TITLE: "The Soul Selects Her Own Society"
AUTHOR: Luna (lunavudu@a...)
ARCHIVE: Let me know. It's at:
http://www.geocities.com/spark_fanfic/violet
SUMMARY: No matter how we breathe, or count our breaths...
NOTES: Rated very R. They ain't mine. Props to Laura, Emily
Dickinson, Alice Fulton, and, reluctantly, Ann Coulter. Props as big
as Woliver's head to Jess. Feedback's a lovely thing.

The Soul Selects Her Own Society

It was too hot to sleep. It was too hot to be awake. It was
certainly too hot to be sensible.

The thin material of her top-sheet was not enough to shield her eyes
from the late afternoon sunlight. C.J. raised her arm drowsily,
blocking the glare with the crook of her elbow. Discontented, she
turned over and nuzzled her face into the pillow, folding her arms
childishly over her head. She wanted unconsciousness to find her,
and the sun seemed to be chasing it away.

Behind her, Toby sat up slightly to push the sheets away. She was
not surprised that he was awake; he never let himself fall asleep
before she did. That was an issue of trust, she supposed. She
started to try and decide whether it bothered her, but stopped
herself, clenching her eyes shut as tightly at possible. Don't
think, she ordered herself. Rest.

Twice, they had agreed not to do this anymore. The first time had
been after the election and before the inauguration, when it had
seemed natural to let campaign sex die with the campaign. That
decision had lasted for a year and a half; it had been shot to hell,
with everything else, at Rosslyn. The second time was just a few
weeks ago, and it was proving considerably less successful. He was
in her bed again. She could sense him listening to her breathing, as
strongly as she felt the sunlight hitting her back.

She yanked the pillow over her head, wanting to shut her mind off.
Rest. Rest. She counted her breaths, slower and slower, and finally
slipped away.

The air-conditioning in the West Wing had failed again that day.
There were rumors that it had worked properly once, but most people
said that was a myth. C.J. had tried to concentrate on work, but it
hadn't happened. She'd given up around lunchtime and wandered down
to the mess hall for something cold to drink. Ainsley Hayes had been
leaning into the refrigerator, trying to figure out how many cans of
Fresca she could smuggle to the steam-pipe trunk distribution venue
in one trip.

It must have been the temperature, but C.J. felt suddenly
social. "What's got you in here on a Saturday?" she asked
sympathetically.

"Oh, I didn't have to come in. I was reading about this lawsuit in
Pennsylvania." Ainsley set a can of soda on the counter and produced
a file from under her arm. "Planned Parenthood and co-defendants
versus Lancaster Life."

"Lancaster Life?" C.J. frowned. "That's the thing about the anti-
abortion website?"

"Overturned on appeal." Ainsley opened the folder and scanned a
page. "I can't believe it wasn't thrown out of court in the first
place."

"You think that stuff was legitimate?"

"Sure," Ainsley said. "It's the First Amendment."

"Not if it's threatening people."

Ainsley shrugged. "They never advocated violence against anyone.
It's not their fault that some groups feel uncomfortable with the
free speech of pro-life groups."

"Feel uncomfortable?" C.J. repeated incredulously. "Ainsley, this
site was essentially an anti-abortion hit list. I can't believe
you'd defend those tactics."

"So it's okay to publish photos of graphic sexual acts, but God
forbid you speak up if you're Christian or--"

C.J. folded her arms. "Pornography doesn't actively threaten
specific people."

"They never advocated violence against anyone."

"Can I see that?" She took the file from Ainsley without waiting for
an answer, and skimmed through it. Her voice rose as she
read. "Lancaster Life collected and published information pertaining
to doctors, nurses, clinic owners, security and law enforcement, pro-
choice judges and politicians, and their spouses, friends and
children. Personal data including date and place of birth, home and
business addresses and phone numbers, Social Security numbers,
license plates... photos and videos of their homes and their cars,
Ainsley! In what skewed universe is that not a threat?"

"They compiled this data in anticipation of the day Roe v. Wade is
overturned and abortion is criminalized." Ainsley gently took the
file back. "Absolutely not in the spirit of violence. These people
treasure human life, C.J. Their speech is not criminal any more than
yours or mine."

"If I was on this list I'd be afraid to stand in front of a window."

"Oh, please. It's more dangerous to be a New York City cab driver
than an abortionist. And they certainly have less trouble defending
themselves than millions of unborn children."

C.J.'s eyes blazed; she was starting to yell. "You can vote for a
Republican President. You can print all the gory photos you want,
you can write all the editorials you want. You can work within the
system. You can't stalk people who disagree with you!"

"So now we're all fanatics?"

"No, but the ones who pull this crap are!"

Ainsley stepped forward, keeping her voice calm. "The Supreme Court
made it illegal for pro-lifers to protest outside abortion clinics.
Apparently, if they speak their minds on the Internet, they risk a
hundred million dollar lawsuit. What system are they supposed to be
working within?"

"The one that gives everyone the right to her own opinion, her own
career, and her own choices without being murdered for it!"

Ainsley started to respond, but suddenly discovered she was standing
on her tiptoes to meet C.J.'s eye-level. As she rocked back on her
heels, C.J. glanced down and realized she'd snatched up the can of
Fresca. She was clutching it so tightly that her knuckles had gone
white. The women locked eyes for a long moment. Abruptly, C.J.
shoved the soda can into Ainsley's hand and stormed up the stairs.

She stalked through the bullpen and into her office, gathering up her
papers as quickly as she could. She banged the door shut on her way
out, loud enough that it echoed. Later, she would not remember
looking for her keys, driving herself home, unlocking the door of her
apartment. She found herself sitting on the couch, watching her
hands shake, and waiting for the anger to subside. An hour passed,
and C.J. did not move until she heard her door slowly opening. She
looked up sharply as Toby shuffled in.

"Your door went off one of its hinges," he told her.

She hunched her shoulders slightly and didn't speak.

"That's the second time in six months," Toby continued, watching her
carefully. "Three strikes, and I'm going to have to replace it with
one of those beaded curtains."

C.J. didn't smile, just stood up and hugged herself.

"So." Toby took a few steps toward her. "Care to talk about the
spirit of bipartisanship?"

She fairly lunged at him.

There was no further discussion. Her awareness was narrowed by need,
and she stopped harboring anger, stopped feeling anything except his
lips against hers and his hands moving under her clothes. She was
impatient, stressed and starved and rushing him. For once in their
relationship, he offered no argument. And if she spoke at all, it
was only to say his name.

He steered her out of the living room; they crashed into her bed.
She wasn't sure if she closed her eyes or was blinded. He tasted her
skin, gasped for air, could not get enough of either. It was all
feet kicking clothes away and fingers digging into hips, shading
towards violence in their hurry. They slammed into each other and
almost tore each other apart.

She hadn't turned on her air-conditioner, and the bedroom was
stifling. The bedclothes were tangled around them, slippery with
sweat. It was too hot to cool down easily. It was too hot to sleep,
but eventually, C.J. managed.

When he was sure she had dozed off, Toby climbed carefully out of her
bed. He struggled into his shorts and undershirt and tried to make
his way quietly out of the bedroom. The effort was ruined when her
kitten skittered up and began to weave itself between his feet. He
nearly stumbled over the cat in the doorway.

It mewed and hooked its claws into his ankle. He bit back a yelp
and glared in its direction. "You're a monster." The kitten looked
up at Toby adoringly and rubbed its head on his foot. He sighed and
stooped to pick it up. "Okay. Now we're monsters looking for
coffee."

He paused to switch on the air-conditioner, and went into the
kitchen. Setting the cat down on the counter, he reached for the
coffeepot. It was half full. He poured himself some and drank
without warming it up, barely flinching at the bitter taste.

Just as he finished the cup, C.J. emerged from the bedroom, her
bathrobe tied loosely around her. She tried ineffectively to settle
her disarranged hair with her hands. Toby watched her approach and
liked the way she was walking, wobbly yet graceful. Like a newborn
deer, he thought, and grimaced at himself for even thinking the
cliché.

"Get down, Circe," C.J. said, nudging the kitten off the
counter. "You turned the air on?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you. What are you doing?"

"Composing a poem."

"What?"

He gestured with the mug. "Cold coffee."

"There's beer." She opened the refrigerator, studied its contents,
and made a face. "No, I lied. There's nothing. I have to go
shopping tomorrow."

Toby drained his cup. "How old is this stuff?"

"Six this morning."

"Tastes older."

C.J. looked at him oddly. "Yeah, I'm lying to you. It's coffee I
picked up on an archaeological dig."

He set it down indifferently. "So tell me about your morning."

"What'd you hear?"

"I heard you leaving. According to Sam, Ainsley said you were like
something off one of those vicious animal shows."

"I wasn't." She crossed her arms. "Maybe I was, a little."

"Why?"

"Why'd you come here?" she countered.

"I finished the Ukraine statement earlier than I expected."

"The words just flowed like liquid from a stream, hmm?" she teased.

"Something to that effect."

"I tried so hard to like that woman." C.J. shook her head sadly. "I
don't like to think of myself as this partisan person I suppose I
am. I don't like to think I can't relate to people on any other
terms. I even sang in her stupid office."

"A major gesture," Toby agreed.

"You didn't sing," she remembered. "You sat in her chair and counted
her highlighters and made jokes."

"I was there. It counts for something."

"I don't want to be closed-minded, but today I hated Ainsley."

"Nobody actually needs eight yellow highlighters."

C.J. scoffed. "Did you just come here because you've noticed I have
an unfortunate habit of jumping you when I'm under particular stress?"

"The tendency has not escaped my notice," he admitted.

"Ah."

He looked at the floor. "I came because I thought you might need me."

She almost smiled. "You're a big bald girl."

His head was still bowed, but he raised his eyes to her. "I was
right."

"Shut up. I know."

"So tell me about your morning," he said again.

"Why is it that we can't regulate the temperature in the office?"
C.J. leaned down absently and scratched her cat behind the
ears. "I'd sell my kidney for central air."

"We should work a tax hike for that into next year's budget."

"Ainsley was reading up on Planned Parenthood v. Lancaster Life," she
told him.

Toby nodded slowly. "First Amendment suit, right?"

"The hell it is." She looked at him defiantly. "I'm a Third Wave
feminist, Toby. I've never been a suffragette or marched on
Washington. But don't think for one second that I take any of my
rights for granted."

"So you went off on Ainsley."

She ran a hand through her hair. "You know, nobody bats an eyelash
when you scream at people about some church and state issue, or
social security. Sam's things are the environment and privacy. God
knows we're all allowed to act that way about gun control. This is
one of my things, and it always will be. I don't take my rights for
granted, and I'm allowed to yell at Ainsley about this if I want."

"You are a partisan person," Toby said. "You wouldn't be any good at
this if you weren't."

"No?"

"No. You would also be boring."

"And I'm exhilarating now." She inhaled deeply and let it out
slowly. "Why'd you come here?"

"I told you."

"Why'd you come here, Toby? Why do we keep going around in
circles?" He shrugged, embarrassed not to have a ready answer. She
bit her lip. "We're hypocrites."

"I'm an expert on language," he replied. "'Hypocrites' is not the
word."

She studied her hands. "It seems like it, to me."

Toby took a deep breath. "I'd like to keep my distance, my others,
keep my rights reserved -- yet look at you, entreasured, where
resolutions end. No matter how we breathe or count our breaths,
there is no caring less for you for me."

C.J. stared at him, stunned, for a long moment. "You were really
composing a poem?"

"I don't." He rubbed his forehead. "Something I read. Alice
Fulton."

She chuckled softly. "Does she know us?"

"I was wondering that."

She moved toward him, through the patch of sunlight from the kitchen
window. "Resolutions end?"

He held out a hand and she took it. "Eventually."

She tasted the coffee's sourness on his lips, and didn't care. Her
left hand held his right; the fingers of his other hand swept her
hair aside and lingered on the back of her neck. The cat crept
between, around, and under their feet and leapt daringly up to the
counter again. C.J. laced her fingers with Toby's, and could hardly
believe he was spending so long just kissing her.

This time was slow and searing, and they didn't skip a step. This
time, there were no ulterior motives, as they walked hand in hand to
her room. This time shattered into tiny, sharp, indelible moments.
There was his mouth burning against the inside of her elbow, as it
had once in a hotel room in Manhattan. He stroked the underside of
her knee; they were drunk together in the back of a bar. Her fingers
trailed gently down his chest; it was a car in the middle of Kansas.
Her thigh trembled against his cheek -- the parking garage at George
Washington Hospital.

They slid inside each other at last, and could barely move. It
wasn't necessary. It would have been too much. Gradually, they fell
into a rhythm; doing something everyone did, doing the things they'd
always done, doing something entirely new. She was above him. He
was pinning her arms to the bed. It wasn't the same. It was the
same. It hurt. It was so good it hurt. And they shivered and
slipped and strained together, letting go of everything except each
other, spinning off the edge of the world.

This time shattered them.

On the horizon, clouds had drifted in front of the setting sun. The
light that remained was a muted apricot glow. The air-conditioning
hummed from the other room. C.J. breathed in Toby's scent, mixed
with her own, and let out a rumbling sigh that was only half
contented. Transcendence was temporary. Their lives came flooding
back, and she knew clearly that the problems were not going to
disappear.

She wanted to protect herself. She reached down and pulled the
blankets up, rolled onto her side and curled up with her knees
against her chest. There was a stack of magazines under her
nightstand. She was lying next to one of her best friends, and she'd
learned that he thought about her when he read poetry. She wondered
when he'd started reading and remembering poetry.

He was an expert in language. But so was she, at least when it came
to polling, to asking the right questions. If she asked herself if
she loved him, the answer was clearly yes -- but that wasn't the
question. And with Ainsley Hayes, the Ukraine and Josiah Bartlet
hanging over their heads, with the White House and its faulty cooling
system waiting for them every day, she knew clearly that she could
not be in love with him.

Outside, the sky darkened. She turned over to ask Toby to leave, if
only to go out and buy some beer. She nudged him gently to get his
attention.

He grumbled quietly, in his sleep.

It hit her hard, this silent, possibly unintentional concession. It
hit her hard, and she realized just how little choice she had. He
was in her bed, and she was already in love with him. There would be
no caring less.

Stop it, C.J. told herself, though she couldn't help shifting closer
to him, laying her head on his arm. Stop obsessing; stop thinking.
Rest.

It was cool enough, by then, to sleep. But it was a long time before
she did.

* * *

End. Feedback would be deeply appreciated.

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