Rating/Pairing: PG, Leo/Ainsley
Disclaimer: The West Wing is not mine, nor ever will be mine.
Spoilers: Post ep to "Bad Moon Rising"
Summary: The other shoe drops...who's there to catch Leo?
Archive:On my site, The Band Gazebo Anywhere else, ask first
Feedback: Yes please!
Author's Notes: Twelfth in the Stolen Moments series; after Reports, Statistics and Divine Intervention, Of Divorces and Desserts, Cookies and Children's Choirs, Loose Lips, Of Peanuts and Lord Fauntleroy, A Bigger Night, More Than Like,Of Chopsticks and Cheese, Killing Time, Sewn Into The Fabric and The Pieces of My Life.

This is ridiculous.

I'm at home, having left the office behind me for the night, leaving each and every brief that I've been working on back there, determined that I'm going to forget all about the White House. Some friends called me and asked me to hit the town with them, and I was tempted. However, the lure of a night in, just relaxing and spoiling myself was too much. And here I am, having indulged myself with an hour long bubble bath, in front of the TV in my favourite, most comfortable sweats, with a video that I want to watch and a new book to begin when that's finished, a pint of ice cream in the refrigerator, with nothing to do but enjoy it, and what's happening?

I can't relax.

I don't know what it is, but there's something in the air at the White House, and it's fishy. You'd think that a Harvard Law grad would have a better verbal response than that, but that's the only one I can come up with. Under normal circumstances, I'd put it down to my getting used to a new boss, but after Lionel Tribbey, I get the feeling that Oliver Babish is going to be a piece of cake. Of course, I could be wrong about that.

But there's an atmosphere there, and I can't put my finger on why. I first noticed it when I came back from the ERA thing at Smith. Certain individuals on the Senior Staff seem to be preoccupied, moody - just like Toby was when we were working on the speech for the Correspondent's Dinner. And it's more than CJ trying to find out who leaked a story to the press, more than Sam having a bug up his ass about an oil tanker. And while I'd love to know what Leo makes of all of this, even if it's only to tell me that I'm imagining things, I haven't seen him since I came back to town. This is quite possibly the longest I've gone without talking to him since Christmas, and I don't like the feeling.

My phone picks that moment to ring, and I check the caller ID - which I've finally mastered, thank you very much- and don't recognise the number. I consider not answering it, in case it's Harriet or one of the others tempting me to come out, but good manners dictate that I answer it, so I do.

"Hello?"

That didn't sound too itimidatory I'm sure, but there's no response from the other end. "Hello?" I try again, but there's still no response. One thing that I am able to work out is that this isn't Harriet or anyone calling from a bar or restaurant; the other end of the line is way too quiet for that. And I think that I can hear somebody breathing, as if they're upset or trying to figure out what they're going to say. Of course, it could be a different type of phone call, and I jot down the number as a precaution while I make my final attempt. "Is there anyone there?"

Just as I'm about to hang up, someone speaks. "Ainsley?"

The need for caution disappears instantly, and I realise that my first instinct was correct, because I know this voice. That being said, I've never heard it this upset, and a cold knot of tension settles itself in my stomach. "Leo?" He doesn't say anything, but I know it's him. "Leo, I know it's you. Where are you?"

A sigh. "I'm at home." Another sigh. "I just … I needed to talk to someone…"

I make up my mind quickly. "You want to come over?"

"I sent my guy home."

"Get a cab then. You know the address?"

"Yeah. I remember it."

"OK." I'm ready to leave it at that, but he doesn't hang up the phone and nor do I. "Are you ok Leo?"

A harsh laugh is my response. "I'll see you soon."

There's a click as the line goes dead, and when I put the phone down, I notice that my hand is shaking. I've never heard Leo sound like this before, not even at Christmas when he was so worried over Josh. He sounds broken, and old, and raw somehow, as if everything he thought, everything he knows has been stripped away. He wasn't making much sense, wasn't saying much then, which is so unlike the Leo that I know. The thought comes into my mind that he might have been drinking, and I instantly dismiss it. He fought too hard to get sober, to get his life back to where he has it now. He wouldn't do that; he couldn't do that. I'm sure of it.

I put on a pot of coffee anyway.

Then I spend the next few minutes that seem like hours pacing around my apartment, tidying up any papers or books that might be lying around, moving them one place before moving them back again, making sure that they're just so.

It seems like an eternity passes before there's a knock at my door and I fly to answer it. My hands are shaking so badly that it takes another eternity to undo the locks, and when I finally manage to wrench open the door and look at him, it's like every molecule of air in my body is sucked out. If his voice sounded broken and raw and old, it's nothing compared to the look in his eyes, the look on his face. I've seen something like that look once before, and it was at Christmas, when we were in his office, talking about Josh. He'd made a comment about the kind of year that it had been, and I'd tried to lighten the mood, making a quip about how it couldn't get much worse. And then he got this look on his face that made a cold hand reach inside me and twist painfully. That cold hand is back tonight, because bad and all as the look on his face was that night, as much as it scared me, it was but a shadow of the way he looks now. He laughed it off then, tried to pretend that it was the White House and that things could always get worse, and I let him play me off, let the subject drop. But from the look of things, from his face and from the air of tension around the White House lately, I think the other shoe has dropped, or is about to.

So I do the only thing I can think of when I see him like that.

I pull him into my apartment, slamming the door, and I hug him. Words won't do it this time, and I don't think coffee and dessert will either. His arms wrap around me tightly, and he holds me as if I'm the only thing that's keeping him from drowning. And the funny thing is, I think I just might be.

It's hard to separate myself from him, but I do it, and study him closely again. He looks haunted true, but his eyes, although troubled, are clear, and there's no hint of alcohol from his breath, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief, taking his hands in mine. "What's wrong?" I ask him.

He shakes his head, and I take his coat and hang it up, leading him over to the couch, his hand still in mine as we sit down. "I just…I needed to talk to someone…and you were the first one that I thought of…"

I nod, thinking of all the conversations that we've had over the past number of weeks, conversations that have gone far beyond the realm of a normal work-related discussion. "What's happened Leo?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. "I don't know if I can tell you," he finally says.

I don't buy it for a minute. If he couldn't tell me, if he didn't want to tell me, he wouldn't have found his way here tonight. So it's time to take a shot in the dark, and all the while, that cold hand is still gripping my insides tightly. Whatever it is, I know it's bad. "Is this to do with the meeting you and the President had with Oliver Babish?" He starts slightly at the mention of Babish's name, probably surprised that I knew about it, and I know that I'm right. "What is it?"

He takes a deep breath. "There's something that's going to come out…" He stops then, and repeats what he said a second ago. "I don't know…"

I cut him off. "Do you have your wallet there?"

He looks confused, but he nods. "Sure."

"Take it out." When he does, I open it, finding a dollar bill and handing the wallet back to him. I snap the dollar, then fold it in two, holding it up to him. "You just hired yourself a lawyer. Tell me what's wrong."

My actions bring a ghost of a smile to his face. "What if I don't want a lawyer? What if I want a friend?"

I reach out my hand, offering the dollar back to him. "Then you get that for free."

He takes my outstretched hand in both of his, but instead of taking the dollar, he wraps his hands around mine and takes another deep breath before he starts to speak. "Eight years ago, the President was diagnosed with a relapsing-remitting course of MS." He stops then, waiting for my reaction.

Which I'm sure I'd give him if the room hadn't suddenly tilted on its axis. At least that's what it feels like, and if it weren't for his hand holding mine so tightly, I feel like I'd just slip away peacefully. He's the only thing keeping me grounded as I struggle to process what he's just told me. "Multiple Sclerosis?" I whisper in horror. He nods, his face grim. "You got him elected when you knew that he…"

He's shaking his head vehemently. "I didn't know. I didn't know. He only told me last year."

Everything seems to click in my brain. "And Toby worked it out somehow. That's why he was so preoccupied last week."

Leo looks surprised that I worked that much out, but he nods. "Hoynes left him clues…he came to talk to me the night you were all working on the speech for the Correspondents' Dinner. We told him then."

"And he made you meet with Mr Babish." More nods. "What did he say?" But I'm afraid that I already know the answer.

"Massive fraud on the American people. There was a form that Zoey needed signed for college…and they didn't disclose the MS. Babish is talking about Grand Juries, and hearings and I believe, the bloodiest most Bartlet-hating Special Prosecutor we can find."

I need to take a couple of deep breaths. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." His voice is shaky as he admits it. "We're going to have to tell the Senior Staff…and at this point, I don't see how we can avoid telling the American people." He doesn't look thrilled at the prospect, and I don't blame him in the slightest. "They're not going to understand Ainsley…. they're going to tear him apart."

And you. I don't say the words out loud, but I don't think I need to. Leo's already been crucified once during this administration, and I was one of the people driving in the nails. Washington scuttlebutt has been calling him the force behind the power ever since Bartlet took office, and this is going to serve to pour paraffin on the flames. I don't even want to think about what the rest of my party is going to say.

My party. I'm a Republican, and he still came to me. I take a moment to ponder the revelation about what that says about how much he trusts me.

But right now, I realise, he's not thinking about politics and party affiliation. I don't even think that he's thinking about the Office of the President. I think he's thinking about his best friend, and the effect that this is going to have on his life.

"The American people can be very forgiving you know. If you give them the chance."

He chuckles, but there's no mirth in the sound. "I wish I could believe that."

I put my hand over his, which are still holding mine. "It's going to be ok," I tell him, the meaningless platitude the only thing I can come up with.

There's a silence for a moment, and I know that he has something on his mind. "How do you feel?" he asks me. I frown, wondering how I do feel. I've been so busy thinking of him that the legal ramifications have totally passed me by. I can't remember that ever happening to me before. I think he senses my confusion, because he continues, "I'm not asking for your opinion on the legality of what he did…what I did. About whether anyone lied or not, about what the outcome might be. I just want to know if you can still look me in the eye."

My eyes widen as what he's saying hits me, and I realise that that's as close to an admission of how he feels about me as anything I've ever heard from him, excepting the time he called me a friend in the mess. He thinks that I'm going to hate him for not telling me about this. "I don't think you lied to me," I tell him. "And I'm not so sure he did either. Not intentionally. It's just…there are some things that you have to keep to yourself." I should know all about that - I've been keeping the fact that I'm attracted to Leo under my hat for weeks now.

From the exhalation across from me, I realise that he was holding his breath waiting for me to answer, and a look of relief has spread across his face. He smiles, a real warm genuine smile, for the first time since he's been here tonight, and his hands squeeze mine. A memory strikes me suddenly, and I ask him a question. "Do you remember when the President welcomed the new ambassadors? The reception?" A look of distaste spreads across his face, and I know that he's thinking of Lord John Marbury bounding across the room like Thumper on speed, frightening the life out of me and irritating him. "You remember we were talking about Charlie Brown?"

"The guy in the cartoon? With the dog?"

"Right. The President had said that you were like Charlie Brown…"

"And you told me that it was appropriate…but we were interrupted before you told me why."

I nod. "You see, 'Peanuts' isn't just a comic strip. They have movies and books…they even based a Broadway show around it. It's called 'You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown'. And there's this lyric in it… 'You're a good man Charlie Brown, You're the kind of reminder we need, You have humility nobility and a sense of honour, That is very rare indeed'." I speak slowly, emphasising all the good traits that are mentioned, and I know that he's hanging on every word. When I'm finished, I swear I can see tears in his eyes, and I take one of my hands out from under his and lay it on his cheek. "You're a good man Leo McGarry," I whisper before I do something that I've been longing to do for the longest time.

Never breaking eye contact with him, my hand still on his cheek, I lean forward and touch his lips with mine.

Believe me when I tell you that some things are definitely worth waiting for. The kiss starts off as tentative, but rapidly grows more passionate as his arms go around my waist and mine go up and around his neck. Coherent thought is somewhat of an effort and I abandon it gladly, losing myself in the sensation of his mouth on mine, his tongue dancing with mine, his hands on my back, tangling in my hair.

When he pulls back God only knows how long later, I actually moan in disappointment. I'm breathing hard and so is he, and somewhere in all those kisses, I ended up straddling his lap. He lifts shaking hands to my face, cupping it before pushing my hair behind my ears. "We need to stop," he whispers.

I shake my head, knowing that that's the last thing I need, knowing from his body's reaction to me that it's not what he wants either. "Why?"

"It's too fast," he whispers.

"Not from where I'm sitting." He looks me up and down and raises an eyebrow, and I can't help but laugh. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I know." He laughed at it too. I love his laugh. I think I have ever since that first night he came down to my office looking for a report for the President. "I just don't want our first time together to be like this."

I perk up at that. "You've thought about our first time together? You've actually sat down and envisioned a first time for the two of us?"

I never thought that I'd see Leo McGarry blushing. "This," and I know he means the two of us, "Has been a long time coming. I know that. And I don't want to rush things…take things too fast."

There's no talking him down from this, and the thing is, much as I want to, I don't really want to. Because I've enjoyed this long slow dance we've been doing, and I don't mind if it lasts a little longer. Because I want it - this - us - to last a lot longer. That's why I slither off his lap without further complaint, rearranging myself on the couch so that I'm sitting as close to him as I can, resting my head on his shoulder. One of his arms goes around me, the other hand joins with mine, and I can feel his head resting on top of mine. "Will you stay for a little while?" I ask him, as I reflect on how things sometimes turn out. I never thought that I'd fall for Leo McGarry. And I never thought when my phone rang tonight, when he came over here, that things would turn out like this. But I’m glad they did. Because it's a long time since I've felt this content, this secure. And I don't want this feeling to end. I've wanted him to hold me like this, to kiss me like this for so long and now he finally has. And no matter what happens with the President, with our jobs, I know that we're going to be just fine.

I feel him smile and kiss the top of my head as he pulls me tighter to him. "I'll stay forever," he whispers.

"Well," I tell him. "That's fine too."

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