Better Angels

by raedbard

SLASH: A perfect metaphor: the legend of Tobias Ziegler, Samuel Seaborn and Josiah Bartlet, with discourse on the subject of better angels and the lies you tell to them. A less than divine comedy.

2. Chapter 2

Title: Better Angels
Author: Raedbard
Fandom:The West Wing
Pairing: Get ready for this folks: Sam/Toby, Jed/Toby, Jed/Sam/Toby. In that order
Rating: R
Word Count: c. 6,700
Disclaimer: I don't pretend to be Aaron Sorkin or John Wells. I just like to borrow their characters and make them do morally reprehensible things to each other.
Timeline/Spoilers From pre-season 1 up to season 4. I'm going AU from S4's 'Election Night'. In this 'verse, someone other than Jed won the general election and Sam became the Congressman for the California 47th. It also assumes that Toby remembers the date of Rooker's appointment as AG (cf. 'Debate Camp') for a whole other reason than "I just do."
Summary: A perfect metaphor: the legend of Tobias Ziegler, Samuel Seaborn and Josiah Bartlet, with discourse on the subject of better angels and the lies you tell to them. A less than divine comedy.

BETTER ANGELS

ACT II

"You're a good man, you don't have to act like it."
--'Hartsfield's Landing'

On Air Force One, the plane with two galleys and a fully-functional operating theatre, there are secret rooms. A President's bedroom, despite Jed's preconceptions about the matter, is not private; he wonders if he'd maybe get more peace if he hung a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, but somehow doubts it. So he is here, where there is only the likelihood of Leo or Charlie walking in on him, rather than the whole staff. And there's Toby of course, although since he is already in the bed with him, Jed feels the ship has sailed on that particular worry. The room, the private presidential boudoir which he has, until now, only shared with Abbey, lies still and silent in the dark. There are no windows and the door disappears into the wall, leaving blank panelling both inside and out. There is a lamp, the bedside table, which pulls out of the wall and rocks disturbingly under even the lightest touch, the clock, and the bed. Jed sits up in bed, the pressure of his skull against the panelling giving him a dull headache, and tries to remain still. He listens to Toby's breathing and tries not to hear his own; he lays one hand on top of the other and crosses his ankles beneath the sheets. About two square inches of the skin of Jed's hip touches Toby's back as it curves away from him; that skin hums in the dark, singing out Jed's secrets.

These are the secrets which two people, rather than the customary seventeen, know. Jed hopes that trust ventured will be trust mended, in time, but his hope is empty, crafted from Toby's moans and the moments of his release, undermined by the dark and searching stares that Jed catches after and before; stares that make clear the extent of trust. Toby is sleeping, silent but for his breathing, which makes an uneasy music in Jed's thoughts and though he can keep his hands off the man in his bed, Jed has never been able to stop thinking. Tonight his thoughts are full of unprofessional things, like the qualities of Toby's skin and the taste of his lips, neither of which Jed can describe to his own satisfaction, and what the low sigh containing Jed's name which came from Toby's indescribable lips at the moment of his climax might mean regarding his feelings for his lover. He cannot ask, and Toby could not tell him if he did; not in words anyway. And so Jed must rely on his much-vaunted powers of observational reasoning and deduction and, so far, two and two are coming up short of four.

Jed does not sleep - the memory of his release is too close around him and Toby's body not far enough. He watches instead, inclining his head towards Toby so that his cheek and the dark line of his brow is visible. Jed has to clasp his hands tight together in order to restrain his impulses; to stop his fingers going to Toby's hair, his thumb to the line of his beard, his flat palm to Toby's naked chest. Mouth follows hand, and so on into temptation, and temptation cannot be Jed's vice tonight.

Sometime in an hour which feels more like three, Toby wakes.

"Morning," Jed says, smiling like a pro.

A long pause and a stare before Toby answers, "Morning."

"It is morning, by the way. You slept a long while there, my friend."

"What time is it?"

"Just after five. Don't worry - I think Air Force One is probably one of the few places where you guys can get a good night."

"What gave you that impression?" Toby says, sitting up in the bed and looking around him for his clothes.

"It's my plane, Toby. My rules too. Your shirt and pants are over there."

"Thanks," he says, getting out of the bed and looking, to Jed, very self-conscious about it.

"Don't you want to stay, Toby?"

"Are you sure you meant that as a question?"

"Sure - I'd like you to stay, but I'm not going to order you to."

"Really."

"Toby! We're off-duty now, I'm not giving out executive directives."

"You're never off-duty," he says, soft and low, staring at his bare feet.

"Can't you trust me, Toby?"

"I serve at the pleasure of the President," he says, and slips into his pants.

"And if I ordered you," Jed says, his own voice now low and dangerous, "To get the hell back in my bed and go down on me, what would you say, Toby?"

Toby stands, his shirt still in his hands, the small neon light of the clock-face making a red glow across his chest. His hands and his face are still, his eyes hidden in shadow.

"I think you know what I would say, sir."

"Yeah," Jed says, from his empty bed. He watches as Toby puts on his shirt and fastens his tie around his collar in a loose knot, as he slips on his shoes, untied, and makes the two steps over to the secret door.

"But you would never order me to do that," Toby says, soft and low, before he opens the door and disappears from Jed's sight.

Jed manages an hour more of sleep, removed from the secret room and back in his own bed, before Charlie wakes him.

"Oh, Charlie. It can't possibly be morning yet."

"I'm afraid it is, Mr. President."

"Are we almost home?"

"Yes, sir. We touch down in half an hour."

"Okay."

"And Toby would like to see you, sir."

"Yeah, okay."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

Charlie disappears from his sight and Jed misses his presence immediately; he would have liked some guarantee against physical harm during what will no doubt be a delightful conversation with Toby. He hears Charlie telling Toby he can go in and feels a sudden compulsion to hide under his sheets or perhaps look for a weapon of some kind. Jed closes his eyes, pretends to be sleepy.

"Mr. President?"

"Good morning, Toby. At least, I'm assured it's morning by Charlie. I am less than convinced."

Toby smiles, "Yes, sir."

"Is there something you need, Toby?"

Toby closes the door, careful and quiet and without turning his back on Jed. Jed notices, though he tries very hard not to make anything of it, that Toby's tie is still loose, that his first two shirt buttons are still undone.

"Nothing of a professional nature, sir."

Jed meets his eyes, sits up straighter in his bed. "Then you don't have to call me 'sir', do you?"

Toby shrugs, rocks a little on the balls of his feet. "Well, yes actually, I do. But ... okay."

"Toby."

"I just wanted to see you, before we landed ... before - "

"Before we really do have to be professional again?"

"Yeah."

"But you and I, we're never off-duty."

Toby smiles, a little and not with his eyes. "Actually, I said that you were never off-duty, Jed."

"Nice juxtaposition, there, my friend."

He shrugs again, "I practice."

Jed smiles, "Yeah, I know."

"Did you sleep?" Toby asks, his voice so soft that Jed has to strain to hear him.

"No, not really. Think I fooled Charlie though."

"I hope you did."

"I almost hope I didn't; he's a good kid."

"Yeah."

"I'll be okay."

"Will you get some sleep after we get back to D.C.?"

"Nah - have to be President then."

"You pretty much have to do that all the time."

"So you keep telling me, Toby."

"I just ... I just want to, you know, make sure."

"I know."

"So you'll be okay?"

"Yes, Toby."

"Okay."

Jed raises his head, raises his voice too, "You've always had - you always will have the choice, you know, Toby."

"Yeah, I know."

"I don't try to manipulate you, and I'm sorry I lied - you know?"

"Yes."

"Can you stop being angry with me?" he asks, taking the words out of his mouth whilst they still have form.

Toby remains silent for what seems a long time to Jed. He stares at the floor, at his hands, then at Jed's mouth. He crosses the floor and sits, restlessly, on the edge of the bed. Jed has enough conscious thought left to note that, before he leans in to kiss him, Toby has closed his eyes. His face has softened in a delayed afterglow and his hands are gentle - one stroking Jed's throat, and one cupping his cheek. Toby's mouth whispers to him and gives him the silence back again, free of thought.

"We can't now," Toby says, in a voice low and rough.

"Later. On solid ground."

He nods, "Yeah." He rises from the bed, brushing his fingers over Jed's as he does so.

"Okay."

"Thank you, sir," he finishes, opening the door as he speaks.

"Thanks, Toby."

Later, back in D.C., during a day in which he hardly ventures from the Oval, Jed wins his daily round of the game of President. He begins to feel the rhythm of the day clearly at around half past ten and throughout the hours nothing slips from either hand or mind. Even the National Security briefing seems to have flown to a higher level of his comprehension, and since he counts not actually falling asleep through those happy hours as at least a draw, Jed reckons today's installment as no little victory.

He does not see Toby at all, only hears his voice twice, far-off, through the temporarily open doors of the Oval. Jed hears him too in the remarks handed to him by Sam in the late afternoon. Sam's words have been hustled and drilled by Toby's, yet there is deep and resounding gentility in the finished product - an easy, and beautiful, meld. Jed reads the couple of hundred words over twice before handing it back to Sam with a smile,

"It's fine, Sam. Nice."

"Thank you, sir," Sam says, understanding.

"Listen, tell Toby to come over later. When he's done. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Really nice, Sam."

"Thank you."

"Now go away."

"Thank you, Mr President."

The sun is setting when Toby comes to him, his very white shirt glowing a little as he stands in the doorway to the Oval; he makes a dark shadow against the carpet, and Jed cannot quite see whether he is smiling or frowning because his face is covered in shadow, even as the sunset makes a half-halo around his curls.

"Sam said you liked the remarks."

"They were excellent."

"They were just remarks."

"Please don't bother trying to fool me that you think that, Toby."

Toby shrugs, noncommittal, and then steps further into the light.

"Come over to the Residence with me. Have some bourbon."

"Yes, sir," Toby says, his face impassive.

Jed smiles, and hopes to God that there are no secret cameras hidden in the Oval, or the Residence.

There is nothing but darkness in the third room. Jed uses it to disappear, cultivating a Presidential escape act wherein he becomes both less and more than his title, coming in and out of sight amid the shadows. Toby is a blacker shadow, on the edge of the bed until Jed pulls him closer and sets his lover's fingers to work on his shirt buttons. Darkness gives Toby no extra confidence: his hands are light - flying; smooth as they rest flat against Jed's chest; curious, aware of everything in time. Jed finds fascination in those hands.

They are slow together, provided no words are used. Speech creates urgency, and shows up the tricks in the vanishing act; two men defined by their voices must be silent tonight if they are to get anything done at all. Toby laughs a little and Jed hums a tune tunelessly; their moans they lose in each other - slicked across Toby's skin with the sweat and lost again against Jed's barrel chest.

Light shines behind Jed's closed eyes when the moment comes, and he hugs Toby close and long, pressing his hands deep into Toby's back, eating up the shadows and the air; remaking.