Chapter Text
The presidential campaign was in full swing, and the White House buzzed with the energy of new beginnings. Sam Seaborn, young, sharp, and earnest, had quickly become a linchpin in the campaign team. Sam had a way of making the machinery of politics feel human. On the trail, he was the quiet engine behind the candidate’s best lines: the staffer who rewrote a stump speech at midnight and watched a room laugh the next morning; the aide who noticed a volunteer’s scraped knuckles and produced a bandage and some praise that made her feel seen and needed.
In the early months at the White House, he translated policy into sentences people could live with, turned tense meetings with a single, well-placed question, yet remembered birthdays the way other people remembered anniversaries. He was the guy who fixed a jammed copier for an intern at the end of a really bad day, then absurdly, he named the copier “Hope” so the intern would have something to laugh about. He left small, ridiculous kindnesses in the margins of other people’s days: an anonymous note of recognition, mysteriously corrected lines on a brief, a cup of coffee left for someone when they needed it most.
---
CJ found him in the press office, leaning against a counter and pretending to read a briefing. “Sam,” she said, and the name was a small, affectionate accusation. “You stayed late to proofread my notes last night and left me all these poignant tips and revisions? I thought it was fine, before. I also thought you said that you had somewhere to be?”
Sam remembered the late lights, the hum of the building, the way he just knew that she’d at that one line he’d suggested. “I like good sentences,” he said. “And I like making sure you don’t sound like a politician or a robot.”
Her hand brushed his arm in a way that was both casual and deliberate. “Thank you, Sam” She stopped, searching for the right smallness of praise that he might accept. “You make me sound like a person,” she said. “Which is dangerous and wonderful.”
Her words fed his quiet hunger for approval. He said, “Thanks,” and let the gratitude sit like a warming sip of soup.
---
Sam’s competence was not flashy; it was the kind that accumulated trust. He became indispensable not because he sought the role but because he fit it: steady, quick, quietly exacting. There was the memo that turned a stumbling talking point into a clear policy line; the late-night negotiation brief that anticipated an opponent’s rhetorical trap and handed the President a way out that sounded like principle rather than spin. His knack for cutting through political noise to find the heart of an issue impressed even the most seasoned staffers.
They were not the sort of accomplishments that made headlines, but they enabled those very headlines to be in their favor. Leo took it in from the sidelines; he watched, in ways a career or two had honed. He noticed how people relaxed when Sam entered a room, how arguments softened when Sam asked a clarifying question, how a briefing going nowhere would end with someone saying, “Sam, can you put that in a sentence we can actually use?” and the room would exhale.
Yet, amidst the work and camaraderie, subtle observations began to surface: details that occasionally stood out among the background noise and minutiae. Senior staffers noticed the way Sam’s timing echoed the President’s cadence in a moment of rhetorical rescue, or how a particular tilt of his head in conversation could be uncannily like the First Lady’s in that last interview. Not full-blown likenesses, they were inflections, gestures, a way of pausing that momentarily brought to mind one or the other of them. Only those who had known the Bartlets in the small, private ways felt something more particular in those echoes. These nuances were mostly brushed off as oddities, just one of those things; but they quietly accumulated like dust gathering in the corners.
Leo McGarry, the Chief of Staff, was the first to feel the genuine stirrings of suspicion. Jed Bartlet was his oldest and dearest friend. He had known the family since, forever, it seemed. He cherished his own daughter, Mallory; she had him wrapped about her little finger her whole life and she will always be his little girl no matter how old she is. But there had been another child once, christened and held and then lost, a baby boy with the truest blue eyes and lashes so long... in his mind's eye, the visage momentarily overlapped with that of Sam. He had tried to ignore it, this growing unease in his gut, a nagging thought that refused to be silenced. Could Sam Seaborn be more than just a gifted aide? Could he, somehow, be James Samuel Bartlet, their biological son, his godson, lost to them as a toddler and never found? It was absurd and painful and impossible and, because it was Leo, it would not leave him alone.
Papers neatly stacked, piles long forgotten sat like pyramids of progress on his desk. A stately Tiffany lamp lit the room, its usually calming hues did little to lift the room, leaving the general evening stillness undisturbed. In the quiet of his office, Leo wrestled with the enormity of it. He knew the risks of raising such a possibility, the fragile hopes it would ignite. Yet, loyalty and love compelled him forward. Now that the idea had taken root, he couldn't not know. With sudden resolve, he sought out his best friend.
--
"Jed," Leo began, his voice low and steady, "there’s something I need to talk to you about. I’ve been considering something… for a while now."
Jed looked up from the papers on his desk, the President’s face folding into a question at the tone in Leo's voice.
"It’s about Sam," Leo continued before he stopped himself.
Genuine concern broke the President's calm; Sam had swiftly positioned himself high on his list of favorites among the staff. "What's happened, Leo?"
"There are... I don't know how to explain it, really." Leo tried, "Coincidences. Facts that don't align. Things that I swear I remember…” Leo trailed off, not sure how to put the final words to voice. “I don’t know how he could be, but… Jed, I now wonder if Sam could be your son and I think we need to look into it."
Jed’s face changed as if someone had turned a light on behind it: surprise first, then something older and quieter that made his features settle into a softer line. He swallowed, closed his eyes for a beat, and Leo saw the small, private tremor of a man caught between grief and a hope he dared not name. Words failed him in the way they sometimes did when feeling outran rhetoric; when he spoke it was with an uncommon economy of words. “You have my permission, Leo,” he said at last, voice low and strained. “Of course.” He gave a brief, almost nod to himself. “I’ll tell Abbey.”
Sam? Sam. Jed shook his head as countless pieces clicked together -- but there was no image on the front of a box, no way to know how this would come together. Jed raised his eyes upward and prayed that his God wouldn't be cruel to them.
Later, he steeled himself to share the news with Abbey. His beautiful wife, ever perceptive and strong, listened with a quiet strength that gave Jed the support he desperately needed to get through the coming days.
---
That night, after the lights had gone down and the building was empty and still, Leo did something that wasn't illicit but still felt wrong to him somehow. But it was necessary. He took a coffee cup from Sam’s office, an abandoned thing, just a small, ordinary object. As he put it in a small evidence bag, the action felt both awkward and pivotal.
He used FBI channels so deep only his name could open them and he brought in the Secret Service threat investigators. They ran the checks Leo requested with the same quiet efficiency and reliable discretion they applied to every potential risk. Leo watched the process from the wings, with the patience of a man who knew that some truths arrive slowly and that the right preparation mattered more than the rush to revelation.
---
The morning light filtered softly through the blinds of Leo's office. The quiet hum of the West Wing was a distant murmur beyond the door. Leo sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the door as it opened to reveal Ron Butterfield.
Ron stepped in, closing the door gently behind him. "You wanted to see me, Leo?"
Leo nodded, voice low and measured. "Ron. Thank you for coming. Please, sit down. It’s about Sam Seaborn.
“Sam?” His inflection giving nothing away. "What’s going on, Leo? Have there been threats?”
“No! God, no.” Leo let out a pent-up breath. "At least, not yet," he thought aloud darkly.
“You have my attention, Leo.”
So, Leo told him. Ron was implacable, letting little cross his face as he took in the news and mentally shuffled priorities, "I want to assign him a security detail."
"He’s not going to take kindly to that," expressed Leo.
Ron considered this, his expression thoughtful. "They never are, but if he's really part of the First family, Leo, you know a detail is warranted. But I get it, we don’t want to spook him unnecessarily."
Leo shook his head. "Exactly. And yet, if this ends up being true,” his voice trailed off.
Before layers of horrific visage could take root in his mind, Ron broke in. "I’ll have two agents rotated in to shadow him; that will be enough for now. His jogging routine is the bigger concern. It’s too open. There’s no way to cover him from a distance." Leo didn't even pause to wonder how Ron already knew that specific detail about Sam's habits.
A moment later and, sure enough, Ron continued smoothly, "I have an agent on loan down at the Naval Yard; she does triathlons in her free time.” Ron almost smirked. “She'll be the perfect running partner."
"Thank you, Ron." Leo exhaled slowly. "Arrange it. Quietly."
---
Later that day, Leo and Ron called Sam into his office. The air was thick with unspoken tension.
Wasting no time, Ron took the lead, "Sam, we’re giving you a security detail." He put up a hand to keep Sam from interrupting. "It’s part of a live training exercise, just practice. You're the ideal candidate, at this time." His voice resonated with authority but was laced with a touch of tenderness there at the end that confused Sam. He didn’t like the way it made his stomach drop with anxiety.
Sam’s brow furrowed. "A detail? With actual agents? I don’t need a detail. Can’t they pick someone else for this?" Sam swallowed and was about to debate and forestall this unwanted turn of events when he thought aloud, "I'm not in any danger, am I?"
"No, Sam, nothing like that. The Secret Service, from time to time, needs to do such things. Right now, Ron says they need to do this.” Technically true, he thought to himself. Leo’s voice was gruff, leaving no room for argument. He was loath to let Sam even get a word in, lest he find a verbal wedge. "That’s just how it is, Sam." Leo hoped that Sam heard the weight of the period at the end of that sentence and wouldn't argue.
Ron took over, again. "You’ll have two agents covering you, from a workable distance, at all times. We know you go running, Sam. You’ll be given a number; there’ll be an agent on standby. I'll bring her by your office this afternoon. You WILL page her before you go running, Sam. Is that understood? If she's unavailable, another agent will meet you and greet you as Princeton."
Sam hesitated, then looking up at the stoney faces, nodded reluctantly. "Fine."
---
The next morning, Sam laced up his running shoes, the crisp air biting at his skin. The sun wasn't even up yet and very few people were out. He'd been introduced to Agent Hannah Carol; she was okay, Sam mentally shrugged. He did not call her. This whole thing was ridiculous, and it made him uneasy and cold when he thought too long about it. This agent could probably use the break, anyway, right? He didn’t need a running partner; he was used to running alone, preferred it, even. This was his time, he told himself.
He couldn't help himself, had to look around in a way he hadn’t before, though, squinting into the dark as his eyes adjusted. For a moment, he felt like he was being watched, if he was admitting things. He was fine, he reminded himself, again.
Just as he settled into his pace, the rhythmic sound of footsteps approached. Agent Carol jogged up beside him effortlessly, matching his stride.
Sam glanced sideways, surprise flickering across his face. "I wasn’t expecting company."
Hannah smiled, eyes scanning the path ahead. "You’ve already passed three potential threats this morning."
Sam raised an eyebrow and instinctively looked behind. "Really?"
"Really," The agent replied smoothly. "But don’t worry, Sam. I’ve been here the whole time."
Sam exhaled with a mix of resignation and amusement. "Oh.” Then, a heartbeat later, “Are you going to tell on me?" Sam looked over then, his eyes bashfully bright and uncertain, looking suddenly younger.
Hannah’s tone softened. "No. And you’ll get used to it."