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28/02/01 Fandom: The West Wing Spoilers for "Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail" Summary: They're going to take Sam out and get him drunk and put him to bed. Disclaimer: "The West Wing" belongs to Aaron Sorkin, Tommy Schlamme, and NBC. And for a change, I actually believe they're better at this than I am. I hold them in the highest regard, and I fully intend to have all the characters back in one piece, so please forgive me, as no infringement is intended. The story is mine. Sex disclaimer:
Still no sex. All Who Are Hungry
There's this cab that he got poured into, what must be hours ago. Even this late at night, the traffic is bad. Slow. Toby up front. Big and brown, this blurry mass of tweed even in the magnificence of his overcoat. Donna on his right, happy and relaxed, shoes off, humming with her temple pressed to the window. Josh on his left. If he were just a bit more sober, he wouldn't be so close to crawling into Josh's lap. It's only his seatbelt keeping him in check right now. And even with it tying him down, he's got his face pressed into some part of Josh's chest and shoulder. Breathing through him. Loving the wool-silk-cotton-aftershave smell of him. Not a synthetic fibre anywhere on the man's body. And Josh's hands are there, cradling the back of his head. Josh hasn't said anything since they piled into this cab and decided to make a tour of the police state that DC's turned into tonight. Sam kisses the cloth pressed against his mouth and makes a serious attempt to bury himself in those layers of coat. Up front, Toby says, "Somebody remind Sam that he's straight." "Sam, you're straight." Donna. Whose hand is brushing his back, just lightly. He mutters, "Prove it." "The call girl you slept with might qualify as proof." Toby, who's pretty snarky for a sad, fat man who's secretly just as drunk as the rest of them. "Guy can do diff'rent things iffe wants to." "Sam . . ." He has a lot more motor function than he would have expected. Enough to sit up a bit, and grab Josh's head, and pull the man down for a kiss. Enough to make the kiss good. Deep and open-mouthed and not-rough. Everything that made Laurie like him and Mallory hate his guts. Passionate as he can manage while he's at an angle this bad. Long enough to make Donna poke him hard in the ribs. "Hands off, Sam. My boy." "I don't remember saying I was yours." "Shut up, Josh. You don't get to vote." "And you call this a democracy." "Tell me you didn't just kiss Josh, Sam." "OK, I won't." Happy. "He kissed Josh." "Shut up, Donna." "Sam, as your boss I'm telling you not to kiss any more guys in this car." "It's OK." And that, oddly, is Josh. Who hasn't quite swallowed his bemusement and sounds surprised that he's saying such a thing. "If that's a commentary on his kissing skills . . ." "No. It's just . . . it's cool. I won't worry about it if you don't." Sam nods absently and goes back to burying his face in Josh's coat. Thinking that Donna isn't actually mad at him, but only because she doesn't believe he really just did that. And because she knows she owes him, and because -- once, when he wasn't numb -- this was a heartbreaker of a day. And he didn't even have to listen to the whole cheese speech. The cab stops, and somebody lets Josh out. Josh bundles Sam inside, props him up in the hall. "Jeez you're heavy. Who does this for you normally?" "Ginger." He's sure it's Ginger. He's very, very used to the smell of her perfume. "She's your mother now instead of just your assistant?" He looks up. Feels like the Man in Black before the miracle pill's taken full effect, like his neck won't actually work. "I happen to know that Donna does your laundry." Josh looks offended. "Just that once." "You lie like a cheap rug. She could probably tell me which pair of boxers is 'Thursday'. Marry her already." "Nope." "What?" He can't even think which question that was an answer to. Insignificant compared to Josh's sudden mouth against his. Hard impact, but after that very soft. The first time he kissed Josh, he'd expected . . . well, something he didn't get. A girl's mouth, maybe, which it definitely wasn't. Even baby-faced as Josh is, there's more than a hint of stubble at this hour, and when they press too close together, it makes a hard burn across his lips. Or maybe some kind of prison-rape kiss where he got held down and just orally abused. Josh kisses him more tender than anyone he's had in his entire life, and why the man won't sleep with him is something that doesn't make sense at this late and drunken hour. It's proof of a universe of cruelty that Josh has decided to undress him as part and parcel of the "put Sam to bed" proposition. Shirt goes, pants go. Nice, very shiny shoes go. Watch, belt, tie. T-shirt. Just Sam in boxers, a drunken, civil-servant extension of the Fox in Socks. Tempting Knox in the form of Josh to do Very Bad Things. Josh kisses him once more, and cradles Sam's head against his chest. Waits. He hasn't cried since he was fifteen, but Sam gets very still in the warm circle of those arms. Whispers, "Twenty-eight years," into Josh's chest. "What did he say when you called him?" Meaning his father. Traitor. Makes him wonder what it's worth to be the favourite son of the liberal survivors if one's parents managed to betray your carefully-tended faith in human nature. "He said he was sorry. For hurting me. Not for what he did." "Would it help if I said I was sorry?" "Nope." "OK." Sam lifts his face away, almost-not-quite looking for another kiss. Doesn't get it. Josh smooths the hair back from his forehead and starts folding him into bed. "You wanna stay?" "I'm not going to." Sigh. "Why not?" "Because I told myself I couldn't about a hundred times in the cab on the way over." Which doesn't seem fair, except that Sam's drunk, and Josh knows Sam's drunk, and Sam knows Josh well enough to know that Josh isn't one to molest a drunken man. Even if he's two-and-a-half sheets himself. Josh bends over
him and presses their foreheads together. Stays that way, bent over Sam's
almost-naked body, still fully clothed, even in his coat. Curly hair brushes
his forehead. Tilts his head down, kisses Sam's mouth briefly, and goes
back to the forehead rest. And just sits there, wrapped in his wool coat
to protect them both from the night. Listening to Sam breathe from two
inches away.
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