Rating: R (-ish, since I have a total inability to write smut)
Disclaimer: Not mine
Archive: SoTU list page, anyone else, just let me know
Feedback: Yes please. Don't make me beg.
Spoilers: General spoilers for season two.
Summary: Leo tries to deal with the loss of his best friend.
Notes: The song used is "Ships of Heaven" by Blackhawk, written by Van Stephenson. We lost Van on April 8^th 2001, and if you can listen to this song without a lump in your throat, then you're a stronger person than I. I don't think I did it any justice at all, but this is what I came up with.

The clock on the mantel showed that it was past one o'clock in the morning, but he still sat in his chair, his favourite chair, the one he always sat in when he came to this house. This house that he'd visited countless times over the past fifty years, this house that he knew as well his own. There was a fire still burning in the fireplace, casting shadowy flickers across his face as he stared straight ahead. The hand that rested limply on the arm of the chair held a sheet of paper, while the other held his glasses loosely against his mouth. He was the very study of melancholy concentration, his mind twenty years or more away, unaware of the woman watching him from the doorway.

"How many times have I told you not to chew on your glasses?"

He jumped slightly at the sound of her voice. "We should put a bell on you or something," he grumbled, and she felt the beginnings of a smile come to her face at his response. He'd been understandably quiet for the past few weeks, and that comment told her that the man she fell in love with, the man she'd married, was still in there somewhere.

"So I've been told." She padded across the floor to him in her bare feet, thankful for the soft warmth of the carpet. Outside, a strong wind howled and rain beat against the windows, but inside the room was warm, and she settled herself by the fire at his feet, staring up at him.

"I thought you went to bed."

"I did. Two hours ago. I couldn't sleep."

He laid his glasses on the table and the piece of paper with them. One hand reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. "I know how you feel."

"But at least I've tried." There was mild reproach in her tone as she reached up and took one of his hands in hers. She visibly recoiled at the touch. "Your hand is freezing," she told him, shocked, rubbing it in between hers.

"It's February in New Hampshire. What do you expect?"

"I expect my husband to come to bed with me." Her head rested on his knee. "You need to sleep Leo."

He sighed, and she felt his hand begin to run through her long hair. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the world, remembering all the nights that he'd done this, under happier circumstances. "I'll sleep." There was no conviction in his words, but she didn't call him on it. They'd had this conversation before, on nights when she'd found him like this, lost in memory, and she knew that they probably would again.

But just because she didn’t call him on it didn't mean she wasn't worried about him. She missed the talking, the banter that had flown between them every morning and every night. She knew how little he was eating, and she'd taken to checking the drinks cabinet on a daily basis. She'd missed him at nights when he didn't come to their bed until the small hours of the morning, or when he didn't come there at all, instead staying in his study, writing, reading, thinking. But not crying. Never crying.

He hadn't cried when things began to deteriorate, when the inevitable future that they'd been dreading for years became the present. He hadn't cried when the phone had rung and Charlie had told them to come to New Hampshire as quickly as they could. He hadn't cried as they'd stood around the bedside with the family, while their extended family waited downstairs. Hadn't even cried when they'd walked down the stairs hand in hand to tell them.

"He left instructions you know."

"He did?"

"Yeah. He always was freakishly organised about things like this" There was a dry chuckle. "He thought of everything. What he wants, how he wanted it. He also had some…how do I put this?…interesting suggestions for the media."

The tone of his voice left her in no doubt as to what those suggestions were and she found herself smiling, imaging Jed Bartlet ranting against the press intrusion that had dogged his life ever since "you dragged me kicking and screaming into this circus Leo." She'd never heard him say that during his tenure in the White House, but when he had left Pennsylvania Avenue, it had become a recurring theme.

"There's a song. That he wanted played. He even left the lyrics for me." He picked up the sheet again and his hand stilled on her hair. She lifted her head, trying to see the words, tilting the page towards her, and he handed her the page. As he did so, he took her hand in his, pulling her up. Knowing what he meant for her to do, she arranged herself comfortably on his lap. "Read them for me," he told her.

She felt tears come into her eyes after skimming the first couple of lines, and her hand went to her mouth. "Leo…" she whispered.

He took her hand down, held it in his, kissed it gently. "Out loud Ainsley."

Her voice trembled as she read.

"If you'd known how hard it was to get him to run…"

"But you did it. Twice."

"I think the second time was easier, believe it or not." Ainsley knew that her scepticism must have been written on her face in six foot high letters as she remembered those days in the White House, the furore over Bartlet's admission that he suffered from MS augmented by the death of Mrs Landingham. "He just got stubborn. You know what he could be like."

"Like someone else I know." But her smile was kind, her eyes filled with sorrow and love in equal measure.

"I used to think we'd never get there. That we'd never win the election. Then that first year." Leo shook his head. "Disaster after disaster, falling polling numbers, scandals." He avoided mentioning Rosslyn and its aftermath, but she knew that it was never far from his thoughts. "Then I never thought we'd get a second term." He glanced down at the sheet of paper and his hand that still held hers. "He really did pass all his tests, didn't he?"

"We all did." She read on.

"I think I got to know him even better in those eight years. You know, I asked him once if he ever regretted me talking him into it. He told me never. That he wouldn't have traded those years, with those people, for anything. He asked me if I felt the same."

"And did you?"

"I had my private life splashed all over the papers. I lost one wife, but found another. My daughter married someone who worships her, and she never would have met him but for my work. Overall, I think I came out ahead." His lips pressed into her neck as he spoke.

"Good answer."

She was smiling, but a look back at him told her that he was serious. "I remember the day I told him about us. I thought he'd have a stroke."

"You worry too much." Ainsley leaned back in his arms, resting her head against his shoulder. "I knew he'd be fine."

"Right." Leo retorted dryly. "Which is why you cowered in your office the whole morning while I did all the talking."

"I did not cower, I was working on some very important papers-"

"You were cowering." His quiet authority cut off her words.

"Maybe a little." His chest shook slightly with laughter and she was pleased that she'd given in, pleased at the brief moment of normality.

"He laughed at first. Thought I was kidding him. He had the same reaction when I told him about Amy." Leo's voice cracked for the first time all week. "He got a kick out of knowing that he was going to a grandfather at the same as I was going to be a father." Ainsley's cheeks burned as she remembered the teasing that had taken place as she and Zoe each neared their due dates, Zoe and Charlie's son being born only eleven days before their daughter. That thought distracted Leo from his memories. "They asleep?"

She nodded. "I checked on them before I came down." The sight of the two toddlers peacefully sleeping in their cradles had eased many a broken heart that night. "They're out for the count."

"Good." His lips found her neck again, more insistent this time and her eyes closed in response, letting him travel down her neck to the collar of her bathrobe. It was only when his hands went to the tie that her eyes snapped open, and her hands went over his.

"Leo?" She turned to face him, a shiver of something running up her spine as he fingered the rings on her third finger. He hadn't touched her like this in weeks, not since the inevitability of tomorrow's events became known. Instead he'd stayed away from their bed until the early hours and even then, he'd held himself apart from her until he fell into a restless slumber. Then his body always found its way back to hers. But this was the first time he'd touched her consciously, and much as she wanted to abandon herself to him, she wanted to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, neither of which was forthcoming.

"Ssh," he whispered. "Don't talk." His lips found hers, soft at first, and she was transported back to their first kiss all those years ago. Even now, after the minor media skirmish that had followed, years of marriage and one child, his kiss still had the same effect on her, making her head swim and her stomach knot pleasantly.

Almost of its own accord, her hand found its way to the back of his head, fingering the short hairs at the back of his neck. His hand loosened the tie on her robe, slipping underneath it to slide along the oversized T-shirt that she slept in whenever they weren't alone, making its way up her side to cup her breast. She gasped at the contact, and felt his tongue slip between her lips as he pressed her tighter against him.

Much as she was enjoying the pleasant sensations he was creating, some part of Ainsley's mind that insisted on clinging to sanity was screaming at her, reminding her that they shouldn't be doing this here. Reluctantly she pulled away from him. "Leo." Her heart broke at the expression in his eyes. "We shouldn't do this now."

He stared at her, then nodded wordlessly, but lowered his head to kiss her shoulder. When he looked into her eyes again, she could see the emotions that he'd been keeping back for so long swimming just below the surface. He had to take a deep breath before he was able to speak. "I need you."

She caught her breath, nodding at the simple truth that was so clear to her now. Nodding again, she took his hand and led him to their bedroom.

And once they were there, she stopped worrying about whether or not they should be doing this, in this house, at a time like this. Because he was looking at her as if she was the only thing in the world that made sense, as if she was his world. Because they'd just lost his best friend, who he had seen almost every day for fifty years, who also happened to be a good man that she admired, whose friendship she'd been honoured to share with this man. Because he'd been so strong for everyone else for so long, repressing his own pain so much so that he couldn't feel anything at all, and now, the night before the funeral of his closest friend, he needed to feel something.

He needed to feel alive.

He needed her.

Because he was in pain, and because he could never voice that pain, he instead whispered terms of endearment to her, trying to make it all go away, trying to stop the pain from drowning both of them. Those lips that would never allow his pain to slip past covered her face, her neck, every inch of her body, as she writhed underneath him. His hands were everywhere, touching her, alternately soothing her and making her moan with pleasure. When he finally entered her, he looked down at her, met her eyes with his, and she could see nothing but the love that she'd always seen there. There was none of the pain, none of the lethargy that had dogged his movement in the past few weeks. Instead there was motion and emotion, passion and compassion and when he came, his lips were against her neck, and she felt, as well as heard, him whisper "I love you."

And when it was over, when they lay spent together, her head rested on his chest and she heard his heart beat, strong and steady. She was almost lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest when she felt the first drop on the top of her head. Pulling herself up, she looked at him, at the tears silently rolling down his face. "Leo," she whispered, brushing the tears away, only to have them replaced by more. "Leo."

She moved so that she was level with him, taking him in her arms, laying his head on her chest, just letting him cry. There were no sobs, no sudden outpouring of grief, just those long tracks of tears on his cheeks. And she held him, one hand wrapped around his shoulders and reaching up to stroke his hair, the other reaching around and moving in circles on his back, soothing him as she had so often soothed their daughter. And just as she had when soothed Amy, she found herself humming a tune, before whispering the words of a song.

Back to West Wing Fanfic