XVIII
Despite Charlie's introduction, Sam hesitated slightly awkwardly in the doorway to the Oval Office. "Mr. President?"
"Sam." The president smiled, but he looked tired.
"I brought over the notes you wanted on the-"
"Ah, yes." The president took the sheaf of notes and nodded briefly. He looked up at the speechwriter. "I'm sure they're fine, Sam. You didn't need to walk them all the way over here yourself."
Sam shrugged slightly. "I don't mind the walk, Mr. President."
"No, I don't suppose you do." He smiled fractionally. "You wait until you're twenty years older, sitting in this chair, see if you still want to do all your own fetching and carrying."
He raised an eyebrow, smiling wryly despite himself. "This particular chair, Mr. President?"
"Damn straight, if I have to drag you in here myself," the president said sternly.
Sam still wasn't at all sanguine about this crazy idea that he could still make good a presidential bid, but he let it pass.
"Any word on Cambodia?" he asked, after a hesitation over what to say.
The president sighed, and he immediately wished he hadn't brought it up, although it wasn't as if it would have slipped the president's mind without the reference.
"Our position hasn't changed since yesterday afternoon - just our degree of optimism." He zoned out momentarily. "I met him, you know. A few times. Nathan Williamson. And yet I look at his photo in the briefing pack, and I barely remember the man."
"You meet a lot of people, Mr. President," Sam reminded him softly.
"Yes." This obviously failed to soothe any pangs of self-recrimination. "I meet a lot of people. It's the high point of their day, or their month, or their year. They're just a blur of faces to me."
"Mr. President..." Sam was saddened by the weight that rested on the president's shoulders. "You can't help everybody who comes through that door."
"Sometimes I wonder if I help any of them."
"Sir-"
The president snapped out of his self-pity and waved him away with a flash of a self-depreciating smile. "Ignore me, Sam. It's one of those days."
"Yes, sir." It was more than 'one of those days'. He hesitated, reluctant to go. "Sir..."
The president peered at him over the top of his glasses. "I'm happy with the notes, Sam."
He nodded, and could have taken that out, but pressed on instead. "I just- I just wanted to say-"
"We don't need to have this conversation, Sam." The president's voice was laced with tolerant good humour, but also a warning.
He looked at the floor. "No, sir. But... I understand." He met the president's eyes. "He's your dad. I... understand."
The president just held his gaze solemnly. After a moment, he left.
"Toby."
He looked up at the familiar drawl from his office doorway, not entirely surprised at the identity of his visitor.
"Ma'am," he nodded.
She gave him a smile that came off as more feral than friendly. "I have an order here for one express-delivery ass-kicking, to be delivered to the office of the Director of Communications."
Toby leaned back in his chair and rested his chin heavily on a hand. "Okay, but I'll have to check the back catalogue. We get those in here a lot."
"Oh, you know what this one's for," she said sharply.
He did. "Yes."
"Toby..." the First Lady said despairingly, "...what did you think you were doing?"
He looked down. "I was... talking."
"You do that a lot."
"Yes."
The First Lady prowled into his office, shutting the door behind her with a deceptively gentle push. She held her position until he looked up to meet her gaze. She was glaring at him.
"Toby, you know better than to-"
"I was-"
She overrode him with her voice without needing to break into a shout - a skill that only CJ and Andy had also master. "You know better than to talk to the president about certain things, Toby."
The fact that the First Lady was in the right didn't mean he wasn't prepared to fight with her over it.
"The president needed-"
"Exactly what did my husband 'need', Toby?" she said challengingly.
The words that had been on the tip of his tongue melted away into the plainer language he knew she would appreciate. "A... kick up the ass, frankly."
She smiled; amused, but no less dangerous for it. "Ah, yes. My husband is often in need of one of those." Her gaze sharpened. "Would you mind telling me what the hell possessed you to try and administer it using that kind of an approach?"
"It was... ill-judged," he conceded.
"Toby, it was lunacy!" she yelled.
"He didn't react the way I expected," Toby admitted.
Only someone who could shout him down like the First Lady would ever receive that kind of quiet confession from him, no matter how wrong he might know he was.
"Well how the hell did you expect him to react, Toby?" she demanded furiously.
"I expected him to be more... angry."
She dropped her face into her hands and sighed heavily, fury running away under the onslaught of weary dismay. "Yeah."
"He should be angry. He... should have been more angry."
"You wanted to push his buttons."
"Yes."
"The president does not react well to having his buttons pushed, Toby."
"I know."
The First Lady eyed him knowingly. "You wanted him to fight you."
"I wanted him to fight the world," he corrected softly.
"You picked the wrong weak spot, Toby," she sighed.
"I know that now."
She sat down, heavily, on the edge of his couch. "Why, Toby?" She shook her head, and shrugged. "Tell me... why?"
"He..." Toby struggled for the reasoning that had seemed so clear that day in the Oval Office. "He wants to be... normal. He tries to hide himself. He..." He looked up at her. "He shouldn't want that. He should run from that. He should kick that to death and run away from that."
"That wasn't the way to tell him that."
"I mis-judged," he defended himself.
"You're not that stupid, Toby. You knew it was going to hurt him, and you know how he gets when he's hurting. So... why did you do it, Toby?" She gazed at him, eyes glistening with sorrow now, not anger.
He looked at the floor again, picking his words slowly and haltingly. "I wanted him to... admit... that... his father wasn't perfect. That he didn't... deserve... the respect he was giving him."
Abbey shook her head sadly. "He was never gonna admit that, Toby."
"I know."
"Toby..." She let out a slow breath. "I admire that you want him to be the best that he can be. But there are times when... when you just have to let him be a human being."
Toby didn't answer, still staring at the carpet.
"It's his father, Toby," she said quietly.
"That's not... an excuse or an exoneration." Family wasn't... you didn't excuse people their crimes because they were family. You didn't...
You didn't forgive your father the unforgivable, just because he was your father.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Yeah."
After a moment, he heard the sound of the door swinging open and shut again.