PART FOUR Two weeks later

Sam saw Josh waiting in front of his door, and sighed.

He wasn't in the mood to talk.

"Hey," Josh said.

Sam nodded briskly, and moved to open the door. He fumbled with his keys, still holding on to the crutches.

After a while, Josh took his keys and opened the door. Sam limped past him, eyes fixed on the floor.

He made it to the couch after what felt like a few hours of struggling, letting Josh close the door behind them. He collapsed on the couch, and finally made eye contact with his friend.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Want something to drink?"

"No. Help yourself, though."

Josh went to the kitchen, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts. "You lied to me." What did Josh want, he wondered.

Josh came back, handed him a drink.

"I told you I didn't want – "

Josh cut him off. "Yeah, well…"

Sam snorted, took a sip from the glass, and watched Josh as he made a quick inventory of his place.

"You didn't trash it again, did you?" Josh said.

There was something in his friend's satisfied tone that grated on Sam's nerves. "No," he said, controlling his voice very carefully.

"That's… good."

Sam remembered the night of The Announcement, Josh pounding on his door, calling his name, and him, drinking from the bottle, sitting on the floor of his trashed living room. God, what a cliché that night had been, he thought.

"What?" Josh asked, as Sam smiled.

"Just thinking… Nothing interesting."

"Okay."

There was a silence, and for a moment, Sam sorely missed the time when he and Josh could stay silent without it being uncomfortable.

"How long are you going to be mad at me?" Josh asked.

The question surprised Sam with its directness. He grabbed his glass, squeezed it. It broke in his hand, the sharp pain making him react at last.

"I'm not mad," he said, his tone thoroughly unconvincing.

Josh stared at his hand, then his face. "Sam…"

"Josh, it's fine, really."

Then Sam realized that Josh was staring at the blood dripping from his hand. Before he could move, or say anything, Josh spun on his heels and rushed to the bathroom, coming back with a towel a few moments later. "I'm fine," Sam said, wrapping the towel around his hand. 

"Yeah, right, now, how about the truth?" The answer had been automatic, and Josh looked concernedly at Sam's hand.

"You lied to me."

"It's fine," Sam said. He had spent quite a lot of time feeling angry, recently – he was trying not to show it, was trying not to indulge in it, but he did consider it a progress from the depression he had felt, and still felt.

"No, it's really not fine," Josh said. "Obviously. I want to know because… Sam, you're not even there with us. You're… I don't know where you are. Somewhere behind, I guess."

Yes, Sam thought. Behind… That night, when Leo had brought him home, and Josh had come, and had promised him…  "You lied to me."

"Damnit, Sam, I told you, it wasn't my place to say - "

"I'm not talking about the MS," Sam yelled. "I'm… You promised, Josh. You promised that nothing would happen to the family I had here, and look at us now!!! You promised."

Sam saw the moment it dawned on his friend. The moment when he finally understood what was wrong. "It wasn't my fault," Josh protested.

"I trusted you," Sam said. "And I know it wasn't your fault, but, shit, Josh, I trusted you, and you had no right to make promises you couldn't keep."

"You're actually mad at me for that?" Josh asked.

"You stopped talking to me," Sam said. "You… you said you'd be there, we'd all be there for each other, but you were the first one to avoid me."

"Sam…"

"Get out," he said, his anger spent.

"Sam…"

"I'm tired, my knee hurts like hell, and I'm… tired." So very tired he could lie right down on the ground and fall asleep there.

"Look…" Josh tried again.

"Get out," Sam said again, his tone pleading.

"Your hand…"

"I'll deal with it. Leave, please."

Josh nodded, got up. A few times, on his way to the door, he looked about to stop, but seemed to decide to drop it.

When he heard the door close behind his friend, Sam breathed in, and out. He stared at his hand, the towel red with blood.

He didn't have the strength to make it to the ER, not tonight.

Sighing, he took the phone, and called his neighbor.

*****

The West Wing

The next day

"So?" Toby said, as he entered Josh's office.

"So what?"

Toby rolled his eyes, his patience running out already. He took a breath. Antagonizing Josh would be a bad move. "Did you talk to him?" he asked, trying to control his voice.

"I… Kind of."

"Kind of?" Toby repeated.

"Yes."

"How do you 'kind of' talk to someone?"

"Look, Toby…"

"Josh, so help me God, if the next words out of your mouth are 'It's none of your business',…" Toby let the threat hang in the air between them. After all the times Josh had come to him, complaining that he didn't know how to talk to Sam, Toby wasn't going to let him evade his questions.

Josh sighed. "I talked, and… I don't really think anything got resolved," he admitted.

"Do you think he's going to resign?" Toby asked, praying for Josh to say "no".

"I don't know."

Damn, Toby thought.

The two men stayed silent for a moment, then Josh offered, "I don't think so. He's had a bad year, that's all…"

"We all had a bad year," Toby said automatically. Then he wondered when it had become the justification they used to explain Sam's behavior – in meetings, in informal gatherings, each time they noticed that Sam had changed.

He had a bad year, yes, but when did we stop trying to do something about it, Toby wondered. Did we ever try to do something? Or did we just assume it would pass?

"He lost more than we did, Toby," Josh was saying.

"I'm well aware of that," he snapped. "But, come on, he's a grown man."

"Who lost his family."

"Yeah," Toby said, not even trying to deny it.

"And the respect he had for his job," Josh added.

"Yeah."

"And… you know…"

"Yeah."

There was another heavy silence, then Toby asked, "And what do we do about it?"

The silence that followed that question wasn't filled by an answer.

*****

Two weeks later

The White House

"I hate this," Sam grumbled when he entered the room, CJ walking next to him.

"You love this," she corrected. So sure of herself.

And she was right.

"Okay, but I don't love these… things," he spat, looking down at his crutches.

"That, I can believe."

He rolled his eyes, still struggling to move forward, and almost fell down. He felt a hand on his arm, helping him to hold his balance, and he turned slightly to see Lord Marbury standing next to him.

"All right?" Marbury asked.

"Yes, thank you," Sam said, nodding formally.

"Must be pretty hard to associate these dreadful things with a tuxedo," the diplomat observed pleasantly.

"Especially when you're a klutz," CJ muttered under her breath.

Sam shot her a dire look, this time keeping in mind that he had to stop moving to do this. Then he made his way through the crowd, CJ still watching over him, Lord Marbury chatting with him.

"I * hate * these things," Sam thought again, just as the first notes of Hail to the Chief rang in the ballroom.

*****

Three hours later, Sam still hated these things with a passion. He was now standing next to the bar, trying to juggle his drink, his crutches and a conversation with a very annoying freshman congressman who – sweet irony – wanted to talk Sam into supporting a bill proposing harder penalties for drunk drivers.

"I mean, just * look * at you," the oblivious congressman gestured at Sam. "Who did that to you?"

Marbury, who had heard the last comment, made his way to them, just as Sam mumbled, "I didn't exactly have the time to ask for his ID, congressman."

"Such a shame…" the congressman said.

Before Sam could ask if it was a shame that he had been hit or that he hadn't asked to see a driver's license, Marbury jumped into the conversation. "We can all agree on that," he said. "And now, congressman, if you'll excuse us, I need to talk to Mister Seaborn for a while."

The congressman took his leave and Sam looked worriedly to Marbury. "What can I do for you, ambassador?" he asked politely, praying that there was no international crisis looming on the horizon.

*****

One hour later, Sam was ready to beg for a little quiet. The discussion with Lord Marbury had been pleasant enough – the man had merely wanted to rescue him from the annoying congressman, and tell him that he hoped Sam was doing better. Then, Marbury had had to go greet dignitaries, and Sam had been left on his own – which countless people had interpreted as an invitation to annoy him, apparently.

Sam was bored, his knee hurt, his arms were beginning to show signs of fatigue from the long time he had had to lean on them, and his temples were pulsing faintly with each heartbeat, promising a horrible migraine soon. He just hoped he'd be home before the headache truly struck.

He slipped out of the room and took a few breaths of the cool air.

He heard a zippo behind him and started, turning to see the President, leaning against the wall, holding a cigarette – a living picture of exhaustion. 

He fleetingly wondered how hard the man had to fight, every day, to keep his façade of control, efficacy, when every detail of his life was plastered in the newspapers.

He didn't want to think about what it felt like.

"Sir," he said, preparing to leave the man alone.

"Sam," the president greeted. "Stay," he said. "These evenings are pretty… tiresome."

Sam smiled weakly.

"How are you?" the President asked.

"I'm fine." He bit back the "What about you?" that had been on his lips. "Thank you, sir," he said instead.

The President inhaled some smoke, his eyes half closed. Both men watched the smoke evaporating in the air, then Bartlet said, "Toby and Josh are worried about you."

"I know," Sam said.

He would have had to be blind to miss the sideway glances, the whispers, the quiet conversations they had – between them, with him, between them again.

He didn't know what they were looking for. He didn't know what to do to reassure them.

"They're scared we're going to lose you," Bartlet elaborated.

"Oh," Sam said.

"So am I."

"Sir?"

"I've tried to let them deal with it, tried to tell myself that you'd come around, but I need to know… Are you going to resign, Sam?"

He couldn't pretend the idea hadn't crossed his mind.

He couldn't pretend he hadn't typed a few letters of resignation, couldn't pretend he wasn't looking at the job offers differently than he had six months ago.

Couldn't pretend he wasn't tempted to just go away.

"I should have apologized," Bartlet said, without waiting for an answer.

"You did."

"Nah, we both know that I skirted around it."

Sam didn't answer. What could he say? He was right. Maybe it was that, more than the lie, that had hurt him.

Bartlet could be an arrogant, self centered, son of a bitch. Sam had discovered that during the campaign, and had stayed only because Josh had faith in this man, and because he could see glimpses of something else behind the jackass exterior – a sincere desire to help people, a sincerity he had looked for, and failed to find, for two years, before he gave up on Washington and chose corporate law.

The honesty the man displayed was what had drawn Sam to him. So, yes, learning that he had bet his life on a lie had hurt, especially after… After.

And Bartlet saying that he had had the right to manipulate them… that had hurt even more, in its own way.

"Sam?" Bartlet said.  "I'm sorry." Sam raised his eyes to meet Bartlet's.  "I'm sorry I lied to you. And to Toby, for different reasons, and to Josh, for yet other reasons, and to CJ, and Leo. And the people. And maybe you're right, maybe we still would have won, but that's not certain.  And I don't regret being elected. I don't regret that you got me elected, all of you. I do believe that we've made this country better."

Sam nodded, his mind elsewhere.

Had it been worth the price they had paid?

Had it been worth his trust?

Had it been worth his friendship with Josh?

Had it been worth the heartache?

Thinking back on the few victories they had had, he thought so.

"God knows you're entitled to be angry, Sam. I wanted to give you time, but I'd like to know… Are we… Am I, going to lose you, Sam?"

Sam looked at him. "We could do better, sir," he said.

"Undoubtedly," Bartlet said, a small smile on his lips.

"I'd like… I'd like to be in the room, the day we'll have done, not only good, but really great." That would be worth the price, he felt.

Bartlet closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "That's your choice," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"I need you. It's probably not fair to you, and if I really wanted what's best for you, I'd fire your ass so you could run for yourself, but… I need you. All of you, of course, but you…"

Sam swallowed. "Thank you, sir," he said.

Bartlet nodded, and they fell silent, watching the stars.

End part 4