Will:  The Power of Ideas

Will Bailey did not consider himself a man prone to hero worship. Growing up the youngest son of the Supreme Commander of NATO forces instilled in Will the kind of hero worship that centered almost exclusively on his father.

At age seven, Will learned that men are just men, and fallible. He learned that he had a sister whose mother wasn't his, which he didn't quite understand. But he understood his mother's tears, and so Will realigned his universe with no compelling, commanding figure at the center. People could disappoint you, but the ideals his father taught him -- those couldn't let you down.

Will considered himself an American, but casually, the way kids from Iowa who go to college in California still consider themselves Iowans. He attended the international school in Brussels, and disagreed with American foreign policy on any number of issues.

Still, he followed American politics and voted by absentee ballot, but he never got past his cynicism to really support a candidate. The United States was led by men, and men, Will knew, were fallible.

Despite that, Will expected America to live up to its ideals, or at least to live up to its promise.

When he was 27, he watched the genocide in Rwanda spool out on CNN, unanswered by the U.N., by the U.S., by his father's troops, and his belief in the system faltered. But it's hard not to believe in anything. Will chalked up the inaction to the fallible men in charge and decided to believe in the power of ideas.

When he was 29, he told himself he was excited for a Bartlet presidency not because of the man, but because of his ideas.

And then he woke up one morning in Shimla, the heat pressing in on him like a physical force and his sister's voice echoing down the hallway. Will squinted out the screened windows. Their audience with the Dalai Lama was still hours away, judging by the sunlight, and there was a monkey perched on the balcony, grooming its fur.

Will rolled out of bed, told the monkey to go away (it fixed an unimpressed gaze on him, then went back to its task), and opened his door just as Elsie started pounding on it.

"What time--?"

She was in a loose sundress with lemon-colored flowers on it, and she was holding a printout from the New York Times site. The headline stopped him midsentence: "BARTLET ILL."

"Look," she commanded, unnecessarily.

"Elsie--?"

"He has M.S.," she explained, thrusting the paper at him. "Read it."

Will shook his head, as if that would make it not true. "Multiple Sclerosis?"

Elsie, who never bothered to hide her emotions, raised her voice in bitter emphasis. "Diagnosed seven years ago."

He couldn't think of anything to say, so he smoothed the papers and started to read.

And Will learned at age 32 that maybe he was prone to hero worship, and the taste of betrayal is never less than bitter.

***

Donna:  Polyester Bride

Her first thought is that she should be more upset. Donna sits stiffly in the hard wooden chair, her hands curled around a cup of a Writer's Chai, and instead of anger and hurt and betrayal, she feels almost... relieved. She's not crazy or paranoid. She has not, as Alan suggested, watched too many girl power movies.

Nancy looks uncomfortable, nearly choking on a sip of her coffee. "Should I have told you?"

Donna nods immediately. "Yes," she says, her voice sounding stronger than it has in months. "Yes. Thank you."

They don't know each other very well, Nancy and Donna. Nancy dated Alan's buddy a few months ago, and the foursome spent a few evenings together. The two women were always pretty quiet, as Donna had learned long ago that Alan didn't much appreciate her soliloquies on the socio-political ramifications of NATO and Nancy seemed to be one of those girls who faded into the background around her boyfriend.

Donna isn't sure how or why it ended between Nancy and Patrick, but she hasn't seen Nancy in weeks. Until she showed up at the bank with a tentative greeting and the news that Alan is fucking his "study partner."

Nancy reaches out hesitantly, touches her arm. "Donna?"

Donna nods again, gives Nancy a smile. "It's okay."

"It is?"

"Yeah." Donna mentally assesses her financial situation. It really isn't okay. She's got about $700 in the bank, she hates her job, she owns a crappy Toyota, and Alan never bothered to put her name on the lease. She wonders now if that was intentional instead of accidental. She panics a little at the thought of moving out, because she has nowhere to move to. She swallows nervous laughter at the thought of living in her car, and refuses to consider moving back with her parents, though it may be her best option.

"I'm really sorry, Donna."

"Don't be," Donna insists, her cheeks aching a little from the smile she's wearing. She takes another sip of the tea, bitter now, and cooling. They're near a drafty window, and the wintry air slices right through Donna's ski sweater. Alan likes her to dress this way, like she grew up on the ski slopes and not in a condo, and now she's angry. "It's probably better this way," Donna says, thinking of the clothes she'll donate to the Salvation Army.

"Do you need a place to stay?" Nancy asks, her voice trembling.

Donna wonders what Patrick did to Nancy, what life had done to her to make her so nervous. She reaches across the bistro table and touches Nancy's arm briefly. "You're sweet. Thank you for the offer, but I've got a friend in Madison."

Nancy smiles a little sadly. "I should go."

Donna nods, her thoughts chaotic. She'll make a list, she decides, a list of her options. And as she stands to walk out of the café with Nancy, Donna's not entirely sure that what she's feeling isn't something like exhilaration.

***

Toby:  Another Reason, Another Season

Toby wondered what had possessed Andrea to choose his apartment for the site of the conversation. His office walls were covered with framed news articles and diplomas and photographs and posters, but his apartment walls were largely bare. Luckily for Toby, he'd convinced CJ to spend half a Saturday apartment-hunting, and so his walls were a soothing sage instead of the bright white or sickly beige of a typical rental.

Still, the entire space lacked that lived-in feeling. There were no half-read magazines, no clean dishes on the rack, no snacks to serve unexpected guests.

He did, however, have glasses for the bourbon she'd brought.

Which was good, because being Andrea, she launched right into it. "I still want a baby."

He stared at her in disbelief, the sight of his luminous ex-wife perched on his beat-up couch bringing back other conversations on this same subject. This time, though, he couldn't imagine why she felt the need to announce her desires to him of all people. "Okay," he answered after a time, lifting one shoulder in shrug.

Andy gave him an exasperated look. "Toby, you know I'm not dating anyone--"

Toby grimaced, placing the glass of bourbon on the endtable. "Andy, I don't know where you're going with--"

"Yes, you do." She held his gaze, her expressive features confirming his suspicions.

"Andrea, we've been through this--"

"Not exactly this," she answered stubbornly. "We're not married."

Toby laughed harshly. "You think that constitutes enough of a reduction in your stress level?"

"Stress was a possible factor, Toby," Andy answered. "There's no final answer in this kind of thing."

He picked his glass up again and took a healthy swig. "I thought two years of failed fertility treatments was our final answer."

Andy's eyes sparkled with tears, but she refused to shed them. "Toby, we were both campaigning. We were stressed. We were barely ever in the same city except for scheduled trips to the doctor." She shrugged, spreading her palms in a show of vexation. "And the miscarriage could've--"

"Can we please not talk about this?" Toby couldn't look at her, couldn't bear the exquisite pain on her face.

"It was never about not loving you," Andy said quietly. "It was never about not wanting you to be the father of my children, Toby. It was just... Everything was too much there for a while."

Toby stared at his hands, at the waning sunlight sparkling through the glass at him. He closed his eyes briefly. "I don't know if I can go through that again."

The silence lingered for a moment, then her fingers touched his arm, slid down his wrist, and took his hand. "I don't know if I can, either. I know that I can't do it alone."

Toby opened his eyes and held her gaze. "You really want to do this?"

"Don't you?"

He thought about a little girl with curly red hair and a baseball glove, and he squeezed Andy's hand in affirmation.

***

Will:  Beyond the Veil of Ignorance

"The end result of collecting fewer tax dollars," Will read, pacing the room and gesturing with his pencil, "is to send less money to our crumbling schools. Fewer teachers, fewer textbooks, fewer--" Will frowned. "I'm sorry, does that say 'fewer taxicabs?'"

"I haven't thought of another relevant T word," admitted 24.

"Ah," Will said. The interns lacked some polish and, apparently, a thesaurus, but they really could write.

"The rest of it's good though," 24 insisted.

"It is good," Will confirmed. "And I think of all the speeches we're adding language to, the Education Secretary has the best shot at convincing some people."

"Will?" 22 called, returning with bagels and coffee.

"Yeah?"

"First, you owe me $3.48 because they charge for the cream cheese and I wasn't sure which kind you'd want so I got two of each. Second, I saw Margaret..." She frowned. "I don't think I know her last name. Margaret, you know? Redhead, a little odd?"

"Leo's assistant?" Will supplied with subtle sarcasm. "Yes, we've met once or twice."

"Okay," 22 nodded cheerfully, stepping back as her hungry teammates descended on the food. "She asked me to tell you that Mr. McGarry wants a couple minutes of your time."

"Oh." Will glanced around in search of his suitjacket. "Okay." He unrolled one sleeve and tried desperately to smooth the wrinkles. "See if you can't come up with a third T word."

Three of the four interns shrugged absently, more concerned, it seemed, with their bagels. Will grabbed his jacket, still working on his second sleeve, and stepped out into the bracing cold. Deciding that warding off hypothermia was probably more important than the stubborn wrinkles in his shirtsleeves, Will shrugged into his jacket and stepped up his pace, gaining entry to the Northwest Lobby just before his nose went numb.

Margaret wasn't at her desk. Will peered cautiously into Leo's office.

"Will." Leo waved him in. "Yeah, listen. Toby's staying in California this week."

Will blinked. "He couldn't make bail?"

"No, he's running the campaign."

"Sam's campaign?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Will didn't remember very much about the last week of the first campaign, but he was really pretty sure there wasn't much free time. "And the President's tax plan?"

Leo nodded. "Yeah, that's still on the table."

Panic slithered through Will's consciousness. "I'm sorry--the President is about to unveil a tax plan that, while positively Rawlsian in its design, is also rather difficult to fit into a soundbyte, this is all the punditocracy will be talking about this week, and the Director of Communications is--"

"On a leave of absence, yeah," Leo interrupted, rising to circle his desk.

"So that means--"

Leo paused to give Will a grin. "You're in charge."

"In charge," Will echoed.

"For a week."

"In charge of a department that, at the moment, has no staff."

"Yeah, you should hire some people," Leo suggested. "I've got a meeting."

"Okay," Will said, dropping into an armchair. "I can do this. Maybe."

***

Ainsley:  Revelatory Silence

Revelatory Silence Ryo Sen

Fraud. Fraud. Fraud. 

The word echoed in her mind as she stalked down the deserted hallway, one foot precisely in front of the other. The worried look on Leo's face was still clear in her mind, and she told herself she should call her father immediately. He would know what to do. He would know what this meant. 

Multiple Sclerosis. God. 

Ainsley's steps slowed. She should call her father and tell him that the president had lied about his health. That Leo had talked to her himself, no doubt to gauge her reaction, to make sure she wouldn't tell any Republicans that the staff had probably known all along. They were, after all, the people who'd planned and plotted and strategized during the campaign. The people who'd written words for him to deliver. 

She stopped, staring at her office door. Not yet. She couldn't walk into that office until she got everything straight in her mind. She was a lawyer; she was trained for this sort of thing. She'd parse the truth from the information she had, and then she could face Sam, who was in her office, waiting. He would turn on that smile and try to charm her into believing that the president made an honest mistake. That they hadn't orchestrated the largest political fraud since…

She couldn't even come up with an example. It was worse than cheating. It was worse than Kennedy's ballot-stuffing. How could Jed Bartlet win by deceit and then take the Oath of Office? The hypocrisy was staggering.

But she'd sensed the mood over the past few days, and it didn't quite track with the obvious explanation. Toby, glowering even more than usual when she'd stumbled into a meeting looking for Sam. Then Josh imploded, calling her forty times in one day for information about federal regulations on importing animals. CJ'd been brutally sarcastic, a little over the edge at a briefing Ainsley had seen. And then Sam, with his big, hurt eyes looking like somebody told him Superman really couldn't fly. 

None of them seemed nervous, as if they'd been caught. They seemed… crestfallen. Disappointed. Not unlike how Ainsley herself was feeling.

She should call her father, she reminded herself. This was an outrage. It was Democratic politics, Daly style. It was rank and cheap and she expected better of Josiah Bartlet. Sure, his politics were wrongheaded, his staff was egotistical and frightfully misguided about life outside the Beltway, but still; she expected more. 

Ainsley frowned, standing there in that hallway, in that amazing building. She imagined the headlines, the graphics on CNN, the pundits and the op-eds and the incredible bluster from the Hill. She thought about the way the president spoke to her, the way he treated his staff, the way he was with his wife and his daughters. 

She thought about how scary it must be to learn you could lose your mind, and she thought maybe Jed Bartlet could explain. 

Maybe she wouldn't call her father. Not yet.

***

Hoynes:  Out of Fashion

John Hoynes was the newly minted CEO of a small Texas oil company when they struck black gold. It was just three days after John's 32nd birthday, and he immediately turned his new wealth and status to politics. At first he thought he'd just donate to the Democratic Party and support some fiscally conservative but socially liberal candidates for office.

But the Democratic Party was going out of fashion in Texas, even among those who still found it loathsome to vote for the party of Lincoln. The Republicans had a stranglehold on the national seats, and none of the seatholders could be considered socially liberal by any stretch of the imagination, and so John Hoynes somewhat unexpectedly found himself running for the Texas Lege. Even more surprisingly, he won.

His tough journey to the United States Senate taught John how to defend his Party and himself against Republican charges of fiscal irresponsibility while retaining his Democratic credibility. His record was, of necessity, a model of bipartisanship. John learned how to be effective, and how to compromise on the small stuff. After six years of gaining power and influence inside the Beltway, a run for the presidency seemed the obvious next step.

And Josh Lyman seemed the obvious choice for political director of the campaign. Josh was an up-and-comer, but he'd been around long enough to gain a reputation as someone who could make things happen. Over the last month, though, Josh seemed to have lost sight of the goal. Instead of finding choice pieces of legislation for John to support or sponsor, he wouldn't shut up about Social Security. A political mind like Josh's should understand that would open the door to charges of "tax-and-spend liberalism." That's not the way elections were won.

John wanted Josh's energy focused on Iowa and New Hampshire, on electoral strategies and sound bytes, not on policy points the public found difficult to understand.

Monday morning, John asked Janice to call Josh into his office; Janice buzzed him moments later.

"What'd you say?" John demanded.

"Josh took today and tomorrow off. He went to New Hampshire."

Son of a bitch. "Thanks," John snapped. Limited though their chances were, John still kept track of the other Democrats vying for the nomination. The only person campaigning in New Hampshire this week was Jed Bartlet, with his speeches about the importance of ideas and the revitalization of the Democratic Party.

Governor Bartlet was in this to make some noise, to liven up the debate. He couldn't win, not with McGarry heading up a team of unknowns. But now Josh was frustrated and in New Hampshire for a Bartlet sermon. Jed Bartlet would pontificate about Social Security, probably at some length, but he'd be saying something Josh wanted to hear.

A candidate who spoke about ideas with Josh's political acumen and McGarry's clout behind him could certainly give John a run for his money, assuming the public bought into it.

John cursed and slammed his fist into the desk.

***

10.20.04