Title: Talking Without Speaking
Fandom: The West Wing
Characters: Andrea Wyatt/Toby Ziegler
Prompt: fanfic100: 20 – Colourless; un_love_you: 14 – I’m awake and you’re breathing.
Word Count: 544
Rating: pg13
Summary: Missing scene from “Debate Camp,” following the flashback and Toby’s, “I just said a stupid thing.”
Author's Notes: Unbeta’d, which means flying without a net for the first time ever. Thanks to medland for the inspiration.



He came home drunk and reeking of the cigars she hated, the ones he kept at the office out of courtesy. She’d given him nice ones as a replacement, and those were the ones he smoked on their balcony at home, the ones she loved to smell on him when she nuzzled his neck and curled her fingers into his shirt to hold him close. Those were the cigars that reminded them both of when he taught her to blow smoke rings and tried very hard not to kiss her before their first date.

He was too drunk to contemplate showering when he came in, and simply stripped down and crawled in bed, and he could feel her body tense between the sheets. He finally rolled to his side to look at her when the spinning of the room slowed to a manageable pace.

The set of her jaw told him everything he needed to know, and her eyes focused on the ceiling. He knew she was counting in her head, forcing herself to keep going until she didn’t want to snap at him anymore. It was a technique she learned at the one couples therapy session they attended. That night, she made it to 200, and he almost gave up waiting for her.

Their dance from there was slow and quiet and far too familiar these days. She turned to him and studied his face for a long time, and he hoped she could dig deep inside him and find the circle of remorse, that thing he couldn’t say.

Whether she found it or not he never knew; but she tipped her head against his shoulder, and his hand wove through her hair. The sex was sad and silent; he came with his head buried against her flushed neck. She arched and her fingers grasped the back of his neck, and it was all just means to an end that would never come.

His labored breathing was the only sound in the room when he rolled off her, and by rote he immediately handed her his extra pillow so she could tip her pelvis up. He hated this, these long minutes when she shrugged off his touch so she could lie still, silently willing her body to work properly this time.

He slipped out of bed and pulled on his robe with a glance back at the bed where his wife lay, counting and hating both of them. His sigh was shown only through the slump of his shoulders, and he grabbed a coat, a cigar and another ill-advised scotch and headed for the balcony.

He went back to bed an hour later, cold and exhausted and so tired of this cycle they were stuck in. He joined his wife in bed and stared at the straight line her spine made when she was turned away from him. She was awake, he could tell, but she didn’t speak; he hadn’t heard her voice since she left his office earlier in the day. He thought for a long moment about reaching out for her, about how warm she’d be under his chilled palm, about how he could melt even the tiniest piece of her with his touch. In the end, though, he turned away.