Title: Bipartisanship
Author: ScarlettMithruiel
Rating: PG-13
Classification: R Sam/Ainsley
Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to Aaron Sorkin and all related parties. Oh, and the song is from Singing in the Rain, which belongs to MGM and all of its companies. Chapter title is from a song from Fame. So I'm pretty much borrowing from everyone.
Summary: Sam tries to decide whether or not he should go after Ainsley, the presidency, and a shot at happiness.
Author's Note: I'm on a roll this weekend. Two chapters! I hope you enjoy. Any characterization mistakes, I apologize. And definitely fluffish in nature.
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Sam Seaborn wasn't the type to get nervous. When he first took his Bar (and passed with flying colors, might his ego add), he wasn't nervous. He was tired. He had stayed up the entire night to review everything, absolutely everything they had done, and he felt sleepy…but prepared. As a child, he was never nervous. In fact, several classmates of his remembered him as arrogant. But now, Sam Seaborn realized with astounding mental clarity, that he was practically shaking in his black shoes. He felt a hand touch his shoulder. "You ready, Sam?" His throat felt dry, but he nodded. "You'll do fine."
What his friend didn't realize was that he was not nervous from the speech. He had given speeches before. He was used to the large audiences. They didn't faze him. What made him nervous was the dead weight in his right pants pocket. A very small black velvet box was causing his brain to beat at twice its normal rate.
His mind was reeling. Never before had he felt that his life was moving at such a high speed. He liked to think that he was in control of his life, that he made the decisions that affected it, when in fact, it was the other way around. His life controlled him. He sighed and shut his eyes a second. CJ's voice rang out making his temples pulsate with pain. "You all right, Sam?"
"Yeah," he rasped out softly. "I'll be fine." He felt his head pulsate again with the pain of his own words. In an hour, you'll give your very first campaign speech. And an hour after that, you'll stereotypically be on one knee, proposing marriage. His mind taunted him. He wasn't stupid. He knew the frailty of human life. Especially after what had happened at Rosslyn.
His eyes turned their gaze down at his own hands. At my notecards, he thought with astounding willpower. Perhaps if he said that he was merely observing the off-white bleached color of the notecards, he could convince himself of its truth. Honestly, he was merely observing his hands, and the quaking motion they were exercising. He had memorized his speech the night before. Perhaps if he ran through it in his head, it would help clear his mind. Ainsley, you know that…not that speech, dammit! He took a deep breath. I thank the people of Kutztown graciously for allowing me to speak here. My name is Sam Seaborn and I'm running for President. Residing in such an agricultural area, you might believe that I will take the money and return it to the metropolises and try to urbanize areas. This is inaccurate, when you consider the statistic that we rely on farms everyday for vegetative sustenance, but more and more farms are foreclosing every day. He took another breath and released it a few seconds later. Yes, that was much better.
He stared at he writing on the notecards. If he sent this to Quantico, surely they'd be able to analyze every aspect of him, psychologically speaking. They could tell that he buried himself in his work after the discovery of his father's mistress from the large loops. They could read that he was determined and he could be obstinate from the direction the dots of the Is were. He smiled faintly, but it died almost immediately after touching his lips.
The movement of the bus shook him out of his current reverie, and sent him whirling onto another train of thought. What would he do if he was elected? He had often sensed the President was under too much stress. Forget the four hundred thousand dollar salary. The amount of gray hairs each incumbent President gained while in office told of the horrors. Was he too nice of a guy for the job? Could he decide whether to send soldiers to Tijuana to rescue American citizens that there was no hope for? Could he abandon all hope in such hopeless situations? Did he even have the mettle to sit in the Situation Room and deliberate on scenarios that favored one life over another? What if the situation relied on time? Could he make a decision at the snap of a finger? He doubted himself. Was this too large a responsibility for him?
You're a Leo. His inner voice screeched out. What did that have to do with anything? A horoscope read to him quite a few years ago rang back out at him. Leos enjoy partaking in challenges. They often envelop themselves in shrouds of thoughts of invincibility, often hiding their vulnerability.
"Sam." Will Bailey's voice shook him out his thoughts. He stared down at his notecards again. It was becoming a nervous habit. His mind replayed the happenings of last night. It was so trivial. Three writers, holed up in one office, legal pads skewn everywhere, with a wastebasket overflowing with crumpled paper. They were all perfectionists. Arguments had filtered the air that night. Arguments ensued over the use of the word "spectacular," and other inane matters in the vernacular prose. "They're going to give you a ten-second intro, and then you're going to go up and deliver your speech, all right?" He nodded.
His ears heard the voice of the announcer, but his mind barely registered it. You're going to propose! You're going to propose! It rang out in his head repeatedly and shrilly, like a siren of some sort. Upon the announcement of his name and applause to some degree, he stepped up onto the platform and began to deliver his speech.
It was no lie, Sam Seaborn was definitely articulate. He always had been. Ever since his junior year of high school, when SAT fear had ravaged his brain, he had retained every fifty-cent word he had to memorize for that horrid test. But that test had gotten him accepted into one of the best schools in the country, and from there, to Gage Whitney, and on to the White House. He couldn't say he didn't appreciate the work it did for his career. "And with that, ladies and gentlemen, I have to say: e pluribus unum. Out of many, one. For we must adopt one person to represent the nation's wishes, we must adopt one train of thought, one method of action. Out of numerous streams of consciousness, we must form one coherent thought. Thank you." The other occupants of the room exploded the room with applause. He stepped back from the platform and was greeted with grins from his friends.
"You killed tonight, Sam. You did great."
"Thanks," he replied, his mind distracted. "Where's Ainsley?" He considered loosening the knot of his tie, but decided against it. He could breathe. If he convinced himself, he would.
"In your dressing room, Romeo." The tone dripped with an emotion. He couldn't place it. It wasn't disdain. It wasn't hatred. He felt there was a sprinkle of sarcasm, but now was not the time to analyze the different tones of someone's voice and the emotional undertones it carried. He took medium strides and opened his dressing room and was immediately surprised at the almost light-speed appearance of Ainsley in his arms. She seemed to have catapulted into his arms.
"You did great tonight, Sam," she said, kissing him. "If they don't vote for you, then they're idiots."
"Isn't that what the Electoral College is for? You got to thank the founding fathers for having back-up plans." He flashed a grin to go with his seemingly lighthearted sentence, but he felt that it fell short.
"Sam, back then, only the wealthy were truly literate. It's almost like Animal Farm where the other animals have to rely on the pigs and the dogs to make the decisions for them. That's what they wanted to avoid."
"Ainsley, George Orwell was born centuries after the Founding Fathers adopted the whole Electoral College system."
"I'm just saying there's truth there."
"Ainsley…" He shook his head in disbelief. He kissed her again and her senses became quite keen to the unique scent of him and the feel of his arms around her. "I love you. You know that, right?"
"Of course I do," she replied. She was taken aback when he reached for her hand and spun her.
"Dance with me," he whispered, and she obliged him. He placed his lips by her ear and began to sing softly. It was intriguing. Beguiling. Her vocabulary supplied her with words that didn't seem to fit. "Life was a song. You came along. I lay awake the whole night through. If I but dared to think you cared, this is what I'd say to you. You were meant for me, and I was meant for you. Nature patterned you and when she was done, you were all the sweet things rolled up in one." He spun her again and when she had finished her 360-degree turn, he was on his knee. Her breath caught in her throat and she found it difficult to breathe.
He was on one knee with a black velvet box cracked open. He gazed at her, his usually intense gaze accented by his cobalt irises toned down to a light, searching look. Her thoughts were everywhere. Her eyes flitted down to the ring. It was spectacular. It was a gold band, with two small sapphires set by a large diamond in the center. Not too large, as to be gaudy, but tastefully large, cut well.
"Ainsley, I'm so frazzled with nervous energy that I can't even form a coherent sentence, much less an eloquent one. What I'm trying to communicate is…um…will you be mine…matrimonially?" She breathed out a short, nervous laugh, as her eyes welled with tears.
"Yes," she said, softly. "Will you…put the ring on me?" Her voice was quavering and she was unsure of herself at the moment. She either felt like throwing up from the anxiety she felt or jumping his bones from the happiness she felt.
He pulled the ring gently out of its box. Just then, a celebratory Josh burst into the dressing room, at the moment Sam was beginning to slide it on her finger. "Hey, Sam! Everyone's—Oh my God!" Sam's cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment but he finished sliding it onto her finger. It rested beautifully on her left ring finger.
"Josh, you might want to leave now," Ainsley warned.
"Yeah." He pulled his head out of the space it had recently occupied and shut the door with a soft click. She kissed him fiercely and passionately, gently biting on his bottom lip. He groaned into her mouth, before pulling away.
"So where do you want to go for the honeymoon?"
She chuckled softly. "One-track mind," she smiled. "Why don't we work on getting the wedding planned first?"
"Sounds good," he replied, moving in to claim her lips again. She pulled away and rested her forehead against his.
"You know what this means though, right?" she asked.
"What?"
"You're definitely going to have to meet my parents."
"Let's not talk about this now," he said, kissing her again.
"When's a better time to talk about it?"
"I think the best time to talk about it would be when I'm in a state of inebriation." And he leaned in to kiss her again, his heart soaring with happiness.
