See Part 1 for Disclaimer

Rating:PG

Author's Notes: Okay, guys, here it is: self-indulgent romantic drivel, as promised. I couldn't help it. I had to. I think Sandy is my favorite of my originals; I had to make him happy. And yes, I know the names Darrah and Norah are extremely similar, but that's what they wanted to be called, you know? Also, a note on Josh calling the President 'Sam.' My feeling on the issue is, when Josh is extremely annoyed or extremely earnest, and the two of them are basically in private, I think he would call the President 'Sam.' That's just what I think, anyway. Per requests, Sam pops up in the next bit. If you stick with me, more of our favorite first generation WWers will appear in the next bits.

Also, I need some input from you guys: If each of the original WWers had a favorite American author, who would it be?

Thanks!

BTW, I am now posting on as well, under slimwhistler.

Feedback: Need I say it? Yes, please. I have a Philosophy midterm which I'm dreading, and feedback would make it all better!

I grab his lucky red bandanna and tie it, in a manly way, of course, over his head. This, along with faded cargo shorts and a paint-spattered white t-shirt, constitutes his painting gear. He finished the sketches last week; they've already been matted, framed, and hung in preparation for the auction. They already had a little blurb on the auction in the local paper. So now he's doing the mural, and I can't help but sneak glances at him as he works; my guy is just too darn cute.

"Girl, do I pay you to lollygag about and ogle that beatnik of yours all day?

At the beginning of the summer, such a remark from Miss Tildy would have had me stammering apologies, but now I just turn to her and grin, because, as everyone who comes in contact with Miss Tildy eventually realizes, her bark is belied by the ever-present twinkle in her eye. "No, Ma'am, but if you would, I'm sure we'd both be grateful," I reply saucily.

"Humph. Get on with you, you crazy child."

I look at Sandy, who's just about to bust at the seams, he's holding in laughter so hard. Miss Tildy fixes him with a piercing stare and says, "You're having an unfortunate effect on that girl, you know, boy? If she weren't so happy, and you weren't painting my wall, I'd chase you out of here with a broom. So you just watch yourself, beatnik, you hear?"

He gives a mock salute, and cheerfully goes back to his painting. Shaking my head at a smug Miss Tildy, I hurry towards the stockroom.

I stretch my arms above my head, surveying my accomplishments of the day, when I hear a slight murmur below me, one that includes "ETA." ETA? That can only mean...

"Well, hello there, Samuel Junior!"

Looking around, I notice that the store has quickly emptied. Holy shit.

"Mr. President!"

He glares at me. "Have we not had this conversation before, Junior? If my godson can't call me Sam, who the hell can?"

"Well, you aren't earning yourself any favors with that Junior business, there, sir."

"Would you prefer 'Sam I Am'?" He's grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Only if you want me to, you know, kick your ass!" I mouth that last bit, because as much as I hate to admit it, I think the Secret Service could probably take me.

"Enough of that. Get down here, kid."

I grin and clamber down the ladder, jumping the last few steps. He rolls his eyes at me, but nevertheless decides to envelop me in a bear hug the likes of which only Sam can give. "Hey, Sam? You're kinda choking me, here."

"I only wish I could do that to your father," he mutters.

My question about Dad flies out of my head when I notice Miss Tildy staring at us in an advanced degree of astonishment. With Miss Tildy, that's a rare sight, indeed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Tildy. Here, let me introduce you. This is my godfather, Sam Seaborne. Sam, this is Miss Matilda Wilcott."

Sam treats her to his most charming smile and a display of his disgustingly impeccable manners. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilcott.

"And you, sir." In true Miss-Tildyish fashion, she quickly recovers her equanimity. "Samuel," she says, turning to me, "would you mind explaining why exactly there is an internationally recognizable politician, as well as a fleet of men with guns, loitering in my bookstore at four o-clock on a Tuesday afternoon?"

After a brief look at Sam, who is struggling to control his mirth, I begin: "Well, like I said..."

"SAM!!!!!" I know that bellow. I know it very well. Its source strides hurriedly into view, as rumpled and frazzled as always.

"Sam, you had them lose the way on purpose!" Dad sputters indignantly.

"I did." Sam smirks gleefully. I just wanted to surprise my godson without you barging in and ruining everything."

"Hey, I'm stealthy!"

"No, Josh."

"I am!"

"No, Josh, you're really not!"

"But..."

"JOSH!!!"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Now then," Sam continues pleasantly. "You've just interrupted an enjoyable conversation that..."

"Oh, who gives a...OWWWW!"

Sam just stepped oh his foot. "Geez, Mr. President!"

"Behave with some dignity, would you, Josh?"

I've been deriving a great deal of amusement from these proceedings. So, from the look of it, has Miss Tildy, although if I know her, Dad's in for some punishment.

"I just wanna see my kid, Sam!" he whines.

"Um, Josh? He's standing right there."

Dad turns, and brightens immediately. "Hey, kid," he says, flashing his dimples. "C'mere." He opens his arms, and I give him a hug. "You look good, Sandman. A little on the Willie Nelson side, or something, but good."

"Willie Nelson, Dad? And didn't we stop with the 'Sandman' when I was like, I don't know, six?"

"Whatcha gonna do about it? Sue me? I happen to have very good connections," he says smugly.

"I'll say," I scoff.

"Hey, guys?" Sam. "There are some others in the immediate vicinity who are feeling rather left out, here. Besides, you know, me, because what do I matter, there happens to be a very charming lady here who appears to be itching to say something."

"Samuel, dear, I take it this is your father?" she asks, indicating Dad.

"That's right, Miss Tildy, my father. Josh Lyman." She's studying me intently. "Why?" I ask, feeling a bit unnerved.

"Oh, nothing, dear. I was just reflecting that you must take after your mother."

"And why is that?" This, somewhat hotly, from Dad.

"Because it appears he hasn't inherited your boorish manners, Mr. Lyman."

Dad's standing there, stunned, as Sam and I laugh our heads off at him.

"Don't worry, Josh," Sam soothes, patting him on the back. "I know it's a shock, but you'll get used to it. We all knew you'd reach the realization someday. I really should call Donna, though," he teases, "and warn her you'll be coming home in a state of shock because the day we have all been waiting for, with bated breath, I might add, has finally arrived."

Dad scowls, and Sam laughs. "Whatever makes you happy, sir," Dad mumbles.

I grin, crossing my arms over my chest, and wait for Dad to recover. I can tell he has when he begins to pace, circling the room animatedly. "Where are the sketches?" he asks impatiently, walking past me and casually tugging my bandanna down over my eyes. "I wanna see them," he reiterates.

"Josh, you are such a child," Sam admonishes.

"They're over here, sir." I'm not sure whom Miss Tildy is addressing, but I'd bet anything it isn't Dad.

Dad doesn't pay any attention to that, though, just bounds over to the display with a breathless "Thanks" and proceeds to rock back and forth on his heels in excitement. "Hey, Mr. President, get over here and take a look at these," he announces proudly. "Damn genius."

"A little biased there, Josh?" But he's smiling.

"Who, me? Never."

Miss Tildy is finally smiling at him; Darrah says that good parenting unfailingly reduces her to mush, and I guess she's right. "It appears you have redeeming qualities, Mr. Lyman."

"Huh?"

I am interrupted in my mocking preparations by Sam, who says, "Sandy, I'll personally top the winning bet by a thousand bucks for this Ben Franklin one."

I choke. "Are you serious, Sam?"

"Sure. For once, your father's right. This is damn genius."

"Well, okay, I mean, yeah su... hey! How did you guys find out about this, anyway?"

Sam grins. "I'm President, kid, in case you forgot. The intelligence agencies work for me. I was at Dover this afternoon and decided we'd take a detour on the way back."

"Well... great,"

"It'll be even greater when we slip in the purpose behind this little visit into the briefing tomorrow morning," Dad puts in smugly. "Once people find out that the President paid top dollar for one of your sketches, this'll be a whole new ballgame."

In the middle of Miss Tildy's ensuing protest, I notice a figure weaving towards me, upper body hidden beneath a pile of books. I grin. It's got to be Darrah. "Need some help there, darlin?"

"Yeah, that would be greeeeeee—"

The pile of books teeters, and lands in a scattered series of heaps right in front of Sam. Whoops. I'm so involved in realizing that I never explained the relationship between the President and myself to Darrah, that I don't notice Dad staring at me in astonishment.

Now, I know my kid. He's always been a quiet guy, at least before you get to know him well, and he's really careful about attaching himself to people, especially after Colorado. So he's not the kind of guy to casually use a term of endearment, if you know what I mean.

Hmmmmmmm...

I can't decide what's funnier, Sam's attempts to help Darrah or her agitation as she scrabbles about trying to clean up the mess around him.

"I'm so sorry, sir. This'll just take a minute. I didn't...Did anything hit you?"

"If something had", Dad remarks drily, gesturing toward the agents, "odds are, one of them would have let you know."

Darrah pales, and I glare at him. "Dad, quit it. Leave her alone."

For the first time, Darrah notices me, and her eyes widen in confusion. "Sandy?"

I smile encouragingly, if a bit uncertainly. "Yeah?"

"Did you, did you just call him Dad?"

"Who, the President? No, no, this is my dad. Josh Lyman. The Chief of Staff. Sam's just my godfather."

"Just your godfather," she repeats slowly.

"Yeah."

"Just your...oh, God. Sandy. Short for Samuel. Which would mean..." She gestures toward Sam helplessly.

"Yup. I'm named after him."

"Oh, are you now?" Uh-oh. "Well, let me inform you of your newsflash for the afternoon, Sammo: You are in for some serious trouble. Seriously."

This is fabulous. I guarantee he'll never hear the end of this.

"No banana bread for you for a week," the girl informs him.

Excuse me? Banana bread? "Excuse me, but did you just punish him by withholding, ah, banana bread?"

She turns to glare at me, hands on her hips. "Have you ever had my banana bread?" she asks pointedly. I shake my head. "Then don't mock."

I nod, them lean conspiratorially towards Sam. "I like this one," I inform him.

"Josh. I'm sure she, you know, has a name."

Good point. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have a name?"

She rolls her eyes at me. "Yes, I have a name."

"And it is?" Sam asks promptly, eagerly.

"Darrah Morgan, sir."

"Huh," I say. "Funny name."

"Thanks."

"Any time." I flash my dimples at her, to let her know I'm just messing around, but her only response is to poke Sandy in the ribs and ask him a question: "How'd you get to be such a good guy with him as your role model?"

Sandy doesn't know where to look, and Sam's laughing again. "I, uh, I plead the Fifth," he stammers.

"Damn straight, kiddo."

I think my ears might be turning red.

Yup. From the way everyone is smirking, I'd bet they're beet red.

I've never been grateful for White House staffers before, as they usually interrupt important moments in my life with the majority of those I look up to, but today I breath a sigh of relief as a woman taps Sam on the arm.

"All right. Yeah. Thanks," Sam murmurs. "Josh? We need to get back. There's a... thing. Sorry to breeze out of here in such a hurry, everyone. Job hazard. Grand to meet you all. Sandy, good to see you, kid, and congrats on everything. Darrah, I'm sure we'll see one another again. He winks, and is gone, striding down the aisle surrounded by a flurry of suits.

"Wow," Darrah utters, "that was...amazing."

"That was the President," responds Dad proudly. "He quite often is, in one form or another. Listen, kiddo," he continues earnestly, "I've gotta run, but call, okay? Your mother's been driving me crazy, fretting at me, so make her happy, would ya? You're doing good here, Sandy. Love ya."

Without waiting for a response, he turns and jogs towards the front of the store. All of a sudden he turns, pointing a finger at me, and hollers "You call, you hear me?"

I nod, he flashes a quick grin, and then he's gone.