Rating: PG
Pairing: Leo/Ainsley
Spoilers: Most of season two to be on the safe side, Manchester.
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: It's the day after the press conference, and it's time to take stock...
Author's Note: Second in the Inside the Tornado series.

The alarm goes off at an obscenely early hour. Which I should be used to I suppose. I've got very good over the last three years of surviving on very little sleep. Last night, I think I might have snatched two hours, tops?

Of course, I was in bed for a little longer than that, but I wasn't sleeping.

It's a long time since I was able to say that.

She stirs beside me, the alarm having woken her up too, but she's much slower to open her eyes than I am, always has been.

Notice how I say that, like we've been together for months, years, rather than days? Truth to tell, it seems like that's exactly how long we've been together, because right now, I can't imagine my life without this woman. I can't believe that there was ever a time that I didn't come home to her, didn't sleep with her in my arms, didn't talk about my problems with her, didn't have her full stop.

The power that she has over me is extraordinary, and I don't care. I want this. I want her. And from what she's said to me, from what her body said to me last night, for some unknown reason, she wants me too. I don't know why, I don't want to know why. I'm just thankful that she does.

A groan escapes her lips, and I chuckle to myself, knowing that the next words out of her mouth are words that she would never utter in polite company, words that her grandmother, the Ultimate Southern Belle, would wash her mouth out for using. And she doesn't disappoint me. Oh, the words are a bare mumble; if you didn't know her as well as I know her, you wouldn't know what she was saying. But I do, and I smile some more, my fingers tracing a path along her bare shoulder. "Language," I whisper, and I'm rewarded by the curl upwards of her lips.

She ignores my baiting of her, instead choosing to burrow her head further into my shoulder, pressing her body even closer to mine. "Don't want to get up," she mutters, screwing her eyes shut tightly.

I kiss the top of her head, my heart echoing her sentiments exactly. I don't really want to get up either. Why in the world would anybody in his right mind want to leave this bed, when this beautiful woman who thinks the world of him is lying beside him, telling him that she feels just the same way that he does? All I want to do is throw the clock across the room before turning to her and making love to her all day. I don't want to see, hear, feel or think about anything that's going on in the outside world.

It's a nice daydream, but that's all it is.

"No can do," I tell her, trying to ignore the sensations coursing through my body as one of her hands wanders across my chest. "We've got to go in."

She opens her eyes then, blinking at me as she turns to full wakefulness. "It wasn't a dream?"

Which part?

The part where we made love for most of the night?

The part where we shared coffee and dessert in the coffeehouse like we've done so many times in the past year, but for the first time since we admitted how we felt about each other?

The part where I lifted her in my arms and kissed her in full view of everyone who might be in that place?

The part where the President stood up at that press conference and said that, against all odds, against all the plans that we'd made, he was going to run for re-election, and he was going to win?

Or all of that?

"No," I tell her, rolling us over so that she's lying on her back and I'm halfway on top of her. "It wasn't a dream."

Her smile up at me is brighter than the morning sun, and I can't resist it; I have to kiss her. Her arms go around me and her body presses to me, and I forget about work and the White House for a long while.

When we come back to ourselves, I look at the damn clock and swear softly. It's later than I thought, and I've got to get ready. I tell her that, and she gives me a saucy smile, tells me that we can shower together. "We do that, and I'll never get to the White House," I point out with a kiss, rising reluctantly from the bed.

"That's kinda the plan," I hear her say and turn back to see her sitting up, her hair falling wildly around her shoulders, sheet pulled up across her chest, and a thousand responses come to mind, very little of them verbal.

I don't say anything, just smile and shake my head and head on into the shower, and when she joins me two minutes later, I'm not surprised.

I'm good to go, but she's still standing there in my robe, towelling her hair dry when the door sounds, and I know that it's going to be my guy. She looks stricken, telling me, "I'll just be a minute," but I shake my head.

"Take your time." I find my keys and select one, removing it and handing it to her. "Here." At her look of surprise, I clarify. "It's my spare key. Take it."

Doubt is written over her face in six foot letters, and she takes it haltingly, her voice small when she says, "And I'll give it back to you later." It should be a statement, but I hear the question in her voice, and I shake my head in response.

"No. You keep it." It's easier for me to say than I thought it would be, and the smile on her face tells me that it's worth it. "I think you're going to be needing it a lot."

If possible, the smile on her face gets even bigger, and she nods. "OK." She leans forward, kissing me once on the lips quickly as the door sounds again. "See you later."

Once I got into the White House, the energy level there astounds me. I've never seen it like this before. Not during the first year, when we were all so new here, just trying to figure out who we were and what we were doing. Not even last year when we started off our new "Let Bartlet Be Bartlet" strategy.

This is something else altogether.

Even with Haiti, even with the Press out for blood, even with the polling numbers that Joey Lucas is bound to give us…I almost feel like we can do this.

It only takes one press briefing to blow all that to hell.

Relieved?

The President is relieved that he might have to send troops into Haiti?

Relieved?

And it's all very well to say that CJ misspoke. We all know that CJ doesn't do that. And it's all very well and good to tell me that there was a ramp up, for Sam to hide behind a mask of indignation, telling me that I had longer to adjust to it than anyone else…the fact still remains that this is a disaster.

And it sure as hell takes the good out of my mood.

I make the decision to bench CJ without a second thought. Every political instinct in my body tells me that it's the right decision to make.

And I'd do it again.

I know she's pissed at me. I know Nancy is pissed at me. I know that the rest of the Senior Staff might not agree with the decision either.

But I'd do it again.

I just about manage to get through one of the most harrowing days that I've known, the elation of the morning long since having worn off by the time that I go home, and I do it all without talking to Ainsley once. Truth be told, I don't even notice the time going today, and Margaret is reminding me that it's nigh on midnight when my body clock is telling me that it's lunchtime. But I'm tired, and everyone's tired, and we'll be back here early tomorrow anyway, so I head home.

It's only on the way there that I realise that I haven't called Ainsley, haven't had time to today. And it's the first time in a week and a half that I've done that.

That worries me a little, because it's not going to get any better anytime soon. And it's not like I have what you'd call the best track record with women to start with. I've been in love once in my life, with Jenny, and it was my devotion to the White House that ruined that marriage. Not even that could cure me of my workaholic tendencies though; I still work just as long hours, maybe even longer, as I did then. Some would say that I didn't learn from the mistakes of my past. And some would thus say that I'm bound to repeat them.

I don't want that for Ainsley.

I don't want that for us.

I'm surprised that a light is still on when I get home, and when I get into the living room, I'm even more surprised to see her there, asleep on the couch. I smile softly to myself, putting my briefcase down, hanging up my coat before going to her. My suit jacket and tie are thrown across the chair as I sit down on the couch beside her, and the shifting of the couch wakes her. She blinks sleepily as she looks up at me, her hand rubbing her eyes. "Hey," she tells me softly, yawning as she does.

"I didn't think you'd be here," I say, reaching out and rubbing her shoulder lightly.

"You didn't call…" I can hear the faintest hint of uncertainty in her voice, and it tears at my heart. "And you gave me a key, so I thought…"

"It's ok," I quickly tell her. "That's why I gave it to you." I sigh, and she sits up, giving me room to sit back properly, and she snuggles up against me. "I'm sorry I didn't call." A voice deep inside me points out that that's two days in a row that I was too busy to call her, and wonders how many other days are going to be like this? How many other days before she gets tired of waiting by the phone? Of waiting on my couch?

"I understand." Her words pull me back to reality, and my doubt must be showing on my face because she leans over, taking her hand in mine, squeezing it tightly, making me look at her. "I understand," she repeats, smiling at me.

Something in that smile relaxes me for the first time today and I close my eyes, tilting my head back against the sofa cushions, just savouring the feeling of having her in my arms, enjoying the silence. It's odd, that for so long our interactions revolved around conversations, usually held in her dungeon of an office, or at the coffeehouse down the block, but now, here like this, we're just content to be quiet. We don't need words anymore it seems, just holding her like this is enough.

I don't know how long we've been sitting like that when she lifts her head from my shoulder and looks at me questioningly. "Have you eaten?" she asked me, and it's all I can do not to laugh. Of all the questions she could have asked, I should have known that that would be the first one.

"Margaret brought me something. Some time." I have a vague memory of her putting food down in front of me. Can't say as I remember eating it though.

From the look she's giving me, it was the wrong answer. "You need to eat Leo," she admonishes me. "I'll fix you something."

"I don't know if there's anything there…" I call out. After all, most of the time I eat in the mess, or eat out. Although I do have groceries delivered, and Mal drops off food every now and again. But let's just say that the kitchen and me aren't exactly fast friends.

She's halfway there when my words reach her and she turns and smiles sheepishly. "I may have brought over a few things…," she admits, and this time, I don't bother hiding my laughter, and it brings a blush to her cheeks. "Scrambled eggs and toast?"

"Sounds great," I tell her, following her to the kitchen. And the only thought in my mind when I'm listening to her tell me about her day, and watching her whip up supper for us, is that I could get used to this.

Things are going fine, and I'm feeling relaxed for the first time in who knows how long when she innocently asks, "How's CJ?"

The forkful of eggs turns to sand in my mouth, and I swallow with difficulty, washing it down with a gulp of orange juice as I shake my head. "I don't know." My voice is clipped, I can hear it, and she blinks, taken aback.

"You didn't talk to her?"

I shake my head. "No."

"She was tired Leo." Ainsley is frowning. "The press were really going for her, they were hanging her out to dry…you can't blame her-"

"I can and I do." That might have come out a little more strident than I was aiming for, but even the shocked look on her face doesn't stop me. "It's her job to work the press, her job to be able to handle them. If she can't-"

"You'll bench her for Nancy McNally?"

"They wouldn't ask Nancy about the MS."

"You don't think that benching CJ sent a message?"

"It sent a message that we're taking Haiti seriously and we're not using it as a political diversion to take the heat off the announcement."

"No, it sent a message that you don't trust CJ."

"Oh for crying out loud!" I drop my fork with a clang. "It did no such thing…"

"Yes it did! Do you know how long it's going to take CJ to get the press back on side? They're going to see this as a message that it's open season on her because you don't trust her enough to let her clean up her own mistakes and face the music. The press are going to think that they can come after her with anything, because you don't trust her enough to back her up."

"Then why didn't she clean it up in the Press Room?"

"Because they were out for blood, her blood, and she was upset, and angry at herself. No-one could have stood up to that Press Room today Leo, man or woman."

"This isn't about CJ being a woman-"

"Maybe not to you." Her voice drops suddenly, having been as loud as my own.

And when it does, I realise that my fists are clenched, that I'm breathing hard, and that the knot of tension that had been in my neck all day, that had disappeared when I was watching her make supper, is back, worse than ever. "Could we not do this now?" I ask her, and she nods, pushing the last forkful of eggs around her plate.

"Yeah."

A silence descends on us, and it's not like the one in the living room earlier. It's uncomfortable. Strained.

And when I look up from my plate, for a second, just a second mind you, I see Jenny sitting across from me.

She stands up to take the plates over to the sink, and I shake my head to clear it of that image, catching her hand as she stands beside me. "I'm sorry for shouting," I tell her honestly.

She squeezes my hand, smiling slightly. "And I shouldn't have pushed it. I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to apologise…to feel like you can't tell me what you think…I don't ever want us to stop talking."

She smiles down at me, and this time, it's more genuine. "So…you get upset when I tell you what I think, and then again when I don't?" A small laugh escapes her at the end of her sentence, and I can't help but join her. I scoot my chair back a little, turning towards her, and she slides down onto my lap, resting her head against mine, kissing me quickly.

"We're some pair," I tell her.

"Is this our first fight?" she wonders, her head tilted to one side.

I hold back another round of laughter. "You know, I think it just might be."

"Good." There's a devilish smile on her face as she winds her arms around my neck, sliding her fingers up into my hair.

"Good?" Because it didn't feel good to me.

"Yep." Her face grows ever closer to mine. "Because now we get to make up."

And then she's kissing me, and that pretty much drives any thought of CJ and the Press Room and Jenny out of my mind. And later on that night, when we've made it to the bedroom, and we're lying there a heartbeat away from sleep, I tell myself that it was just a blip, that we'll be all right.

Because this is Ainsley and me.

We have to be.

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