IX

"Sam."

Sam looked up with a mental groan as CJ approached his desk. He was in no mood to speak to anybody this morning, not even people who weren't Toby. "What do you need?" he asked, unable to totally contain a heavy sigh.

"A word," she said, and closed the door behind her. She leaned against it, looking at him expectantly.

Great. It was 'let's cool off crazy Sam' time.

"Whatever it is, I'm fine," he said shortly.

As a pre-emptive tactic, it was resoundingly unsuccessful. "Are you hung over, Sparky?" she asked him, coming over to sit on the edge of his desk.

He shrugged and snorted. "A little. Is that an offence now?"

CJ regarded his face searchingly, but he doubted she'd find anything when he himself couldn't find any one root to his general malaise. "You're not usually late."

"I walked to work. It took longer than I thought." Mainly because he'd been planning to drive, and hadn't realised what a bad idea that was until he got behind the wheel and spent several minutes trying to remember what sequence of controls would let him pull out of the parking space.

"You've been out drinking a lot, lately," she observed, keeping her voice carefully neutral. He snorted again, a sound of harsh amusement.

"Believe me, CJ, alcohol is not my problem." Truth to tell, those nights hanging out at the bar, downing beers and trading pointless conversation, were the only time he felt okay. And not because he was obliterating his memory with alcohol, either; it was being out, away from his job, not thinking about it, not drowning in it...

CJ leaned forward pointedly. "Then what is your problem?"

Sam could only shrug, and shake his head. She sighed, and rubbed her forehead.

"I'm worried about you, Sam," she told him softly, and he resented the fact that he couldn't doubt her sincerity. "You seem..." She waved a hand, casting for a word, not finding it. "Depressed," she finished lamely.

"Ah. Because circumstances are such that it's hard to believe I'm not bursting with joy," he noted dryly.

Now she nodded in reluctant agreement. CJ swung her legs for a moment, letting the silence linger. "It'll get better," she told him.

"It won't," he said, shaking his head. He was chilled to hear that he didn't even sound bitter. He'd gone beyond that now, into cold certainty. "It never does."

"We do good things," CJ said firmly, and he wondered if she'd been comparing notes with Donna, or had just taken a stab at the source of his frustration. It wasn't as if it was difficult to guess.

"Like what?" he wanted to know. Genuinely wanted to know, because it seemed to him he really couldn't think of any.

"We rescued the hostages."

"We got a guy shot," Sam reminded her.

"We've got the Healthcare Bill. It'll save a lot of lives."

"It won't pass."

"Sam, are you thinking about quitting?"

The question, though it had been hovering on the edge of conversation for some time, still caught him by surprise when spoken out loud. He stared at her for a long moment, then lowered his gaze.

"No," he said quickly.

He wasn't sure if he was lying.

"And tomorrow's dinner will be held in the-" The press briefing came to an abrupt halt as everybody craned around to see the object of CJ's sudden bright grin.

The young reporter leaned somewhat sheepishly against the wall, bandaged right arm held across his chest in a sling. He seemed a little taken aback by the sudden attention, and even more so when the room burst into spontaneous applause.

"Well, looky here, it's our neighbourhood action hero," CJ smiled. "Take a seat, Rick, and I hope your paper gave you a cassette recorder."

"Oh, they went one better." He nodded towards an even younger-looking girl, who blushed furiously. "I got an intern with a pencil."

"Boy, you know you're in the big leagues now," CJ quipped. "Okay folks, let's get this briefing back on track..."

As she professionally rattled off the rest of the day's information, she kept an eye on the unfortunate reporter. Back in his usual seat, he was the picture of professionalism, but she couldn't miss the way his skin was several shades paler than usual or the hesitant, slightly shaky nature to his movements. He probably shouldn't be back at work, but she and the rest of the workaholics in the West Wing were certainly in no position to judge.

As the rest of the press filed out, she called "Hey, Rick, you got a minute?" He hung back, obviously expecting it.

"Morning, CJ," he nodded, a little of the colour returning to his face now the room wasn't so cramped and crowded.

She allowed the professional press secretary exterior to collapse into a more concerned look. "Hey. How're you doing?"

Rick shrugged, then winced as his injured arm followed the movement. "I'm, I'm... okay, I guess." He looked down at the sling. "They told me the bullet barely grazed my arm, but, you know, I think they were lying."

"They probably heard you were a reporter." CJ smiled, to take any hint of a sting out of it. "Hey, you wanna come through, sit down?"

"No, I'm okay," Rick protested quickly, but CJ was insistent.

"CJ, really, I'm fine," he continued to argue as Carol offered him a chair. "I don't need-"

"Well, hello there, Mr. Maskey." Rick blinked and struggled to get to his feet as he recognised the president's voice. "No, don't do that," the president urged him quickly. He smiled. "I'm not gonna try and make you shake my hand, either."

The reporter looked at him blankly as he casually pulled up a chair next to him, as if it was perfectly normal thing for him to be doing. "Uh, Mr. President, shouldn't you... be somewhere?"

"Yes, I should! I do believe I should be talking to a young man who was the hero of a hostage situation last night. Do we know anybody around here who answers to that description?"

Despite the fact that he felt decidedly uncomfortable with that take on his actions, Rick couldn't help responding to the president's playful grin. Though he prided himself on being a professional reporter, it was difficult not to be caught up in President Bartlet's aura of charm; not just the awe of the office, but the man's own personal magnetism.

"I'd hardly call it heroic, Mr. President," Rick said, wishing he felt less like a shy fourth-grader on a trip to the White House. "I only got shot because I was stupid and I panicked."

"You got shot because you were willing to act as a go-between and try and settle things peacefully," Bartlet corrected him, turning more serious.

"Thank you, Mr. President," he said, mostly to the floor. He was taken aback when the man clapped him on the shoulder.

"No, Rick, thank you." The president's face was momentarily grave. "If you hadn't been willing to do what you did, there could have been more lives lost than just the gunman's... and I wouldn't like to have to be dealing with that this morning."

And for all that he was a cynical newsman, Rick didn't for a second believe he meant just the negative publicity it would have brought.

The president pushed himself up, and Rick noticed the way he grimaced as he did so. "Sir, are you okay?" he asked, momentarily forgetting the lines of protocol that no doubt forbade him from making that kind of remark. The president smiled tiredly, and brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"I'm fairly sure it should be me asking you that," he chided gently.

"I guess you must have had a long night," Rick realised. Certainly, had it been any normal day, he might have spent the night sniffing around the press room or even the site itself, eagerly awaiting the thrilling scoop and the casualty list. Funny how actually being trapped in a room with the man with the gun could change your whole perspective...

"I think yours must have been longer than mine." Despite his earlier promise, the president briefly took Rick's left hand in a slightly awkward handshake. "It's an honour, Mr. Maskey, and I assure you we're all very grateful for your bravery."

Rick had, in his career, faced all manner of politicians; some guilty, some not, and nearly all filled with pompous self-righteousness. Whatever the situation, whatever the facts, he'd always gone above and beyond the call of duty to face them down with his questions.

This was probably the first time any public figure had ever left him speechless.

Neutrality of the press or not, Rick was extremely glad as his president smiled and walked away that he had, in fact, voted for Bartlet.

Josh hesitated in the doorway to Tavestock's office, then steeled himself and went in. The secretary looked up at him, spared him a distasteful look, and touched the intercom. "Sir? Mr. Lyman's here to see you."

There was an indecipherable mumble from the speaker, and she motioned Josh inside with a pointed eyebrow. He rather got the impression that he wasn't the flavour of the month around here.

Not that it was really news.

"Congressman Tavestock," he said, with a respectful nod. Or at least one that looked that way, despite the fact that respect was not something he found himself full of in Tavestock's presence. The man might have escaped any legal repercussions for his financial dodgy dealings, but everybody knew damn well he was guilty.

"Josh Lyman," he said coldly. Alan Tavestock was a large, flabby man, with small dark eyes that gave him a decidedly piggish look.

"I'm here to-"

"Try and bully me into voting your way, yes, I'm well aware." He leaned across the desk and glared at Josh. "Don't talk to me as if I'm stupid, Mr. Lyman. You advised the president not to speak in my defence."

Josh kept his back straight and his expression level. "Yes, I did. And anybody else in my position would have done the same, and you know it.".

"I was innocent!" the Congressman protested fiercely.

Josh shrugged. "And the investigation proved it."

"The investigation was nothing without the president's backing! If he'd been behind me, I would be vindicated, but instead I'm the guy they didn't find anything on - but hey, if there was nothing going on, then why did the president refuse to come out in support? You hung me out to dry!"

Fair point. "Yes, we did," Josh agreed. "It's harsh, it's cruel, it's blatantly unfair and it sucks - but it's not personal. Sometimes the cards come down against you, and you have to take a hit. It's the way the game is played, Congressman."

There was a long pause. "You're right," he admitted darkly.

"I know." He looked the Congressman in the eye. "We'll have your vote?"

"I'll vote." The look Tavestock levelled at him was one hundred percent pure malevolence.

"Thank you."

In the name of decorum, he left the victory leap until he was safely outside the front of the building.