Sam was inaugurated with a solemn handshake from the Chief Justice and a warm embrace from the President. Liberals hailed the speech that followed as a "triumph of leftist ideas in a sensible though idealistic style," according to Hardball ("My God," shouted Toby at his television, "did you think the speech had a nougat center?"). Sam held up admirably through the photographs, the crowds, the throngs of Republicans, and the solemn Secret Service tail.
But what he wasn't prepared for were the balls.
Sam had seen inaugural balls before; he had been at President Sullivan's, as his law firm had represented the former president, and he had attended both of President Bartlet's; and this one was only for a vice president, and it was hampered because the nation was still in mourning over John Hoynes. What those previous experiences hadn't prepared him for, however, was the amount of sheer attention that he would receive. The notion that someone would be looking at him every instant of the day was a foreign one to him, and he had some trouble handling it. Fortunately, CJ was always at his elbow, ready to cajole, joke, or insult him into staying calm. Her very presence was a comfort to him, keeping him grounded at a time when control was crucial; after all, the nation was getting their first look at their new Vice President.
Sam attended the ball at the Washington Convention Center (California) first, then to another at the National Guard Armory (New Hampshire), and then a third at the Four Seasons Washington (Virginia). They spent a few minutes at the other fifteen, held in ballrooms the names of which Sam never quite caught. By eleven the adrenaline of the day was fading. Sam and his entourage headed back with the President and his entourage to the West Wing for a staff-only private party that lasted into the wee hours of the morning.
"Claudia Jean," Sam asked, entering, after his fourth glass of champagne in three hours, the realm of tipsy. "Would you care to dance with me?"
"How many times have we danced today?"
"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not nice to answer a question with a question?"
"No. Didn't anyone ever tell you?" CJ was working on her sixth glass, but was still not outwardly affected. One who knew her well, though, might have noted her slightly more aggressive posture, or her quicker smile.
"Fine. We've danced twenty-three times today: Four at the first ball, three at the second, twice at the third, then once at the fifteen others."
"That's a total of twenty-four."
"Really? Well, twenty-four times, then. Come on, CJ, 'once more into the breach, dear friend.'"
"Don't you quote at me, you unprincipled usurper, without a virtue, supplying ignorance by bold presumption!"
"Quoting Lincoln? I didn't think he was your style." Sam extended a hand to her (the one not occupied by a champagne glass), and she heaved herself out of the comfortable divan where she rested.
"Hmph. I should know better than to try and out-literate an Ivy Leaguer. Shut up and dance, Samuel."
Sam did. "So, when do we get to tour the mansion?" CJ asked, after a minute of waltz.
"I suppose tomorrow morning. Right now I just want someone to point me towards the bedroom." CJ arched an eyebrow at her dance partner, but it took him a moment to realize the innuendo that she could interpret from his statement. "I meant, of course I didn't mean I wanted someone to point us toward the bedroom, I meant –"
"You don't want to sleep with me, Samuel?" CJ pouted laughingly, but Sam was inebriated enough that he didn't recognize the humor in her voice.
"Well of course I do, CJ, but I would never – wait, I didn't mean that -- "
"Swim, Sam!" she laughed. "The waters are getting deep! "
"CJ…" CJ noted the look of blind panic in Sam's eyes and decided that her teasing was getting cruel. And she ended it the fastest, simplest way she could think of.
She leaned over, placed her hand on the back of Sam's head, and, before her good sense could stop her, kissed him hard.
Shocked, he didn't react for a moment. But as she stepped in, he drew his hands around from waltz position, drawing them tighter around her waist to bring her closer. She parted her lips a little, and he returned the kiss hungrily. They kissed deeply, and CJ almost thought she could feel her toes curl as he demonstrated that he did, in fact, want to sleep with her. They stood together in the middle of the dance floor for some time, not noticing as other dancers backed away. The orchestra continued to play, but hit some false notes as the musicians and conductor turned their attention to the couple that had ended the dancing.
At last they drew their heads apart and noticed that they were the focus of all eyes. CJ felt awkward for a moment, before deciding that the best way to salvage the moment would be to make a joke.
"So, Sam and I are pretty drunk right now," she said loudly. The staff, all the way down to the interns, stared at her. She smiled, and some of them had the grace to chuckle uncomfortably.
"We'd probably better go to sleep before we do something unbecoming of the Vice President and Press Secretary. Like throwing up on the First Lady's shoes or something."
Sam found his voice. "Yeah. So we'd like to bid you all a good night," he said. "And if anybody knows a good hangover cure, we'd probably appreciate it over at the Vice Presidential mansion tomorrow."
A chorus of "Goodnight, sir"s and "Goodnight, Mr. Vice President"s erupted. An armed marine guard escorted Sam and CJ to a waiting motorcade.
Which, in Sam's opinion, didn't travel nearly fast enough. The procession to the mansion was very slow, but after a long and mostly silent ride, a very polite butler whose name Sam didn't catch directed them to the master bedroom, pointing out another suite available for CJ's use. He did not indicate that he thought she should use it, though, and Sam and CJ both appreciated his discretion.
Not that they thought about it long.
They shed clothes on the way to the well-appointed, king size bed. And neither of them slept very much.