"Men say I am a saint losing himself in politics. The fact is that I am a politician trying my hardest to become a saint." - Gandhi
Sam Seaborn hates fundraisers. He hates the way they make him feel – like a panhandler on the street, shaking his coffee cup at passersby, begging for loose change. He hates that he has to hold his tongue in a way he didn't have to even when he worked at the White House. Back then, he was known for his strong opinions. Now, he has to bury them, somewhere under the seven-hundred-dollar suit he's wearing and the grimy layer of hypocrisy that coats him in a fine sheen.
He's not even sure he knows why he's doing this again. Maybe it's that he doesn't like losing, maybe it's that he wants to honor his word. He tries not to think about the possibility that he actually wants to be elected to Congress.
The voice that breaks through his haze of self-doubt is a little bit deeper than the last time he heard it, and some of the girlish chutzpah it once carried has faded, but he recognizes it, and his first thought is that he's going to have to call CJ until he remembers that not only won't she care, but she actually goes to bed by ten on weekends, now.
"Sam Seaborn for the California 47th." She's smiling, and he can't help but feel like it dissolves some of the cloud hovering over his head. "Never thought I'd see the day you set foot out of Washington."
"Stranger things have happened." He moves towards her. "What are you doing here?"
"Seeing what five hundred dollars a plate is actually like."
He can tell she's tentative to touch him, and the memory of the last time he did almost has him hesitating, as well. He wants to hug her, but it's not what a candidate for Congress does, so he takes her left hand and kisses her cheek and tries not to second-guess the decision to pass his thumb over her ring finger. It's empty, and he internally chastises himself for being glad. "What brings you out to the Sunshine State?"
The look on her face puzzles him – is it disbelief? He's not sure. "You don't know?"
"Know what?"
"I guess I assumed – you're not just playing dumb?"
"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."
"CJ Cregg. I'm working as legal counsel for the non-governmental she's running for Frank Hollis."
"You're working for CJ?" He hopes no one is listening to the conversation because he realizes he sounds like an idiot right now.
"Technically I think I'm working for Hollis, but yeah. I honestly figured…"
"I had no idea." He talks to CJ at least twice a month and she's never once said a word. It dawns on him that maybe she was the only one who got it – got past what Laurie did for a living. That whole time, she probably got it. "She's never mentioned it to me."
"Your friends are very kind people, Sam. President Bartlet kept his word about my admission to the bar."
"I never doubted he would."
She smiles almost wistfully, and for a moment he's transported back to the days of their brief friendship and that smile she'd give him, laden with "if onlys" and "what ifs." It brings him back to his current reality, where he is still being judged and scrutinized and she is still a woman who could ruin his career, and he feels the little bubble of happiness that had risen in him at the sound of her voice dissolve. "I'm glad you came."
"I'm glad you're running. Congress could use someone like you."
Her words stay with him for the rest of the night – "someone like him." He wonders to himself if he's still the same person he was when this all began, bright-eyed and idealistic and brimming with love of country and government, or if this thing he's gotten himself waist-deep in has already consumed his soul.