september 2004
http://cakehole.org/zedpm
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"I'm going to lose," Sam says.
His hair's too long and his bow tie's a little crooked, and Toby wonders if this is the same man who used to work in the office next door—who got them both lost in the middle of Connecticut, who got his ass kicked on Capital Beat, who was forced to endure the persistent throwing of the ball against his window. Those days seem like so long ago, now.
Sam's done some growing up since Washington.
"Yeah," Toby finally replies. The pit of his stomach aches. He watches the light refract off the glass in Sam's hand, watches him bow his head in resignation, so slightly he can barely see it, watches his face as he turns. There's no sadness in his expression, no defeat. The quiet strength in Sam's eyes promises victory—somewhere, somehow, no matter what it takes—and fills him with hope for the future.
Toby wants to cry. Instead, he wraps his arms around Sam, and wonders why he's never done so before.
