She's still in shock when I find her in her office, huddled not on the plush couch, but in the wooden rocking chair's uncomfortable embrace.  I'll never understand how she can fold her legs up under her like that, but she's managing.  Her head is tilted back, resting tiredly against the polished wood, and her eyes are closed.

I try to make a little noise, shuffle my feet enough to alert her to my presence, but not startle her.

The echo of a smile flickers past her lips.  "I heard you, Toby.  You're not that light on your feet."

At least she can still make fun of me.  That's got to be a good sign.  I nod, although she's not looking.  "The President talked to you?"

"No," she whispers, all traces of amusement leeched from her features.  CJ Cregg is a beautiful woman, but right now, there's an element of tragedy in her expression that would make a painter weep.

She still hasn't moved.  It's eerie, seeing her so still, so frozen.

I shift in the doorway, unsure.  "I thought--"

"Leo talked to me," she cuts me off.  "Is it raining?"

My gaze flicks past her to the half-open blinds slicing the moon into shards.  "No.  It's not supposed to rain until--"

"Monday.  I know.  I just -- Forget it."

"CJ--"

"It's stupid.  Forget it."

I venture further into her darkened office, pushing the door shut softly behind me.  When she gets angry, CJ yells very loudly.  And there's an undercurrent surfacing in her tone.

"CJ, what are you--"

"It's just... It's May, Toby."  Her brow furrows, and she finally moves, one hand fluttering its familiar way to her hair, smoothing it into place.  She does that when she's unsettled.

"Yes," I nod, leaning carefully against the edge of the couch.

Her eyes open slowly, as if she's dreading what she might see.  She keeps her gaze focused on the ceiling.  "It's spring.  Shouldn't this have happened in November?  Or the frozen month of February?"  Her voice grows more and more shrill as she slides towards anger.  "During a blizzard, maybe, or at least a good, moody thunderstorm?"

"CJ--"

"I'm serious, Toby."  She finally levels her gaze on me, and now I can see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.  Her eyes are haunted.  "It's 71 degrees outside, the cherry blossoms are out and -- and then this?  It doesn't fit."

She stills after this outburst, awaiting my response.

"No," I say finally.  "It doesn't."

"It's May," she repeats, a note of realization in her tone.

"Yes."  I watch her closely.

A grin eases its way across her face.  "It's sweeps."

I frown at her.  "What?"

"For TV.  The ratings," she explains, beginning to chuckle.  "May is sweeps."

"Right."  I'm still not sure where she's going with this.  Or why it's funny.

She's laughing now, sporadically, and looking at me as if I should get it.  I don't.

"Toby, we're about to hand CNN, MSNBC, and all the local affiliates' news programs their highest ratings in years!"  She's rocking slightly in the chair, still giggling helplessly.  Hysterically, even.  "All we had to do," she manages, "was commit an enormous and potentially felonious fraud!"

"Okay."  I have no idea what to say right now, so I just stand here, mute.  Watching this amazing woman shriek with laughter over the roasting we're about to get from the press.  She baffles me, sometimes.

"Don't you see?" she asks, attempting to bring herself under control.  "The local news -- they won't have to run those horrid, attention-grabbing stories on, you know, dog attacks and teenagers drag racing on city streets and the cockroach that Billy Bob Forehead found in his soup at the neighborhood steakhouse!"

And she's lost again, burying her face in her updrawn knees.

For lack of a better idea, I move to the couch and perch on the end closest to her.  And I watch her shoulders shake, and listen to the harsh edges of her laughter.  And wait.

Finally, she calms, trailing off into sniffles and deep, cleansing breaths.  "Oh, Toby," she says as she lifts her head.  She wipes a hand over her face, blurring the fresh tear tracks.

"Yeah?"  I'm expecting her anger now.  Maybe even to be booted unceremoniously from her office.  I'm definitely not expecting indifference.  Not from her.

She shrugs.  "I have no idea."

I nod wisely.  "Okay."

She stares absently at the wall to my right for several long minutes.  "I broke the law, you know," she observes casually.

It takes a moment to register.  "CJ, you should really talk to the White House counsel--"

She gives me an unfamiliar smile, more bitter than sweet.  "At Berkeley, I mean.  I smoked pot."  She's watching me carefully.

I nod.  "I did too.  In college, and after."

She purses her lips as if weighing her words.  "Tried mushrooms a couple times," she admits, her tone light.  Breezy, even.  "When I was thirteen, I stole this hair thing--"  She stops and grins at me.  "A set of those sticks, you know, that hold your hair in a bun," she explains.

"Well, I rarely wear my hair in a bun, so I wouldn't know."

Her grin deepens to a chuckle.  "You had long hair in the 70s, didn't you?"

I nod.  "Guilty as charged."  She sobers, and I curse my thoughtless word choice.  "CJ--"

"I speed.  I consistently go at least ten miles above the speed limit, and yet I've never been caught.  Not one speeding ticket."  She studies me for a moment.  "I have a tattoo.  Did you know that?"

I stare at her, whatever I was about to say lost in this sudden hyper-awareness.

CJ Cregg, as I have mentioned, is a beautiful woman.  With a beautiful body.  A good portion of which has been left bare by an assortment of formal gowns.  I am intensely curious about this alleged tattoo.

"You didn't," CJ surmises.

I blink.  "I'm sorry?"

"You didn't know about my tattoo," she explains.

"No, I definitely did not."  I want to ask for details, for longitude and latitude, but considering our relative states of mind, I manage to keep my mouth shut.

"And now," she smiles softly, "you're mentally reviewing every dress I've ever worn, and that one time in Austin?  When Donna and I were sunbathing in bikinis.  Los Angeles, too.  Trying to narrow down the possibilities, right?  Let's just say it's in a very good place, and only a chosen few have seen it."

I nod stupidly.  "Okay."  What possible reply could I give?

Her smile fades like an old photograph.  "I'm just..."  She shrugs, frustrated.  "That's a secret, Toby.  That's personal.  That's my business."

"It is," I affirm.

"The triquetra on my abdomen--"  She stops, grins at her misstep, and continues, "The triquetra, it has nothing to do with my job performance.  It has nothing to do with how well I can spin a Presidential gaffe, or how well I can smack down unruly Congressional opponents when they come after us.  This tattoo, Toby?  It's mine.  It belongs to me.  It's..." she shakes her head, "irrelevant."

"I know."

"Multiple Sclerosis."  She looks at me as if I should be able to fix this for her.

Why can't I fix this?  If I can't make it better, I can at least give her the truth.  "Multiple Sclerosis," I answer quietly, "is not irrelevant."

She ducks her head suddenly, her hair obscuring her face, and the pattern of her breathing changes.  I watch, frozen, as she struggles not to cry.  "His mind," she says, her voice dripping with tears.  "That beautiful mind.  It's not fair."

"No, it's not," I agree.

"I can't imagine what it's been like for him," she continues unsteadily.  "Or for Abbey.  And Liz and Ellie and Zoey.  I can't imagine having this horrible thing just lurking in the shadows."  She realizes what she's said and gives me a wry grin streaked with tears.  "I couldn't before," she amends.

"They're a strong family," I offer.  "They'll get through this."

She nods, her lips pressed tightly together.  "But we won't, will we?"

More than anything, I want to look away.  I want to deny it, to say we'll come through this intact.  But I won't lie to her again.  So I hold her gaze and say, "I don't think so, CJ."

Then she puts her head down, resting her forehead on her knees.  And she sobs.

THE END

05.05.01