"For God's sake, Josh!!" Sam yelled. "How many times will I have to tell you that I'm fine?"
"As many times as it'll take for me to believe it," Josh said.
Sam closed his eyes, trying to hang on to his self control – what was left of it.
When he felt sufficiently in control, he looked at Josh and said, "I can manage, thank you."
The sarcastic voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like Toby, pointed out that he was a klutz at the best of times, and that now wasn't the best of times – he had a knee in a brace, crutches, and strict orders to avoid putting pressure on the injured knee, at any cost.
He was bound to fall down, at some point, and he knew perfectly well that the rest of the senior staff were just waiting for it to happen.
Still… he didn't want anyone hovering. His friends meant well, there was no doubt about that, but they were so insistent – saying they needed to talk to him.
How did he feel?
They were so very sorry.
Sam startled. Josh was talking to him, and he made an effort to focus, remembered fragments of a past conversation – "You lied to me" - making the task difficult.
"Sam?"
He made an effort, and looked at Josh. "What?"
"Your keys?"
Sam shook his head, and handed the keys to Josh, who was bringing him home after a too-long stay at the hospital. Josh opened the door, and motioned for Sam to go in first, hovering at his side. Sam shot him a murderous look and Josh got the message. He went first, and ignored Sam's efforts to enter his home.
His friend was weird, Sam thought.
He was behaving as if Sam would collapse any time soon, he always seemed about to ask something without daring to, always seemed on the verge of putting a hand on his shoulder and patting him comfortingly.
Sam had wondered about this in the hospital, when Josh visited him, between two bouts of depression. God he was tired of feeling like that all the time.
"Sam?"
He rolled his eyes, and answered, "Coming."
There would be time to think later, he told himself. And if there wasn't… he was too tired to worry about that.
*****
Two hours laterSam was sprawled on the couch, as comfortably as his injured knee would allow.
Josh was flipping through the channels, trying to find something to watch, then automatically stopping on CNN as nothing else held his interest.
"Do you really think it's wise to stay here alone?" Josh asked. "My offer that you use my spare bedroom still stands."
"I'll manage."
"What if you fall?"
Sam shrugged. "One of the residents of the floor is a nurse," he answered.
Josh tried to smile. "And you know that because…"
"Because the man who lived on the third floor had a heart attack and she tried to help."
"I don't know my neighbors," Josh said.
Sam bit back a retort and shrugged. "I know mine. Well, some of them."
"Is she cute?"
Sam snorted. "She's a very cute grandmother," he answered.
"Grandmother? That's… old."
"She's fifty five, Josh. That's my Mom's age. I don't consider my mother old."
"Okay."
The two men stared at the TV for a while, then Josh asked, "You hungry?"
"No."
"You should eat."
"I know."
"I'll order something."
"Yeah."
Josh shot him a look, and went to the phone. Sam tuned his voice out, staring at the screen where a reporter was commenting on the latest bombing in the Middle East.
Sam began thinking about hatred, lost generations, education and hope for the future. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear Josh come back.
His friend was staring at him concernedly.
"Sam…"
Sam let out an explosive sigh. "Josh, I swear, if you ask me if I'm fine, I'm going to-"
"Did you do it on purpose?" Josh asked.
Sam stared at him. "Do what on purpose?"
"Step in front of the car."
Some detached part of Sam pointed out that he should have been more insulted by that question, that he should be busy yelling at Josh right now, instead of staring dumbly at him. He was too tired to manage anger, though. He just said, plainly, "No."
It must have sounded thoroughly unconvincing.
"Josh," Sam tried again, "It was just stupid to run in this weather. But I really didn't do it on purpose."
"You've been depressed."
It would have been pointless to deny it, so Sam nodded. "Yeah."
"You seem…"
Sam almost smiled. "Lifeless, listless, tired, sad… all of the above…"
"Yeah."
Sam suddenly realized that this was what his friend had been burning to ask him, without daring to, since the accident. Once upon a time, he would have been triumphant at having figured Josh out.
"Sam?"
"Josh… I'm doing the best I can. I'm going as fast as I can. I can't…" He stopped. To his horror, his eyes were burning. He squeezed them shut, trying to regain his composure.
Josh stood where he was, chewing on his lip.
Sam opened his eyes, sighed. "What do you want from me?"
"I don't want anything from you, I want you to get better!!" Josh exclaimed.
"You lied to me." For one breathtaking moment, Sam thought he had said that out loud. Then, he realized that he hadn't and began to breathe again. He didn't want to have that particular conversation again. "I'll be fine," he said aloud.
"Yeah…" Josh said, clearly disappointed.
"I will."
Thankfully, the delivery boy rang the bell, saving them from more platitudes.
*****
The West Wing
The next day"I don't know how to talk to him," Josh said by way of greeting, when he entered Toby's office.
There was no need to mention who 'him' was.
Toby sighed. He would have loved to dismiss Josh with a vague comment that he didn't care, but he knew no one would believe that.
With good reason.
The weeks went by, the press wasn't softening on them, they had the pressure of the re-election to deal with, and his deputy was… fading away, there was no other word for it. Why shouldn't he have been worried?
Sam didn't smile anymore, didn't chit-chat anymore, didn't say anything unless he had been asked a direct question. He wrote what was asked, but didn't try to argue cases, didn't try to do more than whatever was requested.
He seemed to be settling into depression, and that worried Toby.
Josh was busy relaying the last discussion he had had with Sam, and Toby choked on his coffee.
"You asked him what?" he yelled.
"It's not such an unreasonable question, Toby!"
"Yes, yes it is!"
"He's been depressed!"
"So have we all!"
"More depressed than – "
"Josh!"
There was a short silence, then Toby asked, "What did he say?"
"That he hadn't."
"And…"
"It wasn't convincing."
"He's tired, Josh, of course he wasn't going to be… you know…"
"Yeah."
"Do you think he did it on purpose?"
Josh hesitated, then reluctantly said, "No. I wondered, but… no, I don't think he's there yet."
Toby nodded.
"What do we do?"
"I don't know."
"What can I say to him?"
"I don't know," Toby told Josh. "I think we should think about it."
*****
Three weeks later"One more time."
Sam groaned. "No."
"Sam, one more time," she repeated, her tone firm.
He sighed, braced himself for the pain that would accompany the movement, and flexed his knee. He gritted his teeth. Damn, but that hurt.
"You okay?" his physical therapist asked when his leg was stretched again.
"No," he snapped.
She looked at him sympathetically. "I know it hurts, but if you don't follow - "
"I'll limp for the rest of my life, yes. Right now, I don't care about the rest of my life," he answered.
She seemed unsure of how to respond, and he shot her a shaky smile. "Sorry," he said. "I'm just tired."
And depressed, but he didn't want to add that.
And there was this other feeling, nagging at the back of his mind. He couldn't quite place it.
The last weeks had been hell. On top of the Prolonged Torture, as he had soon taken to calling it, his professional life hadn't brightened in the slightest. Subpoenas were issued, his writing felt flat, even though Toby hadn't said anything about it (yet), he was saddled with pointless assignments and he had noticed that his visits to the Oval Office were becoming few and far between. He was wondering if his colleagues wanted to fire him, or if he was just being given time to deal with… everything.
Either way, he felt guilty – it meant that he had been… less than professional. It meant he had let his feelings of resentment show.
None of which explained that nagging feeling he still had.
Toby was concerned, and Sam felt moved by that. His boss wasn't known for letting people get close, and the fact that he let Sam see how worried he was spoke volumes.
Josh… Josh hadn't said much since the day he had asked Sam if he had tried to kill himself. He had stopped trying to pressure Sam into talking, he had let him be, and Sam knew he should have felt relieved, but he merely felt… abandoned, somehow, as if his friend has stopped hoping for better days.
Sam sat up and let the nurse help him up on his crutches.
It was only an hour later, as he was stumbling home, that Sam finally understood what that nameless feeling was. He paused to think about it.
He was angry.
He had become unused to this feeling, and took a moment to contemplate it.
There was no denying it – he was angry.
Trying to pinpoint a target for his anger, he reached the conclusion that he was angry at the driver. Who had hit him with his car, and probably hadn't even slowed down.
Who could just as easily have killed him, or definitely maimed him.
Who, as it was, was responsible for the long hours of re-education he had to suffer through.
Once upon a time, Sam reflected, he would have tried to work his way through the anger quickly. Now, however, he took his time to savor it a little. It was such a nice change, to not feel dumb all over.
He liked that feeling, he realized.
And for some reason, this made him feel better.
End part 3