Title: The Price of Salvation
Author: IDreamOfAJ
Email: gmlsinaz@juno.com
Character: Leo
Rating: PG
Summary: Fight or flight. The hard way is the only way.
Spoiler: Up through 25.
Author's Note: This is for Bibi. Happy Birthday Baby!!
Disclaimer: The quotes belong to Aaron Sorkin. And, this isn't for money.
The Price of Salvation
"I like the little things. The way a glass feels in your hand. A good glass, thick, with a heavy base. I love the sound an ice cube makes when you drop it from just the right height. Too high and it'll chip when you drop it. Chip the ice and it'll melt too fast in the scotch."
He is sitting in his office. At his desk. All the doors are closed. Which is good. Because if a door was open, someone might see what he's doing. What he's contemplating doing. Maybe, that might help.
Margaret thinks he's sleeping on the couch. He hopes she's getting some rest. Somewhere. He thinks someone ought to be able to rest. He can't. He's not sure who can.
The glass is heavy in his hand. Smooth. Cool from the ice cubes. It's the perfect glass, he thinks. Of course, it's perfect. He took it out of the Oval Office. Along with the ice. He briefly wonders if Walken will use the wet bar in there. He shakes his head trying to dispel the thought. It's one of so many he doesn't want, can't afford right now.
It's quiet in the west wing. He's fairly certain that Will is still in the building. Though, he's not sure where. He knows Donna had finally been able to get Josh downstairs, to one of the cots. He knows she's down there with him. His mind wanders to the room. It's had couches and cots since, well. since Sagittarius. Donna had done that, he remembers. It seems so long ago. And just like yesterday.
He's certain that CJ is on the couch in her office. He knows better than to think she's getting any rest. He knows that she is going over everything she's said. Everything she's been asked. He had put more pressure on her than was strictly necessary. But, selfishly, he had wanted someone to share this burden. If only for an hour. He knows she'll carry it longer. Probably longer than any of them. Except him. And the President. He can add another check to the column of things he's done wrong, done poorly. Done in.
Toby is at the hospital. Again. He envies Toby the distraction. The new life. The fresh start. What he wouldn't do to be able to start over again. Do things right this time. He doesn't need to add another check for that. There are already so many for it marked.
He knows Toby is at the hospital. That's how he was able to steal the Glenlivet from the bottom left drawer of Toby's desk. The one with all the newspaper clippings of Rosslyn. The MS. The one where the clippings from this. thing will go. Leo doesn't keep a drawer for his demons the way Toby does. He carries them around. But, he'd found it somewhat appropriate that Toby's demons cradled one of his own. The scotch.
He looks again at the glass he has poured. Moves it in his hand and watches the amber liquid swirl dangerously close to the top. Beautiful. He thinks perhaps it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He's sure others would find that sad. Pathetic. Strangely, it doesn't bother him as much as it should.
The ice is melting. From the heat from his hands cradling the glass. From the time. He brings the glass close to his face. Looks at the ice and the scotch. He can taste it. Can remember the slight, slow burn of the first sip.
But, he remembers the asphalt too. How it had felt on his face. His knuckles. The smell of gasoline and rain soaked earth. He can feel the weight of the payphone receiver in his hand. As he had called for help. For salvation.
He remembers Josh's face. When he had showed up at the hotel. The shame and the pity. The raw desire to get Leo sober and over to the debate site. He remembers thinking that Josh passed the test that day. He dug in and got the job done. How many more tests would Josh be forced to endure? And somehow, he knows that's his fault as well.
"Leo will know what to do."
His stomach is tied in knots. His hands, sweaty, are trembling slightly. He puts the glass down on his desk. He doesn't take his eyes off it. But, he sees the staff watching Walken enter the Oval Office. Hears the absolute faith in him. He'll know what to do. He wonders how they could have faith in lost chances and broken promises. In him.
Berryhill told him that the President had said the same thing. When the world is collapsing and the Armageddon arrives, he's supposed to know what to do. What the hell was Jed thinking?
He laughs. A small, harsh sound that bubbles up from someplace deep. He hasn't called him Jed since the first campaign. Except once. When he discovered how fragile life really was. How cruel fate could be. That the most brilliant man he has ever known could have his intelligence, and wit, and fire being attacked from within.
He tries not to think of him as Jed, even in his own head. It's not that hard. He is the President. Was born to be the President. Was destined for this. It's almost unbearable that right now he's nothing more than a lost and desperate father. Leo's already called Walken 'Mr. President'. How did those words not choke him?
That's the million-dollar question. How is he supposed to continue as if this par for the course? He will know what to do. Except that he's not sure he will. He has no confidence left in his actions. How can he, when the one person in this world that he is bound to has retreated?
"I'm an alcoholic. I don't have one drink. I don't understand people who have one drink. I don't understand people who leave half a glass of wine on the table. I don't understand people who say they've had enough. How can you have enough of feeling like this?"
He gave up his marriage for Jed Bartlet. He gave up his life. It was a sacrifice worth more than it's weight in gold. Or scotch. He gave up his life for salvation. For that elusive second chance. He would do anything for this man. Anything. Including calling the wrong man "Mr. President".
And there it is.
That is his answer. He will know what to do and he will do it. Not because it is easy or even what he wants to do. He will do it because it is the price for his life. Because if not for Jed Bartlet he might still be in that parking lot. Or left behind in that hotel room filled with tiny, empty bottles. If not for the president being the man he is, he would not be in this office now. He would have left when Lillianfield had gone fishing. If he had been there to begin with.
He owes everything to this man who might yet lose everything himself. Sooner than predicted. He owes his full measure of devotion. And right now that means distancing himself. Protecting his friend from his own job. Calling another man "President". He would walk through fire for President Bartlet and he thinks this just might be his chance.
He picks up the glass and pours the liquid into his trashcan. Soaking the papers inside. He knows that Margaret will ask him about it. And perhaps that is another crucial part of this penance. He isn't allowed the easy way out. Not anymore.
He stands and returns the glass to the Oval Office. After stopping at his desk to retrieve the bottle he goes once more to Toby's office. He opens the drawer and returns his demon. Puts it to rest, if only for this moment.
He heads back to his office. There is work to be done. And he will do it. He will know how to do it. And nothing will feel better than the redemption at the end of this long road. Wherever it may be. Whenever it may be.
The End
Author: IDreamOfAJ
Email: gmlsinaz@juno.com
Character: Leo
Rating: PG
Summary: Fight or flight. The hard way is the only way.
Spoiler: Up through 25.
Author's Note: This is for Bibi. Happy Birthday Baby!!
Disclaimer: The quotes belong to Aaron Sorkin. And, this isn't for money.
The Price of Salvation
"I like the little things. The way a glass feels in your hand. A good glass, thick, with a heavy base. I love the sound an ice cube makes when you drop it from just the right height. Too high and it'll chip when you drop it. Chip the ice and it'll melt too fast in the scotch."
He is sitting in his office. At his desk. All the doors are closed. Which is good. Because if a door was open, someone might see what he's doing. What he's contemplating doing. Maybe, that might help.
Margaret thinks he's sleeping on the couch. He hopes she's getting some rest. Somewhere. He thinks someone ought to be able to rest. He can't. He's not sure who can.
The glass is heavy in his hand. Smooth. Cool from the ice cubes. It's the perfect glass, he thinks. Of course, it's perfect. He took it out of the Oval Office. Along with the ice. He briefly wonders if Walken will use the wet bar in there. He shakes his head trying to dispel the thought. It's one of so many he doesn't want, can't afford right now.
It's quiet in the west wing. He's fairly certain that Will is still in the building. Though, he's not sure where. He knows Donna had finally been able to get Josh downstairs, to one of the cots. He knows she's down there with him. His mind wanders to the room. It's had couches and cots since, well. since Sagittarius. Donna had done that, he remembers. It seems so long ago. And just like yesterday.
He's certain that CJ is on the couch in her office. He knows better than to think she's getting any rest. He knows that she is going over everything she's said. Everything she's been asked. He had put more pressure on her than was strictly necessary. But, selfishly, he had wanted someone to share this burden. If only for an hour. He knows she'll carry it longer. Probably longer than any of them. Except him. And the President. He can add another check to the column of things he's done wrong, done poorly. Done in.
Toby is at the hospital. Again. He envies Toby the distraction. The new life. The fresh start. What he wouldn't do to be able to start over again. Do things right this time. He doesn't need to add another check for that. There are already so many for it marked.
He knows Toby is at the hospital. That's how he was able to steal the Glenlivet from the bottom left drawer of Toby's desk. The one with all the newspaper clippings of Rosslyn. The MS. The one where the clippings from this. thing will go. Leo doesn't keep a drawer for his demons the way Toby does. He carries them around. But, he'd found it somewhat appropriate that Toby's demons cradled one of his own. The scotch.
He looks again at the glass he has poured. Moves it in his hand and watches the amber liquid swirl dangerously close to the top. Beautiful. He thinks perhaps it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He's sure others would find that sad. Pathetic. Strangely, it doesn't bother him as much as it should.
The ice is melting. From the heat from his hands cradling the glass. From the time. He brings the glass close to his face. Looks at the ice and the scotch. He can taste it. Can remember the slight, slow burn of the first sip.
But, he remembers the asphalt too. How it had felt on his face. His knuckles. The smell of gasoline and rain soaked earth. He can feel the weight of the payphone receiver in his hand. As he had called for help. For salvation.
He remembers Josh's face. When he had showed up at the hotel. The shame and the pity. The raw desire to get Leo sober and over to the debate site. He remembers thinking that Josh passed the test that day. He dug in and got the job done. How many more tests would Josh be forced to endure? And somehow, he knows that's his fault as well.
"Leo will know what to do."
His stomach is tied in knots. His hands, sweaty, are trembling slightly. He puts the glass down on his desk. He doesn't take his eyes off it. But, he sees the staff watching Walken enter the Oval Office. Hears the absolute faith in him. He'll know what to do. He wonders how they could have faith in lost chances and broken promises. In him.
Berryhill told him that the President had said the same thing. When the world is collapsing and the Armageddon arrives, he's supposed to know what to do. What the hell was Jed thinking?
He laughs. A small, harsh sound that bubbles up from someplace deep. He hasn't called him Jed since the first campaign. Except once. When he discovered how fragile life really was. How cruel fate could be. That the most brilliant man he has ever known could have his intelligence, and wit, and fire being attacked from within.
He tries not to think of him as Jed, even in his own head. It's not that hard. He is the President. Was born to be the President. Was destined for this. It's almost unbearable that right now he's nothing more than a lost and desperate father. Leo's already called Walken 'Mr. President'. How did those words not choke him?
That's the million-dollar question. How is he supposed to continue as if this par for the course? He will know what to do. Except that he's not sure he will. He has no confidence left in his actions. How can he, when the one person in this world that he is bound to has retreated?
"I'm an alcoholic. I don't have one drink. I don't understand people who have one drink. I don't understand people who leave half a glass of wine on the table. I don't understand people who say they've had enough. How can you have enough of feeling like this?"
He gave up his marriage for Jed Bartlet. He gave up his life. It was a sacrifice worth more than it's weight in gold. Or scotch. He gave up his life for salvation. For that elusive second chance. He would do anything for this man. Anything. Including calling the wrong man "Mr. President".
And there it is.
That is his answer. He will know what to do and he will do it. Not because it is easy or even what he wants to do. He will do it because it is the price for his life. Because if not for Jed Bartlet he might still be in that parking lot. Or left behind in that hotel room filled with tiny, empty bottles. If not for the president being the man he is, he would not be in this office now. He would have left when Lillianfield had gone fishing. If he had been there to begin with.
He owes everything to this man who might yet lose everything himself. Sooner than predicted. He owes his full measure of devotion. And right now that means distancing himself. Protecting his friend from his own job. Calling another man "President". He would walk through fire for President Bartlet and he thinks this just might be his chance.
He picks up the glass and pours the liquid into his trashcan. Soaking the papers inside. He knows that Margaret will ask him about it. And perhaps that is another crucial part of this penance. He isn't allowed the easy way out. Not anymore.
He stands and returns the glass to the Oval Office. After stopping at his desk to retrieve the bottle he goes once more to Toby's office. He opens the drawer and returns his demon. Puts it to rest, if only for this moment.
He heads back to his office. There is work to be done. And he will do it. He will know how to do it. And nothing will feel better than the redemption at the end of this long road. Wherever it may be. Whenever it may be.
The End