Summary: A long, long time ago, in a campaign district far, far away...
Disclaimer: All characters except the office cat and its fleas owned by Aaron Sorkin and used without permission.
Author's notes: Look at me! I wrote something short! And sweet! And not dark and depressing! And CJ/Toby, on top of that! I'm so proud of me! And happy CJ!Friday to everyone! Calming down, and getting back to the thanks: Many thanks to Arkin, because without her this story (written in pieces in random emails to her) would not be. Thanks to MelWil for the beta. Thanks to Dwagon for the grammar check.
Addendum to disclaimer: Due to complaints from Gail, the office cat won't be appearing in this fic.
Note to those who didn't get the title: Go watch Casablanca, you acultural barbarians. ;)
Addendum to Addendum: Neither will the fleas.
Louis, I Think...
White Star 2
*Her*, he reminded himself. He had promised her he'd stay out of the campaign business. And while it wasn't easy, here he was at the bar while she was out there, shaking hands and smiling. He blew a cloud of smoke into the fringes of the crowd.
A few familiar faces walked by. They went straight past him and toward an empty seat at the bar or a spot with enough elbow room to nudge in and get the bartender's attention. In this room he was an unknown. There weren't too many rooms anywhere in which he *was* known, actually, but it only bothered him during fundraisers.
And so, it surprised him more than a little when a woman he didn't know walked toward him and smiled. "Is this seat taken?" She pointed at the stool next to his, streamlined metal and impeccably clean, but a bar stool nonetheless. He shook his head.
She sat down next to him, and it surprised him that they were the same height. Standing, before, she looked intimidatingly tall. It took him a moment to realize she was just wearing heels. She pushed wavy blonde hair out of her eyes with one finger and smiled again, a bit more awkward this time.
"We were introduced about an hour ago," she said. He wasn't quite sure. This evening, like many others, had been a haze. Standing at Andi's side, being told he looks good in the tux, that it's a turn-on, as incentive to keep standing there, smiling, shaking hands.
"Right," he said, even though he still didn't have a clue. He wondered how he could've missed a body like that. And her smile. He wondered if she had been smiling when they were introduced.
"You have no idea." She laughed. "I'm C.J. Cregg, with EMILY's List."
He dug through his recollection, through bits of memory hidden under words he'd been writing in his head all evening. He remembered noticing the silly name, a sillier acronym.
"I came from DC to talk to Andrea," she said. He put his cigar to his lips and inhaled.
There was a silence between them, and it was uncomfortable for a fraction of a second, then lost in the din of the ballroom and it seemed to him she might walk on and leave him sitting there. Instead, she turned around and ordered a drink.
"Andrea says you're in politics too."
He nearly laughed because it seemed to be the best kept secret of the campaign. This is my husband, Toby Ziegler. He's a writer or a lawyer or a lot of support during this tough campaign. Just as long as they avoided people's smiles, followed by the obvious question.
He rubbed at his temple with the back of his thumb, the cigar in his hand floating in and out of his field of vision. "Yeah."
"Anyone I'd know?"
It caught him by surprise. "What?"
"Your campaigns. Anyone I'd know?"
"Gregory Reese." The last candidate he'd had who had made it past the primaries. "The New Jersey third."
She frowned. "He lost, didn't he?"
"Yeah. Pretty bloody." He was surprised at how confident it came out. A perverse kind of pride.
"Are you doing anything now?"
He shook his head. "I had David Roberts in the 29th. Lost in the primaries."
"Why?" she asked and he wanted to laugh at how shameless she was.
"He didn't listen. He wasn't too bright, either." She smiled and he realized they sounded like bad excuses.
"Why did you take the job?"
"Because it was a job. And he didn't seem so bad at first."
She reached behind her and grabbed her drink off the bar. "What about you," he asked.
She shrugged, bare shoulders stretching the thin straps of her dress. "Well, I do this now," she said. "And I worked on Rodney Meyer's campaign two years ago."
"And before that?"
She stirred her drink with the tiny red straw, didn't look up. "I was working on my doctorate." It took him a second to put two and two together, to stop himself from asking when she finished it and what it's about. He noted it to himself as a subject not to approach.
"So you got Rodney Meyer elected?" he said before the silence had a chance to run too long.
She smiled, recognized his attempt to keep the conversation alive. "Mostly I just tried to convince the rest of the campaign staff I don't make coffee." He laughed.
She looked at her watch and stood up. "I have to get going," she said. "I have an early meeting in DC." She dug into her purse and handed him a business card. "Listen," she started, a bit nervous, "It's an election year. And we're swamped and we're always looking for more people. If you want to, give me a call and I'll set up an interview."
He took her card, more amused than anything. He read it, then put it in his pocket.
"Don't worry," she said, "Despite the myth of the angry feminist we do have a couple of men working for us."
He leaned back against the bar. "I don't make coffee."
She laughed.
She walked back a few steps, then excused herself and turned around. By the time he wiped the bemused smile off his face it occurred to him he didn't say anything when she left. He was left staring at the big "Wyatt in '92" sign over the podium that Andrea had already taken. He turned around to the bar and found that she'd left him to pay for her drink.
He decided to give her a call.