VIII
TUESDAY:
Sam was woken, for a change, by the absence of something that should be there. An empty bed, once par for the course, was now something unusual. He sat up, checked the time with a groan of dismay, and then followed the dim light under the door to find out what was going on. More early morning push-ups?
He found Steve sitting shirtless in the kitchen with his laptop powered up, a spoon sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and a ferociously intent expression. A half-finished tub of ice-cream sat on the counter beside him, which Sam moved over to prod curiously.
"Hey, I didn't know we had Ben and Jerry's..."
"Back off, it's brain fuel!" Steve warned dangerously.
"Okay!" He held up his hands in surrender, and then surreptitiously licked ice-cream from the back of his thumb when Steve turned away to scowl at his computer screen.
"Still blocked?" Sam asked, wrapping his arms around his partner's waist. Steve leaned back against him, and gave him a dry look.
"No, I'm investigating the tanning effects of computer monitors. As you can see, I'm beginning to develop a healthy green glow, which should eventually-"
Sam kissed the side of his neck. "You get very cranky when you can't write, do you know that?"
"I get cranky when it's three AM and I can't even come up with ten pages of a frelling instruction manual!" Steve glared darkly at his computer screen, and Sam decided that now was probably not the time to enquire into the etymology of 'frelling'.
"Want some company?"
Steve sighed, and then looked at him apologetically. "Did I wake you up?"
"It's okay." He should probably be working on finishing that speech for tomorrow- tonight - anyway. "I'll be back in a minute." He padded back to the bedroom and retrieved his own laptop.
Steve gave him an incredulous look as he returned with it. "Oh, that's right, that's right, taunt me in my hour of need."
"I've got some work I need to finish off," Sam shrugged. He flexed his fingers while the computer powered up. He'd probably left this a bit late, but well, cutting it down to the wire was hardly anything new. He found the speech and opened the document, and then thought for a moment.
Several moments.
Quite a lot of moments, actually.
Eyes widening in nervousness, he turned to Steve. "Oh my God," he said, in slow, sick horror. "You're contagious!"
"Mr. President?"
"Oh, hey Charlie." The president welcomed him with a casual lift of the hand. It seemed like even that lax a greeting was almost too much of an effort; he still looked dreadful. Red-eyed and pale faced, he looked like he'd been dug up from somewhere.
"Sir, are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he insisted irritably. "Have you got my schedule?"
"Yes, sir. You're finishing a little early this afternoon, because of the party." And because the First Lady had made it quite clear exactly what would happen to anybody who let the president push himself too hard while he was still under the weather.
The president nodded, and accepted the sheaf of papers, leafing through it quickly. He glanced up at Charlie with a frown. "We don't have the new draft on tonight's speech yet?"
"Sam's still working on it." So he'd been told, anyway. The evidence suggested that this was in fact a euphemism for 'Sam's planning to actually start writing it sometime soon'.
"Okay. Thank you, Charlie."
That was a dismissal, but he hovered. "Mr. President?" The president looked up. Charlie held up a small packet of medication expectantly.
His father-in-law groaned aloud, and Charlie couldn't quite suppress a smirk.
"The First Lady was quite insistent..." he began.
"I'll bet she was." He rolled his eyes. "Charlie, are we not men of the world here? Are we not family? Can we not agree some code of-"
"The First Lady has made it quite clear there will be a follow-up on this," he warned. "Possibly involving a lie-detector and blood tests." It was probably debatable whether this had actually been a serious threat, but with Abigail Bartlet, you were always better safe than sorry. The president lowered his eyebrows and pouted.
"Fine, I'll take the damn pills," he said, with all the grace of a petulant five-year-old. Charlie handed them to him, concealing his amusement. "I'll take them later. Before the party," he added quickly, before his aide could make any sceptical objection. "Now go away."
Smirking, he left the Oval Office. Nancy snagged him as he walked out.
"Charlie! Ron Butterfield asked to see you when you've got a minute."
The smirk transmuted into a frown. "Okay." He nodded slowly.
Meetings with Ron Butterfield usually only meant one thing; more death threats. Of course, that was nothing new, but he'd noticed a marked step-up in the security around the two of them since Zoey had announced her pregnancy. Probably just a precaution, but still, it grated.
Mood slightly dampened, he went about his usual morning duties.
Josh smiled at the sight of a familiar face across the pressroom. "Hey, Danny."
"Hey, Josh!"
"You just flew back in yesterday?"
"Night before. I was here all day," he pointed out.
"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "I was kind of busy."
"I heard. Joe Bridges stomped all over your parade, huh?"
Josh gave a flat half-smile. Danny was a friend, but... "No comment."
"Josh, you wound me." He laid a hand over his heart in pantomimed dismay, and Josh smirked and moved on.
"Brenda!" The woman reporter turned at the sound of his voice, and immediately gave him a sharp look.
"Josh, no."
He spread his hands innocently. "You don't even know what I was going to ask you yet. I could've asking you out to dinner."
She remained oddly unmoved by his obvious charms. "In that case, hell no," she said dryly.
"Okay, I'm not asking you out to dinner," he confessed, choosing to ignore this.
"And I'm not revealing my sources! Josh-"
"Oh, come on-" he protested. It had been Brenda Garland's paper that had first broken the news of the bargain the Democrats had secured, sending Joseph Bridges straight into damage control, and their hopes for finally pushing this damn bill through straight down the pan.
She glared at him disbelievingly. "Josh, I'm a journalist. You're seriously thinking you can just walk up to me and I'll tell you who said what? There's a reason it doesn't work that way."
He was well aware of that, and hence had come up with a cunning plan. It mostly involved being annoying until she got so pissed she let something slip. It was a strategy that generally served him well.
Before he could put it into play, a familiar flash of white-blonde hair showed across the room. "Hey, Donna." He half turned towards her as she hurried over. "Did you make those calls?"
"Yeah. I'm still getting railroaded. Ashley-"
"Who's Ashley?" he frowned.
"Her secretary."
"You couldn't even get Wells on the phone?"
Something... an almost subliminal flicker of movement on the edge of his vision. Brenda had reacted to that name. He had to fight from curling his lip into a smirk, barely registering Donna's next words. "She's got her whole staff running interference. They're not even willing to admit she's in the country."
"Rita Wells will not take a meeting from me?" he asked pointedly. "Congresswoman Rita Wells?"
Oh, that was definitely a reaction. Really just the minutest of twitches, but was he not Joshua Lyman, master political strategist? That was a reaction, dammit. His instincts were finely tuned to such things.
"That would be who you've had me calling all morning, so yes," Donna noted dryly.
"Okay, thanks, Donna." He turned back to Brenda, and gave her his most winning smirk. "And thank you, Brenda. You've been very helpful."
He didn't look back as he walked away, grinning triumphantly to himself. He was on the trail, at last. There was no stopping him now.
