XIX
SUNDAY:
Ah, hangovers. Funny how it all came back to you. Still, this was only a small one in the scheme of things. One surreptitiously purchased bottle couldn't bring you all the fun of a night on the town and a raided mini-bar.
It was seductively easy to tell himself that it wasn't that bad, wasn't completely out of control, but he wouldn't allow himself the luxury of that illusion. No, he might not be able to rescue himself from this, but he was going to damn well suffer every moment of guilt and self-loathing he deserved for it. It was the least he could do.
Yeah. The real least.
He spent a long time in the shower, but it didn't feel as if he was scrubbing himself clean so much as layering something on; his false personality, the Leo McGarry everybody thought they knew. The latex skin that covered an increasingly hollow shell.
Toothpaste and coffee covered the tell-tale smell of whiskey. The familiar ritual of precisely smoothing and straightening his suit was like brushing the last wrinkles out of his fake persona.
He should have been an actor. After all, he had the drinking problem for it.
One last glance in the mirror, to see if the word 'Traitor' had been branded across his forehead yet. Still nothing. Apparently the powers of cosmic justice were moving a little slowly these days.
He opened the door of his hotel room.
Josh was sitting on the floor outside it, waiting for him.
"Charlie! Go away!"
"Good morning, Mr. President," he said dryly. The president made a shoo-ing hand gesture.
"Go on, scat! Go home, it's a Sunday. It's a day of rest! We don't want you here!"
Charlie smirked. "Sir, could you just, you know, let me get back into the old routine without trying to be my mom all the time?"
The president narrowed his eyes, and then laughed. "You know in two months time it's gonna be a whole new routine," he reminded him.
"And I'm looking forward to it with roughly equal parts delight and terror, Mr. President," he admitted frankly.
"That would be how I continue to face my wife every day," the president grinned.
Charlie straightened out the paperwork on his desk. "I'm just going down to get breakfast from the mess, Mr. President," he explained. The president frowned.
"I thought you ate at Cosmo's at the weekends?"
"Uh-huh, and I usually play basketball, too," he pointed out dryly. "Besides, the Secret Service don't like me having a regular routine," he added a little bitterly.
"Yeah, they don't like me wandering down to Cosmo's either," the president noted sardonically. "You're going to the mess?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get me some real food?" he asked hopefully.
"No way, Mr. President."
"Okay," he sighed. "Oh, Charlie?" he called him back as he was about to leave.
"I'm really not getting you anything that's not on your diet list, Mr. President," Charlie said firmly.
"Yeah, okay," he accepted resignedly. "Is CJ in the building?"
"Uh, I think she just got here."
"Could you tell her to come see me when she's got a moment?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hey, Sam."
"Hey." Sam lay stretched on his belly on the newly-delivered bed, still in its plastic dust-cover, gazing out of the window. Steve came over and sat beside him, causing the plastic to crinkle up noisily under his weight.
"Whatcha thinking about?" he asked gently, brushing a curl of hair from Sam's neck.
Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position and smiled at him. "Thinking about running for Congress," he confessed.
"What, now?"
He grinned. "Well, okay. I guess it is a little early in the morning for starting a political campaign. I mean, I haven't even had my pancakes. Maybe I'll just leave it until... oh, after we've left the White House would probably do it."
"Thinking about getting back in the White House?" Steve asked pointedly.
"I don't know," he admitted. He smiled to himself. "Maybe."
"You fancy being America's first bisexual president?"
"How do you know I'd be the first?" he demanded playfully. Steve gave him a wry look.
"Sam. Is there something about President Bartlet you're not telling me?"
They both spluttered into laughter, and Steve let himself fall backwards onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. "What would that make me?" he wondered aloud. "First Gentleman?"
"First Boyfriend?" Sam teased. "First Significant Other? First Cute Gay Guy?"
Steve spread his arms expansively. "The original and best, baby."
Sam grinned, and gave him a quick kiss. He stood up. "But that's for the future. Right now? I'm going to work."
"Okay." Steve smirked. "See you later... Mr. President."
"Keep that up, and I am so calling you the First Lady," Sam threatened. He ducked a suddenly airborne double-pack of pillows, and headed out of the house with a smile on his face.
Suddenly, the future was seeming a lot like something to look forward to.
Leo wouldn't look at him.
They sat down in the hotel restaurant, drinking coffee. The burst of caffeine was a welcome relief after the night he'd spent sitting on the floor opposite Leo's room. The hotel staff hadn't even tried to hustle him out of there; he wondered if they'd had any inkling of what was going on.
Looking back, it should have been obvious; should have been, but wasn't, in the same way that the president's poor health a few months ago hadn't been obvious. Your mind didn't want to settle there, kept sliding off in a rejection born of hope more than evidence.
Leo was drinking again.
That, in Josh's mind, was not the crux of the problem. Leo's own reaction to the fact that he was drinking again... that was the problem.
He stirred his coffee. "Leo..."
"I'll have my resignation on his desk before the end of the day," he said, without looking up. "I don't know how you'll be able to spin it, whether the administration can take the controversy right now... but that should be the president's decision. It should have been all along."
"Dammit, Leo!" He thumped the desk in frustration.
Leo finally met his gaze, eyes burning with an anger that was wholly turned inwards. "This is not a negotiation, Josh."
"The president won't let you resign. I won't let you resign."
"Well, that's too bad, because neither one of you's getting a say in the matter," he said caustically.
Josh's tone and face softened. "Leo... Let us help you. This is- this isn't about- nobody gives a damn about blame or punishment, okay? We care about you. We've all-"
"Let's not talk about guys in holes, okay?" Leo snapped sharply.
Josh stood up, and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Okay. Leo, let's not... Let's just, let's forget about all this crap, okay? Just come with me, come back to the White House, and talk to the president. And then we can take it from there."
"Yeah," said Leo quietly, briefly closing his eyes. "Yeah."
He stood up, and Josh followed protectively close to his shoulder as they walked out of the restaurant.