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Returning from an event which C.J. is sure had a name, she marvels at how easily she can be two people. One is righteous, fights for the liberty she knows she deserves, for the respect everyone knows she's earned. The other is sinful, knows she would lose her loyalty to this man she has sworn to serve if his wife asked her to. How can she be just and deceitful in the same moment?
Normally, unless briefing the President, she would be in a different limo. Tonight, however, it was not the President's beckoning which placed her in this particular vehicle. A more powerful force drew her there. Even in the warmth of the car, C.J. can feel Abbey's heat. She tries to find balance in her breathing, tries not to smile too widely when the First Lady chooses to drop her sword of equality and let the men discuss business while the women discuss their dresses, each set sitting side-by-side in the long, black tank rolling down the Washington streets. C.J. tries to stop her fingers from twitching as she pretends she does not want to touch the silk and satin and rosemary which is Abigail Bartlet, tries to tell herself the First Lady would not create a ruse just to have her husband's press secretary sit next to her not too close but close enough to tease.
Maybe she is more than goodness and wrath and intelligence C.J. thinks as they are exiting the car and Abbey stills, taking a moment too long to say goodbye. Maybe she does taste like wine, rich and bold, an offering of absolution.
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