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Title: Practical
Author: Priya Deonarain
Spoilers: 100,000 Airplanes
Archive: Yes
Rated: PG for one half-bad word (but nothing you don't hear on the 
show)
Disclaimer: So not mine.  Don't sue please.
Summary: Leo, Sam, and a big block of cheese.  A post-ep.

[-----]

"You wanted to see me, Leo?"

Down the hall a ways, the sounds of partying were still loud, despite 
the rather late hour.  This part of the west wing, however, was dark; 
there was one lamp lighting the good-sized office, the soft light 
casting most of the room in sharp contrasting shadows rather than 
illuminating it.

Leo sat behind his desk, idly doing even more paperwork - some days, 
it seemed that the paperwork was never ending - but when he heard 
Sam's query, he looked up from the books and pulled his glasses 
off.  "Siddown, Sam," he said, pointing to the chair on the other 
side of his desk.

Sam nodded.  "How're you feeling?"

Shrugging, Leo said, "A little better.  You?"

He smiled half-heartedly.  "Great.  I can't believe the numbers we've 
been getting."

"Yeah," Leo replied, picking up on the uncharacteristic weariness in 
his speechwriter.  "I heard your ex was here, though."

His already weak smile faltered, and he adopted an attitude of 
detachedness.  "Yeah.  It . . . it was a little weird."

"It always is," Leo murmured, half to himself.  Louder, he added, "I 
hadn't known it was that Lisa."

"Yeah?"

"If I'd known it was that Lisa . . . I mean, her last name was 
Sherborne."  He shrugged.  "I didn't think it could've been her."

Sam smiled weakly again, as if he'd heard the excuse before, and 
nodded tightly.  "Yeah."

"Anyway, there's something else I wanted to say," Leo began.

"Which is kinda weird now, since you haven't really been able to talk 
much for the past couple of weeks," Sam quipped.  "How'd you get rid 
of whatever you had, anyway?"

Leo shrugged.  "Margaret brewed up some foul concoction and forced me 
to drink it, but it knocked that throat thing right outta me."

Sam blinked in the startled way that only Sam could.  "The hell was 
in it?"

Frowning, Leo said, "I'm not sure I wanna know."

"That's . . . probably the safest way to go.  She finally got tired 
of you not speaking, then?"

"She says she got tired of the 'angry Post-its' I kept putting on her 
desk," Leo muttered.  "I didn't know Post-its could be angry."  He 
contemplated it for a moment, and Sam waited in silence.  Then, Leo 
shook his head to clear his thoughts and said, "I wanted to talk to 
you about the cancer thing."

The sudden change of topic startled Sam, and the previously upturned 
corners of his mouth flattened out.  "What about it?"

"I thought it was good," Leo said.  "You still have it?"

Sam shook his head.  "I deleted it earlier tonight."

"You deleted it?  Why?"

Shrugging, he replied, "I don't know.  Wasn't really practical to 
have it on my hard disk if we were never gonna use it."

"Wasn't 'practical'?" Leo balked.  "This from the guy who wanted to 
single-handedly clean up the Indio oil spill."

Sam's whole body stiffened, and he sat up straighter.  "Leo-"

"You know, Andrew Jackson had a two ton block of cheese in the White 
House foyer," Leo began, sitting back in his chair.

"My God, you get your voice back and all of a sudden it's Torture Sam 
Day," Sam muttered.

"Shaddup.  He had this block of cheese, and it was there for all who 
were hungry."

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes.  "Yeah.  I know."

Leo leaned forward and wagged a finger at Sam.  "See, but you don't.  
There's a part I always leave out, and nobody really thinks about it, 
I don't think."

"What's that?"

"Cheese smells."

Sam blinked; within the past minute, he'd gone from nervous, to 
relaxed, to offended, and, now, to confused as hell.  He began to 
wonder just what it was that Margaret had forced Leo to 
take.  "I . . . guess so," he stuttered.

"That cheese wheel stank up the White House for months," Leo went 
on.  "The rugs were all pulled and stained - destroyed, really - from 
the massive crowds of people.  And all sorts of weirdoes came in, 
too, snake-oil salesmen, crazies, probably not too few ladies of the 
night-"

Sam shook his head and held up his hands in protest.  "Stop, Leo, 
wait.  What're you talking about?"

"It wasn't very practical, that big block of cheese," Leo replied, 
wearing an expression of apparent surprise that Sam hadn't gotten the 
drift from the beginning.  "I mean, the White House was fairly 
crapped over because of Jackson's little idealistic view.  Andrew 
Jackson wasn't really practical there.  Kennedy wasn't either.  Said 
he wanted to land on the moon by the end of the sixties."  Pointing 
his thumb at the Oval Office, he added, "That guy over there wanted 
to cure cancer in ten years.  I've known him for quite some time, and 
that's gotta be one of the most impractical things he's ever come up 
with."

Sam stared at him, cynical.  "So, you're saying that since I wanted 
to leave the section in there-"

"Yeah, you're kinda impractical, sometimes," Leo stated, nodding 
calmly.  "Toby's practical, and CJ.  Ed, Larry.  Margaret, oddly 
enough, is one of the most practical people I know."

"What about Josh?"

"Eh."  He shrugged, and then leaned forward.  "Here's what I'm 
saying, Sam: there are two reasons to do something, because it's 
practical, or because it's right.  Andrew Jackson didn't do what he 
did because he was practical.  Kennedy didn't either.  The President 
didn't look into curing cancer because he thought it was practical, 
you know?  They didn't do all that because it was practical.  People 
don't research reasons to not eliminate the penny because it's 
practical.  They don't write controversial, challenging speeches 
because it's practical.  They don't - you know.  They do it because 
they think it's the right thing to do at the time."

Sam stared at him some more.  "Oh."

"Anyway," Leo sighed, tapping a pen on the desk.  He glanced towards 
Margaret's office before looking back at Sam.  "Sherborne-Seaborn?"

"Actually, it would've been Seaborn-Sherborne," he corrected matter-
of-factly.  "She'd insisted."

"Really," Leo muttered, only half interested.  "Why'd you two split 
up?"

"We didn't really like each other that much."

"Good a reason as any," Leo said, nodding.  "That all?"

"Well . . . "  Sam glanced at the Oval Office and gave half a 
smile.  "There was also that."

"See?" Leo said, as if he were making a point.  "You quit your six-
figure job, got on the road just for some guy . . . "

Sam was still staring at him.  "There's something seriously wrong 
with you tonight, Leo."

"I haven't been able to speak to you ten-year-olds for almost two 
weeks," he countered gruffly.  "I've got quite a bit of pent up 
frustration here.  Especially about Toby and his damn pie."

"He's not asking for pie anymore," Sam said helpfully.

"Good, because I was about ready to shove a pie right up his ass," 
Leo grumbled.  

"That's an interesting visual there," Sam said, trying to shake said 
visual out of his head.

"Yeah."  Leo picked up a folder and opened it.  "Go back to the 
party, I've got some things to finish up here."

"You swinging by later?"

"Maybe."  He waited until Sam had reached the door before 
adding, "Hey, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"The last thing I need on my staff is another practical person, you 
know."

Sam paused at the door with one hand on the doorframe before calmly 
saying, "Margaret's turning you into a teddy bear."

Looking a little thrown, Leo said, "Get out of here."

"Seriously, with big fuzzy ears and little button eyes-"

"Sam-"

"All soft and cuddly."

"You know, there's something really freakish about you," Leo snarled.

"So I've been told," Sam replied brightly.

"Out!"

"Sure."  He walked back to the celebration at the end of the hall, 
with a slightly impractical spring to his step.

-end-