From her position sprawled sideways on an overstuffed yet uncomfortable chair, CJ watched Donna hang up the phone and rejoin the group, apparently waiting for an opening in the conversation.  She should've known better with this crowd, CJ thought.  The gang -- save Toby, who was off dealing yet again with the college-aged Get Out the Vote organizers who made him crazy -- was gathered in Toni's suite, tossing around names of prominent Democrats who could be tapped to introduce the Governor at the convention.

When Josh, who was enumerating the many accomplishments of Senator Jesse Johnson Jr., was finally forced to pause for air, Donna lifted her hand slightly.  "I've got a thing."

He smirked at her.  "You really don't have to raise your hand."

CJ shifted a little, leaning further toward the edge of the chair so that she could see Donna more clearly around her own knees, which were draped over the arm.  "Who was that?"

"Katie," Donna answered.  "But that's not as important as the fact that I'm getting questions about the debates already."

Toni frowned.  "We haven't even been nominated yet."

"Yes," Donna agreed.

"It's July."

Donna shrugged.  "I know."

Sam frowned.  "The election's four months away."

"Thank you, Sam," Donna answered sarcastically.  "As someone who's unable to subtract seven from eleven--"

"You're right," Sam remarked to CJ, the edge of his mouth lifting in a small grin.

Donna turned a puzzled look CJ's way.  "Huh?"

Sam's grin widened.  "Yeah, ask CJ."

"Traitor," CJ muttered without much conviction.  "I merely made the point that you've been hanging out with Josh too much."

Donna frowned.  "What's that mean?"

"You're using your finely-honed powers of sarcasm for evil, which is one of Josh's less endearing traits."

"Hey, I am one-hundred percent endearing."

"Shut up, Josh," Donna answered with a cheerful grin.  "And how am I using my powers for evil?"

"Your powers?" Josh scoffed.

CJ ignored him and told Donna, "You're, you know, snarking me."

"And me," Sam added.

"Okay," Josh interrupted, "can we concentrate on the actual thing here?"

Donna leaned over to CJ and asked, sotto voice, "It's still okay for me to snark Josh, though, right?"

"Of course," CJ answered.

Josh rolled his eyes but didn't comment.  "Why are we being bothered about the debates now?"

"Nail 'em down early," Sam answered.  "We did the same thing in '98."

"Unsuccessfully," CJ added, staring at the place where the uglyass wallpaper met the ceiling.  She was so, so tired.  The last week had been a grueling, unending sequence of pre-convention planning.  If she never heard another misused sports metaphor -- "It's a marathon, not a sprint" or "The Governor's really got to swing for the fences to justify her spot on the ticket" -- it would be entirely too soon.

Sam nodded absently.  "Right.  Donna, who's asking: the press, the Commission on Presidential Debates, or Baker's people?"

Donna grabbed her cellphone from the table and headed for the door.  "I'll find out."

CJ groaned and pulled herself upright with very little enthusiasm.  Sometimes, she yearned for those halcyon days of beating back the White House press corps with a precisely worded barb.  At least those journalists had already made it to the top; they weren't looking to earn a promotion by breaking a scandalous story about the Governor.  "Okay," she said with a demanding look at Sam, "what's going on in that devious little head of yours?"

Sam grinned brightly, Toni snickered, and Josh frowned, "Hey, I thought I was the devious one."

"Nah," Toni decided, "you're the Ivy League fascist."

Exasperated, Josh pointed at Sam.  "He went to Princeton!"

CJ ignored Josh entirely.  "Sam, what are you thinking?"

"That we should turn traditional campaign strategy on its head."

Josh smirked.  "Didn't we pretty much cover that when we advised the Governor to admit that she'd smoked pot?"

Sam nodded, eyes aglow with idealistic fervor.  "Yes, and it worked.  I'm betting it will work again."

Josh tossed aside the briefing memo on Jesse Johnson Jr. and abandoned his spot by the window.  He joined the small circle, dropping into a chair, leaning back, and propping his feet on the coffee table.  Toni gave him an eloquent look, but he grinned at her and shrugged, "It's not like it's your furniture.  Sam, where are you going with this?"

Sam straightened in his seat.  "The voters don't watch the debates anymore."

CJ gave him a skeptical look.  "I don't think NBC, ABC, CBS, and FOX got that memo."

Sam waved off her point.  "No, I'm saying that viewership has declined.  And it's because the voters are sick of seeing the same tired rhetoric from the candidates.  Who doesn't know exactly what Baker's gonna say about gun control or abortion before he even opens his mouth at the debates?  Who wants to hear him stumble over the issue for a three-minute answer or a two-minute rebuttal?"

Josh had that pensive, intrigued-but-cautious expression when he said, "Seriously, where are you going with this?"

Sam turned to Josh, his hands joining the conversation the way they did when he got really excited about something.  "We need to change that."

Toni shrugged.  "Okay, but I'm pretty sure we don't have time to call every single voter and convince him or her to watch the debates."

"No," Sam answered.  "I'm saying we need a new format.  Three ninety-minute debates with political analysts dissecting every word -- that's not working anymore.  And it's not because the American public doesn't care; they watch the State of the Union from beginning to end, and you can't tell me they do it because Baker's a particularly engaging public speaker."

"No," Toni answered.  "They do it because it's the State of the Union."

"Shouldn't the debate between the two candidates vying to be the one to deliver the State of the Union be just as important?" Sam argued.

"Yes."  Josh leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.  "But this is a decision that we can't make for Haskell's team, Sam."  He frowned.  "Hell, I don't even know what you're proposing yet."

Sam grinned.  "Mini-debates."

CJ pursed her lips.  "Excuse me?"

"Mini-debates," Sam repeated.  "We pick a network affiliate in each of the top twenty-five or thirty markets and sell them on the idea of putting a mini-debate between Haskell and Baker, and between the Governor and Shallick, on their six o'clock news broadcast, say, in between weather and sports."

Josh shook his head.  "Sam--"

"That's good," CJ interrupted, automatically running through her mental Rolodex.  "I know people at NBC4, KABC, WNBC, WBZ, KVUE -- I'm pretty sure they'd be receptive."

"Hold on," Josh said, holding one hand up in the air.  "I'm not even sure that we're receptive."

"Why not?" Sam implored.  "We certainly have nothing to fear from Baker's powers of debate.  Or, you know, speech."

Josh clasped his hands together.  "Point granted, but we're not Haskell's campaign staff."

Donna re-entered, tossing her cellphone on the table.  "On the record, the press is asking because they're gearing up for the most important twelve weeks of the 2006 campaign.  Off the record, Baker's people are agitating to get the format and the times and the moderators set as soon as possible."

CJ nodded slowly.  "Yeah, so they can try to get Chris Matthews as moderator, and a town hall format so they can pack the audience with ringers who'll lob softballs at their guy."

"And breaking balls at us," Josh mused.

CJ gave him a look.  "Excuse me?"

"Breaking ball?" Josh prompted, miming a pitch.  "Baseball?  When the pitcher--"

"Never mind."

Sam waved off their digression.  "See?  This is what I'm talking about.  The voters understand that the debates are an exercise in fully-rehearsed, un-spontaneous, and, quite frankly, boring reiterations of stump speeches."

"No one's arguing with you on that point, Sam," Toni pointed out.  "It's the mini-debate idea that's giving us some trouble."

"Mini-debates?" Donna echoed.

"Five minutes on a local news program," CJ explained.  "Question, rebuttal; question, rebuttal, I'm guessing."

Sam nodded.  "Listen, this isn't the ideal solution, but it's a start.  Something needs to change.  In a gubernatorial campaign in the late '80s, the most amazing thing happened:  Two politicians agreed to a ninety-minute conversation.  The moderator opened with just one question, and the candidates took it from there."  He paused, shaking his head in awed disbelief.  "Can you imagine?"

"Baker would never agree to that," CJ said, her tone kind.  She shared Sam's appreciation for the kind of politician who would not only agree to, but excel at, such an unstructured and ultimately rewarding debate.  Susan Douglas-Radford would probably be pretty impressive; Jed Bartlet would be in his element.  (If, CJ amended, he didn't give in to the urge to lecture his opponent on high-minded economic theory, thereby rendering his audience comatose.)

"Listen," Josh said, pushing himself upright.  "We don't have to decide this right now.  Sam, get me some numbers on this -- would voters watch?  CJ, talk to someone at a couple stations, take the temperature of the network brass.  Donna, leak the idea, strictly on background, and gauge press reaction."

He glanced at Toni, who nodded.  "I'll talk to the Governor," Toni said.  "But I can tell you right now, she's gonna love this idea."

***

"So," Jesse said, dropping into the seat beside Evan.  "Detroit."

"Yeah," Evan muttered noncommittally, barely looking up from his laptop.  He was in the middle of describing the interior of a campaign bus for posterity.  The bright red accents, the sandpaper-like grey upholstery, the small, moderately static-y televisions tuned to CNN or MSNBC, the ever-present sound of six politicos all hopped up on caffeine and debating idealistic notions of truth, justice, and the American Way.

Just your typical day on the Douglas-Radford 2006 bus.

Well, technically it was now the Haskell/Douglas-Radford bus.  Or really, one of several Haskell/Douglas-Radford buses.  Evan wondered absently if Haskell's staffers had comfortable seats or smooth upholstery.

"Have you ever been there before?" Jesse asked.

Frowning, Evan hit Control-S and said, "Huh?"

"Detroit."

"What about it?"

"Have you ever been there?"

Evan blinked.  "No."  He noted the anticipation on Jesse's face, stifled a sigh, and closed up shop for the day.  Figuratively speaking.  As he tucked his laptop into its case, Evan asked, "Why?  Have you?"

"Oh, yeah," Jesse answered brightly.  "I've been there a few times.  Academic conferences.  Oh, and I think I may have stayed there one night during a road trip.  I don't really remember, though.  Could've been Chicago."

"Road trip, huh?"

"Well, it was college."

"Sounds fun," Evan observed, digging his bottle of water out of his bag.  He tried his best not to drink too much while on the bus so that he could avoid the appallingly small bathroom.  Josh, who was once locked into a bus bathroom by a vengeful CJ, didn't need much encouragement to discuss the tiny dimensions in detail.  Evan took a small sip.  "How long are we there for?"

"Uh... four days, I think," Jesse answered, glancing up at the ceiling as if the answer were written up there.  "I've got to get back, so I'm flying out on Sunday."

"That's too bad, man," Evan said.  "It's nice to have another normal person around."

"I heard that," CJ called from the back of the bus.

Laughing, Evan answered, "That's nice, dear."

Jesse shifted, trying (in vain, Evan supposed) to get comfortable in the awkward, ergonomically punishing seats.  Evan glanced out the window, his gaze caught on the blur of flat, green countryside whizzing past.

"Oh, God," Jesse groaned.  "Would you look at that?"

"What?" Evan asked, squinting at a small brown dot zipping past, trying to figure out if it was a cow or a bale of hay.

"Baker," Jesse said, gesturing to the TV.  "And he's wearing a denim workshirt."

Nearly choking on a sip of water, Evan turned his attention to the TV hanging at an impossible angle over their heads.  The TV meant for their row was a bit too far away for Evan to see clearly without his glasses, so he tilted his head back at an impossible angle and looked up at the monitor almost directly above his head.  Jesse mimicked his posture, both men sitting with their heads craned backwards, mouths slightly agape as they watched the scene unfold.

It was like bad reality TV, Evan thought, only worse.  Gregory W. Baker, in a denim workshirt with the presidential seal embroidered over the chest pocket, was shaking hands with what MSNBC was describing as "some strong supporters of the president."  Baker greeted a well-coiffed couple who looked like they would be more comfortable in pearls and a Bill Blass necktie; their polite, polished children; and six or eight of their gated-community neighbors.

"Are these people for real?" Evan wondered, studying the expert way the husband played to the camera, and the mildly embarrassed looks on the kids' faces.

"Can't be," Jesse answered.  "Do you see that chandelier?  Who has a chandelier like that in their house?"

"The Rockefellers." Evan remarked sardonically.

Onscreen, Baker, seated now at the dining room table (set with silver and white linen), smiled at the camera and said, "Ken and Hyacinth--"

"Hyacinth?" Jesse spluttered, laughing.  "Could these two be any WASPier?"

"--are," Baker continued, "the reason I'm running for re-election.  Hyacinth wants to make sure little Kenny and Katrina have the best education this comp -- country can give them--"

"Oh, like Kenny and Katrina don't go to boarding school," Evan scoffed.

"--and Ken--"  Here, Baker clapped the impressively tanned Ken on the shoulder-- "is concerned about the economy.  He doesn't want his tax money--"

"Geez, nice gender bias," Evan commented, keeping his voice low so that CJ wouldn't hear the magic words and sic her colleagues at the Feminist Majority on Baker.  Not, Evan mused, that that would be a bad thing.  It just wouldn't do for CJ to even appear to mix her two positions -- national spokesperson for the Feminist Majority on temporary leave, and media director for the Douglas-Radford campaign.

"What?" Jesse asked belatedly.  "Gender bias?"

"Shhh," Evan admonished, glancing over his shoulder.  CJ was still engrossed in her strategy session with the others.  Keeping his voice low, Evan explained, "He's concerned about the economy; she's concerned about her kids."

"Ah."

"--frivolous programs irresponsibly and unthinkingly funded by the Democratically controlled Congress."

"Frivolous?" Jesse fumed.  "Like the grants that keep me employed and, consequently, keep America far ahead of other countries in scientific research?"

"It's people like Ken and Hyacinth," Baker continued, "people like their friends, Tucker and Nancy and the rest; people like you who make this country great.  I share your concerns, America--"

"This is ridiculous," Evan muttered.  "This isn't news.  This is a -- a--"

"Valentine to the president?" Jesse suggested.

"Not quite the word I would have used, but that's pretty much it, yeah."

"Valentine to the president?" CJ asked, her voice growing louder as she approached.  "What's a valentine to the president?"

Evan tilted his head a little bit farther, looking at his wife upside down.  He grinned at her.  "MSNBC is showing some--"

"Baker visits supporters in heartland," CJ read off the scrolling news ticker.  "Josh, get over here."

"What's this--" Toby started, then he leaned closer to the TV.  He tapped the smiling man standing behind the president and his good buddy Ken.  "Is that Nolan?"

"Nolan?" CJ parroted, peering at the screen over the tops of her glasses.  "Tucker Nolan?"

"Republican wunderkind Tucker Nolan?" Josh said, arriving just behind Evan and Jesse.  "What about -- Why is Tucker Nolan on MSNBC?"

Donna asked, "Tucker Nolan's on--"

"Yes," Evan interrupted, pushing himself half out of his seat.  "MSNBC is running some... thing with Baker visiting Ken and Hyacinth Somethingorother, and their monied neighbors."

Shaking his head, Josh asked, "How the hell is this news?"

"MSNBC, NBC, General Electric," Toby grumbled.  "You think GE doesn't support Baker?"

"You're suggesting that the corporate parent of MSNBC is making editorial decisions?" Donna asked.

"Nothing that obvious," Sam said slowly.  "But I mean -- does this look like a typical American family to you?  Crystal chandeliers, five- or six-bedroom house?  The median income in America is $44,148 per year."  He shrugged.  "This sure doesn't look like an objective story."

"There's no such thing as objectivity," CJ answered, shaking her head.  "What interests me is--"

"What the hell is Tucker Nolan doing there?" Donna interrupted, frowning.

Josh ran a hand through his hair.  "Canned photo op.  Pretty standard stuff."

Evan and Jesse exchanged dubious looks.  "Do we do that?" Evan asked.

The edge of her mouth quirked upward, and CJ echoed, "We?"

"You know what I mean."

"It's a visually driven news market," CJ shrugged.  "Sad but true.  We do try to get the--"

"Prettier," Sam suggested.

"Photogenic," Donna supplied.  "We try to get photogenic people where the camera will catch them."

Frowning, Jesse stared at her, disappointed.  "That's so..."

"Calculated," Evan finished.

"Price of doing business," Toby said.  "This is an advertising-soaked marketplace; and if you don't think we're selling our candidate, you're sadly out of touch with reality."

Evan shrugged.  "Shouldn't we be more concerned with what each candidate can do than with the 'It' factor of his or her supporters?"

"Absolutely," Josh answered.

"But people like to see a cooler, prettier version of themselves on TV," Donna continued.  "If they see that, they're more likely to watch the candidate speak for a moment or two before they flip to the Simpsons rerun."

"And there's a difference," Sam pointed out, "between taking actual supporters of the Governor who happen to be attractive and putting them in the front of the audience and this kind of rank..."  He gestured at the TV, which was now showing footage of zebra, for reasons no one quite understood.  Sam shrugged.

"That's a stacked deck," Toby commented.  "Tucker Nolan is a party operative, the up-and-coming golden boy from California.  To put him and his wife in that clip and pass them off as Ken and Hyacinth's typical Midwestern neighbor is dishonest.  And that is the story that MSNBC should be telling. But it's not."

"And it won't be," CJ said slowly.  "Unless someone points it out to them."

Evan shook his head.  "No.  CJ, you can't."

"Evan's right," Donna nodded.  "You can't use your position at the Feminist Majority for political ends."

CJ gave her a look.  "The Feminist Majority is a political organization, Donna."

"You know what I mean," Donna answered.  "Even the appearance--"

Grinning, Sam interrupted.  "Uh, guys?"

Toby glanced over at his colleague and almost smiled.  "Go," he ordered.

Sam slid past Donna and moved to the back of the bus.  Jesse looked slightly confused.  "Who's he calling?"

Evan reached over the back of the seat and took his wife's hand.  "CJ's other bosses."

***

At first, CJ suspected that the cab driver had gotten the address wrong.  This hole in the wall in what was obviously A Bad Part of Town couldn't be the restaurant with the fabulous on-site brewery and bakery that Jesse had raved about.  Thinking she might be taking her life in her hands, CJ opened the door and was relieved to find herself in what her brother liked to call a "fern bar."  Lots of plants, art deco posters, brick walls, low-key lighting -- clearly the hangout for the local business lunch crowd.

The food must live up to its reputation, she thought with annoyance as she made her way to a booth near the back, since the guys had started eating without her.

"You couldn't wait until I got back from my meeting with Dennis Cybrynski?" she asked as she slid into the booth next to Evan.

"We've been here for forty minutes, the waiter was giving us funny looks, and all we ordered was an appetizer," Evan replied.

"And bread," CJ pointed out testily.

"They bring that automatically," Evan explained.  "We didn't order that."

"Although we have been through two loaves already," Sam pointed out.

"We have also had beer," Toby added, as he motioned to a passing waiter and ordered another pitcher.

"In fact," Evan said, pushing a plate of nachos in CJ's direction, "I've decided we should move to Detroit to be near this brewery."

"So what did Cybrynski want this time?" Sam asked.

"Oh, this one's a winner," CJ began.  Her daily battles with Cybrynski, her counterpart on the Haskell campaign, were a source of constant amusement to her co-workers.  She wished she could find the humor in the meetings herself; all she was getting out of them was an ulcer.  "It's about--"  She paused, momentarily distracted by the loaf of bread Sam and Jesse were sharing.  "Can we get another one of those?  It looks excellent."

"It really is," Sam agreed between bites.  "Jesse's been here before--"

"Academic conference six or seven years ago," Jesse explained.  "I was worried that the place wouldn't still be here, but they tell me it's sort of a local tradition."

"Could we please get to the point?" Toby asked.  "If we have to make any more concessions to Haskell's staff, I'd appreciate knowing about them as soon as possible."

CJ grinned, hoping that Jesse realized he now had official insider status if Toby no longer felt the need to be on his best behavior when Sam's partner came to visit.

"I'm getting to it," she said. She savored the nacho-and-melted-cheese concoction Evan had handed her.  "These are fabulous."

"They are," Evan agreed.  "I had my doubts.  The menu refers to them as 'nachos yuppino.'  I mean, even ignoring how dated the term yuppie is--"

"I know." Jesse nodded.  He seemed, CJ thought, almost apologetic.  As though by having suggested they eat here, he was somehow responsible for the restaurant's performance.  He seemed so determined not to disappoint Sam's friends; CJ found that trait particularly endearing.

"For the love of god," Toby muttered, rubbing one hand over his forehead, "CJ, ignore the menu and get back to Haskell's demands."

"Fine, Grumpy."  She took a moment to savor one last bite of the heavenly nachos before answering.  "They're asking us to -- wait.  Where are Josh and Donna?  They need to hear this."

"They went shopping," Sam replied, his laughter barely contained.

"I must be losing my hearing," CJ said as the waiter arrived with more bread and beer.  "I could swear you just said that Josh Lyman went shopping."

"After you left this morning," Jesse explained, dividing the bread into even slices, "they had a conversation concerning engagement rings."

"Actually," Sam clarified, "the conversation was about a Haskell staffer making a pass at Donna last night.  Josh thought this incident might have been avoided if Donna had been wearing a ring."

"Or a big flashing neon sign around her neck -- 'Property of Josh Lyman,'" Evan added as he reached across the table for more beer. "I'm quoting Donna there."

"Finally," Sam said, "they compromised.  She agreed to wear -- how did she put it?"

Jesse grinned.  "A nondescript, understated ring that will in no way cause undue talk among the wrong people--"

"A tortuously long way of saying 'the press,'" Toby noted.

"If," Sam continued, as he passed the bread to CJ, "Josh would give up his archaic desire to have her change her name to Lyman after the wedding."

"Is there any chance we will be discussing the campaign today?" Toby asked.  He motioned toward the grandfather clock in the corner.  "Because we seem to be wasting time here."

CJ leaned back against the booth so she could better study her companions' reactions.  "Dennis insists that we stop playing our own campaign song," she announced.

"Give up Phil Ochs?" Sam asked.  He looked stricken.  "But it's our signature."

"Have they even listened to the song?" Toby asked.  "Do they not understand how powerful those lyrics are?"

"That's what I said," CJ agreed.  "Apparently, they don't care.  According to Dennis -- and this is a direct quote, 'Any presidential campaign needs to present one unified vision.'"  She waited for Toby to recover from the phrase "one unified vision" before she continued her impression of Dennis Cybrynski's nasal tones.  "'Therefore, the Governor should give up her little hippie tune in favor of the Senator's mainstream choice of Born in the USA."

Toby stroked his beard.  "Has anyone at the Haskell camp ever listened to the lyrics of their own song?"

Shrugging, CJ answered, "It's a little too late to worry about that now, don't you think?"

"That song," Toby stated, distaste twisting his lips, "is about the depression of the working class.  They really want to foreground that in the midst of a presidential campaign?"

"People hear the chorus, they think it's patriotic.  What do you want from me?" CJ frowned at her roll.  "Can someone hand me the butter?"

"Please," Sam pleaded as he passed the small butter plate, "tell me we're not caving on this."

"Of course we're not caving," Toby answered.  "That music's been working for us.  Radio stations have been getting requests for it.  VH-1 did that Phil Ochs retrospective last week and mentioned us."

"Toby," CJ said, "we can't afford to antagonize the Haskell camp over a song; you know that."

"But--"

"I did the best I could do for now," CJ said as she reached for another slice of bread.  "I told them we'll keep using The Power and the Glory until the convention, and we'll revisit the issue after that.  I'm not sure they don't have a point about the unified image though."

***

"I think we made a good choice," Donna said, studying the jeweler's box in her hand.  For his part, Josh sat unamused and silent, hoping to convey his displeasure through the amount of distance he'd placed between them in the cab's backseat.  If he held onto the handle any tighter, he thought, he'd break the damn thing off.

She was always talking about how she could read his mood based on his body language.  You'd think she'd be getting a pretty clear message today.  But, no, all she could do was chatter on and on about the wonders of the damn engagement ring.

"It's classic," Donna continued.  "Not flashy or gaudy.  I hate those kinds of rings.  This one's simple and elegant.  We don't have to worry about it ever going out of style, you know?"

He grunted.  This was what the damn ring had reduced him to -- he couldn't even frame an actual reply.

"Silver was a good choice, I think," Donna added.  "Gold engagement rings -- there's a cliché for you.  Silver is unique.  Not unlike us."

Of course! he thought.  He had her on that one.  He should have thought of this back at the jewelers, but he'd been overcome by the sheer hideousness of that ring.

"Won't it clash?" he asked innocently.  "With the wedding ring?  Wedding rings are gold."

"First of all, no, it won't clash.  Plenty of people wear both silver and gold."

"Name two."

"And anyway," she went on, ignoring him in that typically Donnatella way of hers, "where is it written that wedding rings have to be gold?  We could have silver wedding bands if we wanted."

He might have groaned again; he wasn't completely sure.

"For that matter," Donna said, with the gleam in her eye that meant she was warming to her subject, "we don't need wedding bands at all."

"Oh, yes, we do," Josh insisted.  Even he could tell that he sounded belligerent -- although he feared Donna would label him "petulant."  However, he'd be damned if he'd let Donnatella Soon-to-be-Lyman out in public without proof that she was his.

He made a mental note never, ever to say that out loud.  Especially not in front of Donna.  Or CJ.

"We don't," Donna insisted.  "Frankly, it's an archaic tradition, which exists primarily to keep the diamond industry -- and let's discuss the politics of that institution sometime -- in business.  What is a wedding ring if not a proof-of-purchase statement?"

"A what?" he asked.  Once again, he thought, Air Donna flies us from Point A to Point C without arranging a layover at Point B.

"Proof of purchase," she insisted.  "A way of saying, 'I bought and paid for the rights to this woman's reproductive system.  All other men keep away.'"

"That's not what it is," Josh insisted.  "It's a token of--"  Suddenly, he was much too aware of the cab driver's presence.  "--affection," he finished.  It seemed like the most neutral word he could use and still get his meaning across.  "It's a token of affection."

"Is it?" Donna asked.  Her eyes were all wide and lit up, and she was smiling with girlish emotion.  Josh found himself wishing that they'd rented a car.  Privacy would have been nice right about now.

"Yes," he said softly.  "It's a way of saying that in public without saying that in public."

"I could perhaps live with the concept of wedding rings under those circumstances."

"Good."

"As long as it's a mutual statement."

"Yeah, well, the idea of you saying that to me doesn't totally suck," he admitted.

"I'm glad you agree."  She handed him the jewelry box.  "So put on your damn engagement ring, Joshua."

***

"I understand what you're saying," Sam repeated, growing more frustrated with each iteration, "but we didn't sign on to be ignored."

Jason Bezdek grimaced a little, shifting in his seat.  Sam wasn't really sure what was wrong with Bezdek's back -- the Beltway rumors were myriad and absurd -- and he sure as hell wasn't going to ask.  National politics was a 24/7 kind of job; anyone who could ignore chronic, debilitating pain while simultaneously putting a man in the Senate, running his press office, and then helping to craft a successful bid for the Democratic nomination was...  Well, to be quite honest, Sam found Bezdek's grim determination rather frightening.

Which was why he endeavored to mask his irritation.  But from the slightly sour look on Bezdek's face, Sam suspected his efforts weren't altogether successful.

"Sam, I appreciate that y'all were trying to run a different kind of campaign, but at the end of the day, it didn't work. And--"

"It did work," Sam snapped.  "People are sick to death of political rhetoric.  They don't want candidates to stay on message; they want to hear honest answers to legitimate and important questions."

"Sam--"

"Governor Douglas-Radford's consistent honesty is the only reason that a leftist, female, former-pot-smoker from Pennsylvania finished a strong second in the majority of Democratic primaries and," Sam continued, talking over Bezdek's objections, "that is exactly the reason that your boss chose her to be the Vice President."  Sam stopped, still a little in awe of that concept.

Bezdek reverted to his typically impassive look.  "We brought her onto the ticket so she'd bring the left flank of the Democratic party, female and liberal undecideds, and some moderate, pro-choice Republican women with her."

"Jason--"

"No, Sam," Bezdek interrupted, looking mildly annoyed.  Sam considered that a personal victory, considering Bezdek's reaction to almost anything was an unreadable expression.  "Let's be honest about this.  The Governor has many items in the pro column, but it ain't like the con column's empty.  Y'all mishandled the Gang of Four stories--"

"We did not," Sam protested.  "Any attempt to kill those and we'd have had ten times more stories about the four of us overnight.  We shifted the focus back to the Governor."

Bezdek nodded.  "By not answering the question."

"What question?" Sam demanded, frustrated.

Shifting again, Bezdek re-adjusted the pillow at the small of his back.  "The right-wing press is still digging around, Sam.  They're going to find something; they probably already have."

Sam was suddenly cold, his fingers without feeling.  What the hell was Bezdek getting at?  "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said.  There are still insinuations swirling around about the four of you -- that y'all are a dishonest bunch who orchestrated the Healthgate mess, that you're using this campaign as a class reunion and as revenge for what happened in 2002."

Sam forced a grin.  "If that witch hunt of a Congressional investigation couldn't find any evidence of wrongdoing on our part, what makes you think the right-wing press will be able to?  As for the other two things, they're just icing on the cake."

"Sam--"

"No, Jason, I'm serious.  We're supposed to be talking about the mini-debates--"

"We're not doing them," Bezdek declared flatly, flipping his planner closed with a decisive snap.

Sam blinked.  "The Governor is very excited about this; and if Senator Haskell doesn't do them too, someone's going to ask why."

"Exactly," Bezdek answered.

Sam relaxed a bit.  "Good.  So we need--"

"No, that's exactly why the Governor's not going to do them, either."

Floored, it took Sam a moment to respond.  "What?"

"Baker's lead is negligible; it's inside the margin--"

"The election's four months away," Sam pointed out, his tone incredulous.

"Which is exactly why we don't want to do anything to upset the balance."

Sam looked down at his hands, taking time to corral his thoughts before he told Bezdek exactly how stupid that line of thinking was.  "You want the Senator and the Governor to hide in a bunker, Jason?"

Well, that was a bit sarcastic; perhaps he should've taken a few more minutes.

Bezdek's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.  "That's not what I'm saying."  He made a frustrated noise and pushed himself upright, one hand pressed against his lower back.

Sam rose too, watching uncertainly as Bezdek paced.  "Jason, if you want to finish this later--"

"I'm fine."  Bezdek waved off Sam's concern.  "We're two points back.  That's negligible.  It's inside the plus or minus.  On top of which, Baker's not very good on his feet.  We'll do the debates in October in the traditional format."

"That's a mistake," Sam commented.  If Bezdek insisted he was fine, then Sam wasn't going to pull any punches.  "Baker's the incumbent.  What if something happens, like an earthquake in California?  What if the Mississippi floods?"

"In September?" Bezdek remarked.

Sam shrugged.  "Well, what if there's an international incident and the U.S. gets involved?  Baker's suddenly got ten, fifteen points on us; and we're the ones begging for the debates, desperate for him to trip over his tongue."  He shook his head.  "I don't understand your reluctance.  The Senator's a much stronger speaker than Baker; we should put them in a room together now.  Let's put Governor Douglas-Radford up against Shallick--"

"Sam--"

"The networks are crazy about the idea.  I've got polling data indicating that thirty percent of people who admit they don't watch the full debates would watch the candidates for five minutes between the local weather and the sports update.  Unrehearsed mini-debates -- voters will watch because they think something might happen.  Something unscripted.  Something genuine."

Bezdek held Sam's gaze with a measured look.  "Exactly."

"Jason--"

"They're digging, Sam.  There are certain truths that could be embarrassing to the Senator if they were to be sprung on him in front of cameras--"

"I'm gay," Sam interrupted angrily.  "If that's what you're referring to.  Should I write your boss a memo so he's not caught unprepared?"

Bezdek stopped short.  "Sam--"

"Josh Lyman and Donna Moss are in love; should they call a press conference to get out in front of that horrible story?  CJ's husband was friends with someone in college who joined the Black Panthers after graduation; maybe we should put Evan on Nightline to discuss his imaginary affiliation with a fringe organization."

"My point," Bezdek answered stonily, "is that each five-minute debate is an opportunity for a blunder."

"And who's more likely to make it, the Senator or Baker?  The Governor or Shallick?"

"I see your point, Sam, but--"

"This is bullshit."  Sam headed for the door.  "Besides, this isn't my decision to make, and it isn't yours."  Sam turned back, one hand on the doorknob.  "Senator Douglas-Radford didn't check her ethical stance at the door when she joined the ticket.  But more importantly, you'll lose the voters she brought with her if you try to muzzle her."

Bezdek gave Sam an unreadable look.  "Where are you going?"

"To talk to the Governor."

***

Senator Mark Haskell was not a stupid man.

He knew full well that Governor Susan Douglas-Radford and her staff considered him to be one of those New Democrats -- Republicans in flannel, as he'd once heard them described.  Conventional wisdom held that New Democrats embraced some planks of the Republican Party platform, pulling to the middle to carry a broader spectrum of voters.  The thinking was that moderate and conservative Democrats would be more likely to support a New Democrat, while the liberal wing of the Party would think, 'Hell, any kind of Democrat's better than a Republican' and support the candidate anyway.

It surprised Haskell a little, to be honest.  This thinking -- that his political leanings could be so cold and calculated -- it really irked Haskell.  To be more precise, this suspicion of his motives bothered him.  He was, in fact, more liberal than many of his Democratic counterparts, yet Douglas-Radford's position to his left gave her staffers this air of... not quite disdain for him, but something close.  And he'd be damned if he'd spend the remainder of the campaign being made to feel vaguely guilty for his stance on issues.

He was a politician, sure, and he cast his viewpoints in the most favorable light, depending on the mood of the country; but he had never voted against his conscience.  Not once, in twelve years as a Senator.

All of which was beside the point.  He'd won the nomination.  He'd beaten Douglas-Radford, and his staff had suggested a dozen other candidates for the vice-presidential slot on the ticket.  But Haskell had asked Susan Douglas-Radford to join the ticket not because he needed her, but because he wanted her voice.  He admired her honesty and her adherence to principle, two things he hoped characterized him too.

He honestly thought their combination could do great things for the country.

Now he just had to convince her staffers of that.  Because Jason Bezdek had called to interrupt a pretty important meeting with potential donors to report that one of Douglas-Radford's people had his panties in a bunch. A nd that Bezdek thought this conflict would be the make or break for the Haskell/Douglas-Radford alliance.

The Democratic Party couldn't afford a nasty split and neither, to be honest, could Haskell's own presidential bid.

He'd directed Bezdek to send Douglas-Radford in to join the informal cocktail party in his hotel suite, and she arrived not twenty minutes later.  Although she exhibited her usual grace and poise, the raised eyebrow she gave him when no one else was looking promised a serious discussion later.

Not being a fan of delaying tactics, Bezdek invented a plausible excuse, turned the potential donors over to his wife, and ushered Susan Douglas-Radford into the hallway.  "Susan," he greeted her.  "Jason Bezdek seems to think that your staff is urging you to issue an ultimatum."

Douglas-Radford gave nothing away as she stared back at him.  "That's not precisely how I'd frame the issue," she said.  "My staff has brought to my attention the fact that your staff has decided that my job is to speak to every women's group in the country, while you and your manly men do the rest."

Haskell laughed, sliding his hands into his pockets.  "Surely you're not implying that women's groups aren't important."

"Oh, Mark, give it a rest," Douglas-Radford demanded, eyes narrowing slightly.  "You know exactly what I'm talking about.  This isn't just about the women's groups or the mini-debates, but a larger--"

Haskell held up a hand.  "I'm sorry.  Mini-debates?  What are you talking about?"

Douglas-Radford briefly recounted Sam's idea and Jason Bezdek's response to it.

"That's quite an interesting proposal," Haskell mused, imagining what a mess Baker would make of a two-minute impromptu answer.  "His handlers don't usually let him out without flashcards and a map to the central message of the day."

"Exactly," she agreed, nodding.  "And Shallick has a tendency to let his mouth and his temper get the best of him.  I can't imagine either man would be particularly impressive under the circumstances Sam's proposing."

"Hmmm," Haskell said.  "Let me think about this.  Something like this would certainly support our claim that we're an innovative alternative to an administration mired in the not-so-golden age of modern politics."

Douglas-Radford studied him for a moment.  "This is exactly why I'm here, Mark.  Sam's idea is a damn good one, and it deserves serious consideration.  I agreed to join this ticket because I think you'll be a good president, not because I wanted to substitute your staff's judgment for my own."

"No one is suggesting that you should," Haskell argued, frustrated.  "If you don't want to speak to women's groups, don't.  If you want to do Sam's debate idea, do."

"It's not that simple," Douglas-Radford argued.  "We need to present a united front."  She flashed him an annoyed look.  "And by the way, I have no problem speaking to women's groups.  I have a problem when I'm pigeonholed into only speaking to them."

"Fine," Haskell said.  "I'll talk to Jason about your schedule.  And I'll consider the other.  Is that all?" he asked, impatient to get back inside.

"No, that's not all," she said, arms crossed.  "We need to figure out our relative positions here, Mark.  You're going to be the president.  I'm going to be the vice president.  Those roles are easy to comprehend.  It's the campaigning that's confusing.  Does your staff have the right to unilaterally dismiss campaign initiatives that my staff suggests?"

"Not unilaterally, no," Haskell allowed.  "But my staff and I ultimately have the final say in which initiatives we pursue and which we do not."

Douglas-Radford's mouth tightened.  "I would like your word," she said quietly, "that I or any of my senior staffers will not have to hack our way through a thicket of your staffers to get an initiative to you."

"You want unfettered access to me, you have it," Haskell promised.  "If you think we have a problem with the message, come talk to me and we'll straighten it out.  If you have a workable idea, bring it to me and we'll set it in motion.  The campaign's being run by many people, but we will ultimately be responsible for every word said on our behalf.  But as for your staffers--"

"Toni Timian and Josh Lyman," she interrupted.

Haskell stayed silent, studying her.  Her request wasn't unreasonable, especially considering how much of her time was taken up in public appearances.  Was it fair to require the Governor to be both the vice presidential candidate and intra-campaign mediator?  But Haskell also needed to know how committed she was. He had to know for sure that the issue would be settled.  "Is this a deal breaker?" he challenged finally.

Smiling slowly, she shook her head.  "There is no deal breaker, Mark," she answered.  "I already accepted the position as your running mate and vice president."

He ducked his chin in acknowledgment, trying not to show the relief he felt at her admission.  Her staffers might not know it yet, but he had no doubt that Susan Douglas-Radford would make them understand their position on the campaign.  And she would explain that position was permanent; grandstanding was no longer an option.  "I keep my word too, Susan.  You are my running mate.  I may disagree with your ideas, I may reject some of them, but we're in this thing until November."

She accepted his words with a smile and a brief nod.  "Longer than that, I hope."

He grinned at her.  "Longer than that, yes."  Sobering, he considered her request.  "Toni and Josh," he answered finally.  "I'll leave standing orders that they can come directly to me with important issues."

Douglas-Radford touched his arm.  "Thank you, Mark.  I appreciate it."

"I'm glad we had this conversation," he told her, tilting his head back toward the suite.  "We should probably get back to work."

"Yes, we should."

***

"Okay, listen up."

Susan Douglas-Radford watched with amusement as Josh, Donna, CJ, and Sam wheeled around to face her, matching surprised expressions in place.  The Governor had effectively snuck into the suite, though not intentionally.

The four staffers poring over dossiers at the small desk in the corner couldn't possibly have heard the tumblers tumbling, the door squealing its way open or slamming its way shut over the familiar sound of a shouting match between Toby and Toni.  Toby and Toni hadn't noticed the Governor's approach either, engrossed as they were arguing heatedly over some arcane point of Pennsylvania state law that allowed...  Actually, Douglas-Radford wasn't at all sure what they were arguing about; and she'd adopted her own version of don't ask, don't tell when dealing with Toby and Toni in contentious moods.

The Governor watched, amused, as they stared at each other, neither willing to look away first.

"Governor," Sam said, stepping forward.  "I thought you joined the Senator's fundraiser tonight?"

"I stopped by," she nodded.

CJ moved between Toby and Toni, breaking the stand off.  "Did you want to have the planning meeting then?"

The Governor frowned.  "Planning meeting?"

"For the convention," Toni answered, turning her attention to her boss.  "We were supposed to finalize the choice for your introduction tonight, but I rescheduled when Sam told us you'd gone to the fundraiser."

Douglas-Radford raised an eyebrow.  "I was summoned to the fundraiser."  Her gaze slid over to Sam, who looked pale and concerned.  "Senator Haskell and I settled some outstanding issues tonight."

Josh's hands gravitated to his hips the way they always did when he felt threatened.  "What outstanding issues?" he demanded.

Behind him, Donna frowned and Sam looked disappointed.  CJ crossed her arms and leaned one hip against the back of the couch.  "We're using Born in the USA now, aren't we?"

Surprised, Douglas-Radford laughed outright.  "No.  No, we're not using Bruce quite yet.  At least, that wasn't the subject of my discussion with the Senator, so I assume nothing's changed on that front."

"Thank God," Donna murmured.

"If I may ask," Toby said quietly, "what was the subject of your discussion?"

"Access."

"To the Senator?"

The Governor nodded.  "We agreed that I did not join the campaign to be dictated to and that I need to have access to the Senator if we are to run an effective campaign."

"You," Josh repeated darkly.  The Governor sighed; she should've known that Josh would jump to conclusions.  He gestured at his colleagues.  "So the rest of us are out?  Governor, we can't possibly be expected to--"

"You're not."

Shaking her head slightly, Donna asked, "What do you mean?"

"Toni and Josh, as my chief of staff and my campaign director respectively, have unfettered access to the Senator, 24/7.  The rest of you will have to bring your concerns to Josh, Toni, or myself."  She looked at each of them in turn, taking in the wary expressions.  "Capice?"

Toby grimaced.  "Governor, please not the Italian."

"Comprendez-vous?" she tried, smiling.

Donna grinned.  "Oui, Madame."

Josh and Toni exchanged glances, and then both nodded.  "That sounds reasonable," Josh allowed.

Toni gave Toby a saucy look.  "I told you that you were subservient to me in every way."

Toby blinked slowly but didn't answer, which set Toni off laughing.

The Governor gave Donna and CJ and expectant look.  "Okay, media goddesses, which prominent liberal Democrat have you, in all your wisdom, decided should introduce me at the Convention?"

"Jesse Johnson, Jr.," Donna answered.

"Definitely," CJ affirmed.

***

Evan wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but circumstances had landed him in a cab with Toby Ziegler, headed for the airport.  Donna had some sort of press emergency -- something about ballot access, or possibly ballot stuffing; he wasn't really sure -- and Josh had stayed behind with her.  CJ'd offered to help with the calls they needed to make; and Sam was locked in his hotel suite, still working on the address that Governor Douglas-Radford was supposed to give that evening.  Toni was staying for the speech.  Which left Toby and Evan.

And of course, the Denver airport was quite a ways from the city, so they had a bit of time to kill.

Glancing at his silent companion, Evan tried to come up with a subject that would interest him.  They'd pretty much exhausted the "teaching sucks, doesn't it?" conversation, and Toby wasn't one for small talk.  Evan didn't figure he'd appreciate a conversational gambit about weather or sports, though CJ claimed Toby was an obsessive Yankees fan.

Evan preferred basketball.

Toby cleared his throat.  "Don't ask me about the Yankees," he ordered, still staring out the window.

Startled, Evan laughed.  "What makes you think I was going to?"

"That awkward silence," Toby answered, meeting his gaze briefly.  "You're a talker."

"Maybe," Evan admitted.  "But I'm not a Yankees fan."

"Heathen," Toby muttered good-naturedly.

Evan ignored the insult.  "So you don't do chatter.  How about you explain this convention thing to me?"

Evan had to swallow a laugh at the look of outright horror on Toby's face.  "You don't know what a convention is?"

"I know what it is," Evan answered.  "But you already know you won--"

"Haskell won," Toby interrupted flatly.

"You know what I mean.  You know how the delegates are going to vote; your ticket won the nomination -- what's the point?"

"What's the point?" Toby echoed loudly.

"Yes," Evan pressed, mentally brushing off his journalism skills.  (He'd reviewed books for his college newspaper.  Sure, that'd been more than twenty years ago and he'd never once conducted an interview, but he figured experience was experience.)  "Is it all just about the pageantry, about free network air time for a big Democratic commercial?"

"Public service announcement," Toby shot back.  "We give the electorate fair warning about what the Republican Party has in store for them."

Evan laughed.  "Please.  The acceptance speech is all about Haskell as the second coming of JFK, not--"

"It's the language," Toby countered.  "You have to study the language we use.  We do talk about Republican policies, but we can't go negative at the Convention."  Toby paused, his expression thoughtful.  "We, especially, can't go negative.  Because of our sordid past," he added ironically.

"So you allude and imply."  Evan dismissed that with a wave of his hand.  "That doesn't mean anything to the average viewer.  Hell, I'm a writer, Toby, and I can't see half of the stuff you're talking about in the speech I read.  It's buried in political speak and an alarming amount of clichés."

"The speech isn't done yet," Toby pointed out, somewhat defensively.

Evan held up his hands.  "I'm not saying that it's bad writing, Toby.  You and Sam are quite talented.  I'm saying that if the convention is really supposed to tell the American people what you stand for, what you are, that speech isn't going to get it done."  He shrugged, a little dismayed at the turn the conversation had taken.  Who was he to tell Toby Ziegler how to write political rhetoric?  Evan's inexperience didn't seem to be stopping him from doing it, though.  "I know Haskell's people have been a little difficult--"

"A lot difficult," Toby corrected, rubbing his beard.

"Fine.  A lot difficult.  But phrases like 'no child left behind' and 'a culture of personal responsibility' -- they don't mean anything.  You think the average citizen knows that 'personal responsibility' is code for kicking people off welfare, regardless of whether there are jobs out there?"

Toby watched him silently for a moment, a small smile in place.  "I thought you hated politics."

Evan grinned.  "I do."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"What can I say?  I've been married to CJ Cregg for two years.  I picked some of it up."

Toby shifted in his seat, looking out the window again.  "Yeah."

Evan hesitated, undecided.  Then he sighed and said, "Toby, I'm not an expert.  I don't know what all those books of polling data say about which phrases work for what segment of society.  But Susan Douglas-Radford struck a chord because she was honest."

Toby absorbed that, and then glanced back at Evan.  "Donna, she said something the other day that struck Josh as funny.  But I think she's right.  She said that the national conventions are the American version of a royal wedding."  The corners of his mouth curled upwards.  "Two people promising to stick together for political gain."

Evan chuckled.  "Fair enough."

"The convention is about unity," Toby said.  "It's about reconnecting with the rest of the party after a fractious primary season.  And you're right; it's a little bit about the pageantry.  But mostly it's about," he shrugged, "the celebration of a political marriage."

Evan considered Toby's words, then nodded solemnly.  "Okay.  Then I would suggest you give the newlyweds one hell of a toast."

Toby smiled, just a little, and turned his gaze back to the window.  A few minutes passed in easy silence, Evan's attention wandering to the relative wilderness outside.  Just how far away was the Denver airport, anyway?  Considering the flat farmlands they were passing through, Evan wouldn't be surprised to learn that their driver had taken a wrong turn at a cornfield somewhere.

So distracted was Evan by his musings that it took him a minute to understand what Toby was talking about when he muttered, "I might just do that."

***

Next:  August 2006