If Our Time Has Gone
Too Fast…
Fandom: West Wing
Pairing: Leo/Ainsley
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 7x06 to be safe, then spec/AU
Word Count: 4,990
Summary: Ainsley returns to
There's
no moment I regret
Since the moment that we met
If our time has gone too fast
I've lived at last
>*<*>*<
Every time I’ve walked near the
Today is different.
Today, the mood is sombre, as overcast as the clouds that gather overhead. People walk with their heads down, as if afraid to look at anyone else, as if saying hello, talking about politics, about anything, will be seen as some hideous breach of etiquette. The only noise comes from the scrape of autumn leaves on the pavement as the chill wind blows them around my ankles. It’s colder than it usually is at this time of the year, or then again, maybe the last three years in warmer climes have forever limited my ability to survive an East Coast winter.
“Hothouse flower,” a gravelly voice in my ear teases, and for a moment, I want nothing more than to turn around, see that familiar lopsided smile, see the twinkle dancing in his eyes.
I want to look around, but I don’t, because I don’t want to see the empty space and break the spell.
I shiver, and pull my coat closer around me. It’s not from the cold though; I don’t feel cold. I don’t feel anything, haven’t felt anything since my phone rang a few mornings ago, since I heard Donna’s voice, sounding more terrible than I’ve ever heard her sound, including that phone call a year ago, at the other end.
I’m saved from a walk down memory lane by a voice calling my name, and I turn, trying vaguely to muster up a smile. Josh hasn’t changed since the last time I saw him; his clothes are just as unkempt, his hair mussed from perpetually running his fingers through it, and he’s still moving a mile a minute, as if slowing down would allow all the demons in hell to catch up to him. But when he comes closer, I can see the pallor of his face, see the craggy lines of his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, and I know how this is taking its toll on him.
“Hey Ainsley,” he tells me, taking me in his arms for a brief hug. It’s slightly surprising, because he’s never hugged me before, but at the same time not, because of everything he’s done for me in the last few days. “I’m sorry, having to meet you all the way out here…”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, waving my hand. “I’m just grateful…” My voice seizes up on me suddenly, for no apparent reason, and I have to look down.
I hear him clear his throat, and, concentrating as I am on his shoes, I see his feet shift slightly, awkwardly. As awkward as his voice sounds when he says, “It’s no problem… he really cared about you Ainsley… he never stopped.”
I haven’t cried since I got the phone call;
I refuse to start now, outside the
Maybe he does. “Yeah,” he says, voice husky. “I know that.” The moment between us stretches, lingers, and then he moves suddenly, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small cream envelope. “This is everything you need,” he says, voice more controlled now that we’re back to business. “If you have any problems… and you won’t… you can ask for me… or Will Bailey… or even Margaret; we all know you’re coming…”
The thought of talking to Margaret right now is enough to make my throat seize up all over again. After a rocky start (I thought she was an interfering busybody with designs on her boss, she thought I was a gold-digging tramp) we ended up as almost friends, the two people in the White House with the one common goal, the welfare and well-being of one man. I don’t think I could talk to her without breaking down, and I’m telling myself that the reason she hasn’t called me is that she feels the same.
“I’ll do that,” I tell Josh anyway, hoping I won’t have to. “This is very good of you Josh… thank you.”
He tries to smile. The effect is ghastly,
and I wonder if my earlier effort was likewise. Just in case, I make a
resolution not to do it anymore, and almost miss his reply. “It’s what he would
have wanted,” he tells me, and I’m ordering myself not to cry when his face
takes on a faraway look. His gaze slips from me, scans the area around us, the
quiet people going about their business, the steps of the
>*<*>*<
For all it’s crowded with people, once I’m stopped for the fifth time by men in black, I’m beginning to think that the Secret Service presence might just outstrip the mourners. Which I suppose is to be expected given the people in attendance here, though I know a certain someone who would be rolling his eyes at the sheer number. We’d begun talking again in the last year, nothing along the lines of where we were, but near-death experience made us both realise that, even if we were only friends, we wanted to be in one another’s lives.
God, we wasted so much time…
I shake myself from my melancholy thoughts, busy myself with finding my seat – near the back, off to the side – and looking around to see who is already there. There’s no Toby, of course, but I see Donna and Ginger sitting side by side, eyes rimmed in red. Sam sits beside them, face drawn, but, ever the gentleman, I see him passing a handkerchief to Donna, who thanks him with a wan smile. Matt Santos and his wife are nearer to the front, her face pale and strained, his sombre. “He’s a good man Ainsley,” that little voice in my ear tells me. “He’ll make a good president.”
I’ve been solidly stumping for Vinick, but
suddenly I’m wondering if
Lord John Marbury looks more dishevelled than I’ve ever seen him, which is really saying something, and he’s reading the Order of Service with a confused look on his face. “He’s probably wondering why it doesn’t say Gerald.” The voice’s wry amusement has me biting down on the inside of my cheek, because I can’t be seen laughing, much though I might want to.
There’s movement from the doors, and CJ Cregg walks up towards the front, Josh at her side. Always impeccably stylish, CJ looks like she’s lost ten pounds in the last few days, her dark suit hanging from her frame. Her eyes are dry, but as red as Donna and Ginger’s, and her make-up is just a little bit too perfect, as is my own.
Following her is the President and Doctor
Bartlet, him leaning heavily on her, eschewing the cane he’s been using lately.
“Stubborn…” mutters the voice, equal parts amused and exasperated. Following
them are the Bartlet Clan in entirety –
People always think that Charlie is close to the President and no-one else. They don’t know about the talks that he used to have in the office next door, the advice, the stories, the laughter.
The final two mourners follow the President’s family, Mallory unable to check her tears. Even though I know she can’t see me – probably wouldn’t see me if I was standing right in front of her – I shrink back anyway, because God knows, she wouldn’t want me here. She never approved of us, never thought that I was good enough.
“She was wrong.”
The voice will not make me cry. Not here. Not now.
It’s easy to keep the tears back if I concentrate on the woman beside Mallory, remember the pain she caused him, remember how, even when we were involved, there was a part of him he kept back, kept hidden, as if he was afraid that I was going to leave him too. It’s the part of him that felt more guilty than he needed to when he stayed late at the office, when he’d have to break a date at the last minute, when he couldn’t see me as often as we both wanted to.
He always used to apologise, and never did believe me when I told him I understood.
The sight of her there makes me furious, and beside me, I hear the words I’ve heard so many times before, when I’d express impatience with her, with the hold she still had over him. “She was my life for a long time… and no matter what happens, she’s the mother of my daughter… that’s never going to change.”
Which brings another lump to my throat, as I remember those idle daydreams about a child of our own…
The starting of the funeral mercifully
draws my attention, and I try to concentrate on that. Try and fail, as my mind
wanders into memory, scanning the faces in the congregation, recalling this
story and that about them. There are so many people here, all to celebrate the
life of this one man, and I know he wouldn’t believe that the Washington
Cathedral would be totally filled for him. After all, you could turn the
For a moment, I frown, wondering who told me that. Then I remember one of the worst nights of our lives, a night before a funeral, a night before the MS announcement, a night when we didn’t know what was going to happen in the next twenty-four hours. For all we knew, it was the end of the world as we knew it, and we held one another that night as if we’d never see one another again.
We were wrong, of course. The end of the world didn’t come with any warning signs. It came right out of the clear blue nowhere, no time to prepare, no time to say goodbye.
No time to tell him I never stopped loving him.
Tears smart in my eyes, and I battle to keep them back. Distraction comes in the form of the President, who stands to give his eulogy. He speaks without looking at a script, and he tells us the story of a man who came to the State House in Concord with one phrase in his mind, one idea in his head, a man who was convinced he was right and who wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
“He gave me something that day,” he says, “Something that I gave him back a few years later… and I don’t think he’d mind me having it here now.” I bite back a gasp as he places something on the lectern in front of him, because even though I’m as far back as I am, I know exactly what it is.
It’s a small, square, black frame and inside it is a napkin, with three words written on it.
“Bartlet for
The President swallows hard before continuing. “I’m ashamed to admit that sometimes I didn’t repay that faith in him. There were times when I let him down. Times when I didn’t realise the cost to him… his health… his marriage… the love of his life… and yet I know that if we were to ask him if he’d go back, not make that trip to Concord… he’d say he wouldn’t change a thing.”
Which is undoubtedly true. Though, in my heart of hearts, I’d hope that he’d change one.
“He wouldn’t change a thing… and aside from the obvious… neither would I. And so,” The President pauses, looks over at the casket, “I offer you this toast, old friend… wherever you are… may the road rise up to meet you… may the wind always be at your back… may the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again… may the Lord hold you in the palm of his hand.”
The President steps, with difficulty, down from the lectern, pausing on his way to run his hand over the lacquered wood of the casket. He embraces Mallory, then Jenny, before sitting down beside the First Lady. When she looks up to him, I can see her face is wet with tears, but his eyes are dry.
Funny.
That’s only the second thing we’ve ever had in common.
>*<*>*<
When the service is over, I linger in my seat, content to spend a few more moments lost in memory, in thought, not eager to run into anyone that I know outside. I didn’t tell anyone that I was coming here today; as far as I know, the only people who know that I’m here are Josh, Donna and Margaret, possibly Will Bailey, at least from what Josh said earlier. Being seen here would probably cause more questions than I have answers for, or at least raise some rumours that I’d rather not deal with.
“Rumours? We were the worst kept secret in the White House.”
The voice is amused, and it makes me smile, but I’m called back to reality all too soon by another voice at my elbow. The owner is definitely corporeal, a blonde woman in a black suit who looks vaguely familiar. It takes me a second to place her, and even then, I can’t recall her name. “You work in the President’s office…”
She nods. “I’m
My heart lurches unpleasantly in my chest, and if I weren’t already pale, I’m sure the blood would be rushing from my cheeks. That’s the very last place I want to go. “I really don’t think…”
“Ainsley…”
She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to. Standing, I follow her on shaky legs to the car, keeping my head down, noting from brief furtive glances out of the corner of my eye that the crowd seems to have dissipated surprisingly quickly. We don’t talk during the journey, nor when she signs me in, leads me through the halls that are so familiar to me. A little too familiar all of a sudden, as I realise where we’re heading.
It’s stupid, I realise at once. After all, it was the President who asked to see me; logically speaking, there’s only one room I would be going to, right? But it’s still a jolt when I walk into the outer office that used to belong to Mrs Landingham, and even after all these years, I still half-expect to see that cookie jar there.
The President is standing at the far side
of the room, behind what looks for all the world like a drinks trolley, and he
turns slowly when he hears
“Yes Sir,” is about all I can manage to say, lame as it may be. I’m at a most uncharacteristic loss for words, but then, I always have been around him. “Especially when you’re trying to pee in my closet,” says that voice, and it’s a measure of how discombobulated I am emotionally that I can’t even smile at that.
“May I get you a drink?” Despite the fact that he’s made it to the couches, he gestures to the trolley he’s just left, and even if I wanted a drink, there’s no way I’d make him struggle there and back again.
“No, thank you Sir,” I say, careful to keep my face blank, my eyes away from his walking stick. “I’m not that much of a drinker…” A slight tinge of red warms my cheeks. “I’m actually prone to getting quite emotional… so in view of the day…”
The President nods. “I understand. Won’t you sit down?” I take my place on the couch closest to me while he sits down on the one facing me, his hands resting on his knees. “You must be wondering why I asked you here.”
My cheeks, moments ago red, blanche. “I hope my presence didn’t cause offence, Sir,” I say quickly, the words almost tripping over themselves in my haste to get them out. “I asked Josh to see what he could do because I wanted to… that is I felt that I should…”
“Ainsley, Ainsley…” He holds up a hand, miraculously stemming my flow of words. “That’s the girl I remember,” he says, more to himself than me I think. “I’m glad Josh got you here… in fact, if he hadn’t, I would have suggested he do so.” He swallows hard. “You should be here today.”
A lump rises in my throat and I look down at my hands, fists clenched so tightly that I can feel my nails about to draw blood from my palms. “Thank you Sir,” I manage to whisper.
“There’s no need to thank me, Ainsley,” he tells me just as quietly. “Of all people, I know what the two of you meant to one another.”
Somehow, I’m not quite sure he does, but now’s not the time to enlighten him. “He was very important to me.” It’s the same line I gave Josh, but it rings even more hollow now. It’s such a weak expression of what we were, not coming close to the real thing.
I look up sharply when I hear the President chuckling quietly. “Discreet to the last,” he says, and suddenly, I’m not sure who he’s talking to any more. Perhaps I’m not the only one hearing ghostly voices.
“Why should you have all the fun?” I can almost see the smirk, have to resist the urge to look around and smack him.
“I was there Ainsley… I spoke to him… told him he was being a foolish old man, that nothing good could come of the two of you…” Which stings a lot, and I’m hard pressed not to wince. “There are few times in my life I’ve been more wrong.” Sincerity rings in every word, and when I meet his gaze, the obvious empathy there has tears filling my eyes. They threaten even more when he continues, “You know… when I said earlier that this job cost him the love of his life… I wasn’t talking about Jenny.”
The tears, Lord knows how, stay back. The sob does not, and I take a long moment to look down and compose myself. When I finally do look up, speech is still beyond me, and all I can do is nod.
“I have a present here,” the President continues. “I was going to give it to him… but I think he’d like you to have it.” He picks a small rectangular box, gift wrapped, up off the table and hands it across to me. I run my hands over it, fingering the ribbon carefully, and as if from very far away, I hear him saying, “You can open it.”
Surprised to find my fingers shaking, I do so, untying the ribbon, parting the gift wrap, finding a white box underneath. Lifting the lid, I find a small wooden plaque, the centrepiece made of bronze, with an inscription on it. The light is hitting it in just the wrong direction so that I can’t make out the words, and I lift it up, box and all, turning it so that it can be read.
“Act
as if ye have faith, and faith shall be given to you.”
My voice reads it aloud, but it’s not the voice I hear.
“He told me that on a freezing cold street
in
“He would have loved it.” I hardly recognise my own voice, but it makes the President smile. “Thank you Sir.”
He holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. “Well…” The word hangs between us, then he points towards the trolley again. “Are you sure I can’t get you a drink?” When I shake my head, he stands, saying, “There’s a group of people in the ballroom… all combining to give our friend a good old fashioned Irish wake… you’re more than welcome to join them…”
“I think… I think I’d rather be alone for a little while,” I say. “I might go and find my old office…” The Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue, the small, cramped dungeon that he helped me find, offering me a friendly smile when he had absolutely no reason to do so, even less than most in fact. How many late night talks did we have there, the two of us, hiding out from the world, starting out into a relationship that shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did.
“It was good to see you Ainsley,” The President says, standing, and expecting a handshake, I’m surprised to get a hug instead. I have to admit, I hold on for a little longer than might be proper, given the bounds of protocol, but somehow I don’t think he minds.
I’m thankful that the outer office is deserted, and I make my way out into the hallway, fully intending to go to the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue. My feet seems to have a mind of their own however, as I’m inexorably pulled towards a different office, much nicer, much brighter, but one I’ve spent just as much time in.
Thankfully, the outer office is deserted, because I definitely couldn’t face Margaret right now. The door is slightly ajar, and I’m wondering if there’s anyone inside there when I hear a voice from inside, coming closer.
“Margaret, is that y-” CJ stops dead when she sees me, eyes wide with surprise. “Ainsley,” she says, recovering her poise in an instant. I always did envy that about her. “I didn’t know you were here.”
I nod, fingers tightening around the box in my hand. “Josh,” I say, by way of explanation, and she nods. “I didn’t mean to disturb you… I just…”
She looks over her shoulder, back into the office, then back to me, sudden understanding lighting her features and I realise that he’d been right all along – we really were the West Wing’s best kept open secret. “Why don’t I leave you alone?” she says, pushing the door open without turning around to look at it. The intention is obvious, and I force a grateful, if tremulous smile to my lips. Her hand falls to my shoulder as she walks by me. “We’ll talk later.”
I nod and watch her go, waiting until I’m sure that no-one is around before walking through that door I’ve walked so many times before. I close my eyes as I step over the threshold, keep them closed as I shut the door firmly behind me, and I take a moment after turning around to remember the office, the way it used to look, the way it looked when I first met him.
You
have an interesting conversational style.
It's a nervous condition.
I used to have a nervous condition.
How did yours manifest itself?
I drank a lot of scotch.
I get sick when I drink too much.
I get drunk when I drink too much.
I smile to myself, remembering how nervous I was, how I wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise. I can see him now, can notice things I never noticed at the time, like that look on his face that he got, as if he couldn’t imagine what in the world he was getting himself into, that half smirk he wore as he managed to put me on the back foot, stop me in my tracks.
I'm
sorry... A job in this White House?
You
want a glass of scotch?
Yes,
please.
I argued with him. I told him the manifest reasons that I could under no circumstances take a job in this White House, under this administration. He told me once, much later, that he liked me from that first meeting, because even though he could see that I was terrified, I wasn’t going to let myself be cowed by him, by anyone.
Where
are you going?
I'm
not going anywhere, I'm standing up, which is how one speaks in opposition in a
civilized
world.
Well,
you go, girl.
“You’re a fighter,” he told me. “I like that in a person.”
Except I wasn’t enough of a fighter, was I? Because when it really mattered, when it came to us, I didn’t fight long enough, or hard enough. And last year, when Donna called me, when we got back in sporadic contact with one another, that’s when I should have fought again. Because in my heart of hearts, no matter how much I denied it to myself, I knew the truth.
We were meant to be together.
“And
everything else is crap.”
I can hear his voice as clearly as if he’s sitting at the desk across from me, and I open my eyes, expecting to see him.
Which is when reality comes crashing in.
Because the desk isn’t in the same place, and the walls aren’t the same colour as they once were, and the decorations are all different…
And that’s when it hits me, really hits me for the first time.
He’s gone.
My legs shake so violently that my knees threaten to give out on me, and I clutch the wall for support. Recognising the one familiar feature in the room, the couch along the far wall, I stumble in the general direction, sinking down on it. It’s at once familiar, and I remember all the nights that we sat here, on the pretext of it being the only time that we could meet to discuss whatever the issue of the day was, but really using it as an excuse to have some quiet time together. One Christmas Eve in particular comes to mind, when I sat here and watched him and Josh making frantic phone calls, trying to fix the roof in the Church of the Nativity. I looked at him that night, saw the passion in his eyes, the belief, the sheer righteousness of the man, and I was so proud of him, so in love with him that I couldn’t wait to tell him so.
And when I woke up to find him sitting in his desk chair, looking at me, the couch throw acting as my blanket, Josh long gone, that’s exactly what I did.
I’d give anything to have that moment back again.
“I love you Leo,” I whisper, hoping that wherever he is, he can hear me.
Maybe I imagine that sudden breeze that stirs my hair, evoking memories of the unconscious caress I was used to from him.
Maybe I imagine his voice whispering, “I love you too.”
But I know I’m not imagining the tears that roll down my cheeks as I clutch the President’s present to my chest and, for the first time, let myself cry.