Notes: Written for the Toby ficathon. The request was for Toby, Sam, a writer moment, and the rubber ball.
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It�s the sound that comforts Toby more than the action of it, that steady thumpthump fwap that echoes in the empty office. Bounce against the floor, bounce against the cabinet, and then a solid landing in his hand. Just another way of trying to keep his thoughts in some kind of order, at some kind of even pace.
Sometimes it works, other times it doesn�t, and he�s learned not to try too hard to distinguish between the two. The words either come, or they don�t.
This time they don�t.
An uncapped pen, lying on an empty legal pad, and the trash barrel slowly filling with crumpled remnants of unsatisfactory words. It�s a scene he�s only too familiar with. Frustration is a word that barely begins to skim the surface of what he feels, but it�s the best one he can come up with at this moment, which only serves to highlight the fact that his words have deserted him.
There is a dull thud as the ball hits the cabinet at the wrong angle and goes skittering off across the floor, coming to rest in the corner of the doorframe. He debates getting it, but it hardly seems worth the effort. It didn�t seem to be doing him much good anyhow. Instead he listens to the sounds of the empty building. The humming of the radiators, the grating scream of a plow against pavement outside, the impatient drone of his computer, taunting him, reminding him that he has nothing to put into it.
He picks up the pen, a futile gesture, and looks at the lines of the paper as if they can give him the answers he is looking for. Somewhere a door opens and closes, and in the corner a clock ticks. Then the only sound he hears is the scratching of his pen across the paper, and then eventually a loud rip as that page goes to join its brethren on the floor surrounding the trash barrel.
�You�re still here,� he hears, and isn�t entirely surprised when he glances up to find Sam leaning against his doorframe, tossing the discarded ball from one hand to the other.
�And you�re back,� he remarks, deciding that he can play the �let�s state the obvious� game as well as anyone.
Sam shrugs. �Couldn�t sleep. Remembered I had to get that thing done for tomorrow, and figured I might as well use the time.�
�Which thing?� Toby asks, really not caring.
�The�� Sam waves a hand towards his office, �thing. With the carpenters.�
�The union thing?� Toby supplies, and Sam nods. �Didn�t you finish that�I don�t know, sometime last week?�
�I thought I did. But then�turns out I didn�t.�
�There was some drastic change in carpentry policy between last week and now?�
�It�s not the policy, it�s the writing. I mean, it�s�good. It�s okay. But it�s just not�it can be better. It should be better.�
�So you came here at one in the morning to fix it.�
�Yeah, well, I can�t imagine you being able to relate to something like that,� Sam replies, looking significantly at the pile of crumpled papers in and around the trash barrel.
�That�s different,� he says, tapping his pen impatiently against the blank legal pad. �At this point I�d settle for being able to write something mediocre.�
Sam glances at the pile again. �No you wouldn�t.�
There is a long pause. �No,� he finally agrees. �I wouldn�t.�
There is a tiny smile in the corners of Sam�s mouth as he tosses the ball back to Toby. �I�ll leave you to it, then. Good luck.�
�You too,� he says, but Sam has already disappeared into his own office.
He swivels his chair around and tosses the ball towards the cabinet again. Thumpthump fwap. Thumpthump fwap. Youcan�t write, his brain supplies, filling in the words to the rhythm. Gotno words. Angrily he flings the ball at the cabinet and watches it ricochet across the office. Thumpthump crash! and the room is plunged into darkness.
�Sonofabitch,� he mutters, looking down at the remains of his lamp.
�You okay in there?� he hears from the next office, and he scowls darkly at the light filtering in through the blinds.
�I�m great, Sam. I�m fucking fantastic.�
��kay.� There is a pause, then, �what�d you break?�
�Lamp,� he says shortly, reaching over to scoop the pieces into the wastebasket with the remains of his efforts.
�The nice one?�
He frowns. �It�s the one with the lightbulb in it. You think I know a nice lamp from a not so nice lamp? If it gives me light, it�s a nice lamp.�
�So that�s a yes then.�
�Yes, Sam. I broke the nice lamp. Now would you like to hold a funeral for it, or can I get back to doing some, you know, actual work?�
�Going to be tough without a lamp.�
He doesn�t answer. Instead he picks up his legal pad and tips it so that the flickering light from his computer screen plays across the page, and he brings his pen to the paper. Somehow as soon as the first words begin to scrawl from his pen, he knows that this one won�t end up in the trash. They come, smoothly and effortlessly, and he suddenly remembers why he got into this business in the first place.
Sam must leave eventually, because at some point Toby notices that there�s no longer any light coming in through the blinds, but behind him the sun is just beginning to rise.
And when Sam comes in the next morning, he discovers the completed speech in his inbox, and the satisfied sound of thumpthump fwap coming from the next room.