Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Collections:
Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
Stats:
Published:
2020-11-05
Words:
1,640
Chapters:
1/1
Kudos:
8
Bookmarks:
1
Hits:
1,314

If I loved you- A 1000 Dreams West Wing post ep fic by Rielle

Summary:

Following the President's trip to NYC, CJ Craig has a lot to deal with, and its in her personal life,  for a change, this time. But Jed Bartlett's Press Secretary isn't sure what she'll do or where she'll go, from here.

Work Text:

If I Loved You*** by Rielle, still meandering around while her Muse gets busy again, another in the amazing array of Post-Eps to the astounding Season 3 finale of TWW, "Posse Commitatus".

"If I loved you,***

words wouldn't come in an easy way.

Round in circles I'd go.

Longing to tell you,

But afraid and shy,

I'd let my golden chances pass me by."

Many thanx to the Evil Genius, TWW's absolutely fantastic ensemble, Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Carousel"*** from which, as you may know, this title comes, and, wait for it ... some elements of RL for the inspiration of this fic.

Rating: PG-13 aka nothing you wouldn't or haven't seen onscreen.

Pairing: CJ/Simon

Archive: by all means, please, only let me know where so I can make sure my fans hear about it :)

Last but not least, this work of fiction is very likely to contain discussions of consensual intimate relations between adults. If such things offend you, or you are under 18, please read no further.

"Omig-d!" a strident female voice screamed with laughter in her thoughts. "Omigawd, you fell in love with him! Is that a gag or what? Now what are you going to do?"

The harsh laughter rose to a sharp, hysterical pitch, a painful sound in her mind and thankfully, she woke up. On a sigh of deep relief, CJ found herself sitting bolt upright in her own bed, clutching the light quilt she always used when the chancy weather turned from mild to chilly and back every other day. It was a bad dream, an incredibly bad dream. Nothing more. Nothing real.

As soon as she could get her protesting muscles to behave, she'd get up, pull sweatpants on over a fresh T and be ready for an early morning run. It was early, her own early morning time when she could do things for herself. Today, it would definitely be a run past the springtime high Chesapeake. Today, it would be a run for herself and by herself for the first time in weeks. Alone. What a pleasant thought.

Still feeling a bit groggy, CJ reached for a mug and her coffee maker, perfectly set to have no more than two cups ready for her at this hour. Caffeine was what she needed to chase away the stubborn fogginess of her thoughts. The coffee smelled great, and tasted just the least bit bitter. Tonight she'd remember to put in a new filter and fresh grounds.

It was Saturday, she suddenly realized, three days since the flight to New York, since the incredibly crafted "Wars of the Roses", since the fantastic news that she could go back to having her own life again, and only three days since she kissed Simon Donovan as warmly and happily as she'd wanted to for days before. And only three days since ...

An unmistakable ceramic crash made CJ jump half way to her loft's vaulted ceiling. Her last remaining sage-green coffee mug lay in about twenty pieces on the royal blue kitchen tiles, all covered with gourmet coffee. Like blood all over a NYC corner store's floor, like an ugly scene of sudden death she'd never seen with her eyes but could imagine all too well.

You've got too much imagination for a girl as smart as you are, Claudie. CJ heard her grandmother chiding her affectionately. You need to learn to think clearly under any and all circumstances. That's the way you're going to prove yourself to anybody who might think you can't do what you want, ten times better than any durn man!

Yes, Grandma'm CJ heard herself reply, as she mechanically cleared up the mess, as a matter of safety, and cleanliness. It gave herself something to do with her hands, because they had to stop shaking at least while she made sure she had accounted for every piece of the shattered mug. It gave her something to focus on, while she made sure every drop of ruined coffee was off the tiles, giving her no excuse if she slipped and fell there later. It gave her something to worry about, while she checked her second favorite beige faux silk bed jacket for coffee stains.

But with all that done, CJ couldn't escape the memory again. It was only three days since Ron Butterfield took her away from the fourth hour of the play, away from the glittering crowd, outside the entrance to the Booth Theatre. It was only three days since he'd sadly, quietly told her Simon Donovan was dead, killed 'in the line' while stopping a corner store robbery. It was only three days and she'd almost managed to make it a bad dream, a nightmare, something unreal and no part of her life.

But the pain was real. It cut into her chest like a buzz saw. It dug into her core like a back hoe. And it tore through her body like a late spring twister, tearing and blowing away everything it didn't flatten to the ground.

She couldn't stand up under this pain. She couldn't move out of its path. And worst of all she couldn't ignore or make it unreal once she was awake. Sliding down her refrigerator door, CJ sat on the chilly blue tiles and let the memory and her tears return.

Simon Donovan aka 'Special Agent Sunshine' was gone. By this time he'd have already been given the hero's salute and burial he'd more than earned. By this time his surviving family would have already received Jed Bartlet's phone call, with genuine praise and condolences mixed in a way the President was more familiar with than he'd ever wished to be. By this time, some of those who mourned for Simon may even have had a moment to wonder why the person he'd last been assigned to protect was nowhere to be seen at any wake or other services held in his honor.

This was why: CJ couldn't so much as step outside her own townhouse. She couldn't effectively pour and drink a cup of coffee, much less move further than from bedroom to kitchen to couch. Not without remembering, not without sobbing, and not without the pain that was joined at the hip to the remembering.

That was why she was home three days after what should have been the best night they'd all had in weeks. This was why she was ordered home by President Jed Bartlet, Dr. Abigail Bartlet, by Leo McGarry and most effectively of all, by Toby. And this was why either Carol or Henry or anyone else in the west wing except Josh Lyman had been handling the Press Corp for three days. They did so really very well, but, CJ couldn't help feeling after watching each of their briefings with microscopic care, without her own special panache.

You know you're making no sense here, my girl. CJ heard her mother scolding in a mild tone. If you need time to mourn this Simon Sunshine fellow, then take the time your friends and colleagues offer and make proper use of it. If you don't, then get the heck back to your job! Which is it to be?

I don't know yet, Mom. I don't even know why it hurts this much! I barely knew him, really! I didn't like him at all, most of the time. You know how I like my privacy and my ... freedom. He pushed his way into the former and cut way, way down on the latter! And I had to sign off on him doing it! I hardly ... knew Simon Donovan. I met him a month ago, for crissakes! I didn't even kiss him twice ... not really! So why does his death, his loss hurt me so ... I don't even know what could have happened with us! I don't even know and now I never will!

Clarity came to her with the early evening sunlight still lavishly spreading through her kitchen window. A huge weight fell off her mind, off her shoulders, too. Her confusion ran out under the corner of her back door that didn't completely dovetail with the doorjamb.

"I'm sorry, Special Agent Sunshine." She told the tall, salt and pepper haired fellow in her dreams and her memory. "I'm so very sorry, Simon Donovan, for what we couldn't have while you were here, and for what we won't have now. Nobody I've known in my years has made me as angry as you did. And now I'm angry with you again!"

"For what, Ms. Cregg? Doing my job? I was a cop for about a million years before I came to The Service, just ask RonB." Simon in her thoughts almost smiled, one side of his mouth quirking upwards. "If that's what got me dead, I've got no room to complain, and neither do you."

"But that's not it, dam you! Well, maybe part of it, but not all. It's that I don't know ... I'll never know ... " CJ knew she was talking to herself, and didn't much care, since it seemed to be helping her breathe and move without the tearing pain. "and worse yet, you'll never know ... if I loved you."

In response, the affectionate wraith in her memory shook his head and smiled. Oh, yes, yes I do, Ms. Cregg, m'am. I was bringing you back a rose, wasn't I?

CJ felt a tiny smile tug at her mouth, the first in three days' time. "Yes, yes, you were. Thanks, Simon, much thanks."