Title : Invisible Scars
Author : Geraldine
E-mail : lazy.gege@ibelgique.com
Category : ESF, drama/angst
Characters : Sam, Toby, and a little Josh and CJ
Rating : PG-13
WARNING : deals with sexual abuse. If the topic upsets you, time to run...
Summary : Sam meets Kevin. Things go downhill from there. A sequel to Shattered World - it won't make much sense if you haven't read it.
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. I'm begging : don't sue.
Spoilers : To be sure, the first four seasons.
Acknowledgements :
Thanks to Emily, who beta'd the story and made sure it was written in English.
Coupdepam is the first person who read this fic, and her encouragements convinced me that it was worth posting. You wouldn't be reading it if it wasn't for her.
I suck at finding titles, and I really had problems finding one for this fic. Thanks to Coupdepam, Emily and Elaine, who all helped me to choose and gave me ideas.
PART ONE
Friday
"Toby, I'm not going to tell her, deal with it." His tone was clearly annoyed now, and he didn't care. They had been arguing for a good fifteen minutes, and he was tired of it.
"Sam - " his boss tried.
"No!" he snapped. "She has enough on her mind right now. And I don't want to talk about it."
He half expected Toby to try again, but his boss was now pretending to read the last draft of what Doug had come up with, and Sam enjoyed the break. It was too hot in the office. Or maybe he was hot because he had had to deflect Toby's questions for so long. He sighed. He had already rolled up his sleeves, taken his tie off and opened his collar. He wouldn't get more comfortable than that, unless he took his shirt off. The President might have a problem with that though. Granted, it was Friday and they were almost done for the week, but there was informal and then there was informal.
Seeing that his boss wasn't watching him, he took off his glasses and rested his head on the cushions of the couch. He was exhausted. The week had been frustrating, with Bruno seemingly only interested in pissing the staff off, CJ withdrawn, and Josh petulant - Sam was tired of hearing his complains about Amy. He was the only one of them having a love life, and he dared to complain? Life was so unfair...
And then there was Toby.
Toby, who had watched his every move since that night, a few months ago, when Sam had admitted to having been sexually abused by his godfather when he was a kid.
Toby, who did his best to help but had no clue what to do.
Toby, who seemed to expect Sam to tell him what he had to do, as if Sam had any idea.
Toby, who had decided to go on a crusade to have Sam tell the rest of the senior staff what had happened.
"It would be safer, in case someone in the press gets a hold of - " Thankfully, Toby hadn't finished the sentence by 'the story', but had gestured vaguely.
Sam didn't want to tell the others. Even Toby wouldn't have known if he hadn't gotten drunk. He had let his guard down for a few moments, he wasn't going to let that happen again any time soon.
Besides, the others had finally stopped looking at him as if he was going to shatter in the next five seconds, and he wouldn't go back to the way it had been for anything. For months, after the MS, they had treated him with kid gloves, or had ignored him and just as he was beginning to feel back in his game, he had made that stupid mistake with Kevin. He still took a few minutes every day to beat himself up upon that, but everyone else seemed to have moved on.
It would of course have been a huge exaggeration to say that things had gone back to what they were before the MS, they never would, but things were definitely looking up.
Maybe Toby wouldn't change his mind, but as far as Sam was concerned, the others didn't have to know.
Toby stared at the speech Doug had written - appalling, as usual. He wasn't really paying attention to it though. Half his attention was focussed on Sam, trying to find an argument to change his mind, wondering if he should push it.
In a way it was reassuring to see Sam stand up to him. It had been a long time since he had done that. He had had a bad winter, basically cultivating his breakdown on his own and not letting anyone getting close. Then, there had been the bill, and the phone call, and a late night confession. After that, he had slowly begun to go back to normal. He was doing better when Kevin Kahn had come see him, but after the tape, Sam had spent weeks listening to everyone, not discussing anything - doing his job, with no extras, no smile, no anything.
Yes, it was good to see him protest that he wasn't going to tell more people.
On the other hand, he had to wonder if the reasons Sam wanted to keep silent were the good ones. He had a feeling his deputy didn't want more people to know because for years, nobody had known, and living in secret was more reassuring than confiding in his friends. Toby could understand that, but he didn't have to like it.
He shot a look at Sam, who had closed his eyes. He wasn't asleep, Toby knew. He was clutching his glasses, and Toby had seen his deputy asleep often enough to know when he was really resting and when he was either thinking or playing possum.
Sam looked exhausted, there was no denying that. For that reason only, Toby decided to let him off the hook - for today. No need to push.
He was ready to call it a day himself. Doug's speech would have to wait, he decided. Or Bartlet could give it like it was, since Bruno knew everything better anyway. He was becoming bitter, but seeing these people take the campaign over was painful, frustrating, infuriating. It was supposed to be * their * campaign. It was supposed to be about issues, about making things better. It was supposed to be about proving that Bartlet was the right man for the job.
It wasn't supposed to be about explaining that Bartlet wasn't worse than any other President.
And if he was beginning to brood, it was definitely time to go home.
Sam's voice startled him out of his reverie. "Damn it, I can't get that fucking speech right!!"
Toby watched him and the younger man blushed.
"Sorry, I just... where did he learn to write, anyway? This speech sucks!"
Toby had to agree.
The good news was, it was a speech that Bartlet was supposed to give next week which gave them the time to ask Doug for another draft - one that wouldn't use 'values' seven times in two pages, for starters.
He rose from his seat. "Go home, I'll tell Doug to work on it."
"But weren't we supposed - "
"Well, we're not going to," Toby said firmly.
"Leo won't like it," Sam said hesitantly.
"Leo can..." Sam raised an eyebrow and he quickly amended, "I mean, there's no point in hiring these people if it's to re-do everything again because they're not good enough. Doug can work on it this week end, while we enjoy our last holidays until the election."
"If you say so..." Sam allowed, clearly tempted, but still torn between his need for sleep and his duty.
"I do. Go home, that's an order."
That was all Sam needed to flee the building, Toby noticed. Squaring his shoulders, he made his way to Leo's office.
Sam dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and his jacket on the floor, then collapsed on the couch. He grabbed the remote, then frowned a little.
He was off for two days - he would go to the office tomorrow, maybe, if they needed him, but he could sleep in late, leave work early, and basically rest. He didn't have to watch CNN. For once, just once, maybe he could skip the news?
Deliberately putting the remote back on the table, he sat there a few minutes, then smiled softly. 'I'm sick, I need help,' he thought, turning the TV on. His place seemed foreign to him when the TV was off. "That should tell me something," he sighed.
He was a little surprised at Toby's reaction to the speech. His boss was usually a lot more guarded than that when it came to the campaign staff. He supposed the frustration of seeing Bruno dictate their strategy was getting to everyone. And then, there was also the fact that they were all concerned about CJ. She hadn't confided in anyone, she had gone to Simon's funeral, had come back the next day and hadn't answered any questions on how she was doing. Even Toby couldn't get through to her, and that was worrisome.
There was also the Josh problem. Josh had caught him before he could leave the office to ask him to go out and have a few beers. "I don't want to go see Amy tonight," he had added, and that had made Sam refuse. He didn't mind his friend (former friend?) having a girlfriend, he didn't mind him rubbing their faces in it (well, not too much) but he minded that he had become the contingency plan. In his humble opinion, Josh was, and had always been at his most insufferable, when he was with someone. He was arrogant under normal circumstances, but having a girlfriend seemed to confirm him in his opinion that he was, indeed, da man. Sam wondered if he had ever been that painful to deal with when he was engaged, but he sure hoped not.
Besides, he had the feeling that Josh had asked everyone else before coming to him. But then maybe he was just being paranoid.
What had gotten to him was the way Josh acted - ignore Sam until you need someone to do you a favor, or to have an alibi to go out. Pretend everything's normal when you need him, and go back to ignoring him and his flights of fancy when you don't anymore.
Maybe he was overreacting - he did that sometimes - but he couldn't help how he felt. Right now, he wanted to beat Josh's self satisfied smirk off his face each time he saw him. Thinking back on the way they were a few years ago, he had to wonder where it had all gone bad.
His stomach rumbled loudly. Sighing, Sam took his phone and called the nearest chinese restaurant.
Saturday
Sam enjoyed jogging, especially in the summer morning. He let the wind slap his face, waking him completely.
He would have closed his eyes to enjoy the sensation even more if he hadn't been accident prone. He had needed a few stitches after tripping on a rock once, and he had heard about it for weeks. So he settled for picking up his pace, going as fast as he could, before stopping at the end of the path, out of breath.
He shot a look at his watch, and decided that he had done a good time - not that he intended to run competitively ever again, but it was good to know that he was still in good shape.
He checked his pulse before turning back to return to his place, longing for a shower. He couldn't wait to be home so he could collapse on the couch. There was nothing like the post-running bliss, when your muscles relaxed and you felt yourself floating a little.
He should enjoy it while it lasted, he knew.
He had to see his therapist in the afternoon, and it was usually hard.
Putting the thought aside for now, he focussed on the present.
Six hours later
Sam exited the apartment building, all the benefits from his jogging long gone.
He was tense, he was on edge, he felt slightly dirty, depressed, and angry, and frustrated, and a few other things he couldn't quite place.
He squinted a little in the harsh light of the day.
He met Joyce at her place since she was retired. He had gone to her private consultation regularly, when he had first lived in Washington, back when he worked in Congress. He had always paid her cash, had never accepted a receipt, and had stopped going there when there had been a rumor of a staffer from a Senator having a nervous breakdown. Somehow, he had taken all the whispers and the false pitying glances for himself.
Joyce had told him then to feel free to call her whenever he needed to talk. He had taken her up on her offer shortly after Bartlet's election, then stopped going to see her after a few months - still scared of Washington's rumor mill.
No one was comfortable with the concept of mental illness, he knew. He had seen therapists semi regularly since he was in college and he still didn't like it. People were suspicious of you when you saw a therapist - or at least, he had always felt that way. They expected you to snap. Or to break down and cry on their shoulder at the slightest provocation.
He did a job where what you managed to accomplish depended on appearances. If you didn't look trustworthy, no one was ever going to give you trust. If you didn't look in control, no one was going to give you control. And when that happened, you didn't have any influence on anyone, and you couldn't get anything done.
Part of him knew that he was exaggerating. It wasn't that bad. Not everyone had a negative a priori when therapists were concerned. Not everyone would think he was nuts if they knew he was seeing one.
He just didn't want to take chances, which was probably why the car starting on the other side of the street freaked him out. When he realized that he must have looked guilty of just murdering someone, he forced himself to relax.
Nothing told him that the driver had had bad intentions.
Besides, worst case scenario, they had a picture of him going out of an apartment building.
No big deal, he told himself.
Nothing to be afraid of.
By the time it was dark, he still wasn't feeling better.
It was stupid, he knew, to feel so anxious merely because of a car speeding up just as he was leaving Joyce.
It was a coincidence.
There wasn't any reason for it to be anything else.
The only people in the world who knew were trustworthy, they would have had no reason to go to the press with this.
Yet he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right.
Cursing his overactive imagination, he paced the floor of his apartment, wondering what to do.
He didn't feel like running again.
He had tried to work on the speech some more, but he was still stuck on it, and damn it, it was Doug's job anyway.
He couldn't go back to the West Wing - he had made an appearance before going to see Joyce, but everything seemed under control. Besides, Bruno would probably be there. He didn't need to deal with Bruno today.
He couldn't call Toby and ask him to come over, maybe watch a game. They had spent so much time working together recently that they needed some space. Besides, his boss seemed to have grown antennae where Sam was concerned - a disturbing fact. He'd know within seconds that Sam was preoccupied and would grill him until he gave up and spit it out. Then he'd tell him to tell CJ, and there would be yet another debate on the subject.
He couldn't sleep yet. He was too worked up for that.
He didn't feel like drinking alone - he could drink alone, just not at his place. He needed people around him, even if none of them were with him.
"Guess that leaves going to a bar," he whispered to himself.
Shrugging, he put on his coat, decided to leave his car keys here so he wouldn't be tempted to drive after he'd had a few too many beers, and left his place.
Sam took two steps into the bar and decided that coming here had been his worst idea ever.
Kevin was sitting at a table, looking sourly at his glass.
Sam took a step back to hide in the shadows, wondering what to do. He would feel stupid leaving this place just because this scum was there. On the other side, he didn't feel like trading insults tonight. He was still wondering what to do when someone bumped into him, propelling him forward.
"Sorry, man," he heard.
Kevin looked up and their eyes met.
Great, his day was going better and better.
"Sam," Kevin said, a big smile on his face.
"Kevin," he answered neutrally.
"How are you doing? Still got a job?"
He must know the answer perfectly well, Sam thought. All of Washington would have known if he'd been fired over something like that - not that he hadn't deserved it, he figured, but people would have known.
He didn't answer, glaring at his former friend. When the other didn't say anything else, he spun on his heels and went to the barman. "Jack Daniels."
The man had put the drink in front of him, Sam nodding his thanks, when Kevin came to sit next to him. "Trying to ignore me, Seaborn?" he asked.
"You didn't seem to have anything more to say," he pointed out neutrally. Always stay neutral, he told himself. Don't give him any leverage.
"Oh, but I have so much more to say, if you'd listen... But no, you always have to do what you want."
Sam didn't answer. The other man didn't know anything.
"You and your colleagues... The Almighty Senior staff of the Almighty Bartlet."
'President Bartlet,' Sam thought. He had to refrain himself from speaking out loud. The other man would only see it as a provocation.
Maybe he would even be right.
For the first time, Sam realized that Kevin was drunk.
Very drunk, actually.
"I'm not exactly in Ritchie's papers right now," Kevin went on. Sam startled. What the hell was he doing admitting that? "But I'm busy working on that."
Sam took a sip of his drink and suppressed a grimace at the burn.
"There are so many skeletons left buried yet," Kevin went on, talking mostly to his drink now. "So many flaws the public doesn't know of."
'And your governor is a saint?' Sam thought. Kevin didn't seem to need an answer though.
"Well, I guess you'll hear more about that... You know, all the small..." Kevin paused, enjoying his effect, before spitting, "...secrets, Bartlet and his senior staff share."
Sam stared at his glass, at his hand on the glass, clutching it.
Did he know?
How could he know?
Kevin rose and clasped him on the shoulder. "Guess I'll go work on that," he said amicably.
Sam didn't answer, his mouth seemed filled with cotton.
What was Kevin after?
What did he know?
Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He was being paranoid. Kevin was just babbling, trying to scare him off.
He was bluffing.
Wasn't he?
Please, oh please, let him be bluffing.
Swallowing the rest of his drink, Sam gestured to the barman for a refill and tried to focus on what Kevin had said.
Two hours later
White House
Josh's cell phone began to ring as he was about to leave. "Damn it, I'm gone," he whined to the phone, which went on ringing, unperturbed.
"Fine," he sighed, picking up. "Josh Lyman." He didn't bother to try to hide his impatience. He was done for the day, damn it.
"Sir, this is the barman of the Georgetown."
"Yes?" he said cautiously.
"We have a friend of yours, Sam, and he's... well, he doesn't remember where he lives. I'd put him in a cab, but I thought that if one of his friends could pick him up..."
Marvelous. And what was Sam doing, getting plastered alone, when the night before he had asked... Never mind.
"I'll come get him," he said.
When he entered the bar, half an hour later, he spotted Sam immediately. His friend had two types of drunk personalities - he was either happy, chatting with perfect strangers, who usually looked at him with a fair amount of amusement mixed with indulgence, or he was subdued and depressed, looking like he had run his puppy over.
Tonight seemed to be of the latter kind.
He sat next to him and looked at him, waiting for Sam to notice him. When his friend finally realized that someone was sitting there, he squinted a little at him, then recognition settled in. "Hey, Josh. Watcha doing here?" he asked.
"The barman called," Josh said patiently.
"Oh, yeah. Mark. He's kinda cool."
The barman looked at Josh and shrugged slightly. "You were on his speed dial," he explained.
"And Toby wasn't there," Sam added, then looked at his drink, losing the smile he had put on when he had seen Josh.
Of course he'd called Toby first, Josh thought, wondering what the small twinge of whatever he had just felt was. "Okay, let's get you to bed," he ordered. For a minute, he thought Sam was going to argue, but his friend shrugged.
"Whatever."
Josh helped Sam to get to his feet, keeping a hand on his arm and guiding him to the exit, then to the car. He had to admit that he was impressed that Sam didn't fall on the way.
Things began to take a bad turn when Sam, after five minutes of silent driving, whispered, "Josh, I don't feel too well."
Josh was about to make a sarcastic comment but a look at Sam's face stopped him. "Damn it, Sam, if you throw up in my car..." He let the threat hang in the air, and Sam swallowed and nodded.
"Sorry," he said weakly.
"Never mind," Josh said, taking a right turn as softly as possible and parking as near his place as he was ever going to get.
Sam blinked a little, looking out. "Not my pace. Place. Whatever," he said.
"It was closer," Josh said tersely, and the conversation died.
Sam didn't rush to the bathroom as Josh had feared. He seemed better now that he wasn't in a moving car. He went straight to the couch, and lay down gingerly, trying not to jerk his head. Josh watched him a minute, then went to the closet, took a bucket, and put it on the floor in reach of Sam.
His friend had already passed out, and Josh rolled his eyes, taking off Sam's shoes. At least he hadn't been wearing a tie, or anything that needed removing before sleeping.
He turned off the light and went to his bedroom, collapsed on his bed and let his mind wander.
He wasn't seeing Amy tonight - he had bailed out of one of her fundraising dinners. At least that way, he had been able to pick up Sam. What was it with him anyway? And what was the new way Toby had of looking at him? After the Kahn debacle (Josh still hadn't gotten over his resentment for that - how could Sam have been so stupid?), he had expected Toby to go ballistic on Sam. Hell, if Josh had made such an amateurish mistake, Leo would have had his head. Instead, everyone had been supportive of Sam, except for Bruno. Why was that? Were they seeing something he wasn't?
He supposed Sam and him weren't as close as they had once been, but now that the campaign was on its tracks and the MS behind them, surely things were better.
Weren't they? He wondered, drifting off to sleep.
Sam felt himself float, allowing Josh to take off his shoes without protestation.
It was kind of funny to see everything spin, as long as he wasn't supposed to stand up. Or move.
Now, though, he felt warm, relaxed, comfortable.
Cozy, that was it.
He felt cozy.
He had always loved that word.
It was surprising, since earlier in the evening, he was pretty sure he had been worried about something. What was that again?
Too tired to try to remember, Sam let himself sink into the dark.
He began to regret it almost immediately.
He had been having nightmares again, since the tape fiasco. The stress probably. They were recurring ones, he'd had them since he was eight.
His godfather, always.
In some of these, he watched what had happened 'from the outside,' unable to intervene, condemned to watch, again, and again. These weren't the worst though. The worst were the ones in which he relived his childhood nightmare - the nights where his parents allowed his godfather (Paul, that was his name) to watch him and his brother. He knew what would happen these nights, oh yes, and he couldn't say anything.
Paul would hurt Franck if he did, and his brother was younger than him. He had to take care of him, Dad had told him.
Everything was normal until it was bedtime. Sam sometimes wondered whether he had dreamed these awful nights, his godfather was so nice and considerate. So... normal. They watched TV, he helped Sam to do his homework, he fed them.
Then they had to go to bed, and Paul left the room, turning off the lights, and the waiting began. Would he come? He didn't come each time, but there was never any warning sign.
Simply, sometimes he came, sometimes he didn't.
It didn't stop Sam from watching the clock until he was so tired he couldn't stay awake anymore. Sometimes he woke up in the morning, and he cried in relief because Paul hadn't come tonight. Sometimes he woke up when the door opened and Paul's frame filled the door, and he cried because he didn't want him to come.
Even after years, his godfather could scare him into submission.
Sam began to move on the couch, trapped in his nightmare, not daring to cry out. He whispered softly, "Nononononono," repeatedly, until he couldn't hold still anymore. Sam began to thrash on the couch, trying to escape, as his godfather grasped his wrists.
He stopped fighting and when the hand holding him down released him, he broke free and slammed a fist into whatever was in front of him.
Josh had been slumbering for a while when a soft sound from the living room woke him.
Was Sam sick?
Sam was never sick. He had an insulting way of holding his liquor, in Josh's opinion.
This didn't sound like someone being sick.
He rose to his feet and made his way into the living room, watching Sam as he tossed and turned on the sofa. He was about to wake him up when Sam began thrashing. Afraid he might fall and hurt himself, Josh grabbed him and tried to hold him down, grimacing.
Damn, his friend was strong.
After a short while, Sam stopped resisting and he let go of his arms.
Josh never even saw the blow coming.
He felt Sam's fist connect with his cheek and he fell backwards, landing roughly on the floor.
He heard a bang when his head collided with the carpet, then nothing.
Author : Geraldine
E-mail : lazy.gege@ibelgique.com
Category : ESF, drama/angst
Characters : Sam, Toby, and a little Josh and CJ
Rating : PG-13
WARNING : deals with sexual abuse. If the topic upsets you, time to run...
Summary : Sam meets Kevin. Things go downhill from there. A sequel to Shattered World - it won't make much sense if you haven't read it.
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. I'm begging : don't sue.
Spoilers : To be sure, the first four seasons.
Acknowledgements :
Thanks to Emily, who beta'd the story and made sure it was written in English.
Coupdepam is the first person who read this fic, and her encouragements convinced me that it was worth posting. You wouldn't be reading it if it wasn't for her.
I suck at finding titles, and I really had problems finding one for this fic. Thanks to Coupdepam, Emily and Elaine, who all helped me to choose and gave me ideas.
PART ONE
Friday
"Toby, I'm not going to tell her, deal with it." His tone was clearly annoyed now, and he didn't care. They had been arguing for a good fifteen minutes, and he was tired of it.
"Sam - " his boss tried.
"No!" he snapped. "She has enough on her mind right now. And I don't want to talk about it."
He half expected Toby to try again, but his boss was now pretending to read the last draft of what Doug had come up with, and Sam enjoyed the break. It was too hot in the office. Or maybe he was hot because he had had to deflect Toby's questions for so long. He sighed. He had already rolled up his sleeves, taken his tie off and opened his collar. He wouldn't get more comfortable than that, unless he took his shirt off. The President might have a problem with that though. Granted, it was Friday and they were almost done for the week, but there was informal and then there was informal.
Seeing that his boss wasn't watching him, he took off his glasses and rested his head on the cushions of the couch. He was exhausted. The week had been frustrating, with Bruno seemingly only interested in pissing the staff off, CJ withdrawn, and Josh petulant - Sam was tired of hearing his complains about Amy. He was the only one of them having a love life, and he dared to complain? Life was so unfair...
And then there was Toby.
Toby, who had watched his every move since that night, a few months ago, when Sam had admitted to having been sexually abused by his godfather when he was a kid.
Toby, who did his best to help but had no clue what to do.
Toby, who seemed to expect Sam to tell him what he had to do, as if Sam had any idea.
Toby, who had decided to go on a crusade to have Sam tell the rest of the senior staff what had happened.
"It would be safer, in case someone in the press gets a hold of - " Thankfully, Toby hadn't finished the sentence by 'the story', but had gestured vaguely.
Sam didn't want to tell the others. Even Toby wouldn't have known if he hadn't gotten drunk. He had let his guard down for a few moments, he wasn't going to let that happen again any time soon.
Besides, the others had finally stopped looking at him as if he was going to shatter in the next five seconds, and he wouldn't go back to the way it had been for anything. For months, after the MS, they had treated him with kid gloves, or had ignored him and just as he was beginning to feel back in his game, he had made that stupid mistake with Kevin. He still took a few minutes every day to beat himself up upon that, but everyone else seemed to have moved on.
It would of course have been a huge exaggeration to say that things had gone back to what they were before the MS, they never would, but things were definitely looking up.
Maybe Toby wouldn't change his mind, but as far as Sam was concerned, the others didn't have to know.
Toby stared at the speech Doug had written - appalling, as usual. He wasn't really paying attention to it though. Half his attention was focussed on Sam, trying to find an argument to change his mind, wondering if he should push it.
In a way it was reassuring to see Sam stand up to him. It had been a long time since he had done that. He had had a bad winter, basically cultivating his breakdown on his own and not letting anyone getting close. Then, there had been the bill, and the phone call, and a late night confession. After that, he had slowly begun to go back to normal. He was doing better when Kevin Kahn had come see him, but after the tape, Sam had spent weeks listening to everyone, not discussing anything - doing his job, with no extras, no smile, no anything.
Yes, it was good to see him protest that he wasn't going to tell more people.
On the other hand, he had to wonder if the reasons Sam wanted to keep silent were the good ones. He had a feeling his deputy didn't want more people to know because for years, nobody had known, and living in secret was more reassuring than confiding in his friends. Toby could understand that, but he didn't have to like it.
He shot a look at Sam, who had closed his eyes. He wasn't asleep, Toby knew. He was clutching his glasses, and Toby had seen his deputy asleep often enough to know when he was really resting and when he was either thinking or playing possum.
Sam looked exhausted, there was no denying that. For that reason only, Toby decided to let him off the hook - for today. No need to push.
He was ready to call it a day himself. Doug's speech would have to wait, he decided. Or Bartlet could give it like it was, since Bruno knew everything better anyway. He was becoming bitter, but seeing these people take the campaign over was painful, frustrating, infuriating. It was supposed to be * their * campaign. It was supposed to be about issues, about making things better. It was supposed to be about proving that Bartlet was the right man for the job.
It wasn't supposed to be about explaining that Bartlet wasn't worse than any other President.
And if he was beginning to brood, it was definitely time to go home.
Sam's voice startled him out of his reverie. "Damn it, I can't get that fucking speech right!!"
Toby watched him and the younger man blushed.
"Sorry, I just... where did he learn to write, anyway? This speech sucks!"
Toby had to agree.
The good news was, it was a speech that Bartlet was supposed to give next week which gave them the time to ask Doug for another draft - one that wouldn't use 'values' seven times in two pages, for starters.
He rose from his seat. "Go home, I'll tell Doug to work on it."
"But weren't we supposed - "
"Well, we're not going to," Toby said firmly.
"Leo won't like it," Sam said hesitantly.
"Leo can..." Sam raised an eyebrow and he quickly amended, "I mean, there's no point in hiring these people if it's to re-do everything again because they're not good enough. Doug can work on it this week end, while we enjoy our last holidays until the election."
"If you say so..." Sam allowed, clearly tempted, but still torn between his need for sleep and his duty.
"I do. Go home, that's an order."
That was all Sam needed to flee the building, Toby noticed. Squaring his shoulders, he made his way to Leo's office.
Sam dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and his jacket on the floor, then collapsed on the couch. He grabbed the remote, then frowned a little.
He was off for two days - he would go to the office tomorrow, maybe, if they needed him, but he could sleep in late, leave work early, and basically rest. He didn't have to watch CNN. For once, just once, maybe he could skip the news?
Deliberately putting the remote back on the table, he sat there a few minutes, then smiled softly. 'I'm sick, I need help,' he thought, turning the TV on. His place seemed foreign to him when the TV was off. "That should tell me something," he sighed.
He was a little surprised at Toby's reaction to the speech. His boss was usually a lot more guarded than that when it came to the campaign staff. He supposed the frustration of seeing Bruno dictate their strategy was getting to everyone. And then, there was also the fact that they were all concerned about CJ. She hadn't confided in anyone, she had gone to Simon's funeral, had come back the next day and hadn't answered any questions on how she was doing. Even Toby couldn't get through to her, and that was worrisome.
There was also the Josh problem. Josh had caught him before he could leave the office to ask him to go out and have a few beers. "I don't want to go see Amy tonight," he had added, and that had made Sam refuse. He didn't mind his friend (former friend?) having a girlfriend, he didn't mind him rubbing their faces in it (well, not too much) but he minded that he had become the contingency plan. In his humble opinion, Josh was, and had always been at his most insufferable, when he was with someone. He was arrogant under normal circumstances, but having a girlfriend seemed to confirm him in his opinion that he was, indeed, da man. Sam wondered if he had ever been that painful to deal with when he was engaged, but he sure hoped not.
Besides, he had the feeling that Josh had asked everyone else before coming to him. But then maybe he was just being paranoid.
What had gotten to him was the way Josh acted - ignore Sam until you need someone to do you a favor, or to have an alibi to go out. Pretend everything's normal when you need him, and go back to ignoring him and his flights of fancy when you don't anymore.
Maybe he was overreacting - he did that sometimes - but he couldn't help how he felt. Right now, he wanted to beat Josh's self satisfied smirk off his face each time he saw him. Thinking back on the way they were a few years ago, he had to wonder where it had all gone bad.
His stomach rumbled loudly. Sighing, Sam took his phone and called the nearest chinese restaurant.
Saturday
Sam enjoyed jogging, especially in the summer morning. He let the wind slap his face, waking him completely.
He would have closed his eyes to enjoy the sensation even more if he hadn't been accident prone. He had needed a few stitches after tripping on a rock once, and he had heard about it for weeks. So he settled for picking up his pace, going as fast as he could, before stopping at the end of the path, out of breath.
He shot a look at his watch, and decided that he had done a good time - not that he intended to run competitively ever again, but it was good to know that he was still in good shape.
He checked his pulse before turning back to return to his place, longing for a shower. He couldn't wait to be home so he could collapse on the couch. There was nothing like the post-running bliss, when your muscles relaxed and you felt yourself floating a little.
He should enjoy it while it lasted, he knew.
He had to see his therapist in the afternoon, and it was usually hard.
Putting the thought aside for now, he focussed on the present.
Six hours later
Sam exited the apartment building, all the benefits from his jogging long gone.
He was tense, he was on edge, he felt slightly dirty, depressed, and angry, and frustrated, and a few other things he couldn't quite place.
He squinted a little in the harsh light of the day.
He met Joyce at her place since she was retired. He had gone to her private consultation regularly, when he had first lived in Washington, back when he worked in Congress. He had always paid her cash, had never accepted a receipt, and had stopped going there when there had been a rumor of a staffer from a Senator having a nervous breakdown. Somehow, he had taken all the whispers and the false pitying glances for himself.
Joyce had told him then to feel free to call her whenever he needed to talk. He had taken her up on her offer shortly after Bartlet's election, then stopped going to see her after a few months - still scared of Washington's rumor mill.
No one was comfortable with the concept of mental illness, he knew. He had seen therapists semi regularly since he was in college and he still didn't like it. People were suspicious of you when you saw a therapist - or at least, he had always felt that way. They expected you to snap. Or to break down and cry on their shoulder at the slightest provocation.
He did a job where what you managed to accomplish depended on appearances. If you didn't look trustworthy, no one was ever going to give you trust. If you didn't look in control, no one was going to give you control. And when that happened, you didn't have any influence on anyone, and you couldn't get anything done.
Part of him knew that he was exaggerating. It wasn't that bad. Not everyone had a negative a priori when therapists were concerned. Not everyone would think he was nuts if they knew he was seeing one.
He just didn't want to take chances, which was probably why the car starting on the other side of the street freaked him out. When he realized that he must have looked guilty of just murdering someone, he forced himself to relax.
Nothing told him that the driver had had bad intentions.
Besides, worst case scenario, they had a picture of him going out of an apartment building.
No big deal, he told himself.
Nothing to be afraid of.
By the time it was dark, he still wasn't feeling better.
It was stupid, he knew, to feel so anxious merely because of a car speeding up just as he was leaving Joyce.
It was a coincidence.
There wasn't any reason for it to be anything else.
The only people in the world who knew were trustworthy, they would have had no reason to go to the press with this.
Yet he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right.
Cursing his overactive imagination, he paced the floor of his apartment, wondering what to do.
He didn't feel like running again.
He had tried to work on the speech some more, but he was still stuck on it, and damn it, it was Doug's job anyway.
He couldn't go back to the West Wing - he had made an appearance before going to see Joyce, but everything seemed under control. Besides, Bruno would probably be there. He didn't need to deal with Bruno today.
He couldn't call Toby and ask him to come over, maybe watch a game. They had spent so much time working together recently that they needed some space. Besides, his boss seemed to have grown antennae where Sam was concerned - a disturbing fact. He'd know within seconds that Sam was preoccupied and would grill him until he gave up and spit it out. Then he'd tell him to tell CJ, and there would be yet another debate on the subject.
He couldn't sleep yet. He was too worked up for that.
He didn't feel like drinking alone - he could drink alone, just not at his place. He needed people around him, even if none of them were with him.
"Guess that leaves going to a bar," he whispered to himself.
Shrugging, he put on his coat, decided to leave his car keys here so he wouldn't be tempted to drive after he'd had a few too many beers, and left his place.
Sam took two steps into the bar and decided that coming here had been his worst idea ever.
Kevin was sitting at a table, looking sourly at his glass.
Sam took a step back to hide in the shadows, wondering what to do. He would feel stupid leaving this place just because this scum was there. On the other side, he didn't feel like trading insults tonight. He was still wondering what to do when someone bumped into him, propelling him forward.
"Sorry, man," he heard.
Kevin looked up and their eyes met.
Great, his day was going better and better.
"Sam," Kevin said, a big smile on his face.
"Kevin," he answered neutrally.
"How are you doing? Still got a job?"
He must know the answer perfectly well, Sam thought. All of Washington would have known if he'd been fired over something like that - not that he hadn't deserved it, he figured, but people would have known.
He didn't answer, glaring at his former friend. When the other didn't say anything else, he spun on his heels and went to the barman. "Jack Daniels."
The man had put the drink in front of him, Sam nodding his thanks, when Kevin came to sit next to him. "Trying to ignore me, Seaborn?" he asked.
"You didn't seem to have anything more to say," he pointed out neutrally. Always stay neutral, he told himself. Don't give him any leverage.
"Oh, but I have so much more to say, if you'd listen... But no, you always have to do what you want."
Sam didn't answer. The other man didn't know anything.
"You and your colleagues... The Almighty Senior staff of the Almighty Bartlet."
'President Bartlet,' Sam thought. He had to refrain himself from speaking out loud. The other man would only see it as a provocation.
Maybe he would even be right.
For the first time, Sam realized that Kevin was drunk.
Very drunk, actually.
"I'm not exactly in Ritchie's papers right now," Kevin went on. Sam startled. What the hell was he doing admitting that? "But I'm busy working on that."
Sam took a sip of his drink and suppressed a grimace at the burn.
"There are so many skeletons left buried yet," Kevin went on, talking mostly to his drink now. "So many flaws the public doesn't know of."
'And your governor is a saint?' Sam thought. Kevin didn't seem to need an answer though.
"Well, I guess you'll hear more about that... You know, all the small..." Kevin paused, enjoying his effect, before spitting, "...secrets, Bartlet and his senior staff share."
Sam stared at his glass, at his hand on the glass, clutching it.
Did he know?
How could he know?
Kevin rose and clasped him on the shoulder. "Guess I'll go work on that," he said amicably.
Sam didn't answer, his mouth seemed filled with cotton.
What was Kevin after?
What did he know?
Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He was being paranoid. Kevin was just babbling, trying to scare him off.
He was bluffing.
Wasn't he?
Please, oh please, let him be bluffing.
Swallowing the rest of his drink, Sam gestured to the barman for a refill and tried to focus on what Kevin had said.
Two hours later
White House
Josh's cell phone began to ring as he was about to leave. "Damn it, I'm gone," he whined to the phone, which went on ringing, unperturbed.
"Fine," he sighed, picking up. "Josh Lyman." He didn't bother to try to hide his impatience. He was done for the day, damn it.
"Sir, this is the barman of the Georgetown."
"Yes?" he said cautiously.
"We have a friend of yours, Sam, and he's... well, he doesn't remember where he lives. I'd put him in a cab, but I thought that if one of his friends could pick him up..."
Marvelous. And what was Sam doing, getting plastered alone, when the night before he had asked... Never mind.
"I'll come get him," he said.
When he entered the bar, half an hour later, he spotted Sam immediately. His friend had two types of drunk personalities - he was either happy, chatting with perfect strangers, who usually looked at him with a fair amount of amusement mixed with indulgence, or he was subdued and depressed, looking like he had run his puppy over.
Tonight seemed to be of the latter kind.
He sat next to him and looked at him, waiting for Sam to notice him. When his friend finally realized that someone was sitting there, he squinted a little at him, then recognition settled in. "Hey, Josh. Watcha doing here?" he asked.
"The barman called," Josh said patiently.
"Oh, yeah. Mark. He's kinda cool."
The barman looked at Josh and shrugged slightly. "You were on his speed dial," he explained.
"And Toby wasn't there," Sam added, then looked at his drink, losing the smile he had put on when he had seen Josh.
Of course he'd called Toby first, Josh thought, wondering what the small twinge of whatever he had just felt was. "Okay, let's get you to bed," he ordered. For a minute, he thought Sam was going to argue, but his friend shrugged.
"Whatever."
Josh helped Sam to get to his feet, keeping a hand on his arm and guiding him to the exit, then to the car. He had to admit that he was impressed that Sam didn't fall on the way.
Things began to take a bad turn when Sam, after five minutes of silent driving, whispered, "Josh, I don't feel too well."
Josh was about to make a sarcastic comment but a look at Sam's face stopped him. "Damn it, Sam, if you throw up in my car..." He let the threat hang in the air, and Sam swallowed and nodded.
"Sorry," he said weakly.
"Never mind," Josh said, taking a right turn as softly as possible and parking as near his place as he was ever going to get.
Sam blinked a little, looking out. "Not my pace. Place. Whatever," he said.
"It was closer," Josh said tersely, and the conversation died.
Sam didn't rush to the bathroom as Josh had feared. He seemed better now that he wasn't in a moving car. He went straight to the couch, and lay down gingerly, trying not to jerk his head. Josh watched him a minute, then went to the closet, took a bucket, and put it on the floor in reach of Sam.
His friend had already passed out, and Josh rolled his eyes, taking off Sam's shoes. At least he hadn't been wearing a tie, or anything that needed removing before sleeping.
He turned off the light and went to his bedroom, collapsed on his bed and let his mind wander.
He wasn't seeing Amy tonight - he had bailed out of one of her fundraising dinners. At least that way, he had been able to pick up Sam. What was it with him anyway? And what was the new way Toby had of looking at him? After the Kahn debacle (Josh still hadn't gotten over his resentment for that - how could Sam have been so stupid?), he had expected Toby to go ballistic on Sam. Hell, if Josh had made such an amateurish mistake, Leo would have had his head. Instead, everyone had been supportive of Sam, except for Bruno. Why was that? Were they seeing something he wasn't?
He supposed Sam and him weren't as close as they had once been, but now that the campaign was on its tracks and the MS behind them, surely things were better.
Weren't they? He wondered, drifting off to sleep.
Sam felt himself float, allowing Josh to take off his shoes without protestation.
It was kind of funny to see everything spin, as long as he wasn't supposed to stand up. Or move.
Now, though, he felt warm, relaxed, comfortable.
Cozy, that was it.
He felt cozy.
He had always loved that word.
It was surprising, since earlier in the evening, he was pretty sure he had been worried about something. What was that again?
Too tired to try to remember, Sam let himself sink into the dark.
He began to regret it almost immediately.
He had been having nightmares again, since the tape fiasco. The stress probably. They were recurring ones, he'd had them since he was eight.
His godfather, always.
In some of these, he watched what had happened 'from the outside,' unable to intervene, condemned to watch, again, and again. These weren't the worst though. The worst were the ones in which he relived his childhood nightmare - the nights where his parents allowed his godfather (Paul, that was his name) to watch him and his brother. He knew what would happen these nights, oh yes, and he couldn't say anything.
Paul would hurt Franck if he did, and his brother was younger than him. He had to take care of him, Dad had told him.
Everything was normal until it was bedtime. Sam sometimes wondered whether he had dreamed these awful nights, his godfather was so nice and considerate. So... normal. They watched TV, he helped Sam to do his homework, he fed them.
Then they had to go to bed, and Paul left the room, turning off the lights, and the waiting began. Would he come? He didn't come each time, but there was never any warning sign.
Simply, sometimes he came, sometimes he didn't.
It didn't stop Sam from watching the clock until he was so tired he couldn't stay awake anymore. Sometimes he woke up in the morning, and he cried in relief because Paul hadn't come tonight. Sometimes he woke up when the door opened and Paul's frame filled the door, and he cried because he didn't want him to come.
Even after years, his godfather could scare him into submission.
Sam began to move on the couch, trapped in his nightmare, not daring to cry out. He whispered softly, "Nononononono," repeatedly, until he couldn't hold still anymore. Sam began to thrash on the couch, trying to escape, as his godfather grasped his wrists.
He stopped fighting and when the hand holding him down released him, he broke free and slammed a fist into whatever was in front of him.
Josh had been slumbering for a while when a soft sound from the living room woke him.
Was Sam sick?
Sam was never sick. He had an insulting way of holding his liquor, in Josh's opinion.
This didn't sound like someone being sick.
He rose to his feet and made his way into the living room, watching Sam as he tossed and turned on the sofa. He was about to wake him up when Sam began thrashing. Afraid he might fall and hurt himself, Josh grabbed him and tried to hold him down, grimacing.
Damn, his friend was strong.
After a short while, Sam stopped resisting and he let go of his arms.
Josh never even saw the blow coming.
He felt Sam's fist connect with his cheek and he fell backwards, landing roughly on the floor.
He heard a bang when his head collided with the carpet, then nothing.