His well-liked status as the Senior White House Correspondent gave him a little extra leeway with the security staff at the White House. Normally, he spent his time in the lovely CJ Gregg's office, but she hadn't kissed him in a while, so he was going to occupy himself by investigating a story. Maybe if he was out of the Press Secretary's office for a few days, she would realize that he was, in fact, the love of her life. Maybe.

Danny walked through the halls of the West Wing without being hassled. People smiled and nodded at him. A couple of Secret Service agents asked him if he'd gotten lost on his way to Ms. Gregg's office. Up to this point, Danny hadn't realized just how much time he spent in her office.

The reporter walked into the Communications Bullpen, unnoticed by the busy staffers. Looking around, he spotted the infamous pile of paper. Even though it was only eleven in the morning, the pile was considerable. Danny reached over and snagged the arm of Sam's assistant, Cathy. He asked her about the debris, but she cryptically told him to wait by the door for a few minutes, then he would understand.

Shrugging, Danny leaned against the wall of Sam's office.

A sharp bellow of "Damnit!" made Danny jump. Looking around, he saw that no one else even looked up. Moments later, a crumpled up ball of paper flew out of the Deputy Communications Director's door and joined the pile.

"That's seventeen!" a voice called out.

"I'm changing my bet to thirty," a person out of Danny's line of sight announced.

With sudden insight, the reporter walked into Sam's office. Environmental activist would have dropped dead at the sight of so much wasted paper. While the pile outside the office was big, the amount of paper that hadn't made it that far and littered the floor of Sam's office was unbelievable.

The man himself was staring at his blank computer screen, a look of sheer disbelief on his face. A second later, the fish screen saver activated, but Sam shook the mouse, dissolving the image, and continued to stare at the screen. "You're not talking to me," the DCD murmured.

"Some people might misconstrue that statement," Danny said by way of greeting.

Instead of the usual Sam Seaborn welcome - a yelp of surprise followed by a near tumble out of his chair - the young man merely turned around and stared at the reporter. He gestured for him to sit down. Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "I have tried everything," he declared morosely.

"Excuse me?" Danny asked.

"I have tried everything to get my ... well, to get it back."

"It?"

A solitary eye opened to stare at the reporter. "You know damn well what I'm talking about, Danny. IT!"

Danny nodded, understanding. Anybody who put a pen to paper or their fingers on a keyboard for a living would know what Sam was talking about. That voice in one's head that made them a superior writer. An instinct and mastery of the language to make it do what you pleased. Whether it was innate or developed over time, Danny didn't know. But he knew how devastating it could be to lose that feeling. It was like having a light switch turn off inside your head.

"Cathy made me stop banging my head against my desk," Sam declared in a frightening monotone. "After a while, doing that was kind of relaxing. The thought of being unconscious instead of having Toby and CJ tell me that my stuff was good actually appealed to me for a couple of days. I've walked to try and get the juices flowing. Cutting back on the coffee and getting more sleep hasn't helped. Reading hasn't done me a bit of good, neither has listening to music. What I want to write isn't what's winding up on the screen. Nothing is working."

Danny knew how frustrating a blank computer screen could be. Writer's block happened to everybody at some point, but Sam was not taking it well.

"Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?" Danny suggested. "The change of scenery might do you good."

Sam shrugged, nodded and stood up. He straightened the wrinkles out of his dark grey suit jacket and followed the reporter out. As they were leaving, the faithful cleaning maids began to clean up the mess. Sam winced as he noticed the size of the pile.

"Environmental activists are going to have my head," the DCD announced glumly. He added that to his mental list of things to be depressed over.

"Probably," Danny agreed.

* *

The two men went to a small coffee bar down the street. It was a nice place for adults, with a mature atmosphere that discouraged most teenagers from coming inside. Since it was lunch time, the place was full of people. Danny and Sam, however, had no trouble finding a seat. They occupied a small booth, away from most of the crowd. Both men ordered small, but filling meals.

"I like this place," Sam declared. "It's usually quieter than this."

Danny nodded, "yeah. Just for the record, your stuff hasn't been that bad." He raised his hand, silencing Sam before the younger man could protest. "It's just been lacking in your usual style. Quite frankly, it's flat."

"Duh," Sam mumbled in a way unbecoming a member of the President's staff.

"You're not the only one whose been there, Sam," the reporter informed him. "I've had stretches where I should have been fired for the garbage that came from my printer. You've got to be patient and realize that it's going to come back."

"It needs to come back now." The DCD declared in a voice that could have passed for Toby.

"This is going to sound idiotic, but have you tried tape recording what you want to say, then typing it out when you're done? A couple of years back when it decided to take a vacation during Pulitzer time, I started to do that. Once you hear yourself say it, then write down what you said, it's a lot easier to make corrections. It sounds stupid, Sam, but believe me, it works. Try it out tomorrow. It should help."

Sam opened mouth to disagree. To his surprise, he couldn't find a valid argument. Their coffee arrived moments later and the two men finished their drinks in silence. They paid their bill and rose to leave.

"Thanks, Danny," Sam said.

"Trust me, I've been there before," the reporter replied. He had to pick up the pace a little to fall into step with the taller man. "So tell me, how's CJ been lately ...?"

* *

Two days later, Toby Ziegler walked through the Communications Bullpen. To his surprise, there was no pile of paper by Sam's door. All he heard was the voice of his deputy, loud and angry. The balding Communications Director walked over to Cathy's desk and leaned forward. "Does Sam have a meeting with anyone?" He asked.

"No," she replied. "He's all alone in there, but he's been talking like that for a half hour."

Toby breathed a long suffering sigh, he'd better not be talking to his computer again. That's just too weird, even for Sam. Hopefully, the kid had gotten over the ridiculous notion that his writing talent had decided to take a walk. Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and went inside.

Sam was walking beside his desk, pacing back and forth. In one hand, he was holding a tape recorder to his mouth. With the other, he was gesturing emphatically. Toby knew that some writers did this in order to get the facts straight, but it was the first time he'd ever seen his deputy do so. With a shrug, he walked out of the office.

* *

Hours later, as the President was addressing the nation, Sam couldn't help but grin. IT was back and meant good things for him. He watched from the sidelines. When the President was answering a question from a reporter, Sam locked eyes with Danny and grinned. The reporter winked in reply, then leapt back into the fray and asked President Bartlet a question.

After the briefing Sam went to CJ's office. She wasn't too busy and had some time to talk.

But Sam didn't have much to say.

"He misses you, CJ. Just make sure to tell him you appreciated his hard to get routine."

The Press Secretary grinned, but Sam knew that smile wasn't meant for him. "I will, Sam, goodnight."

He and Danny were even. Sam had IT back and hopefully, Danny would have CJ in the future.

Now, everyone could get back into the normal swing of things.