ficlet: Candidate Seaborn, post-election
sloganeer said, i would love to hear if candidate seaborn ever won. is vanity fair going to do another profile now that he's in office?
At a certain point I realized I only knew one Sam/Josh to write, no matter what different circumstances I threw them into. So this is post-Vanity Fair, but probably the same guys from Rain or Shine, too.
"There are easier ways to establish residency, you know," Josh says from behind him. Sam is sitting on the balcony, feet propped up on a marble planter of unknown Italianate origin. The ocean stretches out in front of him, the last vestiges of sun streaking its surface.
Josh is right; the house is ridiculous. There's a tapestry in the front hall, something generically medieval that only reminds Sam every day that a proper palace should provide room for the commoners to sleep. Here they'd never get past the gate.
"I've got ninety minutes before I need to be at John Wayne. What kind of godforsaken place do you live now that they name airports after movie stars instead of dead politicians, Sam?"
Josh doesn't really require a conversational sparring partner, or maybe he's finally gotten used to doing without. They haven't seen each other in two months, since before the election. Bartlet was meeting labor leaders in LA today and Sam had wondered if someone might call, though he'd held out little hope. The stench of losing clouds the judgment of even old friends.
"C'mon," Josh says, soft, and steps forward to lean on the railing. "I'm trying here."
Sam clears his throat. One benefit of taking a sabbatical from public speaking is that some days he doesn't have to talk at all. "La Huerta take you to the cleaners over border patrols?"
"Sí, señor." Josh's bitter laugh is familiar, smoky and deliberately seductive. Maybe it took a real defeat to strip underachievement of its romanticism.
He pushes to his feet, sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. A postcard-perfect moment and all Sam can see is the curve of the horizon. The end of the world that wasn't.
"Lisa didn't want it. The house, I mean. And the market was too good to sell just because we weren't going to live here together."
Josh shifts his weight onto one elbow, turns toward Sam. "Wow, Lisa," he says. "I forgot about Lisa." He frowns, stares down at his hands. "This whole time you've had a castle by the sea and you never said anything?"
"I nearly forgot myself," Sam says. Will had handed over a file with everything they'd found while vetting him, the property records on top. "I'm getting rid of it, anyway."
"Yeah?" Josh looks right at him. "Hell of a view, though."
"It's -- distracting. Hypnotizing."
"That too. At least it looked good for the magazines." A flick of his wrist and Josh's watch lights up, a pale teal against the dark. "Aren't you gonna show me the bedroom?"
"There are six," Sam says, unnecessarily, an old soft flutter of anticipation making his hands sweat.
Josh smirks, cocky and childish, and walks back inside through the French doors. "Show me yours."
At a certain point I realized I only knew one Sam/Josh to write, no matter what different circumstances I threw them into. So this is post-Vanity Fair, but probably the same guys from Rain or Shine, too.
"There are easier ways to establish residency, you know," Josh says from behind him. Sam is sitting on the balcony, feet propped up on a marble planter of unknown Italianate origin. The ocean stretches out in front of him, the last vestiges of sun streaking its surface.
Josh is right; the house is ridiculous. There's a tapestry in the front hall, something generically medieval that only reminds Sam every day that a proper palace should provide room for the commoners to sleep. Here they'd never get past the gate.
"I've got ninety minutes before I need to be at John Wayne. What kind of godforsaken place do you live now that they name airports after movie stars instead of dead politicians, Sam?"
Josh doesn't really require a conversational sparring partner, or maybe he's finally gotten used to doing without. They haven't seen each other in two months, since before the election. Bartlet was meeting labor leaders in LA today and Sam had wondered if someone might call, though he'd held out little hope. The stench of losing clouds the judgment of even old friends.
"C'mon," Josh says, soft, and steps forward to lean on the railing. "I'm trying here."
Sam clears his throat. One benefit of taking a sabbatical from public speaking is that some days he doesn't have to talk at all. "La Huerta take you to the cleaners over border patrols?"
"Sí, señor." Josh's bitter laugh is familiar, smoky and deliberately seductive. Maybe it took a real defeat to strip underachievement of its romanticism.
He pushes to his feet, sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. A postcard-perfect moment and all Sam can see is the curve of the horizon. The end of the world that wasn't.
"Lisa didn't want it. The house, I mean. And the market was too good to sell just because we weren't going to live here together."
Josh shifts his weight onto one elbow, turns toward Sam. "Wow, Lisa," he says. "I forgot about Lisa." He frowns, stares down at his hands. "This whole time you've had a castle by the sea and you never said anything?"
"I nearly forgot myself," Sam says. Will had handed over a file with everything they'd found while vetting him, the property records on top. "I'm getting rid of it, anyway."
"Yeah?" Josh looks right at him. "Hell of a view, though."
"It's -- distracting. Hypnotizing."
"That too. At least it looked good for the magazines." A flick of his wrist and Josh's watch lights up, a pale teal against the dark. "Aren't you gonna show me the bedroom?"
"There are six," Sam says, unnecessarily, an old soft flutter of anticipation making his hands sweat.
Josh smirks, cocky and childish, and walks back inside through the French doors. "Show me yours."