Bipartisanship
Author: ScarlettMithruiel
Rating: Maybe R this chapter?
Classification: R Sam/Ainsley
Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to Aaron Sorkin (the creator), Thomas Schlamme, and John Wells (who is currently causing the avalanche that is West Wing now, but we won't get into that).
Summary: Sam tries to decide whether or not he should go after Ainsley, the presidency, and a shot at happiness.
Author's Note: Again, I hope they're in canon. Here's the fifth chapter. I hope they're in character. Thanks to all reviewers for reviewing.
The morning light streamed through the window, the blinds shielding them from its glare. It was only six-thirty in the morning, but to this pair, it was late. It would have been the average taxpayer's equivalent of sleeping until nine. Their work hours were a bit constant. They usually reported in early and left the next morning. It was a process that tired them to their cores. When things were stressful, people were on edge, coffee cups littered desks, and Donna was fired at least fifteen times, to which she routinely replied, "Impervious." It was a routine they were often stuck in, like a skipping record.
It was a beautiful scene. They were both asleep and her head was resting on his chest, blonde hair splayed out everywhere, and an arm thrown around his waist. He was snoring softly, which was a method to tell if Sam was extremely tired or drunk. If a stranger stumbled upon them and they knew that information, their guess would certainly not be that he was drunk. At around seven, Ainsley awoke to running water. She ran a hand through her messy hair and sat up in bed. She smiled a lazy smile as she untangled her legs from the sheets that still smelled of them.
She blushed and felt herself warm from her head to her toes as she remembered some of the things that happened last night. She remembered the feel of his lips on her collarbone. She remembered the taste of his skin. She remembered his scent, enveloping her to the point of suffocation. She remembered the feel of his girth. As she contemplated the words, she blushed at them. He walked out then, wearing a towel, slight steam billowing from the bathroom. "Good morning, beautiful," he said, in a soft voice. "How'd you sleep?" He grinned.
"You men," she said. "Always asking to be graded and then angry when you see all the red pen." She got up from the bed and he walked over and pushed her gently back on the bed.
"You know, that's something I would have expected CJ to say."
"Let me up, Sam. Do you have a muffin?" He shook his head. "Cereal?" Again, he shook his head. "Anything?" He told her that he had beer and that he usually picked stuff up on his way to work or he stole some fruit from Josh. "I'm going to go take a shower and then we're going to go to work."
"Why?"
"Simply because I'm hungry." On her way to the bathroom, she picked up her cell phone, flipped it open and spoke, "Dad? Yeah, Sam had his way with me yesterday night and now he won't feed me. Yeah. Love you too. Bye." He looked at her and she smiled.
"You know, that's getting creepy." She headed into the bathroom and closed the door. As he heard the water running, he scrounged his kitchen for food. Finally deciding that perhaps he should feed his Ainsley…My Ainsley. I like the sound of that. …so he quickly scribbled down a note, dressed, and headed out.
After Ainsley popped out of the shower, she dressed quickly and towel-dried her hair. She searched the apartment for Sam, but to no avail. She found a slip of paper taped to the door. She walked up and read the message: Ainsley, wouldn't want your dad to hate me before he got a chance to know me and have a reason to hate me. Gone out to get you a pound of bagels and Danishes and coffee. –Sam. She smiled.
He returned a few minutes after she got out of the shower and held the bag up, showing its obvious grease stains. She smiled and held out a hand. "Surprise me," she said, closing her eyes. He reached out and brought her hand up to his lips. She opened her one eye and then shut it again, shaking her hand free from his grasp. "Surprise me again." He fished out a muffin and placed it on her hand. She opened her eyes, unwrapped it, and bit into it. She gave a moan of pleasure. He stared at her and she could feel the heat of his gaze.
"I'm going start getting you muffins more often," he said. He pulled her into his embrace and carried her off into the bedroom. The poor muffin lay on the table, forgotten temporarily. When they emerged again, dressed and equipped with a post-coital glow, they had a meaningful conversation, spooning on his sofa.
"Sam, what do you want out of your life?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Before you say anything, I mean really want out of your life. Not career goals or anything…just what you personally want out of your life." She was holding his hand and softly rubbing slow circles on the back of his hand.
"I…" he started, his voice husky with emotion. "I want a house, a large house for every person I consider family or friend. I'd like children. It's not a necessity, but it'd certainly be an experience." His eyes glazed over with an unrecognizable emotion. She watched his eyes. She loved his eyes. They entranced her whenever she looked in them. Those deep, mahogany pools clutched her soul and told her things that she knew he'd probably never tell her. She loved how, if he loved something, his eyes would sparkle with excitement, and how, if he was determined, they would steel over with a stubborn will to get things done. "Naïve and idealistic as it may be, I want love. Real, honest-to-goodness…"
She stopped and looked at him, a grin splotched on her face. "'Honest-to-goodness?'" she repeats.
"Shut up. I'm in the middle of a cliché, idealistic, perhaps even longeur speech about love here."
She smiles at him, feeling giddy. "Sorry to interrupt."
Feeling like following their usual detour, he replies with the usual, "It's fine. Your Republican genealogy explains everything." She feels like it's time to go off on a tangent, a particularly fun one she's in the mood for. She stands up, sporting one of his dress-shirts, with the top three buttons unbuttoned, and starts speaking.
"You know, Sam, not all of my ancestors were Republican. When my great-great-great-something-or-other Agnes came over on the Puritan boat to religious freedom, I'm pretty sure she wasn't thinking, 'Let's try to weasel this bill away from the Democrats.'" As she continues, the words seem to filter in and out of his ears, and as she drawls out the rant, he can't help but wonder how she breathes. Maybe she breathes through her skin, like an amphibian. His other voice argued that she wasn't an amphibian. Rather, she was a human being. Maybe she picked up the habit somewhere. "And you know what? Some of the Founding Fathers didn't want political teams either! My ancestors were not all political either. Just ask my great-aunt Elise. She thinks that both parties are stupid. We have this fight at Thanksgiving and Christmas every year. My father and my great-aunt fight every year about this. She's eighty-years-old and she's still debating like she was when she was…" He puts a finger on her lips to stop her. He knows that if he doesn't take this precautionary measure to preclude her speech, she'll continue on until next Tuesday. Quite literally.
"If I may continue?" She gestures to let him know he may, as she lies back down on the couch, snuggling close to him. "Ahem. I want to find someone who loves me as deeply and passionately as I love them. I want to find someone who knows me to my soul, just as I know her. I want someone who knows when to be serious with me, when to be playful with me, and know that sometimes my job takes precedence over my relationship…" He sighs heavily. "'Keep your expectations low and the fall won't be so hard.' That's such a practical saying. Why don't I ever find myself following its advice?" She looks at him and she can feel her tear ducts creating the droplets of liquid already, but she blinks them back and she can feel her retina recoil with its wetness. She wants to scream at him, "It's right in front of you!" but opts to kiss him instead. She doesn't want a relationship like the ones in her past. She wants a special one and damn it all to hell if she makes a fool of herself by deifying a relationship that turns out to be bad. So she keeps the four-letter word locked in her heart, waiting for him apprehensively.
He, though surprised, welcomes the kiss and savors its saccharine sweetness. He loves the lingering taste of her and scent of her. It's so unique. It's so Republican. He realizes that one day he will have to give up his Republican jokes and listen to the quips the other staffers make about them, but for now, it's acceptable. For now, he can. For now, it's them. He replays the scene in his mind, the memory fresh. As his laryngeal cords vibrated against themselves, as the words flowed out of his mouth fluidly, he realized he was only talking about one person. The one person he's wanted for so long, the one person his soul, and not just his body, has ached for. He watches her and, using his index finger, guides her face over closer to him, where he kisses her on the forehead.
They both want each other, they need each other, and, although they won't admit it prematurely for the sake of jinxing it, they both love each other. As her slender fingers grope around on the coffee table for the remote, he smiles. She flicks on the television and as the screen clears, it's C-Span. He knows what's coming next. He knows they'll debate over the issue that C-Span is showing today. That's what makes them so special. This tradition, this relationship…it's beyond the parameters of the White House, it's beyond the Senior Staff, it's beyond the Oval Office, and even the President. It's…just them.
