VII

He'd sent Margaret home about two hours ago. That early dismissal had been enough to earn him a severely worried look, but he knew full well it was nothing on the one he'd be getting if she could see him now.

Leo couldn't remember ever being so nervous in his life. Which was crazy - he'd sat through two tight presidential elections and flown in a war for God's sake - but still... he really couldn't remember ever feeling like this. It felt as if it was his own body that might be torn apart from the inside at any moment, not his best friend's.

And he needed a drink. He needed a drink. He really needed a drink.

Leo clenched his shaking hands into fists and forced himself to breathe. No. He wasn't going to fall apart. He didn't have the right to fall apart. It wasn't his world on the edge of collapsing in on itself. He wasn't the one with multiple sclerosis. He wasn't the one who might be-

The sound of the door startled him so badly he literally jumped out of his seat. And there was Jed in his doorway, looking exactly the same as he had that morning - but then of course he did, and why had he been expecting anything different?

All of a sudden there was no air in the room. And after all this time waiting, he suddenly desperately wished this moment hadn't come. He'd changed his mind. He didn't want to know.

His breath seemed to tremble in his throat, but he forced his body to obey the rigid lines of control he'd created for it, letting no trace of the turmoil beneath escape to the surface. But when he finally spoke, the name that came to his lips betrayed him.

"Jed?"

Jed gave him a tired smile and looked down at the ground. Suddenly free from whatever had frozen him to the spot, Leo crossed the room to lay a hand on his shoulder. He couldn't have said, if asked, which one of them he was trying to support. "Did you-?"

"Well, it's good news," the president said softly. And Leo wanted to breathe out, but something in the tone didn't quite match the words.

He looked a question at Jed, and he turned his head away. "It's... it's not the best news, but it's good news, okay, Leo?" He sighed shakily. "I'm not- it's not progressing. I don't have secondary-progressive MS."

"Then you're gonna be okay?" Leo winced internally at his own tone of voice, recognising that it was too desperately optimistic. Jed mustered a smile from somewhere, and Leo could almost hear the clang of shutters going down behind his eyes, cutting off everything he didn't want to be seen. Ironically enough, a true politician's skill - and one that Jed Bartlet only ever used in matters personal.

"I'll be fine."

But perhaps, as he turned towards the office door, he felt that he owed more than a half-truth they both wanted to believe. He hesitated in the doorway. "We'll speak in the morning?" He offered the suggestion like a peace branch.

"Yeah."

And then Leo was alone in his office, staring at the walls. Not the worst news. It wasn't the worst news.

But whatever Jed might try to tell him, it was obvious things were a long way from being fine.

His house was surrounded by reporters. He'd been expecting it, been steeling himself for it - but still, the reality was something different.

Sam had steadfastly refused to listen to sensible suggestions from Josh, Toby and CJ about laying low; having somebody collect his things from home, staying at a hotel. Why should he run and hide, when he'd done nothing wrong?

Well, okay, the baying crowd outside his apartment building rather answered that question. He wondered how many of his neighbours had been stopped and pressed for comments. He wondered if any of them had actually seen enough of him to do so, and whether that little detail was likely to stop them. Everybody wanted their moment in the spotlight, even if it was only as Shocked Neighbour #3.

He shouldered his way through the crowd almost mechanically, so tired that their shouts barely penetrated anyway.

"Mr. Seaborn-"

"Sam-"

"Mr. Seaborn, can you-?"

"-would you tell us-?"

"-how long-?"

"-give a comment on-"

"-when did you-?"

The glass doors shut them out, but there were shouts and camera-flashes following him until the elevator doors slid closed. Sam leaned his head against the side and closed his eyes against the harsh yellow glow of the overhead lights.

Two floors up, a woman with a basket full of laundry got in beside him. Closing his eyes again made it easier to pretend he didn't know she was watching him.

He met nobody on his own floor, but he wondered how many eyes might be pressed to peepholes as he passed. Come look at the government employee, my what a scandal. Oh, but he always seemed like such a nice, quiet young man.

Sam let himself in to his own apartment and flopped bonelessly on the couch, too tired to move further. He didn't flip the television on; too much chance of encountering his own face, splashed across the news in a way it would never be for the most stunning speech he ever wrote or the most radical piece of legislation he hammered into being.

He wasn't doing anything wrong. So why couldn't they just back the hell off and let him live his life?

It was a while before he realised the ringing in his ears was actually coming from the telephone, and longer still before he accepted that it wasn't going away. Probably one of those jackals downstairs, hoping to provoke a mouthful of abuse so they could then report how suspiciously hostile he was acting.

He meant just to take the phone off the hook, but habit made him raise it to his ear anyway.

"Sam?"

His mouth curled up into a disbelieving smile. "Steve?"

"Hey," confirmed the other man casually, and Sam could picture the way he shrugged.

"Listen, Steve, I am so sorry-"

He was caught completely off guard when Steve started to laugh. "Oh, Sam. Relax, okay? It's a three ring circus out here, and I'll bet it's worse on your end... don't worry about it. They'll be gone the moment Michael Jackson gets a new facelift. And anyway, who's reading this stuff?"

"My mom," answered Sam miserably.

"Oh, hey." The warmth in Steve's voice somehow made the constricted feeling in his chest begin to loosen. "You okay? You want me to come over, give the press something to shout about?"

"You can't do that," Sam refuted, but somehow even the suggestion of it was enough to make him feel better.

"Sure I can. I'll go all Mission Impossible out the back window and be at your place before they even know I'm coming. How would they know?"

"Well-" he found himself, surprisingly, smiling - "as crazy as it sounds, it's not completely impossible that the press have bugged one or both of our phones."

"Well dang, there goes the phone sex!" Steve started laughing again. "Seriously?" He sounded positively delighted.

"Seriously," Sam confirmed, smiling at his enthusiasm.

"Wow. That's so cool. I can tell all the guys at the office I'm a Russian spy. Should we use code names? You be Moose, and I can be Squirrel."

"Hey, hey, whoa! How come I have to be Moose?" He grinned as he settled back into the chair and pulled the phone into his lap.

Maybe this wasn't going to be such a depressing evening after all.

He was conscious of his wife's eyes on him as he crossed the bedroom, but he tried to pretend that he wasn't. It was all too easy to just act as if the buttons of his shirt could be taking all his attention. Deliberately avoiding things, who, me? No, I honestly just didn't notice...

Pretending to be oblivious would get you further than you'd suppose, but there were places you just couldn't pull it off, and a shared bed was definitely one of them. Short of reaching past her to flip the light off - which seemed a little, well, unsubtle - there was just no way of avoiding the look in Abigail's eyes as she watched him.

It was his least favourite look, worse even than the fiery-eyed one that said she was gearing up to rip off parts of his anatomy that he'd really rather keep.

She looked deathly worried... and more than a little bit hurt.

Worried, and hurt. About me, and by me.

Jed had practically blanked her out ever since their conversation with Dr. Keeble. At first because it was just too much to process all at once... and then, because he didn't want to talk about it.

In some ways, it would have been easier if the doctor had just dropped the bombshell he'd been more than half expecting. Worse, but easier. Secondary-progressive, that was the deal breaker. Game over, take your chips and leave the casino. But this... this was a grey area.

Once, when he'd been a young and enthusiastic theology student, he'd been deeply fascinated by grey areas, and the convoluted reasoning that went with them. Then he'd become a governor and a president, and suddenly grey areas were a whole lot less fun.

As he understood it, his condition wasn't necessarily worsening - but he was suffering the consequences of not paying heed to it. He'd been running on empty for what had probably been years now, and whatever good luck had protected him so far had taken a downturn. Symptoms were lingering where they hadn't before, and much as he'd like to pretend it was random chance, he knew that living the stressful, sleepless life he did wasn't doing him any favours.

But then, a few spots of blurry vision and some stiff muscles... it wasn't exactly completely insurmountable. It wasn't enough to force him to step down, it wasn't enough to make that decision for him.

He could continue as president... he just probably shouldn't.

But there were no guarantees, no promises. He could choose to see out the next three years of his term and never have another health problem. Or he could do it and then pay the price in his later years. Or he could try to make it, fail, and collapse into accelerated decay and be forced to resign.

But if he walked away...

If he left his presidency before it was completed, Jed knew it would haunt him forever. If his health suddenly spontaneously improved, he'd spend the rest of his life wondering if it would have done the same if he'd stayed in office. And if he went into a downward spiral anyway, then he'd be left with the bitter knowledge that he'd thrown everything away to save his health and it hadn't worked.

And that was the true reason why he couldn't look Abbey in the eye. They both knew he needed to come to a decision... but only he knew that for better or worse, he'd already made it. Jed knew he couldn't voluntarily walk away from this presidency, even if it destroyed him.

And he also knew that had always been Abbey's biggest fear; a fear that he'd sworn would never come to pass. He'd already broken one deal, and though no other had ever been agreed to take its place, he knew he was breaking it anyway.

When she tried to talk to him, he pleaded tiredness; a true lie. He kissed her cheek, and said "We'll sleep on it, okay?"

But it was a long time before unconsciousness finally came, and it didn't bring him any kind of rest with it.