Work Text:
Sam goes into the office early most mornings, especially now that the reelection campaign is picking up. There’s just too much going on to waste on trivial things like eating or sleeping. The days dissolve into a blur of meetings and hurried scribbles in the hallways, punctuated by infighting and petty squabbles.
“Sam! You’re here early,” CJ says when she passes through the Communications bullpen.
“Yeah,” he sighs, taking a sip of his coffee. “The President needs some remarks about the China thing.”
“Which China thing?” CJ asks, leaning against the doorframe. “The war games thing or the voting thing?”
“Both,” Sam says. He sits down behind his desk and stares at the piles of papers that always seem to accumulate overnight.
“Have at it then,” she says with a wink. She gives him a mock salute and wanders over to her own domain, ready to begin scanning news articles and comparing them to her briefings.
Sam pulls one of the paper stacks toward himself and begins to read. He needs to know everything there is to know about the China-Taiwanese conflict in two hours so that he can have something ready by the senior staff meeting.
---
He hands the rough draft to Leo at eight, when they have their first meeting. Leo reads it over, mouthing the words and nodding slightly to the rhythm they create. He nods, satisfied, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He smiles and settles down to wait for everyone else to show up.
It’s going to be a chaotic day, but all of their days are chaotic. Sam has three meetings all scheduled at the same time, as well as some kind of lunch thing with the Communications interns in the mess. Frantic energy is already filling the halls as things fall apart and have to be pieced back together again. An aide rushes by the open door, swearing around a mouth full of shiny pens.
One by one, everyone trickles in, until only CJ is missing.
“Where is she?” Leo asks, annoyed. Everyone shrugs their shoulders.
“I know she came in today,” Sam says. “She got in after me.”
“Didn’t you show up at, like, five this morning?” Josh asks, raising his eyebrows. Now it’s Sam’s turn to shrug. “When’s the last time you slept?”
Sam is saved from answering by CJ’s hurried arrival. “Sam!” she demands, cutting through the conversation. “Sam, do you know a guy named Martin Huntley?”
Sam blinks and searches his memory. “I went to elementary school with a guy named Martin Huntley. Why?”
“Because according to one of my reporters, Martin Huntley is doing some kind of interview this afternoon on ABN. About you.”
“Me?” Sam furrows his brows. “I haven’t spoken to him since the fifth grade. What could he possibly have to say about me?”
“Let’s find out,” Leo says grimly. “The sooner the better. We can’t afford any more scandals this year.”
“Yes sir,” they mutter. Sam racks his head, trying to think of what Martin could possibly have to say about him. They were close when they were younger, sure, but their interests had diverged. Martin drifted towards sports and girls while Sam’s father drove him to studying and grades. They hadn’t even tried to keep in touch when the Huntleys had moved away one summer.
“Okay, moving on, we need to help Abbey’s staff with the guest list for her birthday gala,” Leo says, flipping to the first page on his briefing. “We don’t want to invite anyone who will cause trouble if we can avoid it. Josh, you help with that.”
“Me?” Josh says, raising his hands in protest. “Isn’t this more CJ’s thing?”
“CJ will be helping Sam figure out what the hell’s going on with Martin Huntley. I need you making sure that we don’t accidentally put a lunatic like Lord Marbury on the guest list.” Toby coughs to hide his amusement at Leo’s disdain. The distaste between the two men has become legendary in the White House. “Toby, I need you to get started on the initial list for the U.S. Poet Laureate thing.”
The meeting moves on, but Sam remains preoccupied with Martin. He can’t figure out why someone he hasn’t seen in almost two and a half decades would do an interview about him.
“Sam,” CJ says, catching him as they’re breaking up. “Walk with me. Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Not at all,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I mean, I haven’t seen the guy in years. We didn’t even go to junior high together. His family moved.”
“So, you don’t have a single clue what he’s going to say?” CJ presses. Sam starts to shake his head again but then he remembers--
He remembers.
“Oh God,” he says. He sways on his feet, feeling like he’s going to pass out. CJ grabs his arm and eases him to the ground before he can fall. “Oh God, I know.”
“Sam? Sam!” CJ runs her hand over his forehead, checking for a fever. “Are you okay? Did you have anything besides coffee today?”
“CJ, I know what he’s going to say,” Sam says, his eyes wide. He grabs CJ’s wrist as she starts to turn away.
“What’s going on?” Leo asks, appearing out of thin air. He squats down next to Sam and motions for someone to bring them something.
“I think Sam skipped a few too many meals again,” CJ says. She glares at him sternly. “Something that I pretty sure he’s been ordered not to do anymore.”
“It’s not that,” Sam says. “I know what Martin’s going to say.”
He falls silent when an intern appears with a glass of orange juice. There are too many people looking at him; he can’t bear to meet their eyes. He takes the orange juice and gulps it down. This situation is going to get very messy, very quickly.
“Let’s go back to my office,” Leo says, taking the empty glass from him and helping Sam to his feet. CJ takes his other side, ready to brace his fall if he goes down. That’s what they do for each other, after all. What they’re supposed to do, anyway.
---
Leo closes the doors after Sam is sat down on the couch. “Tell us,” he orders.
“Martin Huntley and I were best friends when I was little,” Sam says to the couch pillow. “We were in each other’s pockets before things got hard.” He falls silent.
“Go on,” CJ prompts. This is her job, after all: To listen and spin.
Sam gathers up all the courage and dignity he can find and spits it out. “He knows that my father used to hit me.”
Silence fills the room, broken only by the ticking of Leo’s clock. CJ shuffles forward in her seat, placing a concerned hand on his arm. He very carefully doesn’t flinch.
Leo clears his throat. “He hit you?”
“Sometimes,” Sam says, keeping his voice as even as possible. His hand trembles slightly, ever so slightly, a quiver that he can’t seem to still.
“And this asshole is going to get on national television and say that?” Leo asks.
“Probably.”
“CJ--”
“I’m on it,” she says, her expression hardening into her war face. She swings into action, getting to her feet and calling for her assistants before the door even closes behind her. Sam does not envy whatever poor bastard gets in her way.
“How bad is this going to get?” Sam asks quietly. While most people will act sympathetically, on the surface at least, he knows that if it breaks, there’s going to be a lot of nastiness. A lot of letters about how his father should have hit him harder, about how he was a ‘pussy’ for not just it, about how this probably makes him unstable and pathetic. They’ll question his ability to do his job. They’ll drag Laurie up again and make comments about their relationship, say that his past 'drove' him to her friendship.
“I have no idea,” Leo answers gently. “But be prepared to brace yourself for the worst.”
Sam nods and heads back to his office. He needs some time to think before whatever is going to happen happens.
---
“He’s going to be on Laura Hill at six,” CJ says when Leo calls them back to his office. “I’ve tried getting Huntley, but his assistant is stonewalling me. The network is refusing to take my calls. I don’t think we can stop this thing, Leo.”
“Dammit,” Leo mutters. His brushes his knuckles against the polished wood of his desk to ground himself. The reality of the situation is seeping in; Sam looks almost ashen from it. In just a few hours, someone is going to get on television and reveal one of his weaknesses. He’s going to be the talk of the country, the talk of the world, in less than ten hours. Leo knows what that feels like, and it’s not pleasant.
“There’s nothing we can do?” he asks. Sam shakes his head while CJ winces a denial. “Nothing at all?”
“A preemptive press announcement would be seen as a sympathy grab. We can’t bar the bastard from doing the interview because the press will go nuts.” CJ sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I’m at a loss.”
“Then we should say something to the staff before it happens on air,” Sam says, pulling himself together.
“I want to make sure that everyone’s reminded to keep their mouths closed,” Leo growls in agreement. He nods at CJ. “Get everyone needed in the Roosevelt room at one. We’ll work out a counterattack then.”
“What about my meetings?” Sam asks, checking his watch.
“Delegate,” Leo orders. “We have other things to worry about right now. I need to go brief the President.”
Sam blanches.
“It’s okay, Sam,” Leo says reassuringly. “We’re going to take care of this, okay?”
Sam nods, but it feels like a lie.
---
“Mr. President, I need to talk to you,” Leo says. He signals for Charlie to leave and close the door behind him.
“What is it, Leo?” Jed asks absently, peering over his glasses. “Don’t tell me that we have yet another crisis on the horizon.”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Leo sighs. “You might want to sit down.”
Jed straightens in alarm. “Has something happened?”
“In about seven hours, an old friend of Sam’s named Martin Huntley is going to get on national television and tell the world that Sam’s father beat him,” Leo says. There’s nothing he can do to soften the blow. There’s nothing that could.
Jed stares at him, uncomprehending. “Sam’s father used to beat some guy named Martin Huntley?”
“No, Jed,” Leo corrects softly, using his President’s first name. “Sam’s father used to beat Sam.”
“No way,” Jed denies immediately. He takes a step back, as if some invisible force is shoving him. “That can’t be right.”
“I just heard it from Sam, sir,” Leo says. “Sam’s father hit him when he was younger.”
“That can’t be right,” Jed repeats. He turns away and stares at nothing, his shoulders hunched. His mind plays the words again and again, trying to make sense of them. It couldn’t be right because Sam is...Sam. He’s optimistic and cheerful and so full of life that he hurts to looks at. He always has a kind word for the interns or a smile for the overworked assistants. They send him in when they need someone to be hopelessly charmed. There’s no way that Sam, their Sam, could have had his childhood.
Except that--
Except, Jed remembers with a sudden strike of clarity, for those times when Sam’s eyes go dark and he closes the door to his office for hours at a time. Except for the fact that he goes days without sleeping, without eating, without taking care of himself. Except for that time, when they were campaigning the first go around, when Toby slammed a book against his cheap wooden desk without warning and Sam flinched. It was just a little thing; Jed didn’t even know that he remembered it until just now.
Sam’s father hit him. Jed wonders if God will always direct this sick sense of humor at the people close to him. He remembers what he told Toby, about his relationship with his father just being complicated and nothing more. So what if he got smacked around a little? Things were complicated.
It’s different when it’s someone else.
---
The one o’clock meeting starts out tense and goes downhill from there. They close all of the doors to the Roosevelt room and post guards out front, so that no one can interrupt them. CJ has assembled all the people she felt needed to be told before the broadcast that night: Donna, Ginger, Bonnie, Josh, Toby, Margaret, Carol, Ainsley, and of course, Leo and herself. Bruno and the rest of the campaign staff will be told later. This is just a family meeting.
Sam is there as well, sitting as far in the back as he could manage. CJ gives a small smile that hopefully conveys the amount of love she feels for him. He nods in acknowledgement but doesn’t try to smile back.
CJ takes the lead. She’s given press briefings on massacres and tragedies; she should be able to handle a small crowd of friends and coworkers.
“Okay guys, this is a heads up,” she says professionally. “Things have been sticky these past few weeks, and they’re about to get worse.”
“God, what’s happened now?” Toby snaps, scowling at her as if she’s personally responsible for everything that goes wrong in the world.
“An old acquaintance of Sam’s has a tell-all interview with Laura Hill tonight,” CJ says.
“What have you gotten us into now?” Josh groans, leaning back in his chair. “Seriously, Sam, we need to get you a leash or something.”
“Josh,” Leo says warningly. He glares at the room.
“I haven’t seen Martin since I was ten,” Sam offers quietly.
Josh blinks at him. “If you haven’t seen him in so long, what on earth does he have to say that would be embarrassing to the administration. Did you pick your nose in public or something?”
“Josh!” Leo reprimands sharply.
“While we don’t know what exactly he’s going to say,” CJ continues, folding her arms in front of her stomach unconsciously, “we do have a general idea of the topic.” She can’t bring herself to finish. She just can’t. This isn’t a room full of reporters eager to tear her apart for a tiny hint of a scandal. These are her friends, and they’re about to learn something awful.
“What’s the topic?” Toby asks. “What’s got you all so jumpy?”
“My father,” Sam says. He’s staring resolutely at the conference table, so he doesn’t have to see their expressions. “He’s going to tell everyone about how my father isn’t a very nice man when I was growing up.”
Toby turns slowly in his seat until he’s facing his deputy. “Sam?” he questions softly, his dark eyes searching for some kind of denial, some kind of deeper meaning.
Sam swallows and looks away.
“Sam, did he hit you?” Ginger asks, because someone in the room has to. Someone has to, because this is going to swell up and consume the country in just a few hours. It’s the kind of agonizing drama that the news networks love to eat up.
“Sometimes,” Sam says.
Josh inhales sharply, his eyes wide. “Sam, no.”
Sam shrugs.
“Wait,” Donna says suddenly, jarring them all out of their shocked silences. “You were friends with some kid, some guy who knew what your father was doing, and now he’s going to give an interview about it? And there’s nothing we can do?”
“Nope,” CJ says grimly. “And before you ask, I’ve already considered declaring him a threat to national security and having him shipped over to Siberia.”
“So we just have to watch this happen?”
“We’ll get through this,” Leo says confidently. “We always do. We’re a team, a family. We’re going to support Sam, and we’re going to rain unholy hell on whoever tries to hurt him.”
“Starting with his so-called father,” Toby mutters darkly. Everyone pretends they didn’t hear, even though they all share the sentiment.
---
Josh doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to think. He has Donna cancel his one-thirty so that he can sit in his office with the door closed and rest his head on the desk.
Sam is his best friend. His closest friend. He always thought that they were as thick as thieves, even if they’ve been a little busy lately. But Josh didn’t know about this. He didn’t know about Martin Huntley, and he didn’t know about Sam’s father. Oh, he knew that he and Sam had their rough patches; Josh thought it was just the usual high strung father and bitter son thing. Sam had never told him different. He had just let Josh assume that it was normal family tension. Not--
Not this.
God, and now some asshole is going to get in front of a camera and tell the world just to make a quick buck. Josh closes his eyes and tries not to imagine a younger, wider-eyed Sam at the mercy of some bastard who was supposed to take care of him. Who was supposed to love and protect him.
---
Sam goes back to his office and just sits for a while. Ginger and Bonnie guard his door, keeping everyone out. Tomorrow, he’ll set them straight; he’ll tell them not to coddle him. But right now he’s not up to it. He’d rather they hover and fuss and ensure that he has time to think about what this is going to change.
He should call his mother. He can’t believe he didn’t think about that before. He should warn her about the media firestorm that’s going to hit. They’re going to blame her, because that’s how it always goes. They’ll say she was a neglectful mother, even though he hurt her too.
Sam can’t bring himself to pick up the phone. The idea of talking directly to anyone makes him want to vomit.
Instead he pulls out his laptop and jots down a quick email, not caring for things like spelling and punctuation.
From: [email protected]
Subject: urgent
mom, i can’t talk much right now, but something big is going to
happen. it’s about dad. my old friend martin huntley is going on
television and talk about dad. about us. about everything. it’s
going to be bad.
don’t answer the phone, and dont talk to any reporters.
-- sam
He sends it and prays that she checks her email before this thing breaks.
He doesn’t send anything to his father.
---
The senior staff plus Donna all gather in the residence and watch it together. It feels voyeuristic to even think about watching it, but they have to know what Huntley says. They have to know what they need to defend against.
“He used to show up at school with bruises,” Huntley says earnestly to the camera. “He never talked about it. No one ever mentioned it, you know? No one wanted to.”
“Why are you speaking out now?” Laura Hill asks eagerly.
“Because I can’t stand what that man did to Sammy,” Huntley says. Sam flinches at the nickname. He can see the lie in Martin’s face and in his voice and in the fact that he is getting a boatload of money for this.
“Sam--” Toby says, standing beside him. Hovering, as everyone’s been doing today. He looks physically pained, like someone punched him in the stomach and then spat on him. Sam feels his concern like a blow across the face. Being in a room with these people, with these people who care so damn much, feels like getting beaten all over again. Their love scrapes him raw.
CJ looks furious. She paces, too angry to even talk, which says something because, well, this is CJ. President Bartlet sits in a chair, his hands curled into fists on the armrests. Leo stands behind him, watching the screen with a soldier’s eyes.
“I’m going to have his head on a pike,” CJ declares. She’s stalking back and forth like an Amazon on a blood mission, ready to slaughter and pillage. Sam doesn’t envy the next person to cross her path.
On the television, the interview continues.
“Did no one do anything about it?” the soft-eyed interviewer asks. “No one at all?”
“John Seaborn was -- is -- a very imposing, personable man,” Martin says with just the right touch of regret. “And we were just kids, you know?”
She nods with robotic sympathy, like a bobble-head. Toby growls something derogatory under his breath. Josh has his head in his hands, and Donna is rubbing circles on his back, like a mother comforting a child. It’s touching.
“What effect do you think his childhood had on who he is today?” Laura Hill asks. Sam abandons civility and wishes that she would catch on fire, right then and there. Right on camera.
“Jesus Christ,” President Bartlet swears. “This isn’t journalism. This is trash. Since when does ABN air trash?”
“Trash is good ratings, sir,” CJ answers, bitterness in every syllable.
“I think,” Huntley answers, “that it shaped him a great deal. Sam, as everyone knows, is very kindhearted. He left the private industry because he was too soft for the dog eat dog corporate lawyers.” Josh scoffs, raising his head to glare at the TV. “He would rather give someone what they’re asking for than fight with them.”
“Now that’s just bullshit,” Toby says, leaning forward.
“Sam left the evil corporate lawyers because they were evil, and also not me,” Josh says, indignant that his contribution to Sam’s departure is being overlooked.
Sam snorts. “Keep telling yourself that, buddy.”
“CJ, don’t you have a briefing at half past?” President Bartlet asks, checking his watch.
“I put a lid on it early tonight, sir,” CJ admits. “I sent everyone home. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”
“We’ll deal with them tomorrow,” Leo corrects. The interview winds down, ending with a clumsy plug of Martin Huntley’s new book, an autobiography. Sam is impressed that he even managed to find a publisher; Martin Huntley hasn’t exactly made much of his life, from what the quick Google search Sam had done in his office informed him.
Sam’s story is going to be his foothold to fame.
---
“Okay, folks, before we even get started today, I have a few things to say about Martin Huntley’s interview on Laura Hill last night, so hold yourselves together until I finish: Yes, the President is aware of what happened. He is rightfully outraged that Mr. Huntley would do this, and quite frankly, so am I. So listen up, buttercups -- if I hear that any one of you has been harassing Mr. Seaborn or his family, I will yank your White House press credentials. You can stand outside down the street and say whatever the hell you like, it’s a free country, but while you’re in my press room, you will keep your noses out of Sam’s personal life. Understand?”
Hesitant nods throughout the room. They respect her, these people, and Sam’s likable enough that they probably won’t want to invade his privacy. But at least five of them are going to try it before they figure out that she’s serious.
She has security standing by. CJ doesn’t play around when it comes to protecting her friends.
---
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Josh asks after Sam stumbles out of bed the next morning. Sam’s couch has officially killed Josh’s back (again), so he moves like an old man as he fights off his hangover and tries to find wherever the hell his shirt went.
“Why don’t you tell me about Joanie?” Sam asks with a sharp bite in his tone. Josh flinches, causing Sam to look guilty for a split second. But only for a second.
“Point taken,” Josh says dryly. He finds his shirt and pulls it on, ignoring the pervasive stench of alcohol and sweat. “Look, I’m going to swing back by my place and shower before work. Are you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, but he doesn’t meet Josh’s eyes. Josh turns away without pressing further. Sometimes, you just need space.
---
Sam’s father has two faces: the smiling, pleasant one that he shows to the public and the closed and distant, private one that Sam grew up seeing at the dinner table. When the news crews descend on his parents’ house that morning, it’s the second one that John Seaborn shows the world. Sam turns the news off, even though he knows he should watch.
Sam grew up under the hushed weight of secrets. There were looks that cut through the silence at the dinner table, pauses that dragged them all down like an anchor around the ankle. There are things they never speak of, no matter what.
He disconnected his landline so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the phone ring and ring through the night. His cell’s answering machine has run out of memory. Some of the calls are from his mother, from his aunt, from his various friends and colleagues. There’s one from his father.
That’s the one he listens to.
“Sam, what even-- Look, Sam, it’s your father. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay, I really am, for everyth--”
He deletes the recording before he can hear any more lies.
Sam’s father has two hands: the gentle one that patted him on the head at school functions and public events and the closed fist that struck him when the door was shut and no one could see.
---
“How could I not see it?” President Bartlet asks. Toby looks down at his whiskey, unable to come up with an answer worth saying. “I thought I knew him.”
You and me both, Toby thinks bitterly. He remembers seeing Sam for the first time, just some kid in a suit being dragged behind Josh Lyman. He looked like a college student in his older brother's clothes. He found out soon enough that the kid, as Toby called him in his head, was actually a highly successful corporate lawyer underneath the charming naivety.
Now that he thinks about it, he sees that Sam has surrounded himself with father figures: the President, who sees Sam as his heir; Leo, who sees Sam as his future; Toby, who sees Sam as his protege.
Toby looks at his whiskey and thinks about fathers and sons.
“I thought I knew him,” President Bartlet repeats. He glances up at Toby and then away.
“I can’t get what you said out of my head,” the President says, speaking softly. “My father hit me because he didn’t like me. But who doesn’t like Sam? Imagine Sam as a child, with a lisp and the same stubborn idealism he has now.” Toby wants to shy from the image forming in his mind’s eye, but he can’t escape it, can’t duck away. The President paints it ruthlessly, pasting Sam’s face onto his own past. “Sam as a little boy with a grown man striking him. Who could do such a thing?”
“I don’t think striking a child can be explained away by a ‘complicated’ relationship,” Toby says slowly. “I don’t think there’s an excuse large enough to cover acts of abuse.”
“I can’t wrap my head around it,” President Bartlet says. “Sam. I can’t wrap my head around Sam.”
“Sir, neither can I. No one can,” Toby snorts. And just like that, the mood takes a sharp turn towards laughter.
“It’s different when it’s you,” President Bartlet says after the humor evaporates from the air. “I can’t explain it. When I think of my father, I think of how complex it was, how layered. The good moments and the bad. I can think of ways that they balance out. But when I think of Sam going through the same thing, of anyone going through the same thing, that balance just...vanishes.”
“It’s easier to justify when you’re the one it happened to,” Toby says, thinking of his own past. “It’s easier when you’re the one enduring it. Easier to dismiss it, easier to diminish it. Easier to normalize it inside your own head.”
“But when you look at someone else, you see the flaws in the logic,” President Bartlet interrupts. He sighs. “I want to give John Seaborn a painful death.”
“You and me both, sir,” Toby says. You and me both.
---
The media, as predicted, eat the story up. A handsome, dashing young man already attached to a sexy scandal involving a call girl comes from an abusive home? It’s the stuff that sells papers like nothing else. CJ stands between Sam and any interviewers who want to get their claws in him, but there’s only so much she can do. Sam starts going home with Toby at night, so that he won’t have to see the gaggle of reporters outside his building.
“It’ll fade,” Toby says awkwardly. His comforting presence has always been a silent one; for a man who crafts words for international events and presidential speeches, he has always preferred the succinct. “They’re like moths; soon they’re will be a bigger flame and they’ll leave you alone.”
“I know,” Sam sighs, and he does. He’s gone through this before, after all, when pictures of him and Laurie were splashed over every news network on three continents. The public will latch onto something newer and shinier soon enough, but the damage will have already been done.
Toby puts him in his guest room with clean sheets and a fresh notepad. There are a selection of pens on the nightstand, arranged in the order that Sam prefers them. He smiles to himself as he picks one and settles in for a bit of late night writing.
---
Sam refuses to do any interviews, but he does write an essay. He drafts it in Toby’s guest room, staying up all night with the bedside lamp lighting his paper. It’s short, only a few thousand words long, but it’s poignant and lyrical. It describes the weight of silence and the duality of hands. It’s published in the New York Times, along with a picture of Sam and the rest of the senior staff. They’re all smiling in the picture, staring straight at the camera with their arms slung casually around each other. They look like a family.
They are a family.
His essay, an autobiographical reflection of his transition from his father’s son to the man he is today, is honored with a special Pulitzer citation using a grant from the Children’s Defense Fund. Sam gives the letter the Pulitzer board sent him to Toby, who has it framed. It now hangs on the wall in his office, right next to his poster of the Bill of Rights. Sam sees it every time he goes over to talk to Toby about whatever project he’s working on.
Hanging underneath the letter is the essay itself, along with a print of their family portrait.
coda:
Toby sweats. He hates Los Angeles, and the city seems to hate him back. He’s here on a fool’s errand, sent to tell some upstart guy with the DNC to lose the race he shouldn’t be winning. They would have sent Sam, since this was his pet project, but Sam is currently being honored by some obscure writing group for his essay and can’t make it.
The heat burns through his clothing, leaving him panting within seconds of stepping out of the airport. He doesn’t meet with this Will Bailey guy for another two hours, which means that he has more than enough time to knock back a few at the hotel bar. He claims a seat in plain view of the bartender, so that he’s forced to receive excellent and swift service. He orders his favorite drink and pulls out a cigar, just to feel it between his fingers.
A man comes in and sits next to him. The man’s handsome, and he looks vaguely familiar; Toby wonders if he does car commercials or is involved in small league Democratic politics. Maybe he saw him at a fund raiser? They go to so many of those it’s hard to keep track of all the people crawling over them for favors.
But then the man tilts his head just so, and it hits Toby like a ton of bricks: Sam. The man looks like Sam. Older, with graying hair at his temples and a weathered face, but Sam nonetheless.
“Excuse me,” Toby says, because he can’t just let this pass. “You don’t happen to be related to Sam Seaborn, do you?”
The man startles and straightens. “I am,” he says cautiously. It’s been almost a year since Martin Huntley went on ABN and sold Sam’s story, and most people have moved on. He probably doesn’t have random strangers asking him about it much anymore.
Toby intends to do more than ask.
“You’re his father?” Toby asks.
“Yes,” John Seaborn says. He narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”
“His boss,” Toby says. He puts his cigar back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink. “His friend.”
“You work at the White House too?”
“Yep.”
“What’s it li--?” John Seaborn starts to ask, but then Toby’s moving, hitting him square across the jaw with enough force to send him sprawling to the floor. Seaborn isn’t a small man, and Toby isn’t a large one, but fury is a powerful equalizer.
“You hit him,” Toby growls, standing over Seaborn’s prone body. There’s blood on his fist; one of his knuckles split. “You hit your own kid, you rat bastard.” Toby spits on him, the constant hum of anger bursting forth into a tidal wave. “You don’t deserve him.”
The bartender is shouting something, and the other patrons of the hotel bar are speaking amongst themselves. There are cameras flashing. Toby doesn’t care.
“You hit your own son,” Toby repeats, bending low so that Seaborn can hear him. “That punch is the least I want to do to you.”
He straightens his back and squares his shoulders. With one eye on Seaborn, he counts out a twenty for the bartender and places it in his hands. Then he sweeps out, the force of his personality going with him, leaving a group of confused and dazed tourists and one bloodied man still laying on the ground.
---
Later, after Toby returns to DC, when President Bartlet is raising his eyebrows at him and waiting for an excuse, Toby thinks of how satisfying it felt to connect his fist with that asshole’s face.
“Honestly, Toby, I expected this behavior from Josh, not you,” the President says, sounding amused despite himself. Toby answers him seriously, because what he did deserves a serious explanation.
“Sir, I can’t punch your father because he’s dead,” Toby says, “but I can sure as hell punch Sam’s.”