Rating: PG, Angst
Pairing: Leo/Ainsley
Spoilers: Everything up to 100,000 Airplanes
Feedback: Is better than chocolate
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site The Band Gazebo (helsinkibaby.ahkay.net) Anywhere else please ask first.
Summary: Leo's thoughts on the night of the State of the Union
Author's Note: Fair warning here gang, and I'm not sure how you're going to feel about this. Although, I am, but that's a whole 'nother ball o'wax. Just know that I don't cry when I write fic. Even though I might make others cry, and have, I don't do it. Writing this one, I bawled like a baby. Tissue warning, and angst aplenty, and I do not jest.

The staff are still celebrating noisily as I make my way down the hall towards my office. Somebody was making noise about CJ being made to do "The Jackal" a little later on, and the way that she was dancing with Toby when I left, I'd lay pretty good money that they won't have to work hard to convince her. Josh seems to have forgotten about Amy Gardner for the moment, Donna and Margaret are keeping the champagne flowing, and Sam…well, I'm not really sure where Sam is. The President retired to the Residence with Abbey, so that they could celebrate in private.

And I'm here in my office.

Alone.

This is, without a doubt, the biggest night that we've had in quite a while. Joey's numbers show that sixty nine per cent of people now think that the President is a strong leader. We went up on every question. In spite of our worst fears, the censure doesn't seem to have hurt us too badly, and we've got some hope for November when we should have had none.

I should be elated.

Instead all I feel is empty.

That's all I've felt for the last couple of weeks.

Most people around here figure that it's because of the censure. That I hate the President being forced to compromise like this, that I hate the fact that there was nothing else we could do to make this go away. A smaller number of people, those in the know, or close to those in the know, have figured out that there was something else. That there must have been something in Gibson's arsenal that was explosive enough to end the hearings early on the day before Christmas Eve, to give all sides time to come up with a less incendiary alternative. That it was something to do with me, and that whatever it was, it was big enough that the President knew that my career wouldn't survive it, and threw himself on his sword to protect me. They think that I'm feeling guilty about it, that I hate that I put the President in that sort of position. Josh, one of only four people working in this White House who know the full story, thinks that that's what's happening here.

They couldn't be more wrong.

I do feel guilty about the position that I put the President in, sure. And I do hate the fact that he had to accept the censure. Despite the fact that he admitted to me that he was wrong, that he wanted to take responsibility for his actions, I still wish that there was some way we could have avoided the motion.

But it's not what's really wrong with me.

I stayed late at the office that night, the night that the President made his decision. We sat out on the portico together, watching the snow fall. We talked about Andrew Jackson and his censure, about the map that Charlie had given him. After that, we just sat in silence for a long time before he stood up and announced that he was going to bed. That was my cue to head home as well, so I did what I always do. Went back to my office, switched everything off, left a couple of memos on Margaret's desk for tomorrow, got my guy and got him to drive me home.

By home I mean of course, Ainsley's place. The place where I'd begun spending most of my time this past fall, the place that I slept in more often than my own. Thank goodness for call forwarding, otherwise people would've got suspicious a dozen times over by now. That apartment, with its wall to wall books, comfortable couch and well-stocked kitchen has been my haven these past few months. But the place has been nothing compared to the woman inside it.

I wasn't sure if she'd be in bed or not when I got in. Some nights, she waits up for me and we talk, or not as the case may be. Other nights, she's already curled up in bed asleep, and I slip in beside her, curling myself around her frame. Sometimes she wakes, and sometimes she doesn't, but she always responds to me, pressing herself closer to me, even if she's asleep.

That night, the light was still on in the living room, and she was sitting on the couch, her back to the door, when I came in. "You're still up," I said in surprise when I saw her there, because I'd looked at my watch and realised the lateness of the hour when I was opening the door.

"I was waiting for you," she said quietly, but she didn't turn around.

"I was with Josh. And then, the President," I said, hanging up my coat and scarf as I talked. "He's decided to take the deal. Accept the censure. He's going to talk to Babish and whomever tomorrow." My jacket joined my coat on the coat-stand, my tie going on top of it. "Which I can't say I'm thrilled about it, but he wants to put an end to it. Concentrate on…other things…"

My voice trailed off as I got closer to her. It was when I was tilting my head to undo the top button of my shirt that I caught sight of the television, and realised that it wasn't on. Which is unusual - most times when I come in, she's heard me and turned the sound down, or muted it altogether, but I always hear the change in volume when I come in. It's the same if she's been listening to music, or reading, but the stereo was as silent as the television, and there was no book on the couch or the table, or even a magazine.

By all appearances, she'd just been sitting there in the silence, waiting for me. And I was suddenly very aware of the fact that she hadn't risen to meet me, hadn't even turned around. Hadn't even looked at me.

"Ainsley?" I found myself saying quietly, coming around the side of the couch, looking down at her.

She looked up at me then, and my stomach twisted painfully. It had begun to strike me that something was wrong, but confirmation came from seeing the look on her face. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place. Her skin was chalk white, which only served to emphasise the fact that her eyes were rimmed in red, her face covered in pale red blotches. But her eyes…it was her eyes that got to me most. They were huge and hurt as she stared up at me, still not saying a word.

"What's wrong?" I breathed, sitting down beside her, my hand automatically going out to touch her shoulder. A litany of possibilities ran through my head; a fight with her sister, or her father; a bad day in the White House, with Democrats giving her hell again; some Republican friends laying into her over working in a Democratic White House. There were any number of things that could have had her looking like that.

I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

When she saw my hand approaching her shoulder, she flinched, drawing away from me. Her eyes narrowed, with what looked like suspicion in them, tinted with a fresh film of tears.

My breath caught in my throat and I dropped my hand, afraid now. A young woman like that, on her way home from work alone in a big city - there were endless nightmarish possibilities there too, and as the parent of a single woman not much younger than Ainsley, I was all too well aware of them.

"What happened?" I asked her slowly, trying to ignore my heart's attempts to hammer through my chest. "Who did this to you?"

She stared at me for a second longer, before what sounded like a mixture of a laugh and a sob tore itself from her throat. She lifted one hand and rubbed it over her eyes, looking up at the ceiling and shaking her head.

"Ainsley?" I prompted.

She turned her head slowly, looking me dead in the eyes. Then she spoke. "What's going on with you and Jordan Kendall?"

My heart, which had been going at twice or three times its normal speed came to a dead stop in my chest. All traces of moisture evaporated from my throat, and I had to swallow hard before I could answer. "She's my lawyer Ainsley."

I cursed the words the instant that I said them, but her face didn't change one iota. It might have been carved out of marble, she was so still, but her voice when she spoke was dripping scorn. "Your lawyer." She nodded slowly. "Is that why you were hitting on her in the hearing room?"

I took a deep breath. "Who told you that?" The fact of the matter was, there was only one person who could possibly have known that, the same person who knew that Jordan had spent a large portion of that day in my office talking to me about the censure, and who hadn't been too happy about it. The thought of firing her flitted through my mind, but I knew equally well that Margaret didn't know anything about me and Ainsley, and that she probably thought that she was just venting among friends. Besides, the President's interest in my relationship with Jordan was an open secret around the West Wing.

"I think you know." She threw my question back at me, and now her eyes were devoid of tears. There was just anger there, and hurt; all the things that I'd never wanted to see in Ainsley's eyes but had always been afraid that I would. "Is it true?"

"Ainsley…"

"Is it true Leo?" Her voice cut across mine, louder than I'd ever heard her speak, with more anger than even that one night we had that huge fight. "Were you hitting on her?"

I looked down at the floor, taking another deep breath before I spoke. "Yes."

"And you were supposed to have dinner with her the night of the hearing?"

"Yes."

"But you changed it to Christmas Eve."

"Yes."

All through her questions, I hadn't been able to look at her, hadn't been able to face the disgust in her voice. When she heard that much, she stood up, and my head lifted, almost of its own free will, to look up at her. "What happened? Did you remember that I wouldn't be here and decide that you needed a replacement?"

"It wasn't like that-"

I stood up, tried to talk to her, but she didn't want to hear it. "Then what was it like Leo? Why don't you tell me?" She glared at me. "You were supposed to be going to CJ's," she whispered, her voice growing lower for a moment. "That's what you told me."

"I told you on Christmas Eve that I went to dinner with Jordan…"

The truth may not have been my best defence, because she shouted again. "And you let me think it was a business dinner. I thought that she'd told you something about the hearings, something that you didn't want to hear, and that was why you were so quiet. And instead it was because you had a guilty conscience."

"It wasn't like that," I tried again, stepping closer to her, taking her by the shoulders when she tried to turn away from me. "Ainsley, it wasn't like that. Nothing happened between Jordan and me."

"But you wanted it to."

It wasn't a question, and my hands dropped to my sides. "Yes," I sighed.

A crack broke the silence that followed my words, and my cheek stung, but I didn't move a muscle. "I deserve that," I told her quietly. "I know I hurt you…"

She shook her head, one tear making its way down her cheek. "Get out." Her voice was low, and I could hear the anger and the tears simmering under the surface.

"Not until you listen to me." My own voice was surprisingly calm, considering that I felt as if I was fighting for my life. "Yes, I was attracted to Jordan." She closed her eyes, wincing, and tried to turn away, as if my words were causing her physical pain, but I took her by the shoulders again, this time gripping her more firmly. "She is beautiful, and intelligent, and any man would be lucky to have her." She tried to shove me away from her, but I held firm. "Yes, I hit on her. I don't know why I did that, but I did it. She was the one who suggested dinner on the 23 rd. But when we were leaving the courtroom, I knew I didn't want to be with her that night. I knew that it was you I wanted."

"But you still went out to dinner with her the next night," she spat.

"Yes I did," I admitted. "And I don't know why I did that either. What I do know is that when I got to the restaurant, and I was sitting across the table from her, I realised that, for all the wonderful qualities she might have, she's lacking one very important thing." Her face was set in stone again, and she didn't blink when I took a pause for breath there. "She's not you. She could never be as important to me as you are."

Another one of those strange sounds, half laugh and half sob, emerged from her throat as more tears pooled in her eyes. "You've got a strange way of showing it," she choked out.

"I made a mistake," I admitted, one hand moving from her shoulder to her cheek, cupping it gently. "I know that. But I swear to you, nothing happened that night. I went home alone. I didn't even kiss her. I couldn't." My other hand cupped her other cheek, framing her face in my hands. "I was wrong, but it doesn't change the way that I feel about you. The fact that I lo-"

"Don't!" Her hands, which had been immobile at her sides, came up at that, pushing me away from her hard. I caught myself quickly, only staggering backwards a couple of steps, but she was backing away from me slowly, not stopping until the length of the couch was between us. "Don't," she repeated, in a tone that was several octaves lower than the shriek that had accompanied the push. "You never said that to me. Not once, not in all the time we were together. Don't you dare say it now. Not like this."

"Ainsley..." I took a step closer to her, arms outstretched, but she took another one back, shaking her head.

"I trusted you Leo," she told me. "I told you things that I've never told anyone else… I thought you were different. I never thought that you'd…"

"Nothing happened Ainsley," I repeated.

"Yes." She pressed her lips hard together, her fists clenched at her side. I could see the whiteness of her knuckles from clear across the room. "Something did."

I wasn't sure of what to say to that, and I couldn't look at that hurt face any more, so I looked down at the floor. The only sounds in the apartment were her ragged breathing and my pounding heart, until she spoke again.

"I want you to go."

My head snapped up. "Ainsley…"

Once again, her eyes were dry, her demeanour stony. "I'll pack up your things. You can come by tomorrow to pick them up."

"Ainsley…"

She shook her head. "I can't trust you Leo," she whispered. "And I won't be with someone that I can't trust."

I wanted to tell her that she could trust me. That I knew that I'd made a mistake, that I'd been wrong, that I'd never do it again. But the words stuck in my throat. I just nodded, and the distance from the couch to the coat-stand had never seemed so long. I slipped on my jacket, rolling my tie up into a ball and stuffing it into my pocket before putting on my coat and scarf. I did it all slowly, hoping that she'd say something, anything, to indicate that she'd changed her mind. Hoping that I'd come up with something, anything, to change her mind.

The door was half-open when I turned back, and she was standing there beside the coat-stand, one hand against the wall, as if it was the only thing holding her up. There were tears in her eyes again, and I could feel them in mine, rising up in my throat, and I was reminded of me, standing in my old house, watching Jenny walk out the door. The same emotions were rushing through me, and the same choked voice came out when I tried to speak. "What I never said…" I paused and she nodded. "I meant it."

A genuine sob drowned out the clicking shut of the door, and I could hear more as I stood in her hallway, leaning against the door. A long time later, I began the walk down her hallway, out on to the street to find a cab. It had never seemed that long before.

My apartment had seemed empty at Christmas, when I was there on my own. It seemed even emptier that night, and I spent a pretty sleepless night there, searching for the perfect words, the perfect phrase that would have changed her mind. I'm not sure quite how I got through the next day, especially telling the Senior Staff about the censure. CJ had to repeat a question twice before it registered with me, and I was as brief as I could be with any answers, getting them out of there as quickly as I could.

All but Josh. I didn't realise at first that he hadn't left with the rest of them; I was concentrating on the papers on my desk, fighting the urge to go down to the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue and talk to her again. When the door clicked, I looked up and there he was. "It's not your fault," was the first thing he said, and I know that he was talking about the censure, and the spectre of Gibson's testimony that had lead to the offering of the deal.

That's not what I was thinking of though. "Yeah," is all I said, a denial, a dismissal, and he nodded, sighing.

"He's ok with this? Really?"

I shrugged. "It was his decision." Again, it wasn't the President's decision I was thinking of. "It's over. End of story."

"Yeah." He sighed again, standing up. "I'll go and ah-" He motioned over his shoulder, which I took to mean that he was going to go smooth the ground with the rest of the Senior Staff, and I nodded, waving him off.

Once he was gone, I leaned back in my chair, papers forgotten. "It's over," I repeated to myself, trying to make myself believe it.

No matter how many times I tried though, I couldn't make myself believe it. Not at any point during the day. Not when I got my guy to bring me to her place, instructing him to wait there. Not even when I walked in and saw a box sitting in the hall, neatly piled with things I vaguely recognised. On top of the pile was a piece of grey material that looked most familiar. I reached out and held it up, knowing what I was going to see there, the faded "Bartlet for America" slogan leaping out at me.

A movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I saw her there, arms wrapped around her middle, just looking at me. I opened my mouth to say something, the T-shirt still held in my hands, but she turned quickly, the bedroom door closing behind her.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then looked down at the shirt again, knowing what I was going to do. Folding the shirt carefully, I placed it on the hall table, and left it there as I closed the door behind me. If my guy was surprised to see me reappearing, he knew better than to say anything; didn't even raise an eyebrow at the box in my arms. He just took me back to my place and picked me up there the next morning.

Over the last couple of weeks, that's what he's done. I've gone from the office to my place and back, and even though people have been getting juiced up over the State of the Union, doing their damnedest to make it work, I haven't been able to get into it. People think it's because of the censure; but it's not. It's because of her.

Even tonight, as the West Wing celebrates those numbers, it doesn't mean anything to me. Not without her.

I've seen her around the place, mostly when she thinks I'm not there, not looking at her. She walks and talks to others as if everything's fine, but I know better. I know her and I can see the fragility just beyond her public façade, can see the hurt just below the surface. On the rare occasions that she's seen me, seen me looking at her, the hurt has risen up, and each time is like a knife to the heart for me. It's all the worse because I know that I deserve it.

Once upon a time, I would have said that my greatest fear was that I would hurt her. That between being with me, my baggage, our age difference, our political differences, the potential for scandal, something would happen that would cause her pain. Because, I knew that that, in turn, would cause me the greatest pain I've ever known.

I never wanted that fear confirmed and now that it has been, it's not what I thought it would be.

It's far, far worse. And I don't know if there's anything I can do to fix it.

Or if she even wants me to.

Or what I'm going to do without her.

Or where we go from here.

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