Title : Setbacks

Author : Géraldine

Email : lazy.gege@ibelgique.com

Category : ESF, pure, unadulterated ESF

Rating : PG-13

Summary : "I was thinking that it was a great day."

Disclaimer : They belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, NBC, Warner Brothers, and I hope I haven't forgotten anyone. So obviously, they don't belong to me. I'm not making money for this story, I just have too much free time on my hands. So I'm begging : don't sue.

Spoilers : Everything to Posse Comitatus is fair game.

Acknowledgements : Thanks a lot to Emi, who beta'd the story and made sure I hadn't left too many mistakes.

Setbacks

Géraldine

***************

PROLOGUE

Parking lot 11.20 PM

Sam woke up abruptly and lay where he was for a few moments, disoriented by the suddenness of the feeling. One minute everything was completely black, the next he was wide awake.

Well, maybe wide awake was overstating it. But he was awake. It felt like the drowsiness he sometimes felt when his phone rang in the middle of the night, tearing him away from his deepest sleep.

But there was no ringing, and his alarm clock wasn't on either - the piercing shrill would have been unmistakable.

And where the hell was he, by the way?

He frowned a little. It was cold. And he was lying on his face, on something hard. Something dark.

His eyes focused on the gravel and the dirt that were right in front of him and he thought vaguely that it looked a lot like the playground of his high school. He had had the misfortune of seeing it from exactly this vantage point after some of the fights he'd had with Bobby.

But high school was over, wasn't it? Come to think of it, there was absolutely no reason he should be lying on the ground. He was a lawyer, no, a writer. And a staffer for the President.

So what would he be doing on a playground?

It had to be something else.

And there were dark shapes all around him. Cars.

So this would be . a parking, yes, it was a parking lot. That made more sense.

Except . why was he sprawled on the ground in a parking lot ? Had he gotten drunk?

"CJ's going to kill me," he muttered.

Now that he knew what he was lying on, although the why part was still a complete blank, maybe he should get up and get moving, before an eager reporter could take a picture of the White House's Deputy Communications Director in a drunken state. He'd never hear the end of it, Josh would laugh, Toby would yell, CJ would slap him on the head, and yes, he definitely better get moving, because the ground was * cold *. And hard.

He sighed and tried to lean on his arm to get up. The pain took him completely by surprise, and he fell again, the impact sending waves of pain through his body.

He gritted his teeth, trying not to cry out, and tried to catch his breath. And to stop trembling.

Okay, being drunk definitely didn't do that to him. Being drunk caused him to lose his balance, trip over things, smile like an idiot or brood, depending on his state of mind pre-drunkenness.

"Sir?"

Sometimes, it caused a headache the morning after, too. But never had it been the cause of such an overwhelming pain.

What the hell was wrong?

"Sir?" the male voice insisted.

"Shut up, you see I'm trying to think here," he wanted to answer. But he didn't feel he had enough energy to do that, yet.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Another voice. Female, this time.

Interesting question? Was he all right?

No, he didn't think so.

"Sir?"

It was the first voice again, and it sounded much closer to him.

"What?" he tried to say, but nothing came out.

He felt hands on his back, prodding him, and suddenly, it came back to him.

The hands in his pocket, the gun on his head, the voice against his ear, whispering not to move.

The hands were continuing their exploration, and he tried to resist, to fight, but someone held him down and whispered to keep quiet, that they were going to help him.

Was he supposed to believe that?

Did he have a choice?

He heard a voice, the female voice again. "He's bleeding. I don't see anything, it's too dark in here. Clark, go back inside and see if they have flashlights or something. And tell them to call 911"

He heard footsteps moving away but the pressure on his shoulders and the hands on him didn't go away.

"What the hell happened?" another male voice said above his head.

"How would I know? I'd move him, but if his spine is hurt, I might - "

"He shot?" Sam heard, and the voice stopped talking.

"Sir?"

He hadn't realized he had spoken out loud before a hand brushed his cheek gently. "Sir, can you hear me?"

He nodded as best as he could.

"Okay, where do you hurt?"

Sam thought a moment. Where did it hurt?

"Everywhere."

"Can you move your legs?"

Move his legs? Why would she want to know if he could . "Oh God," he muttered, as realization hit him.

"Sir, don't panic. I'm just checking, okay?"

He moved his legs a little, relieved when they seemed to be co-operating, and the visions of him in a wheelchair faded away.

"Good, that's good. Can you tell me what happened?"

What happened? That was a very good question. All he remembered was the pressure on the back of his head, and someone telling him to stay still.

But how the hell had he ended up on the ground?

"He shot. I guess. He wasn't supposed to shoot the cops always say they usually don't shoot why did he - "

She cut him off. "It's all right, he's gone now. What's your name?"

Sam decided that he liked that voice. It was soothing. Reassuring.

"Sam," he said.

"Hi, Sam. I'm Lizzie, and the guy there is Mark."

"Okay," Sam muttered, feeling strangely disconnected. He tried to move a little to see Mark, but the hands on his shoulders stopped him again.

"Don't move," he heard, the voice sounding further away than it had before.

He tried to say that he wasn't going anywhere, but all that came out was a vague "mmmpf"

"Sam, you still with me?" the woman, Lizzie, asked.

Well, where would he go? He was just feeling a little cold, that's all.

And maybe sleepy, but that wasn't surprising. He worked long hours at the office, and the hours had tended to be even longer than usual recently, so it wasn't too surprising if he was feeling like taking a little nap, really.

Besides, he had taken the boat out today. It had been so long since he had sailed, since he had done any outdoor activity actually, that the ocean's breeze had tired him out.

He had had a good day, and now he really felt like a little nap. He didn't think it was that much to ask, now was it?

Surely not.

* * * * *

Hospital 1 AM

Toby entered the ER and marched to the reception desk, not looking once at the people around him.

The young woman manning the station was on the phone and he came to a stop in front of her, staring at her and waiting for her to acknowledge him. She ignored him, though, and carried on her conversation.

"Yes, Sir, I understand, but this is the ER. You have to call 911 if you want an ambulance to pick you up."

He waved a hand in front of her face and she frowned, gesturing toward the phone.

"Yes, yes, I know," she went on, some impatience creeping into her tone, "but you said yourself that the cut wasn't that deep and . No, I understand. But we can't send ambulances ourselves. You have to call - "

Toby decided he'd had it. He reached out, grabbed the phone out of her hand and hung up.

The woman started and shot him a hard look.

"I'm sorry," he said before she could say anything, "but a friend of mine was brought here a while ago. Sam Seaborn?"

She seemed to hesitate a moment, obviously torn between the desire to yell at him for hanging up on a potential victim and the acknowledgement that the person she'd been speaking with wasn't seriously hurt.

Toby put on his "Don't mess with me" face, the one that made everyone but his deputy and the President avoid him. It seemed to work. The receptionist didn't yell, and began to look through her files.

"Sam Seaborn? Yes, he was wheeled in around an hour ago. I'm going to go look for the doctor who took care of him."

She was about to leave when he grabbed her arm. "Wait? Is he . Can you at least tell me if he's alive? No one wanted to tell me over the phone."

"I honestly have no idea," she said. "I'll be quick."

She gave him a brief smile and gestured to the waiting room. "Why don't you go wait there? I'll come back as soon as I find someone."

He nodded numbly and did as he was told, trying not to dwell on the fact that the woman who had called him at the office had asked if Sam had any family in town that she could call. He had already left, and gone home, waiting for Sam to call him and watch the game with him, like he usually did. After the first period, as it was becoming obvious that his deputy wouldn't call, he had headed back to the office to take care of some of the drafts he had left for tomorrow. He was just getting into his work when the phone had rung, and a nurse had asked him if he knew a Sam Seaborn.

"It's nothing," he thought fiercely. "He took his boat, he fell and cut himself. He does that all the time. It's nothing."