Author: Sirius
Rating: For rating and disclaimers, see Part I.
Author's Note: I finally managed to corral the muses and finish this section, a series of transition points in the story. Also, part of the reason this took so long was that I hangs head in shame temporarily forgot that Ainsley and Sam were still working in the White House in this AU, since I have other stories in the works where they aren't – my bad. Sorry for the wait, but hope you enjoy.
A/N 2: I will hopefully be creating a website of my own shortly, just to make it easier for people to find my stuff.
Part VII:
The office door shut with a deceptively quiet click, and Keith Masters knew instantly that he was going to be on the receiving end of something; he just didn't know whether it would be good, bad, ugly or some perverse mix of the three. This is going to be about as much fun as a dressing down from my D.I., one way or another.
"Officer Masters, grab a seat and relax a bit."
"Thank you, sir, but I would prefer to stand."
"You're not in trouble, Masters; I just have a few questions."
"Donna!"
There was no response, and Josh's forehead suddenly developed two new furrows.
"DONNA!"
"I heard you the first time, Josh. Unfortunately, as I was carrying a rather heavy stack of files and didn't particularly want to drop them on my foot, it took me more than a few seconds to get to you."
"Oh… sorry."
Did Josh just apologize to me? OK, something's not quite right here.
"Josh? What's wrong? What did you need?"
"I just…I need to talk to Leo." He stood and grabbed the file that he'd been reading, striding quickly toward the door. "Walk with me."
Charlie, under Presidential orders to take the entire day off, had headed back to his room to shower, shave and otherwise make himself presentable. Charlie couldn't fault the President for his decision – obviously, his mind wasn't on his work right now and Bartlet knew it. Unfortunately, having the day off meant that he didn't have anything to concentrate on that might distract him from Deena. His notebook of information had been handed over to Ron, with the understanding that he would get the original back – eventually – so right now he couldn't really work on it even if he wanted to.
Meanwhile, Charlie knew that if Ron could see his endless pacing, the AIC might think of another way to distract the young aide; Charlie couldn't decide whether to be grateful or depressed that the two methods topping the list were 'knock him out' and 'sit on him.' Of course, considering that this was simply what Charlie thought Ron would do, and not necessarily his actual course of action, well…
OK, that's it. I can't stay in my room or I'll drive myself crazy; as close as I am to that now, it wouldn't even be much of a drive. Changing into workout clothes, Charlie quickly headed to the White House gym, heedless of the agent who followed him at a discreet distance and radioed his movements to the Service's on-site central office.
She didn't notice his light tap on the door and she didn't see him enter the office. In fact, the first indicator she had of his presence was when he tripped and fell down the stairs.
The crash brought her to her feet, and for a second, she could only stare at him in shock, lying there on the floor of the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue – alternatively known as the Junior Counsel's office.
"Oh, my gosh, Sam. Are you alright?"
Face flushed red, Sam quickly got to his feet and started to dust himself off. "I'm good… well, all except the ego, but I'll manage." The laugh escaped before she could stop it, and only grew when she saw his mock-glare in her direction.
She smiled a little, looking him over in case he was injured and not saying anything. Seeing nothing to alarm her, she made her mind focus on the business of the day, asking, "What did you need, Sam?"
"Um… nothing, really… well, not anything work-related." His face was starting to change color again, and Ainsley couldn't help but think that he was cute when he was flustered.
"Sam…"
"Actually, I… just wanted to see if you were free… for dinner. This… I… sometimes there are more important things than work, you know? Family, friends… people that you hope might be more than friends. There are no certainties in life and none of us really knows where we're going to be tomorrow…"
"Sam," her soft, Southern voice interrupted him mid-ramble. "I'd be delighted to go to dinner with you."
"Really?" On anyone else, that shocked look might have been enough to turn her off; on Sam, it was cute.
"Really," she answered. I am so gone.
No one saw the blond walk around the corner. It was a busy street, after all, and one man among many was not worthy of any particular level of interest. His three-quarter length coat was a testament to the chill of a D.C. winter, and the fact that his hands were in his pockets raised no eyebrows. When he bent down – as if to tie his shoe – the passers-by were either unaware or uncaring of the backpack that slipped from his shoulders, and from which he retrieved… something. This was – after all – nothing out of the ordinary. Those who saw the small flash of flame simply thought that he was lighting a cigarette.
By the time anyone heard the crash of breaking glass and saw the street-level apartment burst into flames, the blond man was nowhere to be seen, and any description that might tie him to the scene quickly slipped from memory.
TBC…
