Sometimes

Author: Cappuccino Girl

Genre: CJ-centric. Angst. Drama.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Aaron Sorkin throws the fly balls. What he writes is book. This is because he owns all. I own nothing, besides some computer files.

Notes: I honestly can't pinpoint when I first had this idea, but I've wanted to write it for some time now, and Complicated got in the way, I think. Here it is as I promised it to some of you a few months ago. Thanks as always to my beta readers for convincing me to complete it. The presence of CJ's cat in this fic will be sorely missed by the writer.




Summary: It isn’t guilt, she tells herself. She doesn’t classify herself as being compatible with that emotion, yet it’s hardly love or disgust either.





The jacket thrown on the back of the couch, folders piled on the coffee table, shoes flicked carelessly across the floor. She’s curled up on the sofa, nursing her depression with ice cold vodka, slowly burning her throat as she swallows.

It’s been a hideous day. All the birthdays she can remember since she was thirty were hideous, ugly landmarks in her non-existent life. Today was the usual, briefings and phone calls and position papers, and meetings she could have slept through. She can’t help but wish that there had been something extra ordinary today, not because it is her birthday, but because she wants something, anything to set it apart from days and weeks past. But Donna was kind, and Leo remarkably gracious to her today, almost insisting that she leave work early when it's been years since she's left before ten pm, so she cherishes the simplicity of their gestures.

Gazing over the table, and its landscape of crumpled gift-wrap and cards, some pretty, others tacky, she takes another long drink of the clear liquid, contemplating a hot bubble bath. She’s feeling a little cold, probably from tiredness, so she wanders to her room to hunt down some more clothes. Brandishing an old pair of jeans, and her favorite charcoal gray sweater, she collapses onto the bed. Her eyes feel heavy, but it’s only 8.30 pm, and to go to bed that early is pathetic. Tired, yet determined to get a few more hours out of her day, she yanks off her slacks, and shirt, replacing them with the more comfortable alternative of worn denim and soft cashmere.

She’s wandering out of the room with the sweater over her head, arms searching for sleeves, when a loud buzzing interrupts, causing her to change direction.

“Hey, CJ. It’s Josh. Can I come up?” a voice crackles through the intercom.

“I guess,” she responds, pushing the button to let him in,

Her eyes flash around the room. What a horrible picture of misery it presents; the alcohol, ashtray complete with numerous cigarette butts, a woollen blanket, and her in shitty clothes. She doubts that Josh’s place looks that different, but she’s convinced hers should.

In response to his knock, she opens the door to not only the expected guest, but Sam, top button open, shirt-tails hanging out of his pants, trench coat slung over his shoulder, looking like one of those Hugo Boss models he tends to resemble. Contemplating the possibility of her and him and acts illegal in many countries, she waves them both in with an exaggerated gesture.

“Toby’s just coming,” Sam remarks.

“Oh, is he?” she exclaims, mood altering rapidly from aroused to mildly irritated. “Here, I’ll take your coats. But why is Toby coming? Actually, why are any of you here at all?” She snatches Josh’s coat from him just as Toby buzzes to be let in. “Can you get that, Sam?”

He nods, grinning as he opens the door. “Because we thought that you needed some party-esque distraction on your birthday.”

“Hi Sam, CJ,” Toby mumbles as he enters.

“Tobus. You part of the let’s-make-CJ-feel-happy brigade?” she says sourly, yet with a hint of softness in her voice.

“So I gather. It wasn’t my idea to come here.”

“No?” she questions, walking out to the closet with a heap of coats over her arm.

“It's Josh's brainchild,” Sam states, while inquisitively picking up the half empty bottle of vodka.

“Put that down,” she requests, returning to the living room.

“What, no drinks?” Toby grunts as he sinks into the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

She turns to him. “Hmm? Oh, sure, what? Jack Daniels?”

Toby nods before turning to Josh. “Drink?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Josh replies, lifting up the lid of the piano.

Once she’s poured three glasses and snatched a bag of pretzels from the kitchen, she returns to find Josh flicking through the sheet music spread out on the stool. “Hey, don’t mess that up- and here, drink.” She smiles feebly. “Toby.” She hands him his, which he gratefully accepts, taking a gulp.

“Looking might sexy there, CJ,” he comments.

“Thanks, but that’s bullshit and you know it.” She collapses onto the couch, and proceeds to pour herself what might be her fourth glass of vodka.

“So, one year older there, Claudia Jean. How’s life?” Josh asks from his seat at the piano.

“You really do know how to make a girl feel better, don’t you?” she sighs, taking another sip of her drink.

“Just one of my many talents,” he comments, starting to play the first notes of ‘happy birthday’.

“Argh! Would you just- Just stop it, ok. I don’t want to think of my birthday,” she says, exasperated.

“We could have a slight problem there,” Sam mutters under his breath.

“Why? What could be the problem in-“ She is interrupted by the doorbell again. “Who’s that?”

Josh and Sam look blankly at each other, neither one wishing to enlighten her. Leaving her with few other options but to find out for herself, she pushes the buzzer and opens the door, waiting as the sound of feet on marble comes closer.

“Hi, CJ,” Donna beams, Carol and Margaret behind her.

“Come in,” she sighs.

“Hey,” Carol waves.

“Okay.” The three women drop large paper bags onto the dining table. “We brought Italian, and some wine, and- oh, look, cake,” Donna gushes with excitement.

“Oh my God! I don’t believe it,” CJ cries, storming into the kitchen.

“What’s up with her?” Margaret asks, deeply disappointed that she may have failed to please.

“Birthday blues,” Toby comments over the four month old copy of Vogue he picked up from the newspaper basket.

“CJ,” Donna calls, walking purposefully into the kitchen, clutching the bag containing the take-out. “Come on. Have some food and you’ll feel better.”

“I just wanted a quiet evening, you know, and now… now I’ve got-“ She stops and pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Would you quit with the bad piano playing?”

“Beethoven, eat your heart out,” Josh remarks proudly.

“An awful musician, and five other crazy people,” she says, returning to Donna, who is opening the cartons of food.

“This smells fantastic. Here,” Donna holds it up for CJ to smell, pleasant odors wafting through the room.

“I do feel hungry.”

“Plates?” Donna questions.

“Top cupboard on the right,” she says, flicking through the pile of mail which her cleaner left on the counter.

Her eyes catch some familiar handwriting, simple, scholastic, and she sets down the remaining post. She studies the letter, not sure if she wants to open it, or burn it, for it evokes indescribable feelings. Bethan’s letters always do. It isn’t guilt, she tells herself. She doesn’t consider herself as being compatible with that emotion, yet it’s hardly love or disgust either.

Donna places the simple white china on the breakfast bar, dropping cutlery on top, causing CJ to glance up for a moment.

“Are you okay?” Donna asks, her words almost drowned out by the jarring notes coming from the other room.

“Yeah, it’s just…” She holds up the still sealed envelope. “Bethan.”

Donna pulls out a stool under the counter and motions for her to sit. “Do you want to open it alone?” she half whispers.

CJ shakes her head. “No, in fact, I’d prefer it if you’d- If they’d just shut the hell up out there, and- Shit!” she cries, hitting her clenched fist onto the marble counter top.

Rather than say something, Donna opens the drawer and pulls out a blunt knife, offering it to her.

“Sorry,” CJ whispers, composing herself once more. “Please stay for a minute.” She runs the knife under the flap, neatly opening the letter. Once she’s pulled out the card and paper accompanying it, she strokes the picture before reading.

Donna places her arm on CJ’s shoulder and stares out the window, for it feels wrong to even look at the envelope and its contents. A tear falls onto the lined page, so the young woman pulls out a tissue and presents it to her in silence. Eventually, CJ turns to look up at Donna.

“She’s such a sweet child. She’s nine, you know. Nine.” She folds the letter back into its creases, and fingers the corners carefully, as though it might break at any moment. “I almost forgot her birthday once. She never forgets mine.”

Donna takes a seat beside CJ, placing her hand over the trembling fingers in a silent gesture. “But you didn’t forget.”

“No, but I almost did. How can anyone forget their own daughter’s birthday?” she asks, her head turned to the window, praying that the dark sky might have an answer. “ She calls me CJ, you know. Not mom, or mother. Just CJ.”

“I don’t see you as a mother,” Donna tells her honestly.

CJ shakes her head. “Neither do I.” She pauses, tucking the letter back into the envelope. “She calls Adam ‘dad’.”

“For one, he’s her father, and second, she lives with him, so that’s to be expected, I suppose,” Donna says, sounding convinced by the simplicity of the concept.

“I haven’t seen her in four years. She’s this child, who's probably so much like me, but I don’t even know her enough to be able to tell.”

Donna’s eyes focus on the fragile person sitting there, and she’s sure that fragile can’t be used to describe CJ. She’s always been the strong one, the woman in a man’s world. “Do you call her?” she eventually asks.

“Sometimes.” She runs her hand through her hair before continuing. " It's always awkward at first, but she's so honest and carefree that…"

At CJ's side, Donna rests her arm on the table and looks at the words on the page. She doesn't even try to make sense of them.

"I wonder what would have happened if I'd put my career second," she says softly, stroking the delicate paper, and after a few moments she smiles a little. "I guess I'd be in California, with a pretty back yard, a dog, and a crappy job that paid the bills."

"Maybe."

As she pushes herself up from her seat with her hands, she adds, " I'd have a life."

"But you have one now," Donna tells her, getting back to counting out knives and forks.

"No I don't. I have a picture in my wallet, that's what I have."

And this woman with all the secrets goes back to sort out glasses and forks, attempting to salvage the scraps of pleasant trivial life which remain. She'll call Bethan later, and when the little girl on the other end says hello she'll do her best not to sound guilt-ridden, but then she isn't capable of that emotion, so she has nothing to fear.

"Come on guys, Donna and Margaret brought food," CJ calls, sticking her head through the door.

Sam and Toby and Josh and Carol and Margaret all sit around the piano, their glasses raised high as she enters. "Happy Birthday to you…"



~ the end ~
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