatural half circle so that she can face him. She glares at him apprehensively, requiring an explanation. His head is down, looking at his shoes, kicking the slick mass of fallen leaves with his foot to avoid eye contact.

“What the hell was that about?” She demands.

He moves closer to her, hesitantly glancing upwards to see the concern an insecurity in her eyes. “I don’t know. It just suddenly occurred to me how we’re at this stage where we are- “ He stops, trying to find the best way to say such complicated thoughts. “You know, I’ve told myself so many times that I won’t be in a relationship like this, where the person I love just drags me down and causes me to be so painfully miserable, and then when I have made a final decision to end it, all I have to do is just look at you and all my plans go to hell, and we end up where we are tonight once more.” His voice echoes with pain, and she turns away from him, not wanting to face the cold implication of his words.

She can’t talk. Can’t breathe. It’s like her throat is filled with burning matches which scald and scratch her, and stop her from responding, so she stands there feeling helpless and pathetic. A failure.

He grabs her arm forcefully, turning her around. His voice is bitter. “ I can’t deal with this any more, CJ. If you can’t drop all your ridiculous inhibitions and tell me how you feel, so that I don’t have to rely on telepathy and emotional guesswork to know how you feel and what you’re really scared about, and smile truthfully for once in your life, then how am I supposed to love someone I can never get to know, who won’t let me get to know her fully? I just- I’m sorry.”

He turns away from her and walks off. An outline of black trench coat. A silhouette of her short-lived happiness. She can’t move, or follow, or do anything that might seem sensible, so she calls out to him, voice flooded with tears. “But I can be honest, I can tell you everything.” Yet she knows it isn’t the truth, and the veracity of his words hurt her more than his leaving.

~ To Be Continued~

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