Work Text:
His heart thumps in his chest like the drums on his father’s “Best of Elvis” record.
One, two… one, two… thump, thump rest, … thump, thump rest.
If Sam were a writer, he’d find it almost poetic. ‘You are a writer,’ the voice in his head demeans him. He tries to convince himself it’s Toby’s growling baritone, but all he hears is the teasing caress of the reason his heart is playing “Suspicious Minds”.
It’s a brisk – as President Bartlet would call it – night in DC. His dress shoes branded the concrete with his hurried steps as he followed the familiar street signs. Snow dramatically cascades from the sky in delicate flurries, landing in the muck that lines 18th Street. When he moved to D.C from Southern California when he was eighteen, nights like these filled him with childlike wonder, memories of nostalgia filled Christmases circling his mind. Now news clippings and boldened headlines circle his mind like a nightmarish mobile.
On Fridays, his nightmare mobile usually featured headlines on the mundane ‘take-out-the-trash’ material C.J. had spread during her morning briefings, and reminders of the memos and speeches he needed to get done. Instead, it was filled with the dread of what would follow him and Toby, and C.J. and Leo and the President, and oh god, especially Josh.
One, two… thump, thump, rest…
---
“Sam, don’t forget you’re meeting with Bill Kentworthy at five.”
If Sam had ignored Cathy in that moment, if he had said, “No, no way in hell am I having another dinner meeting with Bill after the whole mess with Laurie,” he wouldn’t be in the situation he’s in now. But that was wishful thinking. And he couldn’t afford that in politics; all he could afford was duck and cover.
Instead of throwing his beloved legal pad at the invisible floating notion of “Dinner with Bill Kensworthy”, he grabbed his coat from the rack in the corner of his office. He trudged down Pennsylvania Avenue at 4:46 p.m. to a bar he could care less about to meet with a reporter he could care even less about.
He opens the door to the Tune Inn, sucking in a breath of sticky beer-covered floor and fermenting yeast. He glances across the shoebox of a dive bar and spots the back of a military haircut he was expecting to find. He slides into the booth in the corner, putting on his best White House staffer smile.
“Bill, good to see you again.”
“Sam, it’s been a while.”
Sam signals to a scruffy-looking bartender, trying to get his attention amongst the mixed crowd of college students and government workers. If he’s going to have to sit through this meeting about whatever, he’s at least going to have a beer. However, he fails miserably.
“Look, I uh, I never got to ask what you thought about that article I published six months ago.”
He swings his head back to center, looking at the reporter in front of him. If Josh could see his face, Sam was sure he’d say Leonard Nimoy would be proud of the eyebrow he’d raised.
“You set up an hour-long meeting to discuss an article you published about the time I slept with a prostitute after you sat with me at a bar?”
Bill sputtered, looking a little more like a fish out of water than usual. Sam… well, he enjoyed the reaction a little more than he should’ve.
“No! No, that’s not why. Sam, what I have to say is important. I’m telling you this because I consider you a friend.”
“Oh well, Billy, I’m honored to get some schoolyard drama from you, just because we’re playmates”
His coy smile had a bite to it. How could it not? After dealing with the press for two and a half years for the Bartlet Administration and having served his time battling tooth and nail for less-than-deserving enterprise owners for Gage and Whitney, his skin had grown thicker and his tongue sharper. Legal work and politics will do that to you.
“Sam…”
But something in that simple plea caused him to back down. Another thing legal work and politics will teach you, if you’re good at it, is to listen too. Sam had never heard that particular voice from Bill. They’d known of each other’s existence at Duke but had lost contact after Sam took off to New York. When Josh dragged him back to D.C., Bill saw the opportunity for an inside source at the White House. Sam – and the rest of the president’s staff- saw the opportunity for an inside source at the Wall Street Journal. To say the least, Sam shut his mouth.
“There’s been- God, I don’t know how to start this…” He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’ve heard some murmurings about a headline that the New York Times is gonna post on Monday. It’s- well, let’s say they have a certain view about your personal life.”
Sam wanted him to just say it, but Bill had a habit, a writer's habit, of bouncing around a topic to build suspense and to keep an audience engaged. But Sam wasn’t in the mood for engagement. He wanted to figure out what the New York Times would publish about his personal life, then head back to the West Wing to grab his weekend work and go home. Instead, he was staring at this awkward journalist who was trying to form a sentence incriminating him without actually doing it. Bill gave up.
“I’m just going to show you the copy I got.” Bill reached his side, opening a black leather briefcase, piled messily with dog-eared pages of economic reports.
“I have a friend, or acquaintance, at the New York Post, and after I heard about the rumor, I wanted to see what was actually being written and…”
At last, he pulled out a manila folder; a sticky note stuck to the front labeled “SAM SEABORN”. If that wasn’t incriminating, Sam didn’t know what was.
Bill slid the folder across the sticky table, the corner of the folder catching on a particularly grubby-looking section of the probably fifty-year-old wood. Sam grabbed the corner closest to him. He ran his hand across the front as if he were trying to will whatever was in this manila folder not to be detrimental to him or the administration. Finally, as if ripping off the Band-Aid, Sam opened the folder.
‘White House Staffers Caught in Intimate Moment – What this says about Bartlet’s Gay Rights Agenda’
Below, printed in black-and-white ink, not in the correct format (a draft), was a photo of him and Josh Lyman. The taller man was cupping his cheeks in the Communication Bull Pen, streamers hanging from the ceiling. Sam remembered that night. How could he not? Bartlet had just announced that Roberto Mendoza had been confirmed to the Supreme Court. Toby, in a rare magnanimous act, let Sam take the reins on the press speech. Afterward, in the bull pen, between the proud pats on the back provided by Toby and a very sweet hug from C.J., Josh grabbed Sam by the face and told him how proud he was. It was Sam’s favorite part of the night; his cheeks burning red, which he shrugged off with the excuse of being embarrassed by all the praise, not that he got to feel Josh’s paper cuts and calluses.
Now his face was burning for a different reason. He really wished that the bartender would’ve brought him a drink.
“Sam, I don’t believe it for a second. I know you and Josh; it’s just an attempt to pander to the gays-in-the-military crap the right-wing papers have been writing about.”
Sam didn’t hear him. All he could hear was static—and a thumping beat.
One, two, … thump, thump, rest…
---
Sam couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about rushing out of the bar without saying a word to Bill Kensworthy. All that filled his mind were the achingly catastrophic scenarios that were about to play out next week. And Josh.
If he were honest with himself, which Sam thought he often wasn’t, he would say Josh was at the forefront of his mind—Josh’s chaotic curls. Josh’s sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing his strikingly strong forearms. Josh’s face of disgust at the article and, in turn, Sam. Josh’s crippling anger and sadness when he is fired from the administration, and Sam close behind him.
The draft, left bare in the cold winter air without the manila folder, crumpled under Sam’s fidgeting hands. He rounded a corner onto a way too familiar street with a way too familiar building. He hadn’t gone back to the White House. How could he? He had to do something; he had to make this right before it ruined Josh forever.
He thundered up the steps of a worn stone staircase, pushing his way through the front door to the stairwell. His breath was short and quick as he continued up the stairs, two at a time. The only sound in his ears was the static rush of blood and that increasingly annoying thump, thump. Sam was starting to hate that “Best of Elvis” record along with a lot of other things tonight.
Stopping right in front of an eggshell-colored door with metallic gold lettering, he finally realized what he was doing. He didn’t mean to come here. In fact, he didn’t really mean to do anything because he didn’t know what to do. But Sam’s subconscious wanted to fix this. So, it brought him to Josh. Hesitantly raising his hand, he brushed his palm against the door, once again trying to will something not to bring about his end. Then, a creaking, and suddenly, instead of wood, he was touching air.
“What part of ‘I’m going home early because I got half of the house to back off on a witch hunt and haven’t slept in 72 hours’ do you not understand?”
Sam stared, his eyes glancing at Josh’s perfectly rumpled sleep shirt and shorts. God, he looked good like this. Casual, cozy, sated.
“Sam? You alright? Did the black coffee finally kill your battery, because honestly that stuff must be toxic- “
“Josh.”
He gasped out. Now he felt bad for enjoying Bill’s floundering because he knew he was doing it now, at Josh’s doorstep. But that finally got his friend to listen. Josh’s eyes dilated, finally looking at his friend.
“Christ, Sam, did you walk here? You look like a speechwriter-popsicle, get inside, c’mon.”
He grabbed the hand that Sam had forgotten to bring down and dragged him into his house, rounding him and tugging at the jacket.
“You’re covered in snow, your coat is gonna be drenched in about ten minutes, and then we’ll actually have a problem, California boy.”
“We have a problem right now.”
Sam mumbled, the coat sleeve getting stuck on the crumpled paper he was gripping in his hand. Josh looked him in the eyes after the aggrieved answer he gave, searching for something, anything. Sam, cursing his inability to stay focused on the big picture, stared back. Josh slowly continued his ministrations of taking Sam’s jacket off but finally reached the root of his struggle with the paper. He grabbed it out of Sam’s hand to finish taking it off when the world finally started to spin again for the writer. He flung forwards, away from Josh, taking the paper and the jacket with him.
“Wha- Sam- “
“Josh, I had a meeting with Bill Kensworthy; you remember him?”
The taller man’s corner of his mouth crooked upwards.
“Of course I do. Knew him at Duke, used him as a source at the Wall Street Journal, wrote an article backstabbing you about the whole Laurie thing.”
“It wasn’t backstabbing; he was doing his job- but that’s not the point! He wanted to warn me about an article. It’s- it’s from the New York Post. They somehow got a photo; I couldn’t even tell you how. It looks like it was taken through the window outside the Communication Bull Pen, but they somehow captured every fucking detail- “
Josh walked towards him slowly, hands up like he was approaching a wild animal. Sam certainly felt like one, between the situation at hand and how delicious Josh looked in those sleep shorts.
“Whoa, buddy, hey. What’s the photo? What’s the article even about?”
Sam glanced down at his shoes, wet and shiny in the amber glow of the lamps in Josh’s living room. He felt guilty now, forgetting to take them off at the door and tracking whatever the hell was on the street onto Josh’s hardwood floors. Suddenly his vision was invaded by Josh’s socked feet. Josh reached his hand up to grab the paper in Sam’s clutches. Sam gripped them harder. He didn’t want to see Josh’s face when he saw the headline. He didn’t want to be faced with the disgust he knew would arrive when Sam realized how he really felt about their friendship.
“Sam, I need to see the paper if I’m gonna help you. That’s why you came here, right? For help?”
Sam didn’t know why he came here; he didn’t know why his brain led him halfway across D.C. to Josh’s townhouse on 16th Street. Maybe his subconscious wanted to cut to the chase. Rip off the band-aid of certain doom for both his and Josh’s career’s as well as their friendship. Maybe Sam needed to finally start being honest with himself.
Sam sighed, lowered his hands gripping the article like a vice, and nudged it towards Josh. It felt like years before Josh’s eyes met the words and picture on the page and recognized their significance. For once in Josh’s life, he was silent. All that filled the room was thumping.
One, two, rest …
---
Josh had seen a lot in his life. He’d worked in politics in D.C. for ages; he was bound to see the insane news stories about the people he worked for and the absurd legislation he batted away like annoying pests. Josh had seen a lot, ok?
But this. This didn’t belong with the mental compartmentalization folder he titled ‘Too Crazy to Even Address’. This belonged in the ‘Holy Shit How Do the Press Know About This’ folder.
Josh remembered the day when the photo was taken – not that he knew a photo was being taken, mind you. Roberto Mendoza was just confirmed to the Supreme Court. The President gave a beautiful speech, but he couldn’t hear Bartlet’s charismatic lilt; he heard Sam’s beautiful wisdom and optimism. And how could he not want to cherish and touch the man who had written quite possibly the most beautiful speech he’d ever heard? How could he not think about kissing that beautiful boyish smile while holding Sam gently within his palms?
Josh glanced through the article, catching words and phrases like “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell”, “Personal Biases”, and “The Family Morals Act,” which he had fought tooth and nail last year. But all of those didn’t matter when he finally looked at Sam. His soft blue eyes seemed to be glistening with unshed tears. His nose and fingertips were bright pink after at least a 30-minute walk. His usually gelled-in-place hair was disheveled by him running his hands through it repeatedly. His coat was still on his left arm.
“Let’s finish getting your coat off.”
“Didn’t you read it?”
Sam came alive in that moment; his eyes burned with blue fire, his hands coming up to gesture wildly.
“They are going to crucify us, Josh; they’re going to fire us; we will never work in politics again! You will never work in politics again! It’s done, Josh; it’s over. This is going to destroy this administration!”
“Over a photo of me congratulating a friend during a moment of celebration? Jeez Sam, I thought the journalist who wrote this was making this non-situation bigger than it is, but you’ve been putting words straight into his mouth!”
Josh winced. Too far, way too far, Lyman. A tear rolled down Sam’s cheek, and he rubbed at it roughly, annoyed at the sign of weakness.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that; I didn’t mean to imply that – just, let me get your coat off.”
Sam nodded tiredly, the fight physically draining out of him by the second. Josh reached for the black sleeve of the coat, pulling it gently off his friend’s arm. He reached down to grab it by the collar and crossed the floor silently, draping it on the coat rack on top of his own brown jacket. When he turned around, Sam had already started talking.
“I don’t know why I came here. I should’ve called and told you, then gone to C.J. I just…”
He trailed off. For a speechwriter, he seemed to be having trouble finding the words for it. But Josh thought he knew the feeling Sam was trying to put into words. The pull, the yearning to look at Sam when all hell broke loose, and the ship was sinking—the hope of finding comfort in his eyes and presence.
Josh looked down at the paper and back up at Sam. He hated this. He hated this article. He hated this journalist he’d never heard of. He hated that this mattered to his professional and personal reputation. He hated that this mattered to Sam.
“We’re going to figure this out.”
He placed the dilapidated-looking paper onto the bowl that held his keys and wallet.
“We’re going to figure this out, Sam, I promise.”
He stepped back towards Sam until they were toe to toe. Their breaths mingled in between them, Sam’s cologne wafting into Josh’s nose like a lifeline against the chaos they were facing.
“C’mon,” he gestured to the couch to their right. “Let’s sit down.”
Sam let Josh guide him gently to the couch. He placed a hand on his lower back but quickly removed it. Sam would be disgusted. Sam would never forgive him. Dropping tiredly on the couch. Sam leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Josh plopped down next to him.
“It’s being released on Monday.”
Sam mumbled into his hands.
“We need to call C.J.”
He responded, looking at the curve of Sam’s back, his white button-up stretching and folding across the broad expanse. Neither of them moved. Josh needed to apologize. He got Sam into this by letting go, by showing an inkling of the admiration and care he felt for him. If Josh had just shaken his hand like everyone else, they wouldn’t be dealing with this.
“Sam, I’m sorry. I got you into this. I shouldn’t have held you like that.”
God, he sounded like a scorned 19th-century lover.
“What are you-?” Sam looked up. “Are you blaming yourself for this? Because this is in no way your fault, you can’t do that.”
“I can because it is my fault. If I had just held myself back and acted like a friend, like everyone else.”
“What were you acting like?”
Sam cut through the haze with a hesitantly muttered question.
“If you weren’t acting like a ‘friend,’ what were you acting like?”
“Sam…”
“Josh.”
“Don’t do this now, not with,” he gestured around, “all of this.”
“Why not? You know something, the press knows something. Why don’t I?”
Josh’s jaw fell open.
“You… you know why I held your face like that?”
“No, Josh! I don’t! That’s why I want you to tell me, because I’m tired of acting like I don’t want you to do it all the time. I don’t want to act like this journalist was wrong.”
Josh's mind, previously spinning like the dreidel his sister used to fidget with during long car rides, stopped dead in its tracks. Josh wasn’t religious; hell, he barely thought of himself as Jewish, but he took a leap of faith. Reaching his hands up, he cupped Sam’s cheeks like he did that fateful day the photograph was taken, and their fates were sealed. His face was warm with barely contained fire, his eyes glistening like the water in the Reflecting Pool. Sam sucked in a gasp, his breath ghosting the heels of Josh’s palms like the sweetest caress.
“Like this?” he mumbled hesitantly.
“Yeah, just like that.”
He wasn’t sure who leaned forward first, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the fireworks exploding when their lips touched. The soft moan Sam released when he adjusted in Josh’s hands and slotted his lips just so made Josh want to scream from the balconies of the White House his love for this man. Yes, love. That was it.
Josh snuck his tongue out to test the waters, to push the soft plush of Sam’s lips. The younger man passionately welcomed the tongue into his mouth, adjusting himself to be closer. Josh let out a soft groan at the feeling of Sam closing in on him, his hand ghosting over his thigh. The hands-on Sam’s cheeks drifted further down, feeling the hard planes of Sam’s chest through his button-up, making his way to that beautiful waist. He curled his hands around him, feeling Sam’s diaphragm expand with the light groans he made when Josh licked a certain area of his mouth.
Sam had been nudging closer and closer to Josh, wanting to be near him, with him. Josh could feel it every time Sam grabbed a different part of his body: his forearm, the curls of his hair. But eventually the touching wasn’t enough for Sam. Backing away from Josh’s mouth but close enough to still taste his aftershave, Sam climbed onto Josh’s lap, his thighs bracketing Josh’s. Sam reached his hands back up to run them through Josh’s hair, leaving the brunette curls to tickle the skin of his fingers.
“What are we doing?”
Josh mumbled into Sam’s neck, where he was currently resting his head, breathing him in.
“Making good use of our time while we still have it.”
Sam pulled at a knot within Josh’s hair, leaving him to groan at the sensation on his scalp.
“Leo’s gonna kill us.” Josh mumbles, laughing at the thought of his boss’s flabbergasted look.
“Forget Leo, C.J.’s going to make death look like an undeserved mercy.”
“Shit.” Josh raised his head. “We have to call C.J.”
Sam dragged his hands from Josh’s hair down to his chest. He lightly pushed Josh against the back of the couch, Sam now towering over him.
“Call her tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Josh quipped, mouth quirking up. “Why? Do you have plans tonight?”
“I do. And so do you.”
Sam leaned forward, wrapping his hands around Josh’s neck and slipping his tongue into his mouth. Josh moaned, his hands flying back to Sam’s waist and his hips thrusting upward.
C.J. was gonna kill them.
But Josh couldn’t care about that right now. All he could hear was the thumping of Sam’s heart. Love song all on its own.
One, two… one, two… thump, thump rest, … thump, thump rest.