Oh and there's a little bad language - just a bit.

TITLE: A Certain Slant of Light

AUTHOR: Morgan morgan@camelot72.screaming.net

SUMMARY: Someone's just received a wake up call

DISCLAIMER: The West Wing belongs to NBC et al. I'm not quite sure why I'm doing this, I just am - but its for entertainment purposes only - no disrespect is intended.

A Certain Slant of Light

Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn. Ow! That hurts. Shit that hurts! OK - Claudia Jean you can do this, all you have to do is hobble a few more steps and you'll be fine. Who the hell made the corridors in the West Wing so damn long anyway? I wonder if anyone has taken the time to figure out exactly how long we all spend walking up and down them every day? Probably not. Ow! OK - I have to remember not to put too much weight on my ankle.

I swear I'm going to sue whoever made those shoes - of course I'm not going to mention how rapidly I was walking when the damn heel decided to snap. Emotional turmoil and now a sprained ankle - I'm going to be remembering this day for a while to come. Ow!

OK. Hello office, nice office, safe office. Can you believe I made it half way across the building with a sprained ankle, a broken shoe and probably looking terrible without being accosted by a reporter or a photographer? Sometimes, very rarely, I love the press corps. At least there aren't going to be any stories or about the Press Secretary leaving the State Dinner early - either because she'd drunk too much, or been upset by something that had happened and in her hasty retreat fallen over in the corridor. No evidence of my stupidity or my lack of agility, well, except for my rapidly swelling ankle. Nothing like a little pain to focus the mind - actually I knew that before I decided to see if it was possible to slide along one of these corridors on my - never mind.

I hate my life, which is pretty self-indulgent of me when you consider that I am Press Secretary to the President of the United States. A few hours ago I was fairly content - well as content as you can be when you are constantly waiting for the press to ask you a question for which you don't have an answer to. But things were definitely OK - I had this whole secure in my existence thing going on - which is pretty much shot to pieces now.

I just need to sit down - what are you supposed to do with sprained ankles anyway? Ice to stop the swelling and elevate the ankle isn't it? Well, I'm not going back to the State Rooms for ice. Nothing could induce me to go back into that party even if I could walk that far. I can however elevate my ankle. There. Is that better? Not really.

I can't believe this has happened - not my shoe breaking, I believe that, that's exactly the kind of thing that does happen to be. But the flood of cold that hit my body, the sudden clenching of my stomach; the absolute feeling of vulnerability - I have no clue where that came from. But I know what it means.

I still can't decide if I'm more upset by my spectacularly appalling timing or by the fact that I didn't realise what was happening before now. Would it have made it any better if I'd had my moment of Epiphany slightly earlier? It certainly would have helped if I hadn't realised I was more than half in love with Toby at the moment I overheard him ask another woman out.

I'm jealous - its a simple fact and one I'm prepared to concede. I'm annoyed that I'm jealous, I'm annoyed to discover all these feeling for him, a bedrock of emotion and affection I didn't know I was dependant upon until it was stripped bare before my eyes. This isn't the person I want to be - I have managed very well not being dependent on other people for my happiness. For how long have I been content in the knowledge that even if he had not got over the end of his marriage to Andrea, I had some special place in his affections? Well, it appears he's over his divorce - so now I can't help wondering if the latter of those propositions, that he and I have some special connection, is false as well. Which is unfortunate - because I have just realised how important it is to me to come first with him.

OK - that's not a thought I needed to have. I bite back a whole stream of entirely irrelevant and highly unsuitable images that are entirely the product of innuendo and double entendres, not to mention my overactive imagination. Those kinds of thoughts aren't going to help me right now, although its comforting to know I can still think about sex when my worlds just been rocked to its core.

'CJ?' All right, who's idea of a cosmic sick joke is this? The one person I really don't want to see right now is Toby and so, inevitably there he is, standing in the doorway to my office - a fellow refugee from the party. And no, I'm not blushing right now, and no I'm not remotely self conscious that I have just noticed my bodies elevated reaction to his presence. Its simply that I had a glass of champagne earlier and its very warm in here. I'd strenuously dispute any other analysis of the situation, and you know what, I'd win because this is what I do. 'What the hell happened?'

He's seen my ankle. In fact the reason that he's seen my ankle is because he looked at my legs - which is a thought that makes my heart give the kind of lurch that I'd gladly put down to indigestion had I eaten anything in the last three hours. Of course the cynics here will point out that he looked at my legs because they are stretched out on the desk right now. But we aren't listening to them.

'I fell over,' I say, feeling like the biggest, clumsiest idiot in the world. 'Actually, my heel snapped.' I gesture vaguely to the shoe that I dumped on my couch, the very expensive shoe that was briefly part of a pair that I will no longer be able to wear. I hate my life.

'You should really put ice on that.' He points out, suddenly a first aid expert although he makes no move to go and find some. Its possible that I'm not at my best right now because my response is one that I'd never use in the press room,

'No shit.' He gets the hint and disappears, returning a few minutes later with a bucket of very cold water that I gratefully sink my foot into. If I'm disappointed that he doesn't seems to have noticed that I managed to refresh my make up during his brief absence I give no indication of it.

'Do you need a doctor?' He looks ridiculously uncomfortable; as though he thinks he shouldn't have to deal with my needing some help right now.

'It will be fine,' I say feigning determination, 'its probably not that serious.'

'OK.'

'Why aren't you at the party?'

'I'm just not.' OK. Toby warning me off his private territory. That's never happened before, much. But there is a difference today, a consciousness within me that I am being dishonest if I pretend to be his friend when in reality I want something different, something more. But along with my newly discovered jealousy comes more uncomfortable knowledge about myself - I'm greedy, for his time and his attention and right now I'll take what I can get - at least until I work up the courage to tell him how I feel. Which I figure should be sometime around when hell freezes over.

'OK - you're just not at a party because...?' I cross my arms and fix him with what hopefully passes as a determined stare.

'CJ,' maybe I'm better at this than I think I am, or maybe he's, for once, a willing target. 'You don't want to know about this.'

'You're right, I don't, which makes it odd that I asked - don't you think?'

'I asked someone out, she said no. OK?'

'She said no?' Its all I can do not to get up and throw my arms around him - maybe if I hadn't sprained my ankle, maybe if I didn't think it would scare him to death. 'She said no,' I repeat, working hard to erode every trace of jubilation form my voice. 'Did she say why?' Now I know I'm pushing my luck, because he avoids my gaze and fidgets exactly as he does when he's trying to work out how to avoid answering something.

'She said she didn't think I really wanted to go out with her.'

'Do you like her?' This is a question I shouldn't be asking because the odds are I'm not going to want to hear his answer. If he does give me the answer that I think he will, the one I won't like, then the only thing I can do for him is to send him back in there to ask her again - because I know that's what he'd do for me. In his own unique and grudging way of course.

'I asked her to have dinner with me CJ, not spend the rest of her life with me - I don't know if I like her, that was the point of having dinner with her, to find out. I thought she was intelligent and attractive and I thought I might as well get back into doing this. I'm beginning to wonder why I bothered.' Its not the answer that I feared, in fact even allowing for her rejection, his whole lack of enthusiasm is heartening and I let out a slow, steadying breath before I say,

'You don't think you should find someone you really want to have dinner with and ask her out?' He isn't looking at me, maybe there is something about his shoes that he finds particularly interesting right now or possibly he realises that I'm right.

'I don't want to get hurt again.' He whispers and for half a second he looks so vulnerable I want to pull him into a hug and promise him that everything will be all right.

'If you feel like that then you aren't ready at all.' He frowns and because I'm a coward I add, 'or maybe she just wasn't the right person.' But the simple fact is that for someone with such a prickly personality he wears his heart on his sleeve and its perfectly clear to me that his heart isn't available right now. If I know this it isn't impossible that someone else could have worked it out as well. Or maybe the woman in question just didn't feel like having dinner with a man who has a reputation for being monumentally difficult. It is possible that only I am that unbalanced.

I look up to find him gazing at me with startling intensity. My heart plummets, my stomach turns over and I look away, feeling suddenly as though I have been dropped into scalding hot water, my pulse thundering erratically in my ears. When I have regained my composure I look back at him and watch the questions form in his eyes.

'My ankle is killing me,' I say apologetically before he can speak, terrified that I have revealed too much to him. I lift my foot slowly out of the water and inspect it carefully, a perfectly reasonable excuse not to look at him. 'I think I'll call a cab and take myself home.'

'I can drive you?' He offers but I shake my head.

'You should go back to the party - can you tell Leo I've gone home and why? I just need to rest the ankle, I'll be fine in the morning.'

'OK, is there anything you need?' I want to say,

'Yes, I need you,' but I don't. I want to tell him that I've had this amazing revelation and that I've realised how important he is to me. But I don't. I want to pour everything out, to tell him that I'm prepared to risk complicating our working relationship, ruining our friendship, but I don't. The fear of rejection, the certainty that he does not have those feelings for me is too powerful for me. Instead I sit there with a wet foot and tell him that no, I don't need anything and then I watch him leave.

The End