Title: Look if you like
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: Sam/Toby
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2,300 words
Disclaimer: All belongs to Sorkin, Wells et al
Spoilers: Through Manchester Part 2
Summary: Sam, somewhat misdirected anger, and dark nights spent in secret meetings.
AN: For inlovewithnight, as a pinch-hit for the Toby/Sam ficathon at partnersbaby on LJ. The request was: Post-ep for "The Fall's Gonna Kill You," wounded-idealism hurt-comfort after Sam finds out about Bartlet's MS, though it drifted in time somewhat.

Their doors are on either side of the same glass wall, and Sam's treacherous body pulls back towards Toby's office, though his thoughts are all of slamming things onto his orderly desk. He gets caught between the two competing directions, and ends up crashing into the doorframe.

Sam drops the papers. He doesn't like going into the Oval Office unarmed, he likes to have something ready when the President asks, "so what are you working on at the moment, Sam?" The papers scatter, and in his attempts to stop their fall, Sam only becomes more tangled, and ends up on the floor. He jolts his left ankle, and his right shoulder, sending little shocks down his arm.

"Fuck." It echoes in the empty bullpen, and that is what drives Toby out there, away from the sanctuary of his office, though his blinds are open, and he could see Sam's approach.

"Sam," Toby says. "You want to-" and he looks down at Sam, tilting his head, and stuck for the words. "Want me to," he says, and then gives up. He crouches down, and settles his hands around Sam's ribcage, where his breath shudders. Toby tries to pull him up. His presence gapes at Sam's back, warm and dark. Again, Sam is caught between swaying towards him and pulling away.

He stands up under his own power, hanging on the frame of his open door. Toby is still crouching at his feet; he shuffles the papers back into order, and stands to give them back to Sam. Toby says, "Sam."

"The President-"

"I know."

"I know that you know. You knew already, you've known for… Not right now."

Right now, there are lines being drawn, and Sam does not know which side he is supposed to fall on. The President and Leo are together, but Toby knew first and is angry but no longer numb. Josh had found out so quietly that Sam had not noticed the change. CJ will… CJ will understand. She is not like Toby, she is not already healing.

Sam takes the pages from Toby, and walks into his office. He closes the door with Toby safely on the other side. He thinks it quietly: soon but not now.

* * *

He dreams of resignation speeches, of impeachment addresses, and last, always, of Answer B. The thing is, it's a great speech. It's a furious speech, and Sam's not always sure that all the words are the President's. Each word is shining clear, scored into the page with everything that Sam's kept almost bottled up since, "eight years ago." He looks at the President lately, and doesn't see any of this anger. The President is quietly bitter, as though they are doing nothing but confirming his poor opinion, all of the reasons he didn't tell them in the first place. Sam is the one whose righteous indignation thrums beneath his skin, as if he is made up only of that and of betrayal.

Toby waits for Sam, after another meeting in their basement war room. Donna knows now too, and Joey and Kenny. They're ready for whatever comes along. They're a united front for the President and the First Lady; Leo knows that they're lying but allows it. Patched-together trust will be enough until they can make it real again.

To each other, allegiances shift throughout the day. In the morning, when Sam is asking his questions for the first time, he sides with CJ, who sharpness matches his own. In the evening, he needs Josh's humour, and their shared inappropriate laughter. Late in the night, it is all about Toby. The darkness takes on a new heaviness, the shadows clothe the corners of the room. Toby sits at the other end of the table, and when Sam looks down, he knows that Toby is watching.

They are the only two left in the room. Sam is making sure that everyone has collected their files for the day – they cannot afford to leave evidence lying around. Toby puts his hand flat against Sam's shoulder, and Sam flinches.

Toby steps away, rubbing his hands in fists against his thighs.

Sam's throat is dry. He pushes the collar of his shirt away – tie abandoned hours ago – and says, "Bruised, still. From-"

Toby's eyes are fixed. "Yeah. I remember."

"Yeah."

"We should go back up. Go home, before anyone-"

"They already know, Toby. They don't know what they know yet, but they know something. Even here, there's only so much hiding you can do."

Toby says, "Sam," and what he means is, "we hid it from you." Under the cover of the SME speech, and Josh's big tobacco case, they had managed to go days without Sam noticing anything other than Toby being nicer to him than usual.

"From people like you," Sam says. "And the press corps, and the House Democrats. When this gets out, there's going to be a lot of stories about people who knew something was coming."

"Sam."

"I never know something's coming. I get blindsided, every time." Sam clutches the folders to his chest on the way out of the room, leaving Toby to turn off the lights.

* * *

There is a conference room, in the basement next to where they meet. Donna had sent some couches and blankets down there, before the funeral and before the press conference. Normally Sam crashes on Toby's couch, but lately that room is where their new meetings take place, where he has to stand up to give himself any chance of being heard.

The press conference had made it better for a few hours. Sam likes having a job, among other things. He liked the smile on the President's face, and the feeling of not caring that water was running down his neck, because there was another election to win.

But the rain has not stopped, and he doesn't want to brave the weather just to go back to his apartment for two hours sleep. He can shower here, he has a suit upstairs, and a cassette player salvaged from the dark ages. Nick Charles had made them a mix tape once, back in Princeton, for the nights they stayed up late writing papers. It was the eighties, so the music was mostly horrific power rock, but laughing at it kept them both awake. That had been a long time ago.

Last night, instead of sleeping, Sam had gone hunting through his old college things to see if he could find it. Everything he owns now is on CD, and he doesn't want to listen to the radio. All of the TVs in all of their offices show the same story, and Sam hears it every morning driving into work. All he wants is to hear Nick singing along to Guns N' Roses, out of tune, while they dissect long ago cases that no one alive cares about anymore. He wants to pretend at being a lawyer, instead of listening to Oliver Babish talk to him like the degree on his wall is a joke.

Left with no other options, he turns the radio on low, and detunes it slightly. He still hears 'MS' and 'defraud' in amongst the static, but falls asleep anyway.

Sam wakes to Toby's hand around his own, shaking it. He blinks awake, head curved into his chest, staring at Toby's knuckles. Sam forces himself to look up. "Toby. Is it…? What time is it?"

"Four forty-five. We need you upstairs."

"Now?"

"Everyone else was called in. You have time for a shower first."

He wants to make a joke – are you saying I need to wash? – but Toby's gaze is liquid and night time soft. Sam just nods, and sits up. Toby's hand follows his for a moment.

Sam asks, "Is everything all right?" and laughs. He amends, "Is anything newly wrong? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry, Sam." Toby lets go of his hand, and leaves.

He says that a lot at the moment: 'don't worry.' 'I trust you'. Sam hadn't known that Toby understood the meaning of reassurance. Reassurance leads to complacency; it leads to things they can't afford to be. If they couldn't afford to be them then, they certainly can't afford it now.

Sam shakes his head, and follows Toby upstairs.

* * * *

Manchester is quieter than the White House. There are new kinds of nighttime disturbances: owls and bats and other small furry things. When he was younger, and spoke more to his father, Sam went camping, and out to the country to sail with his father. Toby hates the farm – he is a city boy at heart, and the small animal sounds unnerve him more than the cabs and sirens in DC and New York. He walks the halls long after everyone else has gone to bed for the night.

Sam can hear Toby on the stairs down towards the kitchen. He gets out of bed and pulls a sweatshirt on. When he gets down there, Toby is standing in the doorway to the back porch, and Sam can see the glowing end of his cigar. The lights are still off, but Toby hears him. Toby says, "Do you want one?"

"No." But Sam edges closer, sacrificing the warmth of the room for the smell of the smoke. He needs something for his hands to do, and lifts Toby's pen from the counter.

Toby says, "I was writing your apology."

"Yeah? We still can't-"

"No. I wrote it anyway."

Sam doesn't read it. He holds Toby's pen like a cigar, resting it against his lips in thought. There's no more paper anyway.

Toby is looking at him. Sam pulls the pen from his mouth – this is why he has his own writing equipment. He opens his mouth to apologise, but Toby is already moving.

Toby holds the cigar away from them, and with his free arm pushes Sam against the door. Toby kisses the spot where his pen had rested, cold against Sam's lips. He pushes, though Sam is not protesting, and the rasp of his breath when he stops the kiss sounds like he's suffocating in smoke. Sam pulls Toby in again, and forces air back into his lungs. He clenches his hand in Toby's jacket; Toby's hand is holding Sam's shoulder to the wooden door.

With his other hand, Sam brushes against Toby's face, and Toby backs away. "Sam."

"Goodnight, Toby." Sam lets go of Toby, and walks back upstairs. The smoke curls up after him, and he exhales it with a shaky sigh.

* * *

They're ready to leave New Hampshire and head back to DC. They have actual governing to do, and moving the Sit. Room to Manchester will only work for so long. It's a pity, because Sam was starting to enjoy the peace out here. Still, it would probably be a bad idea in the long run – here he starts to think of poetry instead of speeches, and all the great rhetoric too lyrical for Toby to allow him.

Sam started this day in a suit, but it's cold out here, and the weather in DC is just as bad. Plus, it's a Sunday morning, and though the President said 'break's over', he also told them to take the rest of the day off. So, while they wait for the Bartlets to come back from church and ready the motorcade, Sam changes back into jeans and a sweater.

When he gets downstairs again, Toby is the only one there. Sam raises his eyebrows in question.

Toby shrugs. "Donna took Josh and CJ on a walk, they'll be back. As for Bruno and Doug…"

"Who cares?" Sam suggests. He frowns at his own petulance, but it's difficult not to feel like a sulking teenager around Doug.

Toby laughs, just for a second, and hums his agreement.

Sam walks over to sit down by Toby, and bangs his knee on the coffee table. Toby reaches out a hand to steady him. Sam takes it without thinking. When he sits down, his arm twists, but Toby's hand stays still. Toby's thumb rests over his pulse, which Sam remembers will give an inaccurate reading.

Toby looks at Sam's wrist. He pulls at the sleeve of the black sweater, exposing the back of Sam's neck and shoulder. Toby says, "The bruises are gone."

"It was a month ago. Bruises heal, Toby. It just takes some time."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And the new ones?" Toby points at Sam's knee, which is still throbbing dully. Sam is rubbing it with his free hand.

Sam smiles. "Those heal too. Maybe they make us more careful next time."

"Sam," Toby says. "I've known you for what? Three years now?"

"What's your point, Toby?"

"You're still going to fall."

Sam pauses. Toby's thumb makes idle circles on his wrist, and he doesn't meet Sam's eyes. Sam says, "I know."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Sunlight comes blindingly through the window, dramatically appropriate. Sam grins. It's cold light, but it fills the corners of the room. Sam blinks, and Toby pulls on his arm. He crashes against Toby's chest, and has to open his eyes to aim the kiss. Toby's hands rise to the base of Sam's neck, against the places where the bruises aren't, anymore.

Toby murmurs, "Don't worry, Sam," and Sam laughs. He doesn't know whether Toby means 'don't worry, the others won't be back yet' or his now-familiar 'don't worry, everything's going to be all right'. 'I trust you, I promise, and I won't lie.' But the others will be back soon, and then the President, and then the cars. They will go back to DC, and Sam will go back to falling asleep on Toby's couch and being woken in the morning by the sound of vacuum cleaners. They will win re-election, or they won't; either way they will too fear the press to do this for very much longer.

"I never do," Sam says, smiling because Toby is too close to see him now, "I just open my eyes and jump."

FIN