XV
Lunch for the assistants was a subdued affair, the three of them hunched over quick meals in the mess, knowing they'd have to hustle back to their bosses as soon as possible.
"There's definitely something in the air," Bonnie frowned over her salad. Margaret nodded emphatically.
"Leo's been meeting with Josh and the president all day," she said, gesturing with her sandwich for emphasis. And Josh didn't look good. Leo was hard to read at the best of times, even for her, but you could follow the course of bad news on his deputy's face like a road map.
"Sam's just being Sam, but there's definitely something up Toby's ass," Bonnie said darkly. "The trouble is, I can't tell if that's the same thing or completely different. I think there might be something going on with him and Andy."
"It's making me nervous," Ginger added quietly. They both knew what she meant. Any bad news was worrying, but bad news that stayed at the top and didn't filter down was even worse.
"Whatever it is, I think it'll break soon," Bonnie said. "Donna knows." Donna knew, but they couldn't ask her, because that wasn't how it worked. Margaret might technically be senior - although nobody was really their leader, anymore, the gap left by Mrs. Landingham wasn't one that could be filled - but information was passed around when it was needed, not when etiquette dictated. She'd find out when Leo needed her to know.
"Let's not talk about this," she decided.
"Yeah." Ginger inspected her sandwich.
"Have you seen the president's kitten?" Margaret began, seldom at a loss for a new thread to inject into the conversation.
"I've heard tell from Becky in housekeeping," Ginger smiled.
"It's the cutest little thing," Margaret revealed. "It's black and white, and it sits on the president's feet when he's working. Leo wouldn't pick it up," she said in tones of disapproval.
"Josh is frightened of cats," Bonnie offered.
"And snakes," Ginger agreed.
"And big dogs," Margaret put in.
"And hamsters."
They all looked at Ginger. She cracked a slight smile. "Remind me to tell you that story sometime."
Margaret snickered. She reached for her dessert, and spotted a familiar face. "Hey." She nodded the others to look in the direction of Charlie, sitting half asleep over a cup of coffee in the corner.
"He looks tired," Ginger observed worriedly.
"I'm not surprised," Margaret clucked concernedly. "Did you know Zoey's sick too? She's got the same bug the president's getting over, and her five months pregnant..."
"I hope it doesn't turn into anything serious," Bonnie murmured.
"What's he going to do when the baby arrives?" Margaret wondered. "That's what I want to know." They all knew full well how impossible it was to manage a personal life working the hours they did, let alone cope with raising a family.
"He'll have to cut back on his hours," said Ginger.
"The president's not gonna like that," Bonnie frowned. "You know how he hates dealing with temps and new people."
"Yeah."
There was a long, solemn silence.
"I wish Mrs. Landingham was still here," said Ginger quietly.
Truer words had seldom been spoken.
"Mr. President."
"John."
The two men regarded each other in tense silence for a long moment. The president broke it, by standing up and walking around behind his chair.
"So," he said quietly.
John shifted uncomfortably. He'd spoken with Leo before coming in here, but while he knew the president had been apprised of the situation, he wasn't sure how far he could trust Leo's assertions about his initial anger blowing over.
Well, he might be the one in the wrong here, but he was damned if he was going to crawl. He looked the shorter man in the eye and spoke without further hesitation. "Mr. President, if you want me to resign-"
"I don't want you to resign," the president cut him off. Bluntly; not mouthing empty sentiments or protesting the very idea, simply making a curt statement of his position.
Oh, he was pissed all right. Out the other side of howling rage and into that colder side of him that felt enough like supercilious self-righteousness to set your teeth on edge.
Knowing he was in no position to count himself undeserving of the contempt didn't make it any easier to swallow. He fought not to get passive-aggressive in return. "Sir, I have to insist-"
"That you resign for the good of the administration?" Bartlet folded his arms, leaning against the back of the chair, and gazed at him intently. The lighting rendered famously blue eyes close to black, and there was no trace of the avuncular twinkle the American people thought they were familiar with. "Crap," he snapped furiously.
He gritted his teeth in frustration. "Mr. President-"
The president glared at him. "You're standing here and telling me what's best for this administration? Now?"
John wrestled the sudden intense urge to take a swing at him. Damn him, for always taking his moral fortitude and wrapping it around himself like a shield. There were layers and layers behind his instinctive response to that, the sureness it was hypocritical constantly at war with the belief it was sincere. His mental vision of who Jed Bartlet was had been yanked around so many times he didn't have a damn clue which one to believe anymore.
"I made a big mistake," he grated. "I realise that. I'm prepared to take the consequences. And with respect, sir-" he honestly didn't want to let that syllable sound contemptuous, but a curl of frustrated venom escaped into it anyway- "the consequence is that I'm no longer a fit candidate for the position of Vice President, and it would be best for everybody if I was simply allowed to resign."
And wasn't that irony for you? In the dark days surrounding reelection, he'd gone on a self-destructive bender, sleeping around and playing fast and loose with his official responsibilities, because those were the games he could play that didn't end in the bottom of a bottle. He hadn't given a damn if he'd been caught - back then, it had seemed like just about the best thing that could happen to him to get tossed out on the street.
And then everything had hit the fan, and cold reality had filtered in. Seeing Leo almost brought to grief, seeing the terrible stresses visited on the president... It had been an abrupt reminder of just how fragile the human chess pieces forming this Democracy really were, and his position in this tenuous chain of command. He was the fallback guy. He was the understudy. The one who wasn't worth a damn... until the day when, suddenly, the man who's shadow he stood in wasn't there.
It was hard to say exactly what had brought back his sense of purpose, and it hadn't happened all at once, but gradually he'd straightened himself out. He'd started to care again, started to feel that maybe, just maybe, his position in all this had some meaning after all. That even if he never made it to the Oval Office on his own two feet, being the Vice President might just have a little meaning of its own.
He'd been ready to shoulder the job again: not quite wanting it, he wouldn't go that far, but valuing it once again.
And now, now they decided to yank it away from him.
The president sighed, shrinking almost visibly as the anger drained out of him. Only now, as the focus of that powerful and terrible charisma was abruptly diminished, did the eye begin to trace the lines of fatigue and the dark shadows under his eyes. He was still pale from whatever flu-type bug had gripped him, and his hair was greyer than it had been a couple of months ago.
He ran a tired hand over his face. "I know you think resigning is the right thing to do, John. And I admire that. But... we can't let you resign, John. We need you right where you are."
He no longer felt angry himself, only vaguely sick, and hollow. "Sir-" he began again, in weary exasperation.
The president laughed, slightly, more like the ghost of a chuckle than true amusement. "You think this is altruism, John?" he asked softly, eyebrows raised in a wryly quizzical expression. "You think this is me trying to give you a second chance when you shouldn't get one?" He let his breath out in a slow, heavy exhalation. "There are days... when I'm so frightened of this job I can't breathe. You think this is crazy altruism? Because I'm being selfish as hell."
He looked his Vice President in the eye.
"It scares me, John," he said quietly. "I'm scared that I have this disease and I might wake up one morning and find I can't see or I can't stand up. I'm scared that I might walk out of a door one day and meet a hail of bullets, or see my wife or my daughters cut down in front of me. I'm scared that one day, something might happen and I'll have this whole country on my shoulders and I won't be able to lift it." He hesitated for a beat, looking down at the carpet, and then met his gaze again.
"I don't want to keep you around because I think I owe you something or I think you owe me something," he said brusquely. "Leo wants to protect you because he's got your back, and that's what Leo does. He thinks he's a pragmatist, but down at the bedrock he's got a noble soul." He let out a quiet sigh. "This isn't about nobility, and it's not about me having your back - it's about you having my back."
He let that hang in the air for a long time before giving the Vice President a cold, thin smile.
"When I came to you with the Vice Presidency, you made me beg. And... I did it. And it's not because I'm not too proud. I did it because you were the right man for the job, and you are the right man for the job, and whatever the history books will say when this is all over, I didn't pick you for your poll results or your party backing or what the papers think of your family values." He was on fire, now, the signs of age and fatigue just moments ago noted boiling away like water from heated metal.
"Mr. Vice President, I picked you for a reason," he said bluntly. "And there may be a scandal or there may not be a scandal, and there may be lambastings in the papers and a howling in the streets but right here, and right now, it comes down to one question and one question only. I chose you to be my Vice President because you are the right man for the job, so you tell me... will you serve?"
And despite himself, he was straightening up, because when Jed Bartlet spoke like that it went right down through your spine and punched through into the parts you weren't sure you even believed in. When Jed Bartlet spoke like that, it didn't stop you questioning his ability or given right to lead, because suddenly those things weren't even questions.
John held his eye, and spoke firmly, without regret or hesitation. "Yes, sir," he said simply.
The president smiled at him. "I'm glad you said that." He abruptly started to cough. "'Cause I really need to sit down now, and I don't think I'm gonna be able to speak for a week."
The coughing fit his words preceded racked his body badly enough that John was suddenly seriously worried, practically manhandling him back into his chair. He realised, with his hand still on the president's shoulder, that he'd lost a hell of a lot more weight than was immediately obvious. That broad-shouldered build still disguised it, but the extra padding born of long years at a desk job and a love of rich food had been steadily melting away.
"Mr. President, are you all right?" he asked urgently, as the president tried to contain his coughing. He nodded fervently, but his eyes were watering as he did it, and it was a long time before he could control his breathing enough to try and speak again.
"I'll be fine," he said, voice still ragged. He rubbed his chest. "It just... caught my breathing a little, I... I'll be fine."
John remained leaning over him worriedly. "Sir, should I get you your doctor?"
The president shook his head emphatically, managing to transmit by glare more clearly than words how kindly he really wasn't taking to that suggestion. "I've been poked and prodded... quite enough for one year, and it's... not even coming on for February, yet." He sucked in a breath, and managed the illusion of composure. "I'll be fine."
"I should get the First Lady," John decided, straightening up. The president still glared at him, but now with more exasperation than a look of warning.
"I don't need the First Lady, it's not a big deal, it was just a coughing fit." John was struck by how much he sounded like a small child insisting he was still perfectly good to go out and play, and had to smile.
"I'm getting the First Lady," he pronounced, heading for the door.
The president rolled his eyes, but then smiled up at him. "I told you," he said softly. "You're the man to have my back."
John hesitated for a moment, and then left the Oval Office without responding to track down Abigail Bartlet.