Title: Boxer Tales
Feedback: Not necessary, but if sent will find me here: firstname.lastname@example.org
Author's website: http://subtractions.homestead.com/
Pairing: Sam/Josh (slash/implied slash)
Rating: CHILD PG-13
Archive: Yes to list archives
Disclaimer: All characters are the creation and property of Aaron Sorkin. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: A string of five loosely connected PWPs.
Notes: It's always a good idea to floss after consuming fluff. Thanks as always to the girl from the small town on the coast.
Boxer Tales by Abigale
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
The Words He Longed To Hear
"You. Could. Have. Told me," Sam hissed through his teeth. "There were cameras there!"
"It was a terrific photo op! The president kicking our butts at basketball? You can't pay for that kind of footage," Josh crowed, mopping his face with a towel as he sat on the locker-room bench. "He's paying for that tomorrow, though. I mean, the man's quick, but totally out of his league when it comes to stamina."
"Four words," Sam grumbled, pulling off his sweat-soaked tee-shirt and flinging it towards his open locker door. "It's not like you didn't notice." He shot a charged look Josh's way, then planted a foot on the bench and began plucking at his shoelaces.
After a moment's pause, Josh doubled over and went to work on his own shoes. "He has that groundbreaking for the memorial tomorrow. I can't *wait* for him to see the hill he has to climb to get to it!" Josh gloated, keeping his head bowed low. A droplet of sweat fell from his brow, and he used his shoulder to swipe at his cheek. "I know it's childish of me to get so much pleasure out of the prospect of his being in pain; but damn, that was humiliating tonight!" As the words left Josh's mouth, he instinctively looked up to see Sam's astounded expression. "I hope he has that unscented Aspercreme shit, 'cause can you—"
"Four words could have saved me a hell of a lot more humiliation than you got being beaten by the president on the court."
Pulling off his shoe, Josh sat up straight and tapped it nervously against his leg. "Look, Sam, I swear, I would have. I would have!" he declared when Sam snorted. "There were people *everywhere!* There wasn't any way I could think of to say it without drawing more attention to it." Josh brought out not one, but both of his dimples in an effort to placate his friend. "I was trying to be discreet," he explained.
Sam chucked his second shoe into the locker where it sailed past a pair of grey boxer briefs hanging from a hook. He faced Josh with his hands planted resolutely on his hips, eyes burning bright, charged with indignity and incredulousness. "Four words, Josh. You could have come up to me at *any* time, leaned in like you were sharing strategy, whispered it, or even, hell, made a joke of it, but you shouldn't have let me run up and down the court in front of print and television cameras, making jump shots all over the place without letting me know." He grabbed a towel and squeezed it tightly between his hands.
Josh dipped his head in humility before rising to his feet to stand in front of Sam. "You're right. I can't say you're not right," he finally admitted. "But buddy; there are a lot worse things to be caught at, you know. And not too many guys—"
"Don't you *dare* say it—!"
"—have to worry—"
"—I swear to god I'm going to punch you—"
"—about slapping against their thigh like that." Josh beamed at Sam in admiration. "I can't believe you didn't *feel* it. How could you not be aware—?"
"I was aware!" Sam yelped, sitting heavily, straddling the smooth wooden bench. "I was aware. I forgot my jockstrap. I was aware," he repeated miserably. "I just didn't realize everyone else was, too."
"Well, you should have at least put on some underwear," Josh sniffed knowingly, and when Sam fell onto his back and moaned in mortification, legs spread wide, Josh couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in appreciation.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Ain't That A Kick In The Ass?
"Ohohoh," Josh mocked, repeating Sam's moan in a conversational tone. "Ohohoh."
Josh positioned his hand back in place, and resumed the fast stroking. "God, you're demanding," he said before making fun of the man under him again with, "Ohohoh."
Sam squirmed violently, then seemed to settle back into a thrusting rhythm that matched Josh's motion. "I can't take... much... more," he informed his lover. "Any minute now!"
"Minute?" Josh asked, raising an eyebrow. "Ohohoh, indeed."
"Okay, cut it out!"
"Or else? Ow!"
The stroking stopped, the squirming ceased, and both men stared at each other in mild alarm.
"My god, Josh. I'm sorry."
"I didn't mean too— I didn't mean—"
"I know that," Josh assured him, as he swung his leg off of Sam, and sat at the edge of the bed. "S'okay," he choked out, rubbing his side gingerly. "I was just teasing, you know."
"I know!" Sam lamented, and he crawled to his knees behind Josh and laid a docile hand against his back. "I was teasing too," but Sam's voice didn't sound very certain. As Sam smoothed a line up and down Josh's skin, it brought a wan smile to Josh's lips, and he tilted his head back towards Sam.
"Really am okay now. You just knocked the wind out of me," he said, turning around to face the pale younger man. "But when isn't that the case?" He kissed Sam lightly, and playfully punched his shoulder. Leaning away from the next kiss, Josh struggled to his feet. "Seriously, though, checkout time was ten minutes ago, man. We're gonna get charged for another night if we don't clear out of here." He bent to retrieve Sam's pale green boxers from the floor, and was rewarded with a foot to his ass, which sent him stumbling towards the bathroom.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Hand Wash Only
He held the fabric in his hand and ran a thumb over the tag again and again. These were not his shorts. They could only *be* one person's, and Josh hadn't reached that conclusion merely because of the expensive midnight blue silk, or the designer name on the label. As far as he could remember—and he didn't think he'd gotten drunk past the ability to recall such things lately—Sam Seaborn was the only man who'd been in his bedroom in the last few weeks.
It just struck Josh as very unlikely Sam would leave without his underwear.
Unless he left in Josh's.
Setting the boxers on top of the washing machine, he bent down and grabbed another armful of laundry from the pile on the floor, and shoved the assorted garments into the washer. Black socks, white undershirts, red boxers and a light blue dress shirt fell atop a pair of jeans and a grey sweatshirt, and Josh kept piling things in until the floor was clear and the arm of a long-sleeved Henley reached out of the over-stuffed machine as if clinging to life itself.
That wasn't his shirt, he realized, pulling it back out by the collar. He sniffed it deeply. That was Sam's too.
After dumping an unmeasured amount of soap into the agitating water, Josh walked out into his living room and looked around carefully. Sam's spare glasses on the bookshelf. An investment magazine under the coffee table. A brown suede jacket could be seen hanging underneath Josh's coat on a hook near the door.
Sam was everywhere.
In the bathroom, Josh found nothing out of place, nothing that he didn't recognize as his, only a lifeless towel crumpled behind the door. As he took it back to the compact washing machine in the closet in the kitchen, he flung it over his shoulder only to discover that parts of it were melded together with a dried, flaky substance.
So, Sam *had* been in the bathroom, Josh remembered with a wry grin.
After stuffing the towel into the sloshing water, Josh leaned back against the humming appliance and took a moment to sweep his eyes through the kitchen.
There was a bottle of Advil on the counter that Josh couldn't remember taking out; an LA Times poking out of the recycling bin; a sponge stained with red wine, dried and buckling on the side of the sink, and a piece of paper slapped to the refrigerator reminding Josh that he was out of butter, in Sam's handwriting.
Reaching for the handle of the refrigerator, Josh pulled it open and rooted around until he was satisfied that there was no butter to be found.
The washing machine shuddered violently, calling for Josh's attention, and he walked over to tackle it with his hip, before picking up the blue silk boxers. He checked the tag once more, and took them to the sink, which he filled with cool water, and began to gently slosh them in the suds.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
Strip For Me, Baby
They bumped past each other awkwardly, each taking up the space the other was already occupying. A flurry of hands grasped hair and hips, and as Sam stumbled over his feet, Josh grabbed hold of an elbow, saving Sam from certain bruising.
"Can't... wait..." Sam gasped, tugging at Josh's zipper. His feet caught in themselves again, and he tipped to the side, once more saved by Josh's sure hand.
"You're dangerous tonight, Sam. Let's slow down and do this right." Josh held Sam at arm's length, the realization that he was allowing reason to rule his cock causing a moment's hesitation. "Why don't you go hang up your suit and line up your shoes—"
"Hey!" Sam complained weakly, his face flush with excitement. "I resent the implication that I have a neurotic need to organize my closet. My shoes happen to be lined up because they're easier to find at five o'clock in the morning that way. And as for hanging up—" His words were stifled by the expression of pure, unadulterated triumph on Josh's face. "Are we gonna do it, or am I gonna go on defending my housekeeping habits to you, is what you want to know."
Josh pulled Sam closer by the same arm he'd used to keep him at bay, and ground his mouth against the soft, pliant lips of the man in front of him. "I want you stripped and in the shower with me in two minutes flat," he instructed. Pushing Sam away, Josh stalked into the bedroom, making straight for the bathroom.
A moment later, standing in the soft light of the vanity, Josh felt Sam's presence behind him. A whooshing sound of silk filled the air, and the next thing Josh knew, Sam's tie was draped around his neck.
Turning around, he smiled. "Strip for me, baby," growled Josh. "You know what I like."
Standing with his feet apart, Sam slid his hand down the front of his shirt, flicking the buttons open as he went. Shrugging it from his shoulders, he let it fall to the floor without even a downward cast of his eyes. Josh appreciated the show, but wasn't much impressed, since it was destined for the hamper anyway. When the undershirt followed the same path, Josh suppressed a chuckle at the look of cocky accomplishment Sam wore.
Slapping his belt like a whip against the counter, Sam's eyes sparkled, then faltered. "I didn't get you did I?" he asked with concern.
Josh shook his head, and gestured for Sam to continue, taking a step back to give the younger man room to maneuver. As Sam worked the fastener of his slacks, Josh realized this would be the real test; they were one of his favorite pairs.
It took an incredible reserve of restraint for Josh to keep from laughing when he saw Sam hesitate a split second before dropping them to the floor, and he diplomatically ignored the mild grimace that flittered across Sam's handsome face.
The sight of Sam's silky purple boxers sliding down his densely hairy legs made Josh gulp in awe, his own shorts filling with an arching erection.
But the mood was broken when Sam stepped into the shower with his socks on.
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
He'd Been Told A Hundred Times
"I'm not drunk!" Sam cried before he slammed his fist against the hotel door in desperation. "I seem to be the only one who isn't, but I'm not. I'm just naked!"
He heard the strange scraping noise on the other side again, and placed his face directly in front of the peephole. He waited impatiently for a response, but didn't hear another sound. "CJ, please!"
"I'm, I'm not opening the door if you're naked, Sam," came her slightly slurred answer. "You didn't say you were naked before." A thump shook the door, where Sam was resting his head in resignation, and with his eyes he followed the sound of something sliding to the floor.
"I'm not!" he bleated. "I'm not, I told you, I'm in my underwear. It'll be just like seeing me in my swimsuit."
"I've never seen you in your swimsuit," came her reasonable reply.
"Well now you will," Sam growled. "CJ, open the damn door."
After another moment's silence, CJ's alcohol-weakened voice floated through the door. "You need a boy for this, Sam. A boy could help you out. Otherwise, I'm sorry. If you come in it could be a thing, and I've never had a thing about me, you know, and this would be a big one."
Sam turned his back to the door and leaned against it in defeat. "No more of a thing than if I'm seen roaming the hotel halls banging on doors looking for a boy," he muttered, and took a few steps away before turning back.
"CJ? Are you still there, CJ?"
"Ceej, you can call Toby for me, can't you? I don't know his room number."
"Neither do, um, I don't know it, either."
Sam sighed in growing frustration. "Yes, but you can call the desk. You can reach him, and ask him to step out into the hall and get me."
"Or," CJ's voice said, sounding marginally more focused, "I can ask someone to come let you in your room!"
"No!" Sam shrieked as he threw himself against the door. "Oh god, CJ, just let me in for a minute! Or throw me a towel! Toss me a towel and then you can call." He looked down at his lack of attire briefly before placing both hands flat against the door. "CJ, it's time to get real. Time to shake it off and open the door. CJ? *CJ*?!"
The distinctive sounds of retching greeted Sam's ears, and he instinctively stepped away. "Okay, well, you just get back to me when you're done," he mumbled, and began walking down the hall.
If he was going out, it would be with a bang, Sam decided as he went door to door, gingerly placing his ear to each one. He was hoping against hope that the distinctive sounds of C-Span would give him the clue he needed to make him feel confidant about knocking on one of them, but all that greeted him were a few muted conversations, a couple of on-screen explosions, and at least one couple making love.
No way to tell if any of them was Toby.
He'd reached the end of the hall, and was about to start back towards CJ's room when the gentle ding of the elevator signaled his imminent ruin.
"Goddamn, but you're a sight for sore eyes," Josh gushed as he hurried off the elevator and went directly to Sam, who was frozen in place. "There are these guys down in the bar who are *still* arguing with Toby about short-term fiscal assistance to the states, and investments in critical infrastructure and now I'm absolutely *sure* they're just baiting him, but I can't get him to walk away! I think, I'd be willing to bet tomorrow morning we're gonna see half of his remarks on the Drudge Report or something." He stopped for a breath, and then said, "Hey."
"Yeah, you see, there was a problem."
"I *can* see that. In great detail. Sam. I'm really, um, I'm really...." Josh took in Sam's outfit carefully, stepping away a little to get a better view. "I thought you knew. Those were a gag. I really thought—"
"Apparently Ginger thought they were hysterical, too," Sam deadpanned.
"She grabbed them when I asked her to pack a bag. The thing is, Josh, I've kinda gotta get back into my—"
The elevator doors slid open, and Toby strolled out, weaving only slightly, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. As he ran appraising eyes over his deputy, he drawled, "If I've told you once, Sam, I've told you a hundred times," as he started down the hall.
Staring after him in dismay, Sam blinked twice, then turned back to Josh. "Do you think we could call...?"
Josh began rooting through his pockets, as they followed behind Toby. Arriving at his door, Josh swiped the keycard twice before the light clicked green, and he stepped aside as Sam slipped by. "You know, if I ever thought you'd wear the stupid things, I would have bought them a couple of sizes bigger."
"And without the lipstick marks on the crotch?"
"That too," Josh said agreeably.
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