Surely To Their Credit

[theirlawyer]

The trouble with arguing with Sam isn't that it's annoying or exasperating. He's frustrating because he's a Democrat with several misinformed beliefs, but that's not really the problem with arguing with him. As Ainsley helps to balance coffee cups on the tray as they take the stairs, her ponytail swinging behind her, she knows the real problem.

She likes it.

She likes arguing with Sam to the point that if he looks like he's in a good mood, she's tempted to bring up the ideal size of government just to see him start ranting. If she can get him to take off his reading glasses to make one of his points, all the better. Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she turns to back her way up the last door, opening her mouth to goad him on a little more, not really thinking beyond the repartee she's sure to get (that makes her feel alive, that makes her heart beat a little quicker, that makes her skin flush).

"You know," she begins, "at this rate, you'll be switching parties faster than I can say Abraham Lincoln was one of...ours..."

She trails off because Sam's not following her anymore, but that's not the problem. The problem is that it looks like the White House managed to get a new decorator in the time it'd taken them to go downstairs to the cafeteria for some coffee. Gingerly, Ainsley steps forward, the tray of sugars and creams still in her hands.

"...Sam?" she calls out around the next corner, trying not to let herself believe this is all the beginning of a horror movie. She's fine. She's in the White House, she's fine, and she sees and hears stranger things in the Steampipe Distribution Venue every single day.

Comments

[imnotrobin]

Sam knows that it's late but he's of reasonably sound mind and body and thinks that he couldn't possibly have lost Ainsley. She'd been there approximately two seconds ago, dancing like nobody was watching in her White House issued bathrobe and as soon as he'd gone to introduce the president, everything had changed.

Sam had gone back through the door just to make sure he did not actually lose the captive audience of one Jed Bartlet and one Ainsley Hayes and instead of Ainsley's basement office, the room he finds himself in is actually what appears to be...well, he doesn't know what the hell it is.

He's always worked long hours and late hours and maybe he's just tired. Maybe that's why he hears Ainsley around the corner and follows the sound of her voice to find her in a sweatshirt and jeans and not in her bathrobe where he had most assuredly left her not moments ago and it's just...not right. It doesn't match up.

"Ainsley? What's going on, exactly?" Sam frowns a little and rubs at the bridge of his nose, wanting his glasses, but it seems he isn't wearing them. He reaches in his shirt pocket, extracts the glasses, and puts them on his face.

It doesn't seem to clear this picture up any at all.

[theirlawyer]

"What's going on?" she echoes, setting the tray down with a jut of her hips as if to punctuate the fact that she thinks she's owed a little more explanation than a general 'what's going on' and when, exactly, did Sam find time to change? The bewilderment is clear on her face as she opens her mouth and closes it.

She's not speechless. Far from it. Right now she's choosing between a dozen streams of thought cascading through her mind. "You were following me with the coffees, is this some sort of trick, are Ed and Larry about to jump out from behind the curtains and try to use more of their bad jokes on me?" she asks, placing her hands on her hips to make it clear she wants a straight answer.

[imnotrobin]

"Now, wait a minute. I'm not the one who's tricking anyone. It seems to me that I just walked through your office door where you were engaged in a particularly rousing rendition of a 1950s samba and I was about to introduce you to President Bartlet and you somehow found a way to change and get past both myself and the president."

While Sam is willing to concede some of his own absent mindedness, he isn't about to accuse the president of such. Not when they'd been standing right there.

[theirlawyer]

"Excuse, me, but that was weeks ago, Sam and I'll thank you to stop bringing that up at every convenient opportunity to embarrass me," Ainsley says, with all the indignation that she thinks is due when it comes to her dignity and her pride. It's almost as if he's taken delight in it after she's humiliated him on live television or something. "We were getting coffee for Josh and Donna and Ed and Larry," she corrects him, as always having to correct Sam in being wrong about something.

She gestures to the tray. "See? Cream and sugar," she says. "You had the coffee. Maybe this time, you weren't even going to spill it."

[imnotrobin]

Sam has done a lot of things in his life but he has never gone out of his way to embarrass a woman about something personal. He has no qualms about decimating an opponent in an argument, certainly, but that is something that Ainsley can more than meet him for punch for punch. This is personal and he doesn't stoop to personal attacks and, frankly, is a little offended she thinks that he would.

"I'm only bringing it up because it literally just happened," Sam says, slowly and patiently. His words are carefully measured because he's wondering how he somehow managed to lose weeks of time. Weeks? Weeks!

"Just now. Ten minutes ago."

[theirlawyer]

"I don't know how it can literally just happen when I have a memory of that exact moment and yes, it might be somewhat blurry thanks to the number of pink alcoholic drinks I consumed that evening, but one does not forget the humiliation I wrought upon my family in that one moment," she declares, a little breathless as some of the shameful emotion pours into her words. "I saw you ten seconds ago," she counters, but as they're bickering, she takes the time to look around.

"And we're both wrong, aren't we?" she realizes.

[imnotrobin]

"It stands to reason that for one of us to be right the other would have to be wrong and we are both steadfastly convinced of our position," Sam says, mulling it over. "It's Schrodinger's cat all over again, isn't it? For one of us to absolutely correct in our assessment the other has to be absolutely wrong but neither of us feel we are wrong nor do we feel the other is. It's a problem, to be sure."

A sticky wicket, truth be told, and not one Sam thinks he will want to try and debate against Ainsley. This is different than arguing policy. This is arguing sanity and as afraid he is of being wrong, he doesn't want Ainsley to be wrong either. Not with something like this.

[theirlawyer]

"No, Sam," Ainsley cuts him off, reaching forward to grab at his arms and try to get him to look at their surroundings. Because if she thinks they're in the White House and he thinks they're in the White House, then they are both definitely wrong because unless the President has hired the world's fastest decorators, they've wandered through a whole new door. "Look," she insists stubbornly. "We're both wrong because this isn't the White House. Don't you see?"

[imnotrobin]

It takes him a moment to take in the decorating. Sam is hardly an expert on the White House but it would take a blind idiot not to notice the corridors he walks every day in the course of his job have inexplicably changed. The architecture is modern now, not modern conveniences slammed into an old, old building and the paint is fresh, the carpets new.

"All right, so it's not the White House. So where is it?"

[theirlawyer]

She doesn't know and it's killing her. Ainsley has always been a know-it-all and has been proud of the knowledge she amasses to use at her fingertips, so to find herself in a position where she has to admit that she doesn't know anything is hard, but it looks like Sam is in somewhat the same boat, which makes it a little bit better. "I don't know," she admits. "There's some sounds coming from the end of the hallway, though. Should we go and see?"

[imnotrobin]

"It's better than standing here in the proverbial dark," Sam says, gesturing for her to lead the way. This is possibly the strangest day he's ever had and that's saying something, considering some of the strange days he's had in this White House. Or not this White House, as this seems to be some other place.

"Have I ever shared with you just how much I hate being in the dark?"

[theirlawyer]

Ainsley keeps one hand on the wall as they walk, as if she can hold onto some kind of strange lifeline instead of drifting off at sea. "I don't think you've ever shared that piece of information with me, no," Ainsley admits, though she does file it away under 'Things About Sam Seaborn I Can Use One Day'. "Have I ever shared with you that I dislike having my control and autonomy taken away from me and that I really, really dislike most surprises?"

[imnotrobin]

"Remind me never to invite everyone around for a surprise party," Sam mutters, trying to get his bearings. He's always prided himself on an exceptional sense of direction and sense of self and both seem to be drifting aimlessly at the moment. It's not comforting.

"Oh, look, there's a desk. We'll just play tourists and ask where we are and then I can figure out how to get us back to the White House without looking like complete idiots. Sound like a plan?"

[theirlawyer]

"As long as there isn't anyone jumping out of a cake, pastry, or any other variety of baked good, I think I might be fine," she says, but she's distracted as she walks and talks, her mind not really on this anymore. She nods, talking herself out of reaching out to hold onto Sam's hand for moral support, but it's a just barely thing and she's still debating it as she summons up her courage and approaches. "Hi, we're..."

But before she can ask, she's cut off by an explanation about rooms and food and accommodations that make no sense given that she doesn't remember making arrangements for a hotel.

[imnotrobin]

"Excuse me," Sam says, cutting the concierge off mid-spiel. "Ms. Hayes and I aren't looking to book a room, stay in a room or do anything but get back down to the White House. What's the address here?"

He gives an apologetic smile. "If you can't tell, we're tourists, and we just really want to see the White House. So if I went outside, how many blocks do I have to walk? Am I going to need to get a cab?"

[theirlawyer]

The concierge glances from Sam to Ainsley with a look of disbelief on their face, pointing to the front doors and what lies beyond. "There are no cabs at the Nexus," the concierge replies pleasantly, as if none of this is troubling her at all. She slides two separate key cards across the desk. "These are your keys for your stay. Have a pleasant time."

Ainsley is speechless for a moment, but that's just her anger revving up and getting ready to unload. "This is ridiculous," she says with disbelief, plucking up one of the cards as she storms out the front door to find a way back home, except that when she pulls the handle open, she doesn't find a single car, truck, or cab.

She does, conveniently, find the universe.

"Oh my god," she breathes out. "I've gone insane. It finally happened. I worked around too many Democrats and I've lost my marbles."

[imnotrobin]

"I honestly think this is a bipartisan issue," Sam says, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. He knows that he works long hours and that he really should take some more time for himself but this is the kind of mental break that ends up with white coats and talking about your feelings while in a padded room. This is not okay.

"We should regroup. Let's just take the keys, find the rooms, and regroup. We'll find a phone somewhere and call Josh?"

[theirlawyer]

She nods her head, already thinking through a plan that will get her out of here with her sanity intact and even though she's not as close to Josh as Sam is, he always does seem to have a plan that gets him out of a sticky situation. "Okay," she says, a bit softer than she wants. "Yes. Okay, we'll get our keys, find our rooms and call Josh and find out way of here," she insists, not wanting to linger.

[imnotrobin]

"We'll get room service while we do," Sam decides. It'll give them something to focus on other than the cloying panic that always seems to accompany even the mere thought of being less than sane. For Sam, his living is made by words and wit and the thought of being even the slightest bit dull is a frightening one. To be a spoon in the knife drawer is unfathomable.

"After you?"

[theirlawyer]

Sam says the magic word and Ainsley practically lights up as if they're installed a neon lightbulb. She's happy to do anything provided there's some room service at the end of things -- especially if it means cupcakes or muffins or something all-together sweet as a result of things. She's happy to take the lead, tapping her key card against her palm as she walks, trying to get accustomed to the lush and lavish walls. "I half feel as if this is a campaign stop," she says, staring at the number on her card (1760) and trying to match a door to it.

"These numbers don't seem to make any sense," she says, when the doors don't progress in any logical or sensible way.

[imnotrobin]

"Mine is 1600 and yours is 1760. They're...probably not on the same hall?" That would make sense in a normal hotel but this doesn't seem to be a normal hotel as he's just passed 832 and 4000 next to one another. It makes no sense at all.

"I feel like we fell into the proverbial rabbit hole, Ainsley."

[theirlawyer]

Ainsley is starting to feel a headache come on. She pinches the bridge of her nose and feels like smacking her forehead against something very thick and wooden, just to try and get some of the cobwebs out, but before she can do that, she does a double-take. "Wait," she says, sharply. "Wait, Sam, look, here. 1600," she says, gesturing to it. "Here's yours."

[imnotrobin]

"Thank God for small favors," he says, swiping the key card and swinging the door in so that Ainsley can enter before he does. The room itself is fairly nice, a suite, with a nice writing desk and plenty of room to walk around. He's always hated hotel rooms that are nothing more than just a bed and a lamp and he's glad this one isn't that, even if he doesn't plan to be using it very often.

Weirdly, it looks like a suite he stayed in once at the Mandarin Oriental back in DC and he guesses that is as familiar as anything has been today.

"There's a phone in here. I'll just call Josh and get this straightened out."

[theirlawyer]

Ainsley's attention is everywhere at once as she takes in the room around her, sliding her palm along the walls before she heads to the bed and perches on the end of it, breathing in and out steadily and thinking that only a few hours ago, they had been bickering and getting coffee and she'd thought, for a moment there...

Her gaze flickers over Sam when he's occupied, a steady roaming gaze when he's not looking, and she thinks she can't be crazy. Can she? She'd thought she'd seen interest, but now they're in a strange hotel and both think the other has gone insane.

[imnotrobin]

Sam rolls up his sleeves and dials out, not really sure why his calls aren't going through. He tries several numbers - CJ, Toby, Leo. On a lark, he tries the actual Oval Office and half expects to hear Charlie pick up. He doesn't. Nobody does. All he gets is an automated message that his call cannot be completed as dialed and he slams the phone back into the cradle in frustration.

"Well, that was completely useless. Have you found a room service menu? Maybe I can just drink until I pass out."