This is, admittedly, shorter than most chapters, but I refused to merge it with another. Since you've all been such utter stars, I'm whacking in an extra post here instead. If I remember tomorrow, I'll post again. It will be the end of Part II. Oh yes.

Of the quotes in this chapter, most are Jefferson, and the one that Josh reads is, unfortunately, a mystery to me. I knew it when I wrote this. Unfortunately, that was several months ago. So, thank you to Thomas Jefferson, and the mystery author, whoever you are.

Thank you all, yet again.

…I don't think we can make it

"So it turns out that it was a good thing you went after all."

Josh slumps onto his hotel bed, his cell clamped to his ear, and sighs. "I guess it was good to be here when it all happened…but I still think I'd rather have been there."

"I filmed the whole thing."

"Was she good?"

"Of course. You would have been proud of your little carrot."

"Weren't there any red-headed children to play the carrot?"

"There's Molly Baylor, but she was the Yam."

Josh sighs, and lies back. "You still have the costume, right?"

"She's all set to re-enact when you get home."

"I never thought the day would come when I'd rather see a pre-school pageant about Vegetables than do my job."

"Honestly honey? Neither did I. I'm proud of both of you."

He smiles, despite the headache. "Well, I guess I'm going to be here a bit longer now."

"Isn't it all kind of wrapped up?"

"Yeah, but there'll be a whole media circus still going on."

"OK," she says quietly. "Well I think that Claudie and I are still going to go and see my parents for the weekend."

"I forgot all about that…"

"It's fine," she placates. "You'll see them another time."

"OK," he says slowly. "Well I guess I should go."

"OK," she repeats. "Well sleep well, all right?"

Josh smiles slightly. "You scared now?"

There's a pause, and then a very quiet, "yes".

He sighs. "I'll be careful," he says. "And I'll take all those vitamins that you packed for me."

She sniffs down the phone, and sighs. "OK," she says, and then. "I love you."

Josh takes a deep breath. "I love you too," he says. "You and the littlest carrot."

"I'll call when we arrive at my parents."

"OK. I'll see you soon."

"OK. Bye."

He says good bye, reluctantly, snaps his cell shut, and then lies flat on his bed, looking at the ceiling, and all he can think about is that quote on the back of the book on his nightstand at home. "This is more than I expected," he murmurs to himself, before making a long arm, and snapping off the light, still fully dressed.

Earlier that day

"I'm really not sure about that," says Will, holding open the elevator door for the last few people to enter. With little time to discuss anything, the Vice-President conversation is now, out of necessity, happening as they walk.

"What about Josh Lyman?" asks Matt. "You could swing it, couldn't you?"

Will raises an eyebrow. "I may be able to talk him round, but his wife would kill me. Literally."

Charles rolls his eyes. "I was serious Will. I think that Seaborn is the best."

"I just don't think that he brings anymore to the party than you do, you know? He's just you, with greater experience. We need someone to complete you."

Charles shrugs. "We need to send a message. Zimmerman is using him for speech writing, which isn't what he was aiming for when he was running, was it?"

"Well, no…" concedes Will, "but…"

"But then we will have snatched him out from Zimmerman, hold the natural candidate in our pocket as the Vice President. If people were going to vote for him then, then why not on my ticket?"

Will leans back against the walls of the elevator, just as it stops moving with the sickening weightless lurch, and the doors open. "I just think he's too much like you. All he brings to the party is potential votes. We're relying on the fact that because people wanted him then, they'll want him now. You know how unpredictable voters can be…"

They lead the group out of the elevator and off towards the bus. "I still think that we should try for him. He's writing good speeches with Zimmerman, but really, he's wasted. We could put him to good work."

Will sighs, and shrugs. "Well, I guess," he concedes reluctantly. "I guess we could try and poll about it."

Charles nods. "Well do it fast. I wanted to be able to announce him as soon as possible."

Will nods slowly in reply. "OK," he says.

They climb onto the bus, taking customary seats, organising themselves as best they can.

Charles looks across at Will. "It's all organised?"

"I've been there with the team since before dawn."

Charles nods, leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes. Everything that can be done for the moment, has been done. Without animation and alertness, his face drops, the old grey pallor seeps back in, and Will looks at him with concern. He doesn't look as good as Will would like. Nothing like as good. One hell of a lot better, but still not quite there. He fingers the copy he holds of Charles' speech. It's one of his best. Possibly the best. Thank God for Lizzie. Just for a second, in the sudden calm before the storm of the bus, he lets his thoughts wander back to Lizzie. He snatches them back seconds later. This will not do.

His Blackberry buzzes with a new message and he slowly scrolls through to find it.

Fr: joshlyman at whitehouse

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Hi

Hi, again.

So, the President ordered me to come here. I was all for sending Otto, but apparently he wants me here the whole time until someone's chosen. I don't know. Claudie is acting in a pageant about all the Vegetables or something, and I'm missing it. I only hope that Donna remembers the lens cap on the camera.

Anyway, if you need anything, I'll be only half a massive stadium away, so let me know. Now got to go. Am meeting Sam for coffee.

See you around,

Josh

He sighs, and decides to leave replying for later. Right now he is barely keeping on top of things as it is. He turns, with great reluctance, to start an email to Joey Lucas all about polling, and before long, they arrive at the convention.

Charles' speech may be his best, but dammit if Zimmerman's isn't blowing him out of the water. Sitting back stage, Charles is looking like a dead man. And actually, more so than had he just been listening to a great speech. He's a fighter, so why isn't he fighting? Rather than making notes and tweaking his speech, he's sitting there, just listening. In fact, I'm not sure he's entirely listening. He's looking off into the distance, looking sick. No wait, he must be. Zimmerman just used a particularly great turn of phrase, the crowd went wild, and Charles winced. What the hell is going on? Zimmerman's speech is drawing to a close, and from what I can see, the crowd is on their feet. All of them. Dammit.

Charles stands up and sends me a particularly fake smile before walking to stand at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to be introduced. As I watch him walk, my cell buzzes. I flip it open and answer without looking at the called ID.

"Yeah."

"Will? Is that you?"

"Lizzie?"

"Yeah, look, I'm watching the convention. You're there, right?"

"Of course I'm here. I'm standing back stage."

"Right, so you just heard Zimmerman?"

"Yeah." I walk a little away from the stage, out of Charles' earshot. "It was good, damn that Sam Seaborn…"

"That's just it," she interrupts. "That wasn't Sam's speech."

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't write it. It had nothing of his old turns of phrase, none of his style, nothing."

"But he's on the campaign with Zimmerman. If he's not writing the speeches then what is he…" It feels as if someone has squeezed all the air out of my lungs, has wrung them, along with my stomach, empty and weightless. "Vice President? Zimmerman is naming him…? Oh, hell."

"Yeah," she says. "I thought you should know."

"OK," I say, and then, panicking, stride over to Charles, just as he is announced, Lizzie still on the other end of the line.

"Charles," I say, and he turns around. I put the phone back to my ear. "He already knows," I say, and Charles smiles slightly, and nods.

"Is he OK?"

Already a good few paces away, with a lot of cheering muffling the sound, I turn back to the phone. "He was planning on Sam for VP."

"That wouldn't have worked."

"I think he was desperate."

"But he's all right?"

Above all the noise, the cheering, the talking back stage, the technicians running around sorting things out, over all that, a soft, crackly thump causes me to turn round, just in time to see Charles' speech scrunched up, and rolling to a stop.

"Uh, Lizzie? I've got to go."

"That bad?"

"Yeah," I breathe, snap the phone shut, and then stand, breathless, watching Charles from the bottom of the stairs.

He leans heavily on the podium, looking dazed for a second, before moistening his lips, and beginning.

"My ancestor, as you may know, Thomas Jefferson, had many things to say on many topics, and today I find that his truths are more than substantial for what I have to say." He pauses and sighs. "He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual; he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world's believing him. This falsehood of tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions." He pauses again, looking, if possible, greyer, and sicker than he did before. "The first watch-word of this campaign has been honesty, and yet standing here today, campaigning for your vote, I find a lie deep within me, which I didn't even know existed. Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle, and yet we slander each other, others who have the same wishes as us, the same desires for this country. Maybe…" he pauses again, and looks out at the sea of faces, yet seemingly not seeing any of them, such is his expression. "Maybe we should be prepared to look to others for leadership. Maybe we should look to others for guidance, because alone, we are nothing."

A hesitant applause scatters around the stadium. Clearly, no one knows where he is going.

"Sometimes it is said that man can not be trusted with the government of himself. Can he, then, be trusted with the government of others? Or have we found angels in the forms of kings to govern him? Let history answer this question." He pauses again. "History has answered that question, and we are all flawed. How can any of us stand in front of you, and expect you to choose us, to let us lead you? Not one of us is an angel. It is beyond thought. Jefferson said that he advanced with obedience to the work, ready to retire from it whenever the people became sensible how much better choice it was in their power to make." He pauses yet again, and looks down at the empty podium as another, slightly stronger applause circles the stadium. "But here's the thing," he says, suddenly stronger. "I would like to believe that you are sensible of that now. I would like to believe that you see, as I have seen now, the truth of a better choice." He steps back from the podium a little, one hand to his mouth, looking dazed. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and almost lunges forward, keeping hold of the podium as he barely stands, more leans, against it. "The choice," he continues, in little more than a whisper, "that was not, as is not…me," with which statement, he collapses at the foot of the podium.