Rating/Pairing: PG, Leo/Ainsley
Disclaimer: The West Wing is not mine, nor ever will be mine.
Spoilers: For the entire Stolen Moments series, all of Season Two, and limited spoilers for Manchester
Summary: Someone else's take on Leo and Ainsley's relationship
Archive:On my site, The Band Gazebo Anywhere else, ask first
Feedback: Yes please!
Author's Notes: Seventeenth and final 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, The Pieces of My Life,The Other Shoe, Where I Want To Be, Strong Women and Lucky Men, and Watching.... and ....and Waiting.

Author's Notes 2: This is the final installment in the Stolen Moments series...although there is a note going the rounds about a sequel...note to those who have feedbacked me on this - nagging does work! I haven't yet seen Manchester so grateful thanks must go to bluejeans, who spoiled me just enough that the continuity on this isn't entirely off-beam...although I reserve the right to re-edit this at Easter, or whenever Season Three comes my way!
The song used at the end is the song which gave this series its name - if you didn't already know it, it's Stolen Moments by Dan Fogelberg. Like Leo and Ainsley, it's not mine.

I'm a fairly ordinary person. I'm nothing special. I'm twenty-one years old, I'm an English major at Georgetown, and when I graduate, I'd like to be a teacher. Well, what I'd really like to be is a writer, but my father says that teaching is a more stable career, and more likely to pay my bills, and I can't exactly argue with him on that one. So what I figure I'll do is teach, and write at the same time, after school, during the holidays, whenever I can.

If I graduate that is.

It's not the work itself that's the problem, it's more the paying for it. There's three of us in college, and another two that still have to go, and we're not exactly made of money, you know what I mean? So we help out where we can. My brother has a partial scholarship, my youngest sister is so brainy that schools are going to pay her to go there when the time comes. The rest of us take jobs so that we don't have to bug Mom and Dad too much for money.

Some of my friends look at me sympathetically when I go to work, telling me what a shame it is that I'm going to miss this party or that event, telling me what a pain it is that I have to work at all.

But I don't mind it. I actually like my job. I work mostly nights, since most of the time I have afternoon classes and I can sleep late. And since sometimes I don't finish my shift until five in the morning, that's a bonus. Plus the area's pretty residential, which means that we don't get too many drunken frat boys around the place. We tend to get the just-coming-home-from-working-late crowd, the couples either going to or coming from their dates, or the early morning joggers and breakfast crowd.

Like I say, we get a wide cross-section of people there.

Part of the fun of my job is looking at the people who come into the coffeehouse, trying to figure them out, what they do, what their lives are like. I've come up with some pretty interesting backstories for the regulars - I think it's the writer in me, fighting to get out.

But there was one man, for some reason, who attracted my attention more than others.

He started coming in, what, about a year, eighteen months or so ago? Always on his own, always sitting at the same table in the middle of the room. He looked as if he was coming from the office, although I couldn't imagine what office makes him work such crazy long hours. He carried a briefcase, and wore this long camel coloured coat, and always wore these sharp suits underneath. You just knew by looking at him that he was something special, it was the way that he dressed, the way that he carried himself. But in a good way, he wasn't full of himself or anything, and he was always polite to us. He'd smile and leave a nice tip, and never complained about anything.

He intrigued me, and I couldn't stop myself studying him. Not in that way, although the other girls did tease me about the crush they thought that I had on him. I just laughed it off, told them he was old enough to be my father, which he was. But I couldn't deny that there was something about him, something attractive. I bet he must've been a real looker in his day, and he wasn't a total disaster now, if you like older men. But you could tell that he'd lived life, that he had a story and a half to tell.

Plus the fact that there was always something melancholy about him, an air of sadness, of loneliness. A widower I decided, once I saw the wedding ring on his hand, a man who'd just recently lost his wife. They'd probably been married for years, but he was still pretty young, so I guessed that she must've died suddenly. An accident or illness maybe? I figured him for a lawyer, or maybe a doctor, who'd moved into one of those apartments up the street, the ones that cost an arm and a leg. Maybe he couldn't stand to live in the house anymore after his wife died.

I told you I had great backstories for these people.

Then one night he came in, and he sat down and looked at the menu. Now, there's nothing unusual in that you might think. But he'd been in here so often that he never had to look at the menu anymore. He knew it by heart. And from the way he was looking towards the door, I got the feeling that he was waiting for someone, so I kept my distance and waited. And sure enough, a couple of minutes after he sat down, a woman came, looked around for a second, and upon seeing him, made a beeline for his table.

My first thought was wow. She was a knockout, even if she was dressed casually, in sweatpants and running shoes. She had this long blonde hair and these big eyes that I could see even from the counter, and when she sat down she turned this huge smile on him, and began to make small talk as she looked at the menu.

This was an interesting development, and I considered it as I gave them a little time to make up their minds. My first thought was that she was his daughter, and if she was, then the wife must've been some kind of beauty queen, because she really didn't look like him at all. But I was happy to see her there with him, because he seemed like too nice of a guy to have no family at all.

And then when I went to take their order, that theory fell to bits. Because when she talked, it was with a Southern accent, and I've heard him talk enough to know that he's not from the South. So, if she wasn't his daughter, what was she to him? I would've thought that she was way too young to be his girlfriend at first, but when you saw her up close, she looked older than she did from far away. Although still way younger than him. And when I took their order, brought it over to them, I kept a close eye on the two of them. And they didn't seem intimate enough to be lovers. They just didn't have that vibe, you know? So I decided that they must be good friends, maybe they met through work and they were meeting here because he lived close by, and they couldn't talk about the things they wanted to talk about at work, for whatever reason. Or maybe they both lived nearby and had got into the habit of meeting here because it was handy for both of them.

Whatever the reason was, meeting here quickly became a habit for them. And it was always the same pattern. He'd arrive first, and he'd go to the same table, every time. Which I was pleased about, because it was in my station, and I was still curious about the two of them. And she'd come in a couple of minutes later, sit down, look at the menu, and then I'd go over and take their order. Not that I actually needed to, because after the first few times, I'd pretty much memorised it. Decaf mocha latte for her with chocolate fudge cake, cream and fudge sauce. Cappuccino and cheesecake for him. And they'd sit there, and they'd talk and they'd laugh, and they'd look like they were having a whale of a time. And when it came time for them to go, they'd squabble over who picked up the cheque and then they'd go their separate ways.

It was after Christmas that I noticed a change come over them. Oh, they were still friendly, they'd still come in and talk and laugh and squabble. But when you were around them, you could feel it. Sexual tension, thick enough to cut with a knife. And I remember one particular night, and I remember it well, because it was the first night that I knew who he was.

I'm decidedly apolitical, as are most of my family. So it's somewhat ironic that my roommate at the dorm is a political science major who worships the ground on which President Josiah Bartlet walks. I mean, the girls here teased me about my supposed crush on this guy? Well, they should see her over Bartlet. No matter that he's a married grandfather, no matter that his youngest daughter is a couple of years behind us at Georgetown. Amanda thinks he hung the moon and stars, and living with her for the past couple of years, I must admit, the President seems like a pretty cool guy. Anyway, she was online when I walked into the room one day, looking at CNN.com, at coverage of the President's state trip to Japan. And she had me looking at some of the pictures when I saw a face I recognised.

"Hey, it's that guy!"

My cry of surprise, spoken as it was right into her ear since I was leaning over her shoulder, had her swearing at me, and not even the knowledge that this guy came into the place where I worked on a regular basis could placate her when she realised I didn't know who he was.

"That's Leo McGarry," she told me, a mixture of amazement and fury in her tone. "He's the President's Chief of Staff. Been his best friend for years."

"So he's pretty important then?" I wanted to know that I had at least that much right.

Based on the look on Amanda's face, I realised that I'd understated the matter a little. "His office is right next door to the Oval Office," she hissed. "He's one of the most important men in the country!"

I held up my hands and apologised for my ignorance, and when she'd gone out, I logged onto the Washington Post online, thanking God that I knew Amanda's password. I typed "Leo McGarry" into the search engine to see what I could find, and came up trumps, printing out most of the articles to read later. I learned that he was a lawyer (chalk up one for me) and that he had once been Secretary of Labour. That he had been married, but was now divorced, and that he had one daughter, Mallory, a schoolteacher. Which put paid to my lonely widower theory. But I found a photo of the wife and daughter with him, one that was taken on election night, and she wasn't the girl who was with him in the coffeehouse. Which is good, because otherwise, eew. Then I found some more recent articles, dated a little over a year ago, which detailed his press conference, admitting that he was a recovering alcoholic and drug addict. The same articles said that he had admitted himself voluntarily to rehab, but that it was during his stint as Secretary of Labour, and apolitical as I am, I knew that couldn't be good. There were archived articles calling for his resignation, and a statement of support from the President that made me cry. See, I knew that guy was cool. I also found references to his having flown planes in Vietnam, and wondered if that was one of the reasons that he'd turned to alcohol and drugs. He certainly wouldn't have been the first one.

When I finished reading, I knew so much more about Leo McGarry that was more than I'd ever imagined, but nothing about the lady who was with him. What I did know was that he deserved any happiness that came into his life, and that if she made him happy, well, that was great.

Which is why, when he walked into the coffeehouse a couple of days later, I couldn't wait to see if she'd come too. And when she did, I was so psyched to see them together that I practically bounced over there, and didn't even wait for them to order. I guessed their regular order, and both of them looked taken aback that I knew it, but she recovered first and smiled, and said that that was fine. And when I gave them their order, I watched them from the counter, watched them as they talked quietly. And when he reached across the table and took her hand, I wanted to cheer. And when she offered to share her dessert with him, something that she'd never done, I had to bite my lip to keep myself quiet. And I swear that I’m not some crazy stalker, but when they left, I had to put some rubbish out into the bin, and I saw him walk her to her car. And I thought that they were going to kiss, but they just hugged each other, albeit a little bit longer than would be proper for just friends to hug.

And I found myself muttering, "Go for it Mr McGarry."

I didn't see them for a while after that. Whether it was that their outings didn't coincide with my shifts, or because their outings had stopped altogether, I don't know. But I do remember that the next time I saw him, he was on his own. That didn't bother me, after all, he always got here first. But he didn't seem to be looking towards the door, and I found my own gaze going from the door to him and back, wondering if she was stuck in traffic at this hour of the night. I caught him looking over at me, and then he beckoned me over, and I felt guilty for being so slow. He asked for just a cappuccino, no cake, and I wrote it down, and then, unable to stop myself, asked if there would be anything else. And he shook his head and told me that he was on his own tonight. Something tugged in my chest, and when I was at the cappuccino machine, I could see him looking at the seat across from him where she usually sat, and there was this heartbroken look on his face. I couldn't figure out what would have caused her to dump him - from my point of view, they were both crazy about each other, just really slow about admitting it. And I have no idea what possessed me, but I cut two slices of their favourite cakes anyway, and put them in a little takeout box. And he was surprised, all the more so when I told him that they were on the house - which I really can't afford, but I'm a romantic, kill me - and that they kept pretty good in the freezer.

And when he smiled, I knew I'd done the right thing.

I haven't seen either one of them since, and I think I know why. I was in the dorm room studying today when Amanda came in, tears rolling down her cheeks. I thought something dreadful had happened, and when she told me, in fits and starts, I realised it had. She'd heard a leaked press rumour in one of her classes, that the President was sick. That he had Multiple Sclerosis and that he had been lying about it for years. She kept on saying that it couldn't be true, and she kept on saying it, right until we sat in the common room together, with a slew of other people, holding each other's hands tightly as he did an interview admitting that it was true. That he was diagnosed eight years ago. And that he'd kept it from the electorate during the campaign.

There was a lot of anger in the room, and a lot of sympathy too, and I couldn't help but admire both him and the First Lady. And I also couldn't help but wonder how Mr McGarry would be reacting to this. And if it had any affect on the relationship between him and the Southern girl.

Amanda pulled my thoughts back to the present, when she told me that there was going to be a Press Conference. I didn't understand why, until she told me that the President was going to have to answer questions, that there were going to be legal ramifications. That he might have to resign, that he might be facing impeachment. At the very least, he was going to have a hard job getting re-elected. My stomach was in knots, and when he was asked the question - the very first question - I held my breath and leaned forward in my seat to hear his answer.

He asked the reporter to repeat the question, and a hush descended over the room.

And then he said it.

"Yeah. And I'm gonna win."

I heard the most enormous whoop that I've ever heard in my life, and thought that it had come from Amanda, before I realised that it had come from me. Of course, Amanda had added her voice, and so had a few other Bartlet supporters, and I don't think I took in another word of the Press Conference, especially not when I realised that I was late for my shift.

I got here in record time, only to find that the place was deserted. The other girls told me that everyone was most likely at home looking at the news, wondering what the next step was for the President. They even told me that I should go home, do some study, party with my friends.

But I couldn't. I was hoping against hope that they'd come in.

And then the door swung open, and it was him. It was almost three in the morning by this time, and I'd almost given up hope, and in any case, I very nearly didn't recognise him. He was wearing the same kind of clothes that he always wears, but he looked about twenty years younger. There was a spring in his step as he walked over to their table, as if the weight of the world had disappeared from his shoulders, and he tapped his fingers on the table as he kept his eyes on the door.

I saw her through the window at the same time he did, and he got the biggest smile on his face I've ever seen. It was the same size as the one she had on her face when she walked in and saw him already there. She all but ran into his arms, and he lifted her off her feet, holding her tightly, before setting her down as if she was made of glass. And standing right there in the aisle, in front of God and the drunk in the corner and all of us behind the counter, he kissed her.

And this was not some chaste peck on the cheek we're talking about here.

Oh no.

This was a Kiss with a capital K. This was Bogart and Bacall, Hepburn and Tracy. This was Harry meeting Sally, Danny and Sandy, Jack and Rose. There could have been fireworks.

I was quite jealous actually.

When they disentangled themselves from each other, I went to work, making up their usual order, bringing it over and setting it down in front of them. When I did so, I realised that they weren't sitting in their usual positions, across from one another. Instead, she'd taken the chair perpendicular to his, and their hands were joined on the table, identical grins splitting their faces.

"I'm so glad you called," she was telling him as I approached. "I was going crazy…."

"I was in the sit room for hours…and trying to direct the staff…" He shook his head. "I thought I'd never get out of there…everyone was going nuts, talking at once…Josh and Sam were bouncing off the walls, Toby was smoking cigars like crazy…and CJ swears that this is really it, she's gone!"

They both laughed as I put down the cake and coffee, and they smiled up at me, recognising me too. "I hope this is what you wanted?" I said, and it was only when I'd spoken that I realised I wasn't sure if I'd meant the order, or something else.

But they beamed up at me again, and she said, "It's perfect…I've been waiting for this." And I got the distinct impression that she wasn't talking about the order either.

And he just squeezed her hand and nodded, not saying anything.

And I grinned back and went back to the counter.

But I didn't stay there. I must admit that I took advantage of a longstanding agreement that if it wasn't busy, and it wasn't busy tonight, the others let me take out my books and study at a table, as long as I work my station if there's someone there. So that's what I did tonight. But I didn't study. I earwigged shamelessly, and I don't care who knows it.

He was finishing up what seemed like a long discourse on the President's speech and the events of the day. "…just like the old days."

"And you really didn't know?" Her voice was breathless, and I know what it is she's asking him.

"Not until he got up there. And when he paused…"

"I know just what you mean." She took a sip of her latte.

"I was so proud of him today Ainsley," he told her, his voice so soft that I could hardly hear him, and I strained my ears, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not that I had any fears of that they would actually notice me - they only had eyes for each other. "With the funeral…and Haiti…and then all of this…I didn't know how he'd handle it."

She tilted her head, eyes creased with worry. "How are you handling it?" she asked.

He shrugged, but I could see his hands tighten on hers. "I'm fine."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I've got you, haven't I?"

She blushed at that, looked down at their joined hands. "So…what happens now?"

"Now? Now, we get ourselves geared up for a long fight. Grand Jury. Re-election. Hoynes is mad as hell…Abbey's not too happy either…"

"Leo." Her fork was laid down on the plate, as her hand squeezed his. "That's not what I mean."

There was a soft clatter as his fork went down too, and he sighed when he said, "No. I know that."

"This…" And there was a note of reluctance in her voice, cutting through the earlier exultation as she waved her free hand between them to illustrate her point. "…Could be a problem."

"I don't care."

She shook her head at his defiant tone. "Leo…"

"Ainsley, I don't care. I'm not losing you over this. Let the Grand Jury ask about us. Let the press say what they will. We haven't done anything wrong. There's no conflict of interest, we're not the first couple to ever have a big age difference. We can get through this. If you want to."

"You know I do. But…"

"No buts." He raised their joined hands to his lips. "I couldn't have got through these past few weeks without you. And if the rest of the world has a problem with us, I really don't care. Do you?"

She smiled then, all traces of tension gone. "No," she admitted, leaning over to kiss his lips gently. That lead to a couple of minutes of more kissing, followed by gazing into each other's eyes as they shared the cakes, the two plates in the middle of the table between them.

I don't know how long they stayed there, but when it looked as if they were finished with their dessert, I went over to them, hating to interrupt them, but needing to be seen to be doing my job. I asked them if they'd have anything else, and they looked at each other before shaking their heads. He paid the bill and helped her on with her coat, and hand in hand they left the coffeehouse. But instead of going in separate directions like they normally did, they stayed hand in hand and walked up the street together.

I watched them go, and beside me, Deb, who's enjoyed this soap opera as much as I have over the past few months, shook her head. "It's about damn time," she told me.

I laughed with her. "Sing it girl."

Then she cocked her head to the side. "I wonder what they're doing?"

We shared a look, and I shook my head, in earnest this time. "We can't," I said, knowing what she was saying. I mustn't have sounded convincing, because she gave me a look that screamed "Oh yes we can." So we dropped everything and went to the door, looking down the street in the direction they'd gone, only to see them arm in arm, taking their time as they ambled down the street. She laughed at something he said and stopped walking, turning to face him, and he pulled her into his arms and kissed her right there on the street.

Beside me, Deb sighed. "What I wouldn't give," she told me, "For a man to treat me like that."

I nodded in agreement, not bothering to stifle my own sigh, and we went back inside, leaving them to it. But I couldn't get the two of them out of my head for the rest of the night, and now I'm lying in bed, still wide awake, thinking that there's something I'm missing, some little thing nagging me.

And then it hits me.

He called her Ainsley.

It's an unusual name, and one I've only heard once before. I sit upright in bed, snapping on the light over the objections of Amanda, who I wake up. There's a pile of papers beside my bed, articles I printed out when I did the search on Leo McGarry. It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for; an editorial, published after he admitted his drug and alcohol addiction. It was one of the more vitriolic ones that I'd read, and I remember literally not being able to finish it at the time. That's how bad it was. But I remembered the unusual name in the by-line, and I check it again, and sure enough, there it is. "Ainsley Hayes." There's even a little black and white picture of her, one that you wouldn't recognise her from, unless you knew what to look for. And I do. The woman who kissed Leo McGarry in the coffeehouse tonight, the woman who's been meeting him there for months, is the same woman who damned him in print a little over a year ago.

I wonder for a moment about the forces of nature that can bring two people together. Two people that a year ago were so far apart, yet now are so inextricably linked that I'll never be able to think of them as separate entities again. Of what it must have taken to move Ainsley Hayes from thinking that he was, and I quote, "a danger to himself and others, a man whose past actions have proved him unworthy of the post he now holds," to being a man that she's now plainly head over heels for. And I wonder if it was some big revelation that changed her mind, or if it was a series of small occurrences, so slight that she didn't even notice it happening? And while I'm pondering that, unbidden, the words of a song pop into my head.

I'm only aware that I'm speaking out loud when Amanda throws a book at my head, telling me to knock off the poetry recital and turn out the light, and I do so with a smile on my face, because I'm pretty sure that I've found the answer to my question. Over the last few months, I've been witness to something pretty special growing between two people, have had the chance to observe a miracle. Looked at two of the most unlikely people falling in love. A woman who wrote an article about a man she didn't know, but who she ended up working for, and falling in love with. A woman who was younger than he was, who disagreed with everything he stood for. And despite the fact that there were a thousand good reasons why they shouldn't be together, they didn't care and neither did I. Not at the time and not now. Because I've watched them, rooted for them to take that next step, and been thrilled by the conclusion. And I smile in the darkness as I figure out what I'll do next, my fingers itching to get at the typewriter.

Because that sounds like a pretty neat idea for a story to me.

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