Disclaimer: I own no character in this story. I HAVE made up some of Will Bailey's past, and a bit of that is in here. It'll just be what you don't recognize from the show. Most likely it will get discredited fairly quickly, but, well. . . I wondered about his past and decided to get some use out of what I came up with. I'm not making money out of this and I'd like to hold on to the cash I have. Please don't sue.

SPOILERS: Holy Night (season four)

Author's note: Even though it's angsty, it's a Christmas story, and there's a religious overtone at the end. No offense is meant to anyone on a religious basis.

I look up from my speech and stare at the bicycles adorning Sam's office. It's always going to by Sam's office, no matter how long I occupy it. Which is why I'm not going to complain about the decoration. This is such a surreal situation, like something from a dream, or maybe just a distorted fantasy.
I'm working in the White House. I am writing speeches - no, not just speeches. I am writing the inaugural address for the President of the United States. And I'm actually bitter about it.
Why, I wonder? What went wrong along the way? Is there something evil about dreaming too high? About getting sick of working for candidates I don't believe in, candidates who will preach precious ideas about life and liberty and then throw them out the window once they take office? About resenting them for telling me to get the hell out of their life - politely, of course - as soon as I get them elected?
Where did I go wrong?! I wonder in desperation. I never _expected_ to get into the Senior Staff of the White House. I never _expected_ that one day the glorious Josiah Bartlet would peer into the door of my office, ask me if I was busy, and then wonder outloud about what should be done about the refugees from where-have-you. It was a fantasy. The kind of thing I could dream about during a good long walk on the beach after a tough day of campaigning. It was free therapy, really. A dream to think about, a mug of tea or Diet Pepsi, the sound of the waves in my ears, the feeling of the sand against my bare feet.
And now that I'm here, I feel nothing but frightened, angry, and resentful. It's funny, really. The person who was closest to Sam is the one that likes me the most. Or maybe hates me least. If Toby had his way, I'd probably be decorating Sam's office right now while he yelled at the bike owners. Which is too strange to even contemplate. Because he misses Sam. Badly. It's not a thing he ever talks about, but you don't have to look very hard to see it.
Decorating Sam's office. That's another thing I can't think about. In addition to my first meeting with the president, the rest of the staff, and whole list of other things. Because if I started thinking about it, I wouldn't stop. I might even do something about it. Maybe I'd get rid of the stupid bicycles after all and put my collection of campaign buttons on the shelves, my Thornton-Wilde banner on the wall, my pictures on the desk. . .pictures of my stepsister and Mrs. Thornton, and - yeah, and even that one of Sam one of the page kids took last week. Basically, I'd make Sam's office, my office.
Which I can't do. Senior Staff and Co. has enough trouble with me already.
I feel a sting of something vaguely familiar just behind my eyes, but what it is I can't imagine, since I am not crying. The wetness on my cheeks is just from my eyes watering. Really. They do that when I'm tired. That's usually when my stepsister takes me home, always with one hand in mine, the other around my elbow. Just in case I've made myself drunk on work again and can't walk the way I thought I could.
My eyes are watering an awful lot tonight. It's time to go home. Well, to my hotel. I haven't found a place yet. I stand up from my chair where I've been the last half hour. It's late. Everyone else has gone home.
As I walk through the dim White House, I start thinking about Toby again. About how he talked, really talked to me that day when I'd given him my 498 word essay. I've never had another writer (or, for that matter, any other politician), confide to me like that. I know he did it only out of necessity, but. . .well, even I don't tell things like that, private worries about my writing, to just anybody.
Toby Ziegler. He's my reason. He's my reason for staying here, with a group of people who detest me, with a long walk home every night and no stepsister, no ocean, no boardwalk.
I tug my coat on, and as I slip out the building I hear cars and carolers. I try to smile, but it doesn't work. Not tonight. It's all just too much too fast. I'll try again tomorrow. Smiling, I mean.
As I peer up into the blanket of snow, I see a star shoot across the sky. I just look up, blinking snow out of my eyes for the longest time.You know, God, I think at last. It's a really selfish wish and it goes against everything me and my sister and hundreds of other people have worked for for months, so. . . I'm not even going to wish for it. I start to trudge home, blowing on my hands to keep them warm. I don't even own a pair of gloves yet. You've given me a cross to bear, but. . . I think I'll be able to handle it. I really do. As if too prove me wrong, a sudden gust of wind makes me pull my coat even tighter around me. I glare up at the sky. Please, God, I think in a choked-up voice. Please don't make this any harder for me than it already is. Almost as if He hears me, the wind and snow subside a little. As I glance down, I finally admit it to myself. My eyes aren't watering. I study the patterns that the Christmas lights make on the ground. And watch as a single tear falls and lays there. . . shining like a diamond.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
~The End~

This might become a Holy Night-angst series, but I'd like to know what people think of it first. Please be honest. If you have constructive criticism, or if you just want to flame, go right ahead.