Toby is absolutely the last person I should go to with this.  Not only is he my boss and notoriously bad at interpersonal communication, but I'm pretty sure Jeff would kill me if he found out.

Of course, it's not like I have much of a choice right now.  I can't very well stand in a hotel hallway in my pajamas bleeding into a scrap of a t-shirt all night.  I think that might draw some unwanted attention my way.  Loath as I am to admit it, I need help and my options are limited.  The Governor and Mrs. Bartlet, Leo, CJ, and Sam are at the speech, and Josh and Donna left for Austin this morning to meet with some key Texas Democrats.  Besides which, Toby's the only one here that I know well enough to trust.

Conveniently, Toby is in his room finishing up tomorrow's speech.  Or, as he put it, "rescuing my clear, concise oratory from the flowery purple cesspool into which Sam's attempt at polishing plunged it."  This is the man I'm turning to for help?

I really have to do something, though.  I'm bleeding, terrified, and I'm pretty sure my wrist is sprained.  Which doesn't bode well for my job, to be quite honest.  What good is an assistant to the speechwriter if she can't type?  I'm scared of what knocking on Toby's door right now means for me, for Jeff, and for this campaign.  We can't afford a scandal.

But I'm not sure I can afford another night like this one.

***

"Ginger!"

I jolt awake and sit up in the anonymous queen bed.  My brain is sluggish when I first wake up, and it takes a minute to remember where I am.  Texas, I think.  Waco?

"Ginger!" Jeff repeats, his voice muffled by the hotel room door.  A niggling sense of recognition slithers through me, leaving my skin prickling with goosebumps.

I know that tone.  I want to stay here and hide under the covers.  I want him to leave me alone, just for one night.  But it's been almost a year, this thing between us, and I know him too well.  He'll stand right there in the hallway and raise hell if I don't let him in.  He'll go to the desk and convince them to let him in.  They're not supposed to, of course, but he'll invent a plausible excuse -- that I'm suicidal, like he did in Denver, or that I'm pregnant and he's worried I may have passed out, like he did in Oregon.

Jeff is a very convincing liar.

And this time, the hotel room is actually his.  So I take a deep, shuddering breath and answer him.  "Yeah, Jeff.  One second."

My legs tremble a little as I head for the door, and I feel quite vulnerable in my tank top and loose-fitting pajama bottoms.  But he's got that tone in his voice, which means piling on more layers will only result in more ruined clothes.  He's already torn a couple of my favorite things.

I think he does it on purpose so that he can replace my clothes with things he's picked out.  He says my clothes are too revealing.  I disagree, but I learned fairly early on to hold my tongue.

I open the door and he grins down at me.  He really is gorgeous: 6'1" and a bit on the thin side, but still muscular, with features that, taken independently, would be too much.  Eyes a little too blue, nose slightly too aquiline, and chin just a bit too prominent, but together, his features coalesce into a handsome face.  I couldn't quite believe that a man like that would be interested in me the first time he asked me out.

I mean, a pale, scrawny redhead with absurdly large eyes and freckles all over?  Yeah, I'm just a magnet for hot men.

Maybe that's why I was so damn susceptible to his charms early on.  He was wonderful to me -- he sent flowers, he showed up at odd hours to surprise me, he wanted to move in with me after a month.  I was just swept off of my feet by his passion for me.  Then he got a job working for CJ on the campaign, and we were together pretty much twenty-four hours a day.  Which to him was heaven, but to me was a bit stifling.

I once made the mistake of saying as much.

"Hi, honey," Jeff says, leaning in to kiss me.  I can taste the cigarettes on his breath.  "Lost my key," he says with a shrug, pushing past me into the room.  "Were you asleep?"

"Yeah."  I can feel it, coiling under the surface.  I hate this part.

The sickeningly sweet, apologetic Jeff makes my stomach turn, and the bruises are a pain in the ass to hide; I've never been particularly talented at the art of makeup.  But the part I hate the most is this -- the interminable time when it's building up, when I can feel the explosion coming.

Waiting around for Jeff to finally lose his temper and get the meanness out of his system is not something I enjoy.  I am not a patient person; I am from Jersey.  Since I no longer harbor the illusion that he won't do it again, sometimes it's easier just to get it over with.

Jeff stands near his suitcase, shrugging out of his crumpled shirt and tossing it on the floor.  No doubt I'll be expected to take care of that in the morning.  He glances over at me and gives me a familiar grin.

My stomach twists because I recognize that look -- the predatory glint in his eyes.

He's going to be rough tonight.  He wants sex, and he wants to manhandle me.  That makes it better for him when he's in this mood.  It makes it worse for me, obviously, but that never seems to bother him.

I don't know what changes in that moment, as I hold his gaze from my position across the room, but I am suddenly resolute.  I am determined not to have sex with him tonight.  I've grown accustomed to the aches and bruises, but last time he was like this, he bit my shoulder.  Hard.  I ended up with an infection and a stern lecture from a concerned emergency room doctor.  When the doctor first said he needed to speak with me, I was so relieved I started to cry.  I thought he'd recognized my predicament.  I thought he would help me.

Instead, he warned me to ease off the sex games.

Too bad it's not a game.  It's life or death at this point, and I'm terrified.  But at least I've stopped waiting for someone else to rescue me.

I guess I'd better figure out how to rescue myself.

***

I take a deep, unsteady breath and knock on Toby's door.  My nerves are jangling, and I jump when he bellows "Go away!"

I steel myself and knock again, adding a plaintive, "Toby?  It's Ginger."

After a moment, the door opens.  Toby is in mid-lecture.  "Ginger, I'm trying to fix this thing and I'd appreciate it--"  He stops, his eyes wide.

If this were any other situation, I'd probably be feeling quite smug about leaving the great, cantankerous Toby Ziegler speechless.  Somehow, though, standing before my boss in a ripped tank top, pajama bottoms, and bare feet while holding a torn piece of fabric to my bleeding nose, I can't quite find the amusement.

"Ginger?" he manages, his voice surprisingly soft.  I've only heard this tone from him once before.  When I started my summer internship on Andy Wyatt's campaign, Toby was her husband and her speechwriter.  He was also terrifying.  I quickly decided that if he wasn't the actual anti-Christ, he was at least one of Satan's minions.  I couldn't understand how a kickass feminist like Andrea Wyatt could possibly love such a bastard.  Then came the day my mother called me at campaign headquarters in New York to tell me my grandfather had died.  Toby happened to be the one to stumble upon me at my desk, staring unseeing at the wall with tears streaming down my face.

He was wonderful and caring, and I finally understood.  He's a crusty, peevish man on the outside, but that's only because he started out so idealistic and the world disappointed him.  He uses that contentious exterior to protect his kind heart from further damage.

And so I attempt a smile for his benefit, just like I did that day.  I point past him and ask, "Can I--?"

"Yes," Toby replies instantly, pulling the door open to allow me in.  I see movement in my peripheral vision as I push past and flinch away from him.  He freezes, his hand halfway to my shoulder and his expression devastated.

"Sorry," I mumble.  I know in my head that Toby would never, ever hurt me like Jeff.  I know it.  But I'm still reeling and my instincts are urging me to curl up in a corner and hide.  And to absolutely not let anyone touch me, especially not a man.

Toby stands there, still holding the door open uncertainly.  He tilts his head towards the hallway.  "Do you want this open?  I mean, I could leave this open if it would make you more comfortable."

"It's okay, Toby," I assure him from my spot in between the two beds.  They afford me some sort of protection that I really don't need, but that is absurdly comforting right now.  "I don't want him--"  I stop, shake my head, and say, "You can close it."

He watches me carefully as he shuts the door.  "Ginger, do you want to see a doctor of some kind?"

"No," I answer immediately.  I should really sit down soon; my legs are shaking.  The adrenaline high is starting to fade, and the familiar sluggish feeling begins to wash over me.

With a small sigh, Toby says, "Let me rephrase that.  Do you need a doctor, Ginger?"

"I'm okay," I insist.  "I think the bleeding's stopped."  Experimentally, I pull the piece of Jeff's shirt away from my face and sniff.  No more bleeding.  I gently prod my nose, and my cheek.  It's already swelling.  No way I'm going to be able to hide this tomorrow.  I have become an expert at figuring out which bruises will swell and which will merely turn interesting colors over the past year.

Toby's eyes fixate on the damp patches of blood I can still feel on my chin and neck.  He clears his throat, points at the bathroom, and says, "I'm gonna..."

He reappears with a damp facecloth, which he holds out.  I'm grateful for his consideration; he doesn't approach, instead letting me take the initiative.  My right hand's not quite working properly, so I stuff the bloody scrap of shirt in my pocket and place the warm cloth against my skin with my good hand.  This time I don't retreat quite so far.

Toby moves over to the small table on the other side of the bed and sits down.  I would hug him if I weren't still shaking from the adrenaline -- he's making himself as non-threatening as possible.  He meets my gaze.  "Do you want anything else?  Some water?  Or maybe someone to talk to?"

I can tell he's incredibly uncomfortable, aching to pass the burden to someone else because he feels inadequate.  I think this is just what I need right now, though.  If CJ were here with her kindness and sympathy, I think I'd lose it.  Toby's restrained attempts to fix things I can handle.  I'm used to him.  This is as close to normal as I can get right now, and it feels really good.

"I'm okay, Toby.  Really."  I mean it.  My understanding of the word okay has changed a lot in the last year.  I'm still walking, and Jeff's not in the room with me, which means I'm okay.

Toby's mouth dips into a frown.  "You don't look okay, Ginger.  Can you tell me what happened?"

I can't look at him.  I'm so humiliated.  I can't believe it's come to this, me barging in on my boss while he's trying to work because I'm a stupid, credulous girl who let it go this far.

"Ginger," he says softly.  "I'd like to help if I can."

I nod, then cradle my injured hand against my stomach and take my time with the washcloth.  The blood turns the white cloth a disturbing, dark orange color.  I curb the urge to go into the bathroom and run the washcloth under cold water until the stain disappears.  I've picked up the handy skill of being able to get blood out of most fabrics.

When I can't put it off any longer, I cast a brief glance Toby's way, then blurt out, "It's Jeff."

I don't think I'm even breathing right now as I wait for a reaction from him.  What if he thinks I'm lying?  What if he thinks I deserve it?  I can't look at Toby, so I concentrate on the heinous bedspread pattern.

When my words register, Toby goes suddenly rigid in his chair.  His hand is curled tightly around the edge of the table.  He inhales sharply, then asks, "Jeff Gorman?"

I close my eyes and nod.

"Jeff Gorman did this to you?" he asks.  I don't know if he's just shocked, or if he's suppressing his reaction for my sake, but his voice is utterly devoid of emotion.  I find that more scary than if he were to yell and scream.

I nod again.  I still can't look at him.  Instead, I lean against the bed and duck my head, letting my hair shield me from Toby's view.

"Ginger, please -- tell me what happened."

I close my eyes.  "It started January 3rd."

***

The first time Jeff hit me, it was because I'd worked late with Toby and hadn't called him.  He started yelling the minute I walked into the hotel room -- we were in Montpelier, Vermont, that day.  He was beside himself with anger and jealousy.  During his tirade, he made some insinuations that I had a crush on Toby.  Then he claimed that he had seen me flirting with Toby during the speech.

It really was just too absurd, and I made the mistake of laughing at the suggestion.  Laughing was my first mistake.  Jeff glared at me for a moment, eyes wide and mouth compressed into a thin, angry line.  Then he twisted my arm behind me and shoved me roughly into the wall, yelling at me to stop laughing at him.  When I tried to pull away, he whipped me around and slapped me across the face.

I honestly had no idea what to do.  I stood there, my hand pressed against my hot, stinging cheek, and stared at him.  He was still breathing hard, his eyes stormy.  I didn't even recognize him as the man I'd started dating; the man who claimed to love me.

Then he was back; he was Jeff again, just like that.  Jeff started crying.  He dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms around my waist, and buried his face in my abdomen.  He seemed so horrified and so apologetic.  He said he was just so worried when I didn't come home that he lost it.  Then he promised he'd never do it again.

Like I said, he's a very convincing liar.

But he told me that he loved me and that he'd make it up to me, and I wanted so much to believe him.  Stupidly, I nodded and forgave him.  That was my biggest mistake.  That's the mistake that I can't forgive myself for.

A couple months passed before it happened again, and I honestly started to believe he wouldn't do it again.  That he really was sorry.

He'd already joined the campaign, then, and I asked him if we could have some time off.  He shoved me against the wall, tore my pants down my body, and forced me to have sex with him, forced me to prove to him that I loved him.  Same performance afterward, though: tears, apologies, and professions of love.

I was laying there on the bed, half naked and still shaking with fear when he pulled me against him and said he was sorry.  Said he didn't ever want to hurt me, but my attitude was just too much to take sometimes.  Would I promise not to be so mean and thoughtless?  I mumbled something he took for assent, and he grinned and kissed my neck gently.  Then he promised he'd never hurt me again.  But even though I loved him too -- I honestly did love him at some point -- I didn't believe him that time.  Only I made the mistake of telling him as much.

That's when the threats started.

***

"Ginger?" Toby prompted softly.

I glanced at him for a moment, then looked away again.  I might actually die of embarrassment while telling him my story.  I know I can't do it while looking at him.

And to add to my discomfort, as the adrenaline subsides, my wrist is starting to throb more and more insistently.  I also finally give in to the need to sit, perching on the edge of the bed.  Slowly, I ease my right arm down my abdomen until it's resting on my lap.  I can't help wincing, though, and Toby catches it.

"Ginger, what's wrong with your arm?"

"I don't know," I admit.  "I think he twisted it."

Toby makes a strangled noise, then I hear the rustle of fabric.  I peer at him through my hair to see that he's checking his watch.  "Dr. Bartlet will be back pretty soon, Ginger.  She can take a look--"

"No," I argue, standing up and backing towards the door.  "Toby, no one can know about this."

Goddammit, I'm crying.

Toby looks stricken, one hand extended towards me.  "Wait.  Ginger, please.  No one's going to force you to do anything.  Okay?"

I swipe at the tears angrily, then nod.  My wrist is really hurting.  I sit back down and repeat the tentative lowering of my arm, gritting my teeth against the throbbing pain.  I can't even think about seeing a doctor right now.  I refuse.

After a couple of deep breaths, I can speak again without crying.  "This can't get out, Toby.  The press -- it'd be in all the papers."

He nods slowly.  "Yes, Ginger.  You're probably right."

I knew he wouldn't lie to me.  I'm so glad he's being straight with me; I'm so sick of the lies I've been living.  "Besides," I say with a self-recriminating sigh, "I started it."

***

I stare at Jeff as he takes off his watch, placing it carefully on the bureau above his suitcase.  Then he slides his shoes off and reaches for his belt.

I can't do this.  I have to stop this.  "Jeff," I say, straightening up from my position against the wall.  "Where the hell have you been?"

He gapes at me, shocked into silence by my audacity.  See, he's allowed to do whatever he wants; it's my behavior that has to be regulated.

I give him a defiant stare, and he recovers enough to say, "Excuse me?"

"You didn't call," I point out.  "I was waiting for you, and you didn't call.  Were you out fucking some bimbo?"  He hates it when I swear.  I don't think it fits in with his image of womanhood.  That always gets him riled up.  I need him angry, not horny.  I'm shaking, but I draw myself up to my full height and yell, "Well, then, fuck you, Jeff."

I learned after the first couple of times that his supposed lack of control during what he referred to as "episodes" was a lie.  He would tell me that he was just so crazy about me that he lost it, that he was so jealous that he couldn't control himself.

But as I sat uncomfortably on the campaign bus one day, my entire back aching from being thrown against a bureau and then raped on the floor the night before, I realized he was incredibly careful.  He never once left marks where anyone could see.  Oh, there were maybe a couple bruises on my arms, but no one ever noticed.  The big, black and yellow and green bruises were always hidden by my clothes -- my back, my stomach, my thighs.

The next time, I watched him closely.  I was right -- his eyes weren't crazed.  He was frenzied, his was breathing hard, but he was in control of his actions.  He was in control of his fists.

But tonight...  I've never said anything like that to him before.

I've never been more terrified in my life.  The look on his face, the way he's advancing on me -- he's actually out of control right now.  I think there's a really good chance that I may die right here in this shitty hotel room in Waco, Texas.

***

I pause, chancing a glance at Toby.

He's still sitting in that chair, his entire body tense as he strains to hear me.

I can barely understand the words coming out of my mouth, and I know what I'm saying.  I can't imagine how he can follow my halting narrative, but he hasn't interrupted me once.  I think he senses that if he speaks, I'll break.

I have to get this all out, and if it comes out jumbled, well, then, he'll just have to sort it out later.  That's what he does, anyway.

"He was..."  I shrug, unable to describe the menacing way he came towards me.  "I thought he was going to kill me.  I really thought he'd lost it."

I pause for a second, then say, "He's really strong.  You might not know that just from looking at him because he's not all that muscular.  But he's really strong.  And his hands are big."

God, his hands are big.  He can hold both of my wrists securely in one hand.  He can lift me up by my waist with two hands.  He can hold me imprisoned with one hand tangled in my hair.  I considered cutting it short once, but he warned me not to.  He said he loved the way my hair looked against my pale skin.

Personally, I think he likes the way the bruises look against my pale skin.  I think it gives him a happy little jolt.  I don't understand.  I never thought this would happen to me.  I never thought my life would turn out this way.  I never thought bruises would be applied to my body like a brand of ownership.

"I had a bruise on my stomach once that was twice the size of my fist."  I pause, frowning.  "Actually, I think he might have kicked me that time."

Toby stifles a distressed noise, and I snap back to the present.

"Sorry," I say, rubbing my aching head with my good hand.  My head is throbbing in time with my wrist.  I want nothing more than to lay down and go to sleep right now, put off all my problems until tomorrow.

But I can't very well do that with Toby watching me, waiting for the rest of the story.

"I started backing away," I say, once I remember where I left off.  "I started the fight because I wanted to get it over with, and I thought if he hurt me than maybe--"  I break off, not wanting to describe Jeff's violent sexual behavior to my boss.  "I wanted to get it over with," I repeat.  "But once I got a look at his face, I realized...  I thought he was going to kill me."

***

When Jeff is within a couple of feet, I turn and bolt for the door.

He catches me, of course, forcing the door closed with one hand, then slamming me into the hard wood.  The door handle bites into the flesh just above my hipbone and I yelp.  I grab fistfuls of his t-shirt for balance.

"What did you say?" Jeff whispers into my ear.

I struggle against him, and a piece of his shirt tears off in my hand.  He's pressing me into the door with his body, one leg thrust in between mine.  He grabs my wrists and brings my arms over my head with one hand, using his free hand to force my chin up.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" he demands.

"I'm sorry," I manage, even though he's got my jaw clamped shut.  He uses the hand on my chin to slam the back of my head into the wood.  I think I may have whimpered.

"You should be, Ginger," he says.  "You're going to be very sorry."

I'm shaking in his grasp.  I shift my weight quickly to one leg and try to get the other knee up into his groin, but he anticipates my move, clamping his thighs together.

"Now, now," he admonishes, "that wasn't very nice, Ginger."

"Jeff, please," I manage.  "Please, you're hurting me."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."  The bones in my wrist are grinding against the wood painfully, and my back is already hurting.  The throbbing in my head is not subsiding.

"I'm hurting you," he pretends to think about this.  "I wonder why I'd be doing that."

"I'm sorry I cursed at you," I say, tears beginning to leak from my eyes.

"You're damn right," he says.  Suddenly, he pulls away, yanking me along with him by my captive wrists.  "You're going to show me how sorry you are."

No.  I refuse.

Not this.  Not tonight.  Not ever again.

I've never really fought back before, so the sudden kick I deliver to his stomach comes as quite a shock.  To both of us, I think.  I manage to get one wrist free, but his fingers clench more tightly around the other.

"Son of a bitch," he yells.

I wrench out of his grasp, yelping at the sharp pain that shoots up my arm as it twists.  I'm most of the way to the door when he grabs my upper arm and whirls me around.  I see the blow coming, but not in time to evade it.  The backhand lands squarely on my cheekbone, glancing off of my nose as my head snaps around.

I fight the disorienting wave of nausea as blood begins to leak from my nose.

Thank God for nosebleeds.

Jeff stands there, shocked by the gushing blood, I guess.  I don't wait around to question his motives.  I hurtle out the door and down the hall.

***

"Ginger?" Toby calls softly.

"I'm okay."

"You're not," he answers, clearly frustrated with my stubbornness.  Jeff told me once that he wouldn't have so many "episodes" if only I weren't so goddamn stubborn.  Almost makes me want to be more stubborn in response.

Considering that the pain in my wrist is reaching epic proportions, I'm going to save that small revenge for later.  I meet Toby's gaze full on for the first time since I started to tell him what happened tonight and nod.  "You're right."

He pauses for a second.  Apparently he wasn't expecting me to agree so quickly.  "Do you want me to call Dr. Bartlet?  Or would you rather go to--?"

"No hospitals," I answer.  "They'll call the cops."

Toby looks like he wants to say something, but thinks the better of it.  "Okay, no hospitals," he agrees.  "Can I page Dr. Bartlet?"

I consider for a moment, then nod.  "If she's got the time.  I don't want to put her out if--"

"Ginger," Toby interrupts gently.  "It's fine."

I settle a little further into the bed.  I think I may be here a while.

"Can I call CJ?"

"No," I answer, my eyes wide.

"Ginger--"

"No, Toby.  She'll get all riled up and go over there and yell at Jeff."

With an incredulous look, Toby says, "Exactly.  And since I don't feel able to do that myself without dropping him out of a convenient window--"

"Toby, no."

He frowns at me.  "Can I ask you a question."

"Yes."

"Do you really think you can work with him?"

The mere thought of walking down into the lobby tomorrow morning and facing Jeff makes me suddenly and violently ill.  I cast a desperate glance around in search of a handy trash can.

Toby anticipates me, grabbing the trash can from beside the bureau and scooting it towards me.  I lean over and retch repeatedly.  The bruised and battered muscles in my back shriek in protest, and I slide off of the bed, sobbing and gagging.

It is the must undignified moment of my life, and of course my boss is witnessing it.

Toby moves immediately to my side, gently pulling my hair back.  His hand flutters over my spine, but I think he's wary of touching me considering my reaction before.  Not to mention the fact that he's probably wondering about injuries that aren't as visible as my wrist.

Finally, the nausea subsides and I droop back against the bed.

Toby pushes the trashcan away, but leaves it within reach.  He silently rises, disappears into the bathroom, and returns with a glass of water and another damp washcloth.  "Ginger," he says quietly.  "I don't think you can honestly consider working with him.  We have to talk to CJ."

"We can't," I argue, wiping my mouth.

"Why not?" Toby demands.

"Because," I answer tiredly, "he told me he'd kill me.  And I believe him."

***

I didn't even leave him.  Not really.

I merely booked my own hotel room in San Diego.  It was only for one night.  One night of peace and quiet, of time for just me.  Time away from Jeff's controlling nature.

I should've known better.

I was in my hotel room, tense and trying to make myself relax when he showed up.  He started yelling right there in the hallway, only he wasn't threatening me.  Instead, he was shouting sweet things, and it took me a minute to figure out why.  If he made it sound like he was a repentant boyfriend trying to get back with his girlfriend after a lover's quarrel, other hotel guests probably would smile and go about their business.  If he threatened to kill me, the other guests might call the police.

So he yelled endearments and pleas and professions of undying love.  I knew better, but I also knew that the longer I left him in the hallway, the worse it would be for me when I let him in.  Because I knew all too well that he would end up getting in the hotel room one way or another.

I steeled myself as best I could and opened the door.  Jeff stood there, his entire body coiled with tension and a patently false smile pasted on his face.

"Jeff, listen--"

"What's wrong, Ginger?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Nothing.  I just thought maybe we could--"

"May I come in?" His tone was almost pleasant.

My every instinct screamed for me to refuse, but I didn't see any other options.  I nodded and let him slip past.

I lingered there by the door, one hand on the handle, tempted to bolt.

"Close the door, Ginger," he ordered.  I already knew not to argue with that tone.  The click of the door as the latch caught was incredibly loud in my ears.  I flinched and Jeff very nearly grinned.

"You going somewhere, Ginger?"

I shook my head.  "No."  My hands tangled together to keep them from shaking.

"Really?"

"Really."

"That's good," he said, still watching me from several feet away.

I didn't know what to make of his reaction.  I expected raised voices and balled fists, not this cold fury.  To be honest, the determination in his eyes was ten times more frightening that the beatings ever were.

"I don't like to hurt you, Ginger.  You know that."  He actually sounded like he believed it.

"I know."  Well, I knew my lines in that conversation, anyway.  Only it usually came afterwards.

"Do you?" he asked.  "I love you so much, Ginger.  So damn much, and then you go and do something like this?  Are you stupid?  Do you not understand that I need you?"

I shook my head.  "No, Jeff.  I understand--"

"You were going to leave me," he stated flatly.  "You know I can't allow that."

My entire body felt like a block of ice, immobile and prickling with cold.  I couldn't even breathe as the implications of his words hit me.

Jeff shook his head sadly.  "I can't allow that," he repeated.  "I love you too much, Ginger.  You think I could live without you?"  He stared at me, obviously expecting an answer.

But I had no idea what he wanted to hear.  I reached out, extending one trembling hand towards him.  "Jeff, please."

"Please what?"

Please don't kill me.  

I couldn't say it out loud.

Jeff shook his head, advancing on me slowly.  "Ginger, I can't live without you.  I refuse to even try.  You're the center of my world and you know it.  Why do you have to leave me?  Why do you force me to do things like this?"

He stopped just out of reach.

"Jeff, I swear that's not true--"

"You're calling me a liar?" he flared.

"No," I answered quickly.  "But you are the center of my life, Jeff."

He gave me a doubtful look.  "I don't believe you."

"Jeff, I love you," I said.  I could hear a note of hysteria in my voice and hoped he wouldn't notice.

"You're just saying that."

"No," I took a step forward, resting my hand against his chest.  "I love you."

I lied.  I did love him once, but all I felt that night was terror.  Bone deep fear.  I've never been a good actress, but I understood with a sudden clarity that he would kill me if I didn't sell the deception.

I stepped closer, sliding my arm up and around his neck.  "Jeff, let me show you how much I love you."

I kissed him, then, and if he noticed the tears I shed as I traded my dignity and self-respect for my sorry life, I'm sure he attributed them to guilt.

***

Toby sits next to me on the floor, his hands clenched together in his lap.  He lets the silence linger for a moment, then clears his throat and says, "I'm proud of you, Ginger."

I laugh bitterly.  "For being stupid?"

"No," he answers, glancing over at me.  "For being incredibly brave."

I duck my head, staring down at the bruises rising on my wrist.  "If I were really brave, I'd have left him the first time."

"It's not that simple," Toby argues.  "This isn't your fault, Ginger.  You did exactly the right thing."

I snort at that, the tears starting again.  "Yeah, right."

"I mean it.  You survived, which means you did the right thing."

I don't answer, letting his words sink in for a moment.

"Ginger?" Toby asks.  "May I page CJ and Dr. Bartlet?"

I should say no.  I should just leave immediately, disappear.  I've always wondered what Los Angeles is like.

"Ginger?"

I nod slowly.  And then I cry.  I cry for everything that's happened to me, for every shred of self-respect that I sacrificed, for every bruise, for every insult, for every mind-numbingly terrifying moment I thought I was going to die.  And I cry for the pain this will cause my family, my friends, my colleagues here on the campaign, and the harm it will do to Governor Bartlet's chances.

Over at the desk, Toby calls CJ.  "I need you to get Abbey and get in here."  He sighs impatiently.  "My hotel room.  There's a situation.  Yes, an emergency."  I can feel his gaze on me, even as I sob helplessly.  "I can't explain right now, but you're going to need to have a conversation with Jeff Gorman."

Toby's barely hung up the phone when there's a knock on the door.  It's CJ, and she takes one look at me, huddled on the floor with my wrist cradled in my lap and bruises already swelling on my cheek, then turns around.  "I'll be back," she says grimly.

Toby nods and calls after her, "Look at his shirt, would you?"

I have no idea what he's talking about.

Dr. Bartlet arrives moments later, her familiar black bag in tow.  Toby greets her at the door and whispers something I don't quite catch.  She nods and approaches me slowly.  "Ginger?"

"Yeah?"

She puts the bag on one of the beds.  "Do you want Toby to stay here while I look at your wrist, or would you be more comfortable if he left?"

I consider this, torn.  I don't want to further inconvenience the poor man; he's already been through enough with me tonight.  "No," I answer finally.  "Toby, you can go.  I'll be fine."

Toby's mouth tightens, but he doesn't argue.  "I'll be right outside the door if you need anything."

"Thanks, Toby," Dr. Bartlet answers, using her best kindly professional tone.  Then she turns back to me, a sympathetic smile on her lips.  "Can you tell me where it hurts?"

I laugh again, slightly less bitter this time but no less inappropriate.

She nods once.  "Pretty much all over, huh?"

"Yeah.  My cheek and my wrist are the worst, though." I pause.  "And my head."

A small furrow appears in between her eyebrows.  "Did you hit your head?"

"Yes."

"On what?"

"The door," I answer, using my good hand to mimic the way Jeff shoved my head into the wood.

Dr. Bartlet nods briskly, but I can see anger in the way she compresses her lips.  She examines me quickly, her hands comforting on my skin.  It's been so long since anyone touched me without rage.

I'm crying again, but she merely gives me an understanding smile.  "I'm worried about your wrist, Ginger.  You're going to need X-rays."

I shake my head.  "I can't."

"Why not?"

"The police -- I can't go to the hospital."

Dr. Bartlet indicates the door with a tilt of her head.  "Mind if I let Toby back in?"

"You're finished?" I ask, surprised.

She smiles.  "I forgot my portable X-ray machine, so, yes, I'm finished."  She gives me a comforting pat on the knee, then crosses the room to let Toby and CJ in.

CJ sits down next to me on the bed, her hand settling lightly on my back.  "Are you okay, Ginger?"

"Yeah," I manage, struggling to stop crying.

CJ nods and looks to Dr. Bartlet.  "Abbey?"

"Mild concussion, assorted contusions.  Plus she needs an X-ray of that wrist.  I think it's just a bad sprain, but we need to make sure there's no fracture."

Toby, who's still standing near the door, says, "Jeff Gorman is no longer a member of the Bartlet for America campaign."

"Damn straight," Dr. Bartlet responds.

My jaw drops open.  "Toby, what--?"

Beside me, CJ interrupts.  "I fired him.  I kicked his ass out of here, and told him if he so much as set foot within the same city as you again, I would make his life miserable."

I stare at her.  "CJ!"

She shrugs.  "He deserves far worse, Ginger.  He has no right to do this."

"I know," I answer automatically.

CJ pins me with her inquisitive look.  "Do you really?"

I have to look away.  My emotions are far too close to the surface right now.  I can't think about Jeff.

Toby clears his throat.  "Did you see his shirt?"

CJ nods.  "Yeah, it was torn.  Is that what you were talking about?"

He actually grins at her.  "Are you prepared to testify against Jeff Gorman?"

"Absolutely," CJ answers.

Toby looks to Dr. Bartlet.  "Abbey?"

"Count me in."

Then Toby meets my gaze.  "Ginger, show them what's in your pocket."

And then I get it.  I understand what he's been doing since he called in CJ and Abbey.  He's making sure that there are independent witnesses to corroborate my story.  My eyes sting with fresh tears as I pull the bloody fabric out and show it to CJ.  "I accidentally ripped it off during the fight," I tell her.

"I wish we could rip something else off of that bastard," CJ mutters.

"CJ," Toby warns.  She shrugs, unrepentant.  Toby turns his attention back to me.  "Ginger, we will absolutely back you in whatever you decide to do.  That said, I think you should go to the hospital and then to the police.  I think Jeff Gorman should be arrested for assault and battery, and I think he should be thrown in prison for a long period of time.  Everyone in this room is willing to testify on your behalf; it will not be your word against his."

I can't speak for a long moment, I just stare at him.  I feel a surge of hope, and it takes me a moment to recognize it.  I never honestly thought it would be over.  I never thought I would have such important and caring people to back me up.

I glance over at CJ, and she nods her encouragement.  Dr. Bartlet meets my questioning gaze with a small, resolute smile.

I think maybe I can do this.

I take a deep breath and lock eyes with Toby.  "Okay," I say, my voice shaking with emotion.  "Let's go to the hospital."

THE END

05.26.01