West Wing FF: By the morning won't exist (Sam/Toby, R, post-series)
Title: By the morning won't exist
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: Sam/Toby
Rating: R for semi-explicit sex
Genre: Drama/Angst
Length: 1,500 words
Disclaimer: All belongs to Sorkin and Wells.
Spoilers: S1-7
Summary/AN: The Seaborn for President campaign takes a stop in New York. Toby sees through Sam's magic, or maybe he's blinded by it. Maybe he's blinded by something else entirely.
Read throughs by mi_guida and amy_vic. Remaining mistakes are all mine. Title is from a Bright Eyes song - Lua. And, again, sex within.
“I love New York,” Sam told the reporters. “I lived here for eight years, and some of my best friends still do.”
“Toby Ziegler?” One asked.
Toby watched the TV as Sam smiled and nodded, “Toby is one of those people, yes.”
“Is the campaign worried about the possibility of giving the impression that you condone Mr Ziegler’s actions?”
Sam leant forward, and Toby willed him not to say anything stupid. “Toby and I have been friends for twenty years now. He booked himself into the Hilton along with my campaign staff because I wanted to catch up. You’ve all probably noticed, given that many of you are flying around after me, that I’m running on a pretty tight schedule. There aren’t any ulterior motives beyond two old friends who haven’t had a chance to talk in a while.”
They started asking questions about whether ‘talking’ entailed campaign management, and if Toby was on the payroll. The real campaign staff milling around the hotel room threw Toby vaguely accusatory looks.
Toby glared. “This wasn’t my idea!”
“Toby,” Sam said admonishingly, coming through the door.
“Did I or did I not tell you that the press would put their own treacherous spin on this?”
“You did. And I said that I didn’t care.”
“Yes, well, your staff do.”
Sam came to stand behind Toby’s chair, absurdly protective. He dealt with the calls of ‘Congressman,’ one by one, his hands still braced above Toby’s head. Toby didn’t need to be there - his room was adjoining this and Sam could come and get him when he was ready. But Sam had asked him to come and talk with him tonight, and was holding him there without a touch.
When the staff finally all realised that their boss was trying to get rid of them, they left. Sam walked over to the door and locked it with a sigh of relief. “Now.”
Toby sat in the chair, silent and unmoving.
Sam walked to him. He dropped to his knees at Toby’s feet, all six-foot Presidential nominee of him.
Toby’s “Sam” wanted to be a caution, a reminder. Was no more than the breath of the name over Sam’s hair.
Sam wrapped his arms around Toby’s waist and pulled him forward a little. Enough to get access to the fly of his jeans. He worked at pulling them down, hands slipping round and back to Toby’s waist. He slid the jeans and boxers down to Toby’s ankles. Sam laid his head on Toby’s thigh, his exhale a warm sigh that made Toby shiver. It should have been ridiculous. Congressman Sam Seaborn of Orange County, the front runner for the Presidency, with his dark hair spread on Toby’s white thigh. Stillness where there should be motion, the oddest kind of odd tableau. Sam always came at things in strange angles. He basked first, afterglow before glow, and this was familiar in a way that he had never presumed to get used to.
Toby pulled Sam up for a kiss, ignoring the protests of both their backs. Sam smiled - decadent, a late-night smile. Another kiss, innocent to contrast the wicked curve of his lips, and Sam moved down again. He took Toby into his mouth slowly, drawing out every motion. Only Sam could be so teasing and so gravely worshipful. Sam moved his hold to Toby’s hips, and Toby covered Sam’s hands with his own and gripped them tightly. Sam had long fingers, still with writers’ callouses where they had always been. A strange point of grounding as Sam swallowed him completely and everything else burned white.
Sam laid his head on the same place as before while Toby recovered. Toby patted Sam’s hair, not sure what else to do. The last time they had done this Sam had just won an election. He had been incandescent even in the Californian night - had drawn Toby after him, a silent figure of beauty against the celebratory noise. Toby did not know how to lead, but Sam seemed to be waiting. Whether simply for Toby’s breathing to slow down, or for Toby to figure it out, he didn’t know.
“Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“Want to try for the bed this time?” he suggested.
Sam gave a strange sideways nod, not raising his head. Toby slipped his arms under Sam’s and steered them both towards the bed. Sam was still dressed, and as Toby unbuttoned his own shirt one-handed he motioned for Sam to do the same. When they were both undressed, Sam reached for him. He clutched at Toby, not kissing or stroking, just a strong hold that kept them both face to face, saying nothing. Toby lay down first, dragging his hands along Sam’s arms until their hands met, and he could pull Sam after him onto the bed.
They lay like that, Sam’s hands still drawing patterns on Toby’s arms. Sam nodded his head down to Toby’s forehead gently, and moved to the side so Toby could roll over.
They had Toby’s room as a buffer on one side, but there were staffers in all the others around them. Sam buried his face in the back of Toby’s neck, barely muffling the sound. The cries were too close to Toby’s ear; he heard the break in Sam’s voice as ‘Toby’ spilled into pleading. He thrust back, a little, but Sam wasn’t asking for anything Toby could give him. Sam came with a sigh pressed into the skin of Toby’s shoulder; a deep shudder before he jerked and fell against him. Toby could feel Sam stirring, burrowing himself against Toby from entirely the wrong position to do so. He turned them both sideways, tucking Sam under his arm, chest to chest, and hoped that this was the right thing.
They both slept for a little while, or he thought they did. When he woke Sam had his head bent over the hotel desk, crossing out pieces of whatever speech he was fixing. The line of his back was curved, but strong. Sam had the world on his shoulders now, but he made people believe that he could carry them to safe harbour. The President had used to lean over the Resolute desk like that. It had been easier to see the silver and gold in him, in his hair and in his voice; majestic even when the gold had turned mostly silver and the speech had more halts and stammers. He knew Sam too well to believe in this Presidential myth; Sam would weave his magic over people who were not him. Toby only saw Sam glimmer out of the corner of his eye, or like this, when Sam looked into the mirror and for a moment was not looking at Toby at all. Sam smiled and Toby knew that he would walk through fire for this man.
“You should win,” he said.
“That’s what they tell me,” Sam replied, crawling back into bed.
“You should.”
“You’ll come visit?”
“Don’t... don’t tempt things like that! I said should.”
“And I didn’t say where I was asking you to visit. You haven’t come and seen me in California since the first election.”
“Sam. You have a wife. You have two kids.”
“You too,” Sam countered lightly.
“This is... I’ll vote for you Sam. And if you need someone to listen to you pontificate about things they won’t let you talk to the public about, you can always call. But you’re...”
Sam rolled Toby over and looked down at him. His arms were braced either side of Toby’s head. Then his mouth was on Toby’s neck, hard kisses that got harder as he moved down to Toby’s chest, using his teeth to make tiny bruised circles. Toby would lecture tomorrow with Sam’s marks under his shirt. Sam rubbed up against him - they were older men now and already spent, but the friction and frantic whispers made Toby moan back. Sam was crying another wild litany into Toby’s shoulder; this time every word was 'no', burnt into Toby’s skin as feelingly as each bruise.
Toby was right, in every way. But then Sam already knew that, so Toby curled his arms around Sam’s chest and rubbed at his neck. “Sam,” he whispered, kissing the top of his head, “Sam.”
Sam did sleep this time, a slight frown frozen on his face. Toby got up to read the speech Sam had been fixing. It was good, of course, but Toby would be damned if he couldn’t find something to change in a speech of Sam’s. It would be the last gift he could give Sam for a little while.
In the morning Sam will find the amendments sitting beside his bed. Later, when he reaches inside his coat for the first time that day he will find the other note. The first ‘I love you’ will never have sounded so much like goodbye.
Now, though, it is four fifty-seven a.m. and Sam’s wake-up call will be arriving in three minutes. Toby kissed Sam again, gentle not to wake him, and opened the door into the adjoining room. Sam looked as though he was dreaming; his throat worked like he was giving a speech - expression serious and earnest mixed. The frown was gone now; President Seaborn had returned, crept onto his face as he slept. Toby closed the door.
FIN.
Comments make my mornings. Or afternoons or evenings.
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: Sam/Toby
Rating: R for semi-explicit sex
Genre: Drama/Angst
Length: 1,500 words
Disclaimer: All belongs to Sorkin and Wells.
Spoilers: S1-7
Summary/AN: The Seaborn for President campaign takes a stop in New York. Toby sees through Sam's magic, or maybe he's blinded by it. Maybe he's blinded by something else entirely.
Read throughs by mi_guida and amy_vic. Remaining mistakes are all mine. Title is from a Bright Eyes song - Lua. And, again, sex within.
“I love New York,” Sam told the reporters. “I lived here for eight years, and some of my best friends still do.”
“Toby Ziegler?” One asked.
Toby watched the TV as Sam smiled and nodded, “Toby is one of those people, yes.”
“Is the campaign worried about the possibility of giving the impression that you condone Mr Ziegler’s actions?”
Sam leant forward, and Toby willed him not to say anything stupid. “Toby and I have been friends for twenty years now. He booked himself into the Hilton along with my campaign staff because I wanted to catch up. You’ve all probably noticed, given that many of you are flying around after me, that I’m running on a pretty tight schedule. There aren’t any ulterior motives beyond two old friends who haven’t had a chance to talk in a while.”
They started asking questions about whether ‘talking’ entailed campaign management, and if Toby was on the payroll. The real campaign staff milling around the hotel room threw Toby vaguely accusatory looks.
Toby glared. “This wasn’t my idea!”
“Toby,” Sam said admonishingly, coming through the door.
“Did I or did I not tell you that the press would put their own treacherous spin on this?”
“You did. And I said that I didn’t care.”
“Yes, well, your staff do.”
Sam came to stand behind Toby’s chair, absurdly protective. He dealt with the calls of ‘Congressman,’ one by one, his hands still braced above Toby’s head. Toby didn’t need to be there - his room was adjoining this and Sam could come and get him when he was ready. But Sam had asked him to come and talk with him tonight, and was holding him there without a touch.
When the staff finally all realised that their boss was trying to get rid of them, they left. Sam walked over to the door and locked it with a sigh of relief. “Now.”
Toby sat in the chair, silent and unmoving.
Sam walked to him. He dropped to his knees at Toby’s feet, all six-foot Presidential nominee of him.
Toby’s “Sam” wanted to be a caution, a reminder. Was no more than the breath of the name over Sam’s hair.
Sam wrapped his arms around Toby’s waist and pulled him forward a little. Enough to get access to the fly of his jeans. He worked at pulling them down, hands slipping round and back to Toby’s waist. He slid the jeans and boxers down to Toby’s ankles. Sam laid his head on Toby’s thigh, his exhale a warm sigh that made Toby shiver. It should have been ridiculous. Congressman Sam Seaborn of Orange County, the front runner for the Presidency, with his dark hair spread on Toby’s white thigh. Stillness where there should be motion, the oddest kind of odd tableau. Sam always came at things in strange angles. He basked first, afterglow before glow, and this was familiar in a way that he had never presumed to get used to.
Toby pulled Sam up for a kiss, ignoring the protests of both their backs. Sam smiled - decadent, a late-night smile. Another kiss, innocent to contrast the wicked curve of his lips, and Sam moved down again. He took Toby into his mouth slowly, drawing out every motion. Only Sam could be so teasing and so gravely worshipful. Sam moved his hold to Toby’s hips, and Toby covered Sam’s hands with his own and gripped them tightly. Sam had long fingers, still with writers’ callouses where they had always been. A strange point of grounding as Sam swallowed him completely and everything else burned white.
Sam laid his head on the same place as before while Toby recovered. Toby patted Sam’s hair, not sure what else to do. The last time they had done this Sam had just won an election. He had been incandescent even in the Californian night - had drawn Toby after him, a silent figure of beauty against the celebratory noise. Toby did not know how to lead, but Sam seemed to be waiting. Whether simply for Toby’s breathing to slow down, or for Toby to figure it out, he didn’t know.
“Sam.”
“Yeah?”
“Want to try for the bed this time?” he suggested.
Sam gave a strange sideways nod, not raising his head. Toby slipped his arms under Sam’s and steered them both towards the bed. Sam was still dressed, and as Toby unbuttoned his own shirt one-handed he motioned for Sam to do the same. When they were both undressed, Sam reached for him. He clutched at Toby, not kissing or stroking, just a strong hold that kept them both face to face, saying nothing. Toby lay down first, dragging his hands along Sam’s arms until their hands met, and he could pull Sam after him onto the bed.
They lay like that, Sam’s hands still drawing patterns on Toby’s arms. Sam nodded his head down to Toby’s forehead gently, and moved to the side so Toby could roll over.
They had Toby’s room as a buffer on one side, but there were staffers in all the others around them. Sam buried his face in the back of Toby’s neck, barely muffling the sound. The cries were too close to Toby’s ear; he heard the break in Sam’s voice as ‘Toby’ spilled into pleading. He thrust back, a little, but Sam wasn’t asking for anything Toby could give him. Sam came with a sigh pressed into the skin of Toby’s shoulder; a deep shudder before he jerked and fell against him. Toby could feel Sam stirring, burrowing himself against Toby from entirely the wrong position to do so. He turned them both sideways, tucking Sam under his arm, chest to chest, and hoped that this was the right thing.
They both slept for a little while, or he thought they did. When he woke Sam had his head bent over the hotel desk, crossing out pieces of whatever speech he was fixing. The line of his back was curved, but strong. Sam had the world on his shoulders now, but he made people believe that he could carry them to safe harbour. The President had used to lean over the Resolute desk like that. It had been easier to see the silver and gold in him, in his hair and in his voice; majestic even when the gold had turned mostly silver and the speech had more halts and stammers. He knew Sam too well to believe in this Presidential myth; Sam would weave his magic over people who were not him. Toby only saw Sam glimmer out of the corner of his eye, or like this, when Sam looked into the mirror and for a moment was not looking at Toby at all. Sam smiled and Toby knew that he would walk through fire for this man.
“You should win,” he said.
“That’s what they tell me,” Sam replied, crawling back into bed.
“You should.”
“You’ll come visit?”
“Don’t... don’t tempt things like that! I said should.”
“And I didn’t say where I was asking you to visit. You haven’t come and seen me in California since the first election.”
“Sam. You have a wife. You have two kids.”
“You too,” Sam countered lightly.
“This is... I’ll vote for you Sam. And if you need someone to listen to you pontificate about things they won’t let you talk to the public about, you can always call. But you’re...”
Sam rolled Toby over and looked down at him. His arms were braced either side of Toby’s head. Then his mouth was on Toby’s neck, hard kisses that got harder as he moved down to Toby’s chest, using his teeth to make tiny bruised circles. Toby would lecture tomorrow with Sam’s marks under his shirt. Sam rubbed up against him - they were older men now and already spent, but the friction and frantic whispers made Toby moan back. Sam was crying another wild litany into Toby’s shoulder; this time every word was 'no', burnt into Toby’s skin as feelingly as each bruise.
Toby was right, in every way. But then Sam already knew that, so Toby curled his arms around Sam’s chest and rubbed at his neck. “Sam,” he whispered, kissing the top of his head, “Sam.”
Sam did sleep this time, a slight frown frozen on his face. Toby got up to read the speech Sam had been fixing. It was good, of course, but Toby would be damned if he couldn’t find something to change in a speech of Sam’s. It would be the last gift he could give Sam for a little while.
In the morning Sam will find the amendments sitting beside his bed. Later, when he reaches inside his coat for the first time that day he will find the other note. The first ‘I love you’ will never have sounded so much like goodbye.
Now, though, it is four fifty-seven a.m. and Sam’s wake-up call will be arriving in three minutes. Toby kissed Sam again, gentle not to wake him, and opened the door into the adjoining room. Sam looked as though he was dreaming; his throat worked like he was giving a speech - expression serious and earnest mixed. The frown was gone now; President Seaborn had returned, crept onto his face as he slept. Toby closed the door.
FIN.
Comments make my mornings. Or afternoons or evenings.