One of the many benefits of coming home before midnight, Sam reflected, was finding a parking space near his apartment. More than once he had taken a cab from the White House because he could not face the four- or five-block trek in the middle of the night. Grabbing his gym bag from the seat beside him, he wondered which of his neighbors he was inconveniencing with his new schedule.

He waited for a car to pass before crossing the street to his building. The ice had melted during the day, but froze again as the sun set.

"Hello, Sam!"

He looked up and smiled at the one of the elderly sisters who shared the apartment beneath his on the first floor. "How are you, Professor?"

"Very well, dear. I'm keeping an eye out for our cab."

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the street. "When did you call?"

"Oh, we have an arrangement with the company. On the second Tuesday of every month, we have tickets to a little repertory theatre. The cab comes at 7:30 to take us."

"What are you seeing tonight?"

"I'm not quite sure." She dug in her purse and held out a ticket. "I've never heard of the play or the playwright."

Sam read it and shook his head. "Must be new."

"Alison is leery of going because —"

"Anybody who has that many consonants in his name doesn't write comedies," her sister finished as she joined them on the step. "Still it's an evening out, even if it's full of angst and despair."

"And with luck, pathos," Sam told her.

She patted his arm. "Only if we make it to the second act."

"And if we don't, the café next door serves the most marvelous desserts," Claire said. "Ah, there's the cab!"

Sam opened the door to the foyer and dropped his bag inside. "Let me walk you to the street. The sidewalk is slick."

Alison took his arm, scolding Claire when she did not. "For heaven's sake, when's the last time a handsome man offered to escort you anywhere?"

Claire shook her head but complied. "You're a flirt, always have been."

Sam took them to the cab and made sure they were safely on their way before going inside. Picking up his gym bag, he ran up the stairs to the second floor. As he reached the top, he pulled the keys from his coat pocket. By the time he reached his door, he had the key ready to insert into the lock.

Turning on the wall lamp in the small foyer, he hurried to the thermostat and nudged it up a couple of degrees. He put his gym clothes and a wet towel into the hamper before dropping the bag on the floor of his closet. He had used the bag more in the past five days than the previous four months. He felt better, the tension in his back and shoulders finally loosening up. He had slept solidly the night before, relaxed after two glasses of wine and dinner with CJ.

Sam smiled. He was looking forward to dinner tonight. Despite his assurances that he had plenty of food and the time to prepare it, CJ had insisted he take home her barely touched coq au vin, and cajoled (some might say intimidated) the waiter into including the contents of the breadbasket. He headed to the kitchen, relatively certain there was half a bottle of red wine left from Christmas.

As he rummaged through the cabinets, he almost missed hearing a knock on the door. He abandoned the search, still racking his mind as he went to answer it.

"Sam."

Sam dropped his head against the edge of the door and sighed. I really should have seen this coming. "What do you want, Toby?"

"I'd like to talk with you. There are things we should discuss."

"I've resigned. I left you detailed notes on the projects I didn't finish. What more is there?"

Tilting his head, Toby studied him. "Spare me a couple of minutes, and then I'll be on my way."

"I —"

"Please, Sam." The words were quiet and sincere.

Damning himself for a fool, Sam gestured him into the living room, smelling the faint odor of cigar smoke that always clung to Toby. Moving past him, Sam dropped onto the couch. It took all his willpower not to offer him a drink. He's not going to be here that long.

Toby draped his coat over the back of a chair before sitting down opposite him. For a long moment, he studied his hands. "I want to apologize for the message I left on Friday," he finally said. "I was… angry."

"So I gathered."

Dark, intelligent eyes flicked up to focus on him. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"Is there any reason I should?"

Toby huffed a small laugh. "No, there's not."

"Please say whatever it is you're here to say and go."

"I want you to come back."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, not caring how defensive he looked. "I didn't resign on the spur of the moment. It was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever made. Why on earth would I even think about going back?" He stood up and paced the length of the room. Returning to stand behind the couch, he glared at Toby. "I don't understand why you're here."

"Sam, you just up and quit without a word. We worked together for how long, and you really thought I would let you just leave?"

"To be honest? Yes. You haven't agreed with anything I've said or written in weeks."

"I was playing devil's advocate!" Toby protested. "I've done it a million times!"

"Telling me point blank that I'm wrong is not playing devil's advocate! Neither is saying that my writing is akin to locking three monkeys in a room with a typewriter!"

Toby blinked at the vehemence in Sam's voice. "I respect your opinions and your work, Sam. I may not say it often, but I do."

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't believe you."

"There's no reason that you should," Toby agreed, his voice no louder than a whisper. "And I apologize for that."

Sam felt the living room — hell, the entire apartment — tilt as the argument he had braced himself for evaporated. He gripped the back of the couch and fought for balance. "W-what?"

Toby studied the ceiling before focusing on Sam. "When I read your letter, I was furious. I couldn't believe you'd walked away from your job, from the President, from me. I kept turning it over in my mind and finally realized that I was the one pushing you out the door. Every time I belittled your ideas and disparaged your work, I made it a little easier for you to leave. And the worst part is that I don't know why I did it."

Moving to the window, Sam pushed the drape to one side and gazed down at the darkened street. The headache he thought was gone had returned tenfold.

"Sam, we need you. You're a gifted writer with more natural talent than anyone I've ever known. It's my job to decide what our message is, but I depend on you to craft it."

Sam turned to face him then. "Find someone else to depend on."

Toby shook his head, his eyes sympathetic. "No, the White House is where you, more than any of us, belong."

"You know, two months ago I would've bought that, been flattered that you thought so. But not now."

"Two months ago, I wouldn't have had to say it because it was something we both understood." With a sigh, Toby rose to his feet and reached for his coat. "I talked to, uh, CJ today. She said you're going home."

Sam nodded and waited.

"Take all the time you need to clear your head and sort things out. When you're ready, come back and we'll talk again."

"You won't change my mind."

Toby shook his head. "I don't want to change your mind. I want you to do that yourself."