A/N: My beta has disappeared. I was waiting for her to beta this, but it's been over a month since I posted the story to her, so I'm just going to post it. Beware of errors.

Summary: Leo - 2nd in the 'Seven deadly sins'-series

Disclaimer: None of the characters (except for Tom Gauer) belong to me, I don't get paid for this. The names for the side-characters are just taken from the wind, they're not supposed to refer to anyone. Don't sue me.

Seven deadly sins - Greed

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Greed is an endless cycle.

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"Hey, ya OK there, mate?"

"Huh? ...Um... Yeah, just fine."

" 'S almost closing time, it is. Last rounds. Ya wants me to fill that up for ya?"

"[beat] ...Yeah."

As I came back from the Hill, I felt everybody's eyes on me. At least I thought I did. I thought the man in the lobby was staring at me; in reality he was talking to somebody standing next to him. I thought Ginger was staring at me; she was typing something. Even though my sense said that I was just imagining it, I could swear they were staring at me as I passed by. I could swear...

Did they know?

I don't think so, because Margaret acted normal. Well, as normal as she can be. If they knew, she would be fussing around me all the time. And she wasn't. So they don't know. Though, I don't know which is more important: That they don't know about my brother being in a car crash or that they don't know that I went to a bar last night.

Yes, that's right, I went to a bar last night. McGinney's, that was the name, I think. Last night, at exactly 9 p.m., I was standing in front of McGinney's, and I opened the door and went in. I sat there on the barstool for a half an hour, whirling the drink around in its glass.

Yes, I ordered a drink, whiskey, on rocks.

I didn't drink it. I just sat there whirling it around and ate all the free peanuts. Then I left. The glass was still on the table, full.

I could've drunk it. I almost did. I'm an alcoholic, of course I almost did. You know why I didn't? Because of him. Because of my brother. He had supported me through my alcoholism, he was the first one who tried to pull me out. Just as my lips touched the brim of the glass, I thought of him and realized that he didn't deserve it. So I didn't.

Nobody knows. And I'm not going to worry them. There are lots of things to do today, like preparing for the lunch the President is having with the US ambassadors of Ireland and UK tomorrow or working on the Public Education Act which we've been trying to get running for a long time. There's work to do; there's no reason to worry anyone. Nobody knows.

As I heard CJ coming down the corridor (anyone could've heard her coming, she was like a hurricane today), I knew that I was wrong.

They knew.

"Leo!"

The door to my office was banged open as CJ stormed in. She was furious. "What the hell are you playing?!"

I bet the President in New Hampshire could've heard that scream. CJ usually doesn't shout at me. She shouts at everyone, but at me only when there's a really good reason to. This is one. I took a deep breath and sat back in my chair.

"CJ," I said slowly, "calm down and sit."

She banged the door shut with the same amount of power she had opened it with. It made the windows shake. I guess she used all of her fury on those actions, because when she turned around to look at me again, her eyes were full of worry and she didn't look like she wanted to use my head as a hammer anymore.

"Did you drink?"

That was a completely reasonable question. "No."

She walked across the office and sat in my guest chair. I could see she didn't quite believe me. "You bought a drink, Leo."

"I didn't drink it."

She went silent and studied my face as if to figure out if I was lying or not. I can't blame her. Finally she gave a small sigh. "Good."

"Who told you?"

"You should've had."

"Who told you?" That was a good question. I hadn't seen anyone I know around there, and I don't think I'm that famous around the regular people. By regular I mean not politicians or reporters. No, wait a minute...

She sighed. "Tom Gauer from the Washington Post saw you entering McGinney's," she said rubbing her eyes. Shit. "He already asked some question from the bartender, now he wants to hear your side of the story."

"There's no story"

"Oh, yes there is. The White House Chief of Staff, a recovering alcoholic, went to a bar and bought a drink. That's a story."

"I didn't drink anything!"

"Do you honestly think that anyone's going to read the story that far?"

We sat there in silence. I could almost hear the blood rushing through my veins. This isn't happening to me. This can't be happening. I had a long night and a long morning; I don't need this right now. Though, I have to admit, this is all my doings. My own fault. I broke the silence and asked: "Who else knows?"

"Only Sam. No one else."

I groaned. "You told Sam? Why in the name of God did you do that?"

"He was there."

"But you know how he gets!"

She just nodded. "He wants to make a deal."

"Sam?"

"No! Tom Gauer! He wants to make a deal: You give him the story, exclusively, and he will make it look good."

"I won't give him anything because there's nothing to give!"

"You have to. Otherwise, he'll write what he saw. And that isn't good."

God, I hate reporters. I hate the press. They're always sticking their noses up to somewhere they don't belong.

"Leo..." she started with a warning tone.

"OK, OK. I will talk to him!" This isn't the day for this. My brother is in a hospital, and I have to handle noisy reporters.

As I lifted my glance up from the desk, CJ was still staring at me. I know what she's thinking.

"I didn't drink, and I'm not going to, CJ."

She just looked at me and nodded. I know she's doubtful, I'm too, but I didn't drink. I won't. I watched her back as she walked to the door. When she opened it, Margaret almost fell on the floor. I should've guessed she was eavesdropping. She straightened up quickly, and with an innocent look on her face she just asked: "Do you want coffee or something?"

So, now she knows too. "No, Margaret, I don't."

She glanced from me to CJ and back again. My expression must've told her not to butt in, 'cause she just turned around muttering something to herself and left. CJ gave me on last look that said 'call him' and turned to leave too, but changed her mind. "Leo. Um -- About today's briefing..."

"Don't worry about it."

"It just that I..."

"Don't worry about it. Just admit that you were wrong, you'll look like an idiot for one day and there will be no more fuss about it." She considered that option for a couple of seconds and then nodded. Something in her eyes told me, though, that it wasn't all over with.

I need a drink.

***

It's just the matter of time when she's going to say it.

She's checking up on me, Margaret is. She's checking my drawers and my shelves. I haven't caught her red-handed, but I did find her from my office earlier, looking as guilty as ever, so I know she is. I don't blame her, this is a bit bigger than just divorce papers, but I still could strangle her.

And then she's giving me these weird looks every time I pass by.

But I'm not going to say anything. If she has something to say, she'll have to say it to my face. I'm tired of explaining myself. I mean, during this whole time I've known her, during this administration, have I drunk anything more powerful than apple juice? I bet that next she's going to call the President and tell him. I bet she will do that, sooner or later. But if she does, I'm going to kill her, I really am. I don't need Jed Bartlet breathing on my neck on this.

Sam gave me a lecture. Earlier, when I came back from Ainley's. He was standing in the hallway, as if he'd been waiting for me, as I came back from the basement. "Leo, you're an alcoholic," he told me, like I didn't know that in advance. Sometimes he's just so clever, isn't he? But what good would it do, any lecture he gave me? Nothing. It's still there, my alcoholism, my problems, last night. They're done. So I told him that I'm a big boy now, I know what I'm doing.

But that's just the problem. I don't know what I'm doing. Very kindly, Sam pointed it out to me. I don't know. I'm an alcoholic, so I don't know. Wisely, though, I told him to shove it. Not nice, huh? Yeah, I know, I'm not proud of it either. But, again, what's done is done. He's a big boy too, he'll get through it.

Then there's the reporter. What's his name again? Tom G... Tom Gaver? No. Gauer. That's it. Tom Gauer. That annoying little... I've always thought that the Washington Post was an honorable newspaper, but apparently I was wrong. Well, at least what comes to Tom Gauer. He wants some big league White House gossip and he thinks he's going to get it from me. Well, guess again, buddy.

Maybe I should just pick up the phone and call him, get it over with.

I just can't make myself to make that call. I don't know why. I don't know what to say to him. First time in my lifetime, I don't have a clue how to handle this.

Later. I'll deal with it all later.

***

"What the hell is going on around there?" Jed Bartlet's voice was, strangely, controlling the room, the space, from the other end of the phone line, even without his actual presence. That's eccentric if something is.

"Mr. President..."

"Leo, CJ is blurting stupid things in the briefing, Danny's secret resource is Toby... What else? Don't tell me that Donna has ordered a living cow to the lunch tomorrow."

"It's not a big deal, I'm --"

"Is there something else you're not telling me that I have to read about from tomorrow's newspaper, Leo?"

Now, that's a question. I hesitated. My mouth dried out as I tried to form the words. They wouldn't come out. Instead I just said: "Nothing, sir. There's nothing else." And now I'm lying to the President of the United States, a man I have known longer than I can remember. I'm doing great things today, aren't I? He commended something about my leading skills, wise-assly, but I wasn't quite listening, I just said 'Yes, sir,' to the points where I thought it was essential and hang up after he had. He's not finished lecturing me, though, I know he isn't. As soon as he gets back, I'm sure I'm going to hear witty remarks about this for weeks from now on.

When I lifted my gaze from my knees, there she was. She was looking at me with this look that showed no pity what so ever, or worry or patronizing or judgement. She just looked at me with eyes full of kindness and understanding. I haven't seen that look on anybody's face for some time now, for years I think. But Margaret knew exactly when I needed that look, my Margaret did.

"You have a meeting with Gerald Howard from HEW in fifteen minutes," she told me after a while of silence.

"Yes, thanks."

She didn't leave. She just kept staring at me with those piercing eyes of hers. "Leo," she whispered with a low, soft voice. It carried through the room and landed into the back of my brains even though it was as gentle as it was. "What happened?"

It's amazing how she can read my mind, how she knows exactly what's going on without even asking, and how she can ask the right questions at the right time. I hardly noticed when she moved herself to stand right in front of me. And I felt no reason not to tell her everything.

"My brother was in a car accident." She didn't say anything, so I continued: "Some guy drove his car too fast and lost the control in some curve and hit my brothers car."

"Is he OK?"

"My brother?" Of course my brother, you idiot. "He's in ICU, unconscious, but the doctors said that it's looking positive." Well, what ever that meant.

She didn't say anything. She didn't really need to. She just reached her hand and touched my cheek gently, brushed it, comfortingly, softly. She left her hand there for a brief moment, let it's warmth sink through my skin. As I looked into her eyes I felt that she understood me perfectly. That is just what I needed right then and she knew it. And I don't know what could I possibly do without her. A warm smile curved her lips as she broke the touch.

"Do you want me to bring you the file and some coffee?"

As simple as that it was. I don't know how she did it, but just with her mere presence she managed to make me feel better. I nodded slightly. With one last smile and a look she left.

I honestly don't know what I'd do without her.

***

I pulled the jacket on as I pushed a couple of buttons on my keyboard. The window I'd had on disappeared from the computer screen and the screen went black after a second. I grabbed the briefcase from the chair. One last glance on the desk to see if there's something I'd forgotten and then I was off. I switched the light of from the lamp on my desk before heading to the door.

It's been a long day. And now I'm going to sort it all out.

"Margaret!" I yelped as I walked to the door.

I met her eyes looking at me from her desk as I reached the doorway. "Yeah?"

"I'm going out. Reschedule the ways and means meeting."

"I can't."

I stopped walking and stared at her. "Why not?"

"They already did that."

"When?"

"Just two minutes ago."

"Oh." I inhaled deeply and then let the air flow out again. "OK."

"You're gonna be long?"

"Um… A half an hour or so. I'm not sure. An hour, tops."

She nodded and returned her attention back to the papers in front of her. I was kind of waiting for her to ask something else. There's always something else. Maybe a lecture or something. But nothing came. She just continued going through her papers, making little marks on them with a red pen.

OK. No lectures. That is good. That is very good. Even though she'd already got her explanation I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd start fussing around again. I was kind of still waiting for the big explosion. But never mind: no explosion, no trouble. I'm happy. So I started moving again.

I was stopped by the sound of her voice. "Leo?"

I turned back to look at her.

"Are you going to do something stupid?" she asked me with a worried look on her face.

I knew it was coming, I know her too well. I couldn't help the smile that rose on my face. "No, I hope not."

"Good."

Once again she turned back to the papers and continued her marking, and I turned around and continued my journey to the evil's nest that some may call the Headquarters (??) of the Washington Post.

I could've just called him. I could've just picked up the phone and told him not to write the story. I didn't. I didn't because showing up personally gives me an advantage, it gives me power. A phone is a weak form of communication. I like to look my opponents right into the eye and dare them to challenge me. That's real politics, not some chicken-shit-hiding-behind-your-desks-nonsense. No, I'm not going to just call him, I'm going to look Tom Gauer right in the eye and tell him…

What? What exactly am I going to say to him? I never actually thought about that. Tell him that he doesn't know who he's dealing with? He knows exactly who he's dealing with, that's the problem. Nobody would be interested in such a story if I weren't who I am.

The air was warm yet thick. I could tell it was going to rain anytime soon. The dark clouds hung heavily on the horizon. Maybe thunder's coming later on. But for the moment, it was warm. I couldn't be bothered to take off my jacket, though. Men with their suit-jackets on. Another sign of powerfulness. Men with their suit-jackets on. The less casual, the better. That's politics, too. Face to face conversations and suits, I'm telling you, trust me.

I decided to walk since it wasn't that far away. Besides, the rush hour is hitting on anytime now and I don't want to be stuck in it for hours just to get a few blocks away. And I need the air, mostly to clear my head.

I tucked my hands in my pockets and lifted my face up to meet the sunshine. It felt like years since the last time I'd been out of the White House before the sunset. I didn't worry about a thing. For the next ten minutes that it took to get to the Washington Post I didn't worry about Gauer or last night, CJ, second term, or the campaign. Most of all I didn't worry about what I might read from tomorrow's Washington Post. Because I'm going to sort it out. I'm going to tell him how things are and make him understand that this is not a big, interesting story.

It's not like I haven't been through this before.

I've been in bars since I quit drinking. Though there was always someone there with me; I didn't exactly trust myself enough to go alone. But the point is that I never drank. Sure, I sometimes felt like a drink, but that feeling only lasted for a moment and then it went away. I coped with it. You see, the thing is that when I first went to AA, I tried to overcome all of my addictions, every single one of them. I guess I thought it would be easier, purer and less hypocritical, at least that's how I reasoned it to myself. I thought that if I have such an addiction as alcoholism then it would be easy to have another, so I'd better get rid of all the lures. So I did. I quit smoking, drinking coffee and so on. I thought I would be happier that way. But soon I realized something: I couldn't get rid of them. I'm addicted to everything: work, friends, freaking game shows, breathing… Everyone's an addict. That's what I realized. I'm an addict and that's all I am. So I thought; the hell with it. And so I say now.

The hell with it.

I'm just going to dig Tom Gauer out of his hole and tell him exactly what I think of his plan to tell the world about my so-called collapse. If he wants a big story, he'd better find it somewhere else. He could write about some pop-star's new boyfriend or how some crappy soap-opera actor got himself a new Jacuzzi.

That's what I'm going to tell him, I decided when I finally got to the nest of the Post. I opened the front door and flashed my White House ID-card to the guy in the hall before entering the elevator.

The first thing I saw as I got out of the elevator was a young girl, she looked younger that Zoey Bartlet, sitting behind the reception desk and typing. When she saw me coming, she flashed a smile at me. Once again I dug out my precious ID-card and showed it to her. "Is Tom Gauer in?"

She smiled kindly and pointed down the hallway to the bullpen. "Through there, the last desk on your right."

I nodded a thank you at her and started to walk towards the bullpen.

From where the short hallway opened to a large room full of desks I glanced around the room. Then I noticed him.

I know this guy. I've met him a couple of times in different occasions.

And, yes, I saw him last night.

I can't believe I missed him. He was sitting right in front of my eyes, and I missed him. How could I do that? Seriously, if you would've had met him, you'd know what I'm talking about. He's a tall guy with hair looking like something went through it with a chainsaw. He wears weird clothes and looks weird in every sense of the word. But most of all, he has his ego written all over his face. It glows out of him.

I can't believe I missed him.

But now I know I saw him there, sitting in the corner table. I can remember seeing him as I entered the bar, I can remember the way he looked at me and how I thought that I'd seen his face somewhere before. I just didn't stop for long enough to think about it. But now I know.

As I was fifteen feet away from his desk he lifted his eyes from the computer screen and noticed me. A self-righteous grin rose on his face.

Now I also remember that I never liked this guy.

"Mr. McGarry!"

He arched up from his chair with his hand ready to shake mine, that annoying grin still stuck on his face. I took the hand and shook it shortly. The grin widened till I was sure his cheeks were going to crack. They didn't. Amazing.

"Please, have a seat, Leo. -- Can I call you Leo or would --"

"Mr. McGarry is fine. Is there a quieter place we could talk?"

He glanced around his working area, which was separated from the other similar ones with a six-foot high movable wall, as if to say 'what's wrong with this'. The ever-lasting grin on his face told me that I should just settle. There weren't a lot of people around anyway to listen our conversation, and if there were, they didn't pay much attention to us, so I pulled out the guest chair and took a seat. After I'd sat down he followed my example and crashed into his own chair. He lifted his elbow on the armrests and folded his fingers on his lap. His grin finally faded and he leant back a bit as if to say that he was listening.

Time to bring in the politics.

"Since when has this paper started publishing crap?"

His head jerked back and the smile returned on his face. A little laughter welled up from his throat. "Leo, Leo, Leo… I don't think you're in any position to make comments like that, my man."

"If you sat there all night, then you must know what happened. Then why are you making these accusations? I thought you were in favor of Bartlet."

"Oh, I am. But the public has the right to know if their men-on-top are incapable of running the country sober."

"I haven't drunk in years."

"You were about to last night." The smile still flickered mockingly on the side of his mouth.

"But I didn't, did I?"

"That is not --"

"My brother almost died last night," I remarked with a steady tone of voice that hid every bit of emotion.

He arched an eyebrow at me and stared intensely for awhile. "Oh, really? I'm sorry to hear that. That must've been a shock." The little smirk somehow changed to almost presumptuous. His brown knit as if he was thinking really hard, realization sparkling in his eyes. "Is that why you went to McGinney's? Does that mean that every time you have a crisis it could drive you over the edge? Or --" His face lit up. "Has it already happened?" he tasted the words in his mouth almost victoriously. "There has been a lot going on: Bartlet's MS, his secretary's death -- what was her name again? Mrs. Landinger? I heard you had a divorce some time ago, too. Maybe you've been drinking ever since. If things like these have a habit of driving you to the edge. -- Or should I even mention… Rosslyn? One of your staffers was shot there, am I right? That must've been hard. Employees going down like trees, eh? Maybe you had a little toast for his honor. On the side of his sickbed, perhaps?"

"Shut up."

He did. He didn't say a word, just kept smirking at me.

How much would the judge give for a sudden act of violence?

"I've known Josh Lyman since he was a kid. He went through a lot because of Rosslyn. Don't talk about it derogatorily."

"I'm sorry, I must've crossed a line there." He didn't sound sorry at all. "But my point was completely reasonable."

"No, it wasn't."

"Oh, I think it was. The world of politics is fragile and sudden. If every little crisis causes you to order a drink, then I think my point is very reasonable."

I shifted on my seat and glared at him holding my head up. If he thinks that he can just march over me… "What are you going to write then?"

"I'm going to write exactly what I saw."

"Me sitting in a bar and ordering a drink?"

"Yes."

"Are you also going to write how I never took a sip?"

Another arched eyebrow. "Don't lie to me, Leo. I was there. You were this close from doing exactly so."

I went completely silent.

Politics. Sometimes I just hate politics, the real, raw stuff. I wish I could settle for chicken-shit-hiding-behind-your-desks-nonsense. I wish I could. "I didn't."

"Well, that's a good answer. Did you practice it?"

Wise-ass. "It was a one step on the way, one challenge that I overcame." I'm getting really sick of this.

"A challenge? What if the next time a challenge comes your way you fail to overcome it? What then?"

"Every day is a challenge to me, I'm an alcoholic and I always will be. Every day I make the choice not to cross the line, not to drink that first drink, every day, Tom. Some days are harder than the others but every day for the past ten years I've chosen not to have that drink and I intend to keep making those decisions every day and win the battle that goes on in my head." During the last sentence I had started slowly rising up from the chair and was now standing in my full height, looking down at his face. "Now, excuse me, I've had just about enough of this useless crap. You write the story, don't write the story, do what ever you want, I don't care. I'm just telling you this; don't ever try to play me again. Trust me, the next time I won't be this nice. If you thought you'd got the better of me, you made a big mistake. And if you do write the story, be ready to play hard. This isn't little league, buddy."

The hell with it. Lose it, win it, I don't care. I won't be bounced around by some kid who's still wet behind his ears. If he's going to write the story then fine, he will. It'll be no problem, just a little more complex to solve. We've solved harder things than some arrogant know-it-all. The hell with it, I say.

I turned my back at him and walked out of his desk area as calmly as I possibly could.

"I'm not."

As I heard his voice, my head whirled around. The smile had gone and his eyes stared at me full of seriousness.

"I'm not going to write the story." He took a little pause before continuing. "It took a lot of character to come here and tell me to stuff it. Not many people would be stupid enough to risk it."

I stared at him for awhile. His face, for once, showed no emotions what so ever, not even mockery or his ego. For once I believed this annoying, selfish, self-righteous man. I just nodded at him and turned to leave.

"Tell Bartlet I said 'hi', will you?" he shouted at my back with that smirk in his voice again. A grin rose to my face. I just sooo love politics.

At that moment my cell phone started ringing.

I dug the phone out of my pocket and pushed the answer-button. "Leo McGarry."

My heart jumped up to my throat as I recognized the voice.

***

The streets were soaked with rain coming down in icy cold tiny daggers from the sky. They wetted my overcoat and worked their way through under my collar and down my back. I could clearly feel the thunder coming now, it was in the air, in the coal black sky.

I didn't know exactly where I was. The buildings looked familiar, but somehow I just couldn't make the picture and the name match in my mind. This was supposed to be the rush hour, but there weren't a lot of people around. Just a couple of cars went by now and then, and once in awhile I saw somebody walking a little further away.

I was supposed to be back at the House by now. The day isn't finished yet, you know. But there was the phone call. From my sister-in-law. I felt guilty. In all that has been happening through this day, I had forgotten about him. I was so busy dwelling in my own self-pity that I'd forgotten about him. Then she called. She had had tears in her voice, and for one brief moment I had truly believed that he was dead. I'd even started to picture his memorial speech in my head, for Christ's sake! Then she had said it, through all the sobbing I'd hardly heard the words.

He woke up.

He's OK. He's sitting up and talking with his kids. He's just fine, if you don't count the few broken bones and some bruises. But was I happy? No. I wasn't happy, and do you know why? Because I was too busy thinking that what if. What if he had died, what would I have done then? What if I would've gone for a drink? What if. I was too bloody busy thinking about myself to be happy that he was all right. And now I felt guilty over that. Again I'm feeling everything but what I should feel. I should be happy, and I'm feeling self-pity. It always about me, isn't it?

The feeling's too familiar to me from the days I was drinking.

I don't have much trust on myself right now, on my sobriety. I don't know why am I feeling like this when there's no reason to. My head felt heavy on my shoulders as I stumbled forward in the sudden wind.

Then I knew where I was.

It was far away from the White House, almost in the other side of the city. The neon shingle in the window flashed the word 'OPEN'. I don't know how I got there, why I got there, but there I was: in front of McGinney's again.

And, without no hesitation what so ever, I opened the door and stepped into the welcoming arms of the bar.

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Next chapter:

Seven Deadly Sins - Laziness

"Listen, there's been some trouble with Congressman Charle..." He stopped and knit his brow, staring at the sofa. Oh for God's sake... "What is that?"

"A sofa," I answered smart-assly, but he didn't notice my tone of voice, or he just ignored it.

"No, that, on the sofa."

I looked at the direction of his pointed finger. "That is a weekend bag."