Author: Anne Marsh
Title: Poker Night
Rating: R. Yes, this time, the R is for *that*.
Pairing: Sam/Josh
Summary: Poker night was cancelled, but that didn't stop Sam and Josh from playing a few hands.
Notes: Sam's POV. Posting this because it's taking me some time to type up the handwritten PWP I'd been planning on posting, and I had a backlog of fics I'd already written on the computer that I thought I'd work on posting. Oh,and post-Rosslyn
Archive: Yes.
Feedback: Please and thank you.

Poker Night by Anne Marsh

Josh was down to socks, boxers, and undershirt. I was kind of glad that poker night had been cancelled...

"You might as well give up now." I told him, shaking my head. "I know you've got nothing."

"Fold." He sighed, throwing a sock on the table.

I grinned at him and laid down the second-worst hand I'd had all evening. "All in the way you play the game."

"Hey, I got your tie and jacket. And I feel a lucky hand coming on, so you might as well start unbuttoning your shirt, boy."

I grinned, shrugged, and dealt the next hand.

"One." He flipped a card at me.

I lifted my eyebrows and passed him one. Uh-oh... no microcosm of disappointment... he must have a pretty good hand.

I had nothing, but a good poker face, so maybe I could bluff him into-- No. I *had* a good poker face. Which did nothing, because he laid out a straight flush before I could intimidate him. I matched his sock. He stuck his tongue out at me.

He lost the other sock fairly quickly, then I did the same-- not because I didn't think I could beat him, but because just wearing one sock was really starting to bug me.

"I'm gonna get Josh na-ked." I sang, dealing out the next hand.

"Oh, it won't take long before I have you right where I want you, Seaborn."

I beat him, and waited for the undershirt to come off. Instead, he did a little maneouver, and his boxers hit the table.

"Now who's got a lousy poker face?" He teased, eyebrow quirking.

I swallowed and dealt out another hand. I wasn't paying attention, and he won my shirt. He started playing footsie with me underneath the table, and my pants followed.

"I've still got one on you." I reminded him.

"Mm, and two too many on yourself." His foot slid into my lap.

He won. I started to remove my undershirt, then decided his method was much more expedient. I stood up, ditched my shorts, and dragged him under the table.

His lips latched onto me with a ferocity I hadn't quite expected. Then again, everything-- everything physical-- with Josh was fairly new. When we became lovers, he'd only just been allowed back at work after-- after the shooting. It's about halfway through February, now. We'd only really done this once before. He's supposed to take it easy, and I get the feeling that if Dr. Bartlet knew what he was up to, she'd be less than pleased. But he assured me it was okay for him, so long as he payed attention to his limits, so... well, at this point, I wasn't arguing.

He was grinding against me-- maddeningly-- still kissing me to within an inch of my life, or was that my sanity? We were under a table, in the West Wing of the White House, while everybody else handled either personal or professional issues elsewhere, and the poker night that some of us had started up was cancelled tonight, which is why Josh and I were playing strip poker, only now he's on top of me and all but naked, and doing things that I'm not sure are legal. At least, they aren't legal when you're doing them here.

I swung a leg up around his waist and held on. Our mouths parted rarely and irregularly to let oxygen in between kisses. I held him back a little longer.

"Josh, are you sure--"

"Yes," He growled, attacking my mouth with a renewed-- well, a never really abated-- passion. I let him.

When I came, only that mouth over mine kept the cry off the radar of anyone outside.

It occured to me, rather too late, that the security cameras in the White House did not, as a rule, miss much.

Josh's head was resting against my shoulder, sweat sticking his forehead to my t-shirt. I stroked his hair absently and wondered just how we were going to get around this.

Josh groaned-- quite a different groan than the one I'd swallowed moments before-- lifting his head and looking at me. "Sam?"



"Yeah." I pulled a face. "At least we were under the table."

He looked nervously to the side. "I'm not sure that means anything here, Sam. I mean, we don't really know where they put *all* of the cameras. And it's still pretty... well, I mean if you saw footage of two shorts-less guys diving under a table, you'd draw some conclusions."

It was my turn to groan. As much as I detested the idea of security personel getting an eyeful of me, the thought that I might be sharing the remarkable view that was Josh Lyman was even more detestable. I reached around until I found my boxers, then realized that it was going to be really uncomfortable to put them back on over the sticky mess covering us both.

Josh nodded decisively. "Give me your shirt."

"My--" I groped around some more, but he stilled my arm. "Your undershirt."

I complied. He used my undershirt to clean up the evidence, from both of us. His own was less than immaculate, but I didn't contest his use of mine. I put on my boxers and ventured out from under the table to gather the rest of our clothes. I passed Josh his, and dressed hurriedly. He came out from under the table looking pretty par for the course-- which at the end of the day, for Josh, means kind of rumpled anyway. So it didn't necessarily look like he'd had sex on the floor of a White House office. I definitely looked like I'd had sex on the floor somewhere, though that where didn't have to be under a semi-official table in an unused room in the West Wing. His undershirt was now in his hand, balled up with mine.

"Wanna find an office with a paper shredder?" He asked, waving them.

"You can't run our shirts through a paper shredder." I shook my head. "They aren't paper, for starters. They'd still exist on the premises, too. And they have lights, that when you shine them on places, you can see the-- um, the stuff. The stuff that's all over the undershirts."

He smirked at me. "Let's throw caution to the wind. I'll toss them into a wastepaper basket."

"Still not paper." I reminded him, snatching them away. Before I could do anything with them, the door opened. CJ. I hid the undershirts behind my back.

"Hey. What are you guys doing in here?" She looked over to the card strewn table. "I thought the poker game was cancelled?"

"Um, it was." I shrugged. "Josh and I played a few hands anyway."

"How many hands?" She narrowed her eyes at me.

Let's see, my tie, jacket, and both socks, shirt, slacks, and boxers... that makes seven, plus all of those things for Josh makes "Fourteen." I told her.

"Fourteen hands of poker." She whistled. "Don't you guys have jobs to do? And why wasn't I invited?"

I shrugged again.

"What's that?"

"What's what?" Josh jumped in to my defense, and I tried in vain not to look like I was holding evidence of some sort behind my back. "There's nothing here but us chickens, and a game of fifty-two card pick-up waiting to happen."

"What's that in your hand?" She sighed, not even bothering with Josh.

I looked at him. Now *he* shrugged. I felt it might give something away if I were to, in front of CJ, say 'you're supposed to be the brains of this operation, make something up', so I didn't say anything, I just looked desperate for a minute.

"Nevermind." She shook her head, exasperated. "I don't have the time right now. Look, Sam, Toby's going to kill you if he finds out you've been playing poker instead of working."

"But he hasn't given me anything to work on."

"Well that's tough, but in the mood he's in? It doesn't mean he won't rip you a new one. And Josh, I don't know what you could be doing, but I'm sure Leo will be happy to do the same for you."

"I'm recovering from a gunshot wound." He shook his head. "I'm supposed to work light."

I coughed.

"Yeah. Nice. I could see that one working on him if he's had a recent lobotomy that we don't know about. Might not be a bad idea. Go look busy."

Josh leaned over to my ear as we headed into the hallway. "If she'd come in five minutes earlier, I bet she would've thought we looked pretty busy..."

"Never speak of it again, Lyman." I whispered back. "Never again."


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