Rating: PG
Pairing: Leo/Ainsley
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin and company...I'm just having a little fun, if that's what you call it!
Archive: My site The Band Gazebo; Anywhere else, just ask.
Feedback:Makes me sing. Or write. Or something.
Spoilers:General season one and two, but nothing specific
Summary: Leo's thoughts on waking before his alarm.
Notes: Nothing to do with Stolen Moments
It was still dark outside when Leo woke up, and a quick glance at the glowing numbers on his bedside table told him that he still had another half-hour before the alarm was due to go off. He didn't know when he'd got into the habit of waking up before the alarm went off, but it was something that happened to him every morning, without fail. He hadn't actually needed an alarm in several years, not unless he was getting up extra early. But he still set it anyway. It was a habit, something he never even thought about. Not usually. Lately though, the alarm clock had begun to serve as a reminder. A reminder that time was short, and that his was running out.
He hadn't always thought like that. It used to be that that half-hour was his time. Time to read a book, or a magazine, or finish last night's paper. Time to scan the news, to get a jump on the stories of the day. Time to see what had been going on in the world while he and the rest of the United States had been deep in slumber. Time to write letters to friends and family long neglected, time to plan the day's events, the week's events.
The time wasn't his own anymore. Hadn't been for three months now.
It scared him, how he knew the exact period of time since he'd given this part of his life away. And he had given it away, given it gladly. It scared him how three months seemed like such a short amount of time, but that he couldn't remember what his life had been like before. Surely it had been always like this? Surely there hadn't been a time where he'd done all those things in that half-hour before the alarm bell rang? There hadn't been a time where he'd stay in bed as long as he could, as long as time allowed, almost willing time to stop so that he could stay just that little bit longer?
Of course, there once had been a time like that. But that had been a long time ago. Back when his bed had been shared by Jenny O'Brian, the leggy redhead that he'd fallen head over heels for. He'd never understood what she saw in him, never understood what made her stay when she could have had any tall dark and handsome someone that she wanted. Had never understood what made her choose him, marry him. He'd used that half-hour in the mornings to lie beside her, watching her breathing, drinking in her beauty in the early morning light. He'd seen so many ugly things in his life, between his father and Vietnam. Jenny was like the antidote to that, and that morning half-hour where he watched her helped get him through the day. And later, when they had been blessed by a miracle in the shape of a little red-haired angel who looked just like her mom, he'd used that half hour to stand by her cradle, taking in every breath, marvelling at her, her tiny fingers and toes, how her little chest moved up and down, how her eyes would open wide, looking up at him with such love, such trust, that his heart fairly wanted to burst. And he would pick her up then, sit down on the rocking chair in the corner, and rock her in his arms, crooning softly to her, telling her about all the plans that he had for his family, all the things that he wanted for her.
He didn't know when things had changed. When adoration twisted into something else, into the fear that Jenny would realise who and what she married, into the fear that he'd never be worthy of the trust, the unconditional love that radiated from his daughter every time she looked at him. He worshipped both his girls, but he could never shake the thought that no matter what he did, he wouldn't be good enough. That they'd end up hating him. Those morning half-hours had nearly killed him.
Luckily, he had some good friends to help him out, to help him forget, to block out his pain. Jim Beam. Jack Daniels. Jose Cuervo. Johnny Walker. And if they weren't around, well, a little Southern Comfort would do just fine.
Alarm calls had been a thing of the past then. Hell, he was lucky if he could find a bed, any bed, let alone his own. And when he did, when he did spend that morning half hour in his own bed, looking at Jenny as he'd done when they were first married, he hated himself, knowing he'd become what he feared most. He hated himself even more when the alarm went off and Jenny turned to his side of the bed, never knowing if she'd see her husband there or not. And the expression in her eyes when she did was his worst fear come to life.
He still remembered the morning that he hadn't woken until the alarm went off. Except it wasn't his alarm clock; it was a car alarm. And it was going off in a motel car park. He was lying face down in the gutter, with no idea how he'd got there, and no idea what he was going to do. He was the Secretary of Labour, and all he needed right then was for a journalist to happen by and his life was over.
That was one hell of a wake up call.
He knew he couldn't phone Jenny, or Margaret. And as he pulled himself to his feet, he knew that there was one person he could call, one person who would never judge him. So he called his best friend, the friend who had begged him to get help, and he begged him to help him. And Jed Bartlet, a good man and the best friend God could ever grant a man, moved heaven and earth to help him.
Just like he moved heaven and earth to get Jed elected as President. During that campaign, during the years that had followed, he'd rediscovered that morning half-hour as a time of peace and solitude. No demons intruded. But he didn't use it to watch Jenny sleep anymore. He used it to plan, to read, to think, to strategise. And it all paid off.
The only casualty had been his marriage.
He still remembered the sick, hollow feeling as he watched the cab pull out of the drive, taking Jenny to the Watergate. Still remembered how he'd tossed and turned, unable to sleep. And when the time came where he'd normally get up, before the alarm went off, he'd been staring at Jenny's pillow, picturing her there, as if he could wish her back there through the sheer force of his will.
He'd lied to Mallory later on, telling her that he'd moved to a hotel because he wanted Jenny to have the house. That wasn't the reason. The real reason had been that he knew he wasn't strong enough to survive that morning half-hour every morning on his own in the bed where he'd once watched his wife sleep. Wasn't strong enough to survive the half-hour where, if he walked down the hall to the room that had once been the nursery, he could see himself in the corner, in that rocking chair long since discarded, rocking a baby in his arms, telling her of all the plans that he had made.
When he was in the hotel, when he moved into his new apartment, the half-hour in the morning had once again been his time. With no-one to share it with, no ghosts to haunt him, he once again fell to planning, reading, thinking, strategising. He was fond of telling anyone who would listen that he got more done in that half-hour in the morning than he'd get done in three hours in the office.
It was his time.
Until three months ago when he'd given it away without a second thought.
It had begun innocently, more than three months ago. Conversations had become more personal, he'd sought her out more. He'd begun to notice everything about her, about how she interacted with others, about the things she was working on, the way she dressed and spoke and laughed. How her long blonde hair shone as it fell down her back, how her accent became more pronounced when she was riled. And when he'd realised what was happening, what he was feeling, he'd tried to stop it. He had. But she would sneak into his thoughts in the early morning and stay there for the rest of the day.
Still, he'd done nothing about it. After all, he was old enough to be her father. Besides, common sense, close observation and the White House Rumour Mill all decreed that Sam Seaborn was crazy about Ainsley Hayes, and had been ever since she kicked his ass on Capitol Beat. And Sam was a good kid, solid, reliable. They'd make a good couple, good-looking, successful, smart, young. Better to put whatever he was feeling away and let her and Sam work out whatever it was between them.
He hadn't counted on Ainsley. Hadn't counted on her becoming dispossessed of common sense, not paying heed to close observation and totally disregarding the White House Rumour Mill. Hadn't counted on her coming into his office one day, making sure that the doors were closed and that Margaret was gone to lunch, and calmly announcing that she had something of a crush on him, and that she wanted to tell him so that she could just get it off her chest as it were, and then move on and forget about it. He hadn't counted on him becoming dispossessed of common sense as he listened to her, hadn't counted on grabbing her wrist as she made to leave because she felt that she'd embarrassed herself enough and didn't want to impose upon him any further, hadn't counted on pulling her to him and kissing her right there in his office.
Hadn't counted on her coming to his apartment that night and staying there till morning.
That had been three months ago, and the first morning in months that he hadn't risen directly on waking. He'd remained in bed, studying her, as he'd once studied Jenny all those years ago. She had been curled up on her side, facing him, hair streaming across the pillow behind her, with one strand falling towards him, across the hand that rested on the pillow. Her breathing was slow and even, and there had been a small smile on her face. And he'd been staring at her, in awe and wonder, when her eyes opened, and the smile grew wider. "What time is it?" she'd mumbled sleepily, trying to see past him to the clock.
"About ten minutes till the alarm goes off," he told her, pushing the errant strand of hair back, not needing to look at the clock. He'd been doing a mental countdown since he woke up.
If possible, her grin had become wider, certainly saucier. She'd propped herself up on one elbow, letting the sheet fall away from her, exposing her to his gaze. "We can do a lot in ten minutes," she'd told him, and had spent the next ten minutes proving the truth of her statement. And when the alarm went off that morning, for the first time in years, Leo McGarry had paid no attention to it.
And so had gone the last three months of his life. Either here or in Ainsley's apartment, he'd been found awake before the alarm, watching her sleep. Amazed that she was here, with him. That a beautiful, vibrant young woman like her would be attracted to a wartime consigliere like him.
It scared him to know how much this time had come to mean to him. It wasn't his own time anymore, he'd given it away. He spent his day admiring this woman from afar while running the country, and this morning half-hour now belonged to them both, borrowed from the world. This morning half-hour where he could just be a man, falling in love with a woman, rather than the White House Chief of Staff, in bed with a White House Associate Counsel young enough to be his daughter.
It scared him because he knew how easily all this could slip away. That some day she might look at him and see him for the old man he really was. That some younger, handsome man like Sam Seaborn would swoop in and steal her away. That he'd push her away, as he'd pushed Jenny away.
It scared him because he knew that their time together, all their time together, was borrowed time. Not just this morning time that he borrowed from the world. If news of their relationship was to break, it wouldn't be a squall in the press, but a tornado of interest, of innuendo, of people talking behind their backs. Of families and friends passing judgements and condemnation on them. One slip, one careless move, one comment to the wrong person, around the wrong person, and their secret would be out, the world demanding back the time they had borrowed, demanding that any debt be paid with interest.
Ainsley was wrapped in his arms this morning, his head resting on top of hers, her head pillowed on his chest. He'd only been awake for a few minutes when he felt her stir, and he fought to keep back a smile. She'd been waking earlier and earlier in the three months they'd been together, catching his habit of borrowing some time from the day. Her head lifted and her eyes met his, and she pouted when she realised that he was already awake. "One of these days…" she mumbled. She'd told him numerous times that it wasn't fair that she'd never got to see him sleep.
One of his hands traced her spine. "I know."
She closed her eyes again, head going down. "What time is it?"
"Early." A second hand joined the other, moving up and down her back in alternate sweeps, and she shifted against him, moving closer to him.
"How early?" Her hand lifted to his cheek, moving his head so that he was looking directly at her.
He smiled. "Early." One hand moved up to cup the back of her head while the other slipped still lower underneath the sheet, and he kissed her, feeling her respond, letting her move against him, on top of him.
And Leo McGarry forgot about what might happen and concentrated on what was happening right now. Because this might be borrowed time, but it was their time. And in that end, that was all that mattered.