Falling Stars

By Cappuccino Girl

Genre: CJ/ Sam, Angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: When did you ever think they were mine?

Notes: post Dead Irish Writers. This takes place a while after Complicated: A Series, but I suppose it could be read by itself.

Summary: "Why did you hide from me?"

~ for Marianne ~



The halls are almost empty, aside from the odd staffer on a last minute errand. She usually loves this time of day, at gone midnight when a sense of peace sets in, and she can almost imagine the ghosts of past administrations floating by. The mood has been spoilt tonight, but out of habit, she places each foot carefully in front of the other so as not to disturb the invisible figures.

"There you are," she exclaims as she enters his office, reversing the effect of all her cautious slinking around.

He looks up from his desk. "So you see."

She perches on the armrest of a chair and tucks loose strands of hair behind her ear. He watches her, eyes never resting.

"I meant what I said before, you know," she tells him.

"What?"

"About how you can wear a tux."

He nods in response, turns towards the window, and her disappointed sigh fills the room, mixing with the soft fuzzing sound of the muted television.

Eventually she says, "Why did you hide from me?"

He turns around and meets her pleading gaze. "Hide?"

"This is all so reminiscent."

Puzzled by her vocabulary, he says more to himself than to her, "I'm sure Abbey said you were drunk."

"That was a few hours ago. I sober up quickly." She folds her hands, tilts her head back, and stretches her arms out in front of her. Her eyes carefully study him, hoping for a reaction, and when he still doesn't respond, she remarks coldly "You didn't even mention my dress."

"Should I?" He is visibly baffled. "I thought you liked the whole concept of subtlety."

" We hardly spoke, Samuel. You rushed off, doing this and that."

"I had super-colliding super-conductors to deal with, and you went to go wallow in pity and alcohol, so I guess we're even."

"I can assure you that there was no wallowing of any kind. I was invited by the First Lady."

"I know you. There most definitely was self-pity." After a moment he says, "Am I still wrong for you?" and his tone rings with pain.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, cut the sexy damsel routine, CJ. You go and sparkle around all you like in that dress, with your false smile and dead eyes."

"Where the hell is this coming from?"

"You've been mocking me lately. Am I just some kind of joke to you? The younger boy from next door who you can patronize in front of your colleagues? Because if that's what this is going to be, then I can do just fine without it." He knows it's a lie the second he's said it, for he cannot even imagine waking up alone anymore, yet he goes on. "I'm not someone you can just use for a fuck and a problem dumping ground."

When he finally dares to look at her again, he becomes aware of how she's hurting too, and he never wanted to deepen any wounds. So he moves out from behind his desk and sits in the chair beside her. He strokes the back of her hand, and with each touch, he can see her tense up, and slip a little farther away. Wrapping his arm around her, he pulls her onto the chair with him where he can hold her. She closes her eyes as he drops kisses on her forehead.

"How could you ever think I was avoiding you?" he whispers, causing her eyelids to flutter open once more.

"But I wanted to speak with you, and all I found was your distant figure rushing out of the room," she explains, and he watches her lips as they form words.

His hand runs through her hair, coming to rest at the back of her neck. He leans in, his lips meeting hers, and it’s ever so gentle.

After a moment he says, "How could anyone not notice you?"

"Then why didn't you-" she asks, but he places his index finger over her mouth to silence her.

"You've said a thousand times how you couldn't bear to have the public know about us, and the moment I saw you this evening there was no way I could've danced with you, even had a conversation with you, without…" He pauses, as he takes in her expression. Her eyes appear slightly damp, and she feels totally relaxed in his arms.

She doesn't say "I'm sorry", but he can read it in her face.

"Come, I'll take you home," he offers, his own apology.

"No," she tells him as she slides out of the chair, pulling him up with her. Slender fingers open his shirt, and while she fiddles with the second last button, he thinks how her dress looks like falling stars. He slips his fingers under the delicate straps, kissing her neck and shoulders, and she shivers at his touch. The gown floats slowly to the floor, and he pulls her close, because in each other they find comfort and peace.

At times she thinks there never was any love between them, and if there wasn't, maybe there never will be either, and they'll constantly tear each other up over their imperfections. But in these moments, all incompatibilities disappear, dissolving into hands, and lips, and adoration. And she wonders, as she does each day, what she's done to deserve him.

~ the end ~

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