Ruth Hoynes belongs to us. Bayliss, Giardello, and Lewis belong to Baltimore Productions and NBC. All other characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. The song lyrics are from "Sometimes" by James. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback.

The Flood
Violet & Cinnamon
It's a monsoon, and the rain lifts lids off cars
Spinning buses like toys, stripping them to chrome
Across the bay, the waves are turning into something else
Picking up fishing boats and spewing them on the shore....


"A police officer?" C.J. asked incredulously, her coffee mug paused halfway to her mouth.

"On top of everything else," Josh said.

"The Vice President's boyfriend is a police officer."

"You may not want to start the briefing off with that information."

"Seriously, Joshua?" C.J. snapped, setting her coffee down. "Because I was all set to go in there and provide explicit, graphic details--"

"You don't need to bite my head off, you know."

She looked contrite. "I'm sorry. You're right. It's just that... It's five o'clock in the morning and we're living a complete nightmare. I'm dreading the headlines we're going to see in a couple hours. 'Secret Vices of the Vice President!'"

Josh suppressed a chuckle. "Do we know who's running this?"

"The morning papers aren't out yet. They were probably held up to rush this onto the first page. My line is, until we see the picture, we're not confirming its existence."

"What about who took it?"

"So far, all the usual sleaze hounds are proclaiming their innocence. Toby's on it."

"He'll find out eventually."

"When he does, he'll probably tear them limb from limb." C.J. stood up. "I have to go do this. Keep your fingers crossed for me. God, I just -- I can't imagine how Hoynes could have done something so incredibly, unequivocally stupid."

"Neither can I," Josh said. "But you know what's weird? I think they actually cared about each other."

C.J. looked askance at him. "Okay, but it's not my job to know that. I'm trying to keep this from being a total embarrassment to all of us."

"It's going to be an embarrassment no matter what you tell the press."

"I know. I have to go." She gathered her files, brushed past him and then stopped in the doorway of her office. "You think they care about each other."

Josh met her gaze. "Yeah."

"Hmm."

C.J. turned and walked down the hall to her briefing. The overcrowded press room exploded when she entered, in a chaotic rush of flashing cameras and competing voices. Well, she thought, that answers the question of who knows about it.

"Good morning," she said, acerbically. "I see the weather and the early hour didn't keep anybody home."

At least a dozen voices called her name at once.

"Easy there," she replied. "I'm only going to take a couple of questions right now; everything else will be covered at the regular noon briefing. Victor."

A young reporter stood up. "Does the White House have a comment on this photograph of Hoynes kissing another man that's floating around?"

"Now how did I know that was going to be the question?" C.J. answered lightly. "You guys are so predictable."

"C.J.--"

"We haven't seen this picture, if it exists," she said, having memorized Sam's prepared statement during the last half hour. "At present, we're inclined not to dignify dubious gossip about the Vice President's personal life with a comment. If someone actually produces this picture, we'll consider making a further statement on the subject later in the day."

The young reporter opened his mouth to protest. "I hope that answers that," C.J. said. "Danny."

He stood up. "You have no comment on this picture?"

"Gee, I think I made it pretty clear, Danny. At the moment, the White House has no comment on this supposed--"

"It's a real picture," Danny interrupted.

C.J. was thrown. She glared at him. "We've seen no evidence of that."

"Every paperboy in the city's carrying a bag full of evidence of that," he told her, a trifle smugly. "Early edition should land on your doorstep any minute now."

She cast a fierce glance into the wings. Someone scurried away down the hall. She tried to recover her poise. "Danny, what--"

"I'm saying it's not some kind of unfounded rumor. I'm saying someone took a photograph of the Vice President kissing a man, and I was wondering if you might want to think about making some kind of comment on that now."

"We'll consider making a further statement later in the day," she recited, coldly. "Does anybody have any questions on any other subject?" There was a brief pause. "We're done. I'll see you all this afternoon."

The room broke into a loud chorus of complaint. "We're done," she reiterated, picked up her papers, and stormed out. Her assistant Carol was standing just inside the hall, waiting apprehensively. "Do we have it?" C.J. asked.

"Ginger went to find out if the paper's here yet. Do you want--"

C.J.'s eyes were glowing with rage. "Danny," she hissed, her teeth clenched. "Five minutes."

"I'll send him in."

She was seated at her desk, focused on the blurry photo and the blaring headline, when Danny appeared. "Shut the door," C.J. ordered, without looking up.

He obeyed, then stood awkwardly just inside her office. "C.J., we've had this argument before."

"No, Danny, I don't think we have," she said bleakly. "Are we off the record?"

"Sure."

"I mean completely, really off the record. No anonymous quoting, no--"

"I said we're off the record."

"Good, because I'm not exactly predisposed to trust you today." He waited for her to continue. She whipped off her reading glasses and looked up at him. "The front page, you son of a bitch?"

Danny was taken aback. "That's uncalled for."

She jumped to her feet. "Uncalled for? This article isn't uncalled for? You had to do this. You couldn't have held off on it for a few hours? You couldn't have kept it back until this afternoon?"

"By this afternoon it would have been all over the Internet!" he retorted defensively. "I have a responsibility--"

"You have a responsibility to the truth. Journalists are supposed to have ethics." She held the newspaper towards him like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. "What's ethical about this?!"

He moved forward. "While you were reading that front page, did you happen to notice the motto under the masthead? 'News of the World,' C.J. News of the world, and this is news."

"It's cheap, Danny!" She slammed the paper down on the desk. "It's supermarket-tabloid crap!"

"It's a matter of national interest!"

"That doesn't mean you have to pander to it," she yelled back. The anger and frustration crackled the air between them, and Danny was the first to blink. C.J. ran a hand through her hair. "Get out of my face, Daniel."

"I stand by my decision, C.J., and my editor does too."

"Get out of my face and get out of my office."

She sat down at her desk and picked the paper up again. He lingered for a few seconds, shrugged, and walked out, slamming the door behind him. When he was gone, she leaned back in her chair, trying to shrug away the tension in her neck and shoulders. She looked vacantly into space for a few seconds, then exhaled sadly and forced her attention back to work.


* * *


Toby paced anxiously back and forth, pausing occasionally to read along as Sam wrote.

"I think it's coming along fairly well," Sam said, hopefully.

Toby peered over his shoulder. "You don't want to use the phrase 'coming out in support' there, do you?"

Sam thought about it for a moment. "No, I really don't." He scribbled it out. "We'll just make it 'being supportive'."

"How about just 'supporting'?"

"Yeah, or that."

"Simple words, Sam!" Toby reminded him.

"You always say that, and then you write speeches with phrases like 'enlightened populism' and...."

"Those are speeches. This is a statement to the press. Reporters need small words. They have very small brains."

"And their brains are in their vestigial tails," Sam added, getting into the spirit.

"Exactly. Their brains are in their tails and they breathe through their--" Toby looked up. A slender, dark-haired woman stood in the office doorway, hands on her hips, her eyes blazing.

"Hello, Mrs. Hoynes," Toby said.

She strode into the office. "I actually prefer Ms., Toby, but this is really not the time for formality. Call me Ruth. Hey, Sam," she greeted him.

"Um. Hello."

Ruth sat down on the edge of Sam's desk. "I assume that the two of you are in the process of working out how to manage my foolish bastard of a husband?"

"We're working on the situation with the Vice President, yes," Toby said, diplomatically.

"In other words, you're trying to manage him. I should know; I've been doing it for eighteen years." She rolled her eyes in disgust. "Personally, I find it frightening that a grown man could do something so self-destructive, unthinking, and just plain idiotic."

Sam and Toby exchanged a look. "Mrs. Hoynes--" Sam began.

"Ruth," she corrected, irritably.

"Ruth," he said, uncomfortably. "I know it's unpleasant to have your private life torn apart by the newspapers; believe me, no one knows that as well as I do."

Toby cut him off. "That being said, what your husband needs, and what the White House needs, is your public support."

"I wasn't going to say that," Sam grumbled.

"I know; that's why I said it," Toby replied.

"I'm perfectly aware of what you want me to tell the press." Ruth affected a stoic expression and spoke as if she was reading a TelePrompter. "Marriage is a serious commitment that requires hard work. My husband and I are coping with a deeply personal struggle, but we are both devoted to our marriage and hope to resolve our problems. We appreciate our privacy during this stressful time."

"That's about right," Toby said.

She laughed ironically. "I can play that role out there, and I will. I'm good at it. But in here, I have to tell you, I'm pretty pissed that I have to deal with this nonsense."

"You don't sound very surprised," Sam put in, cautiously.

Ruth folded her arms and looked at him. "I know my husband very, very well," she told him. "It's hard for me to be surprised by anything he does, though he usually has the sense not to do it in public. Don't misunderstand me." Her tone softened. "I like my marriage. I love my children, and I do care about their father. And I know that's exactly what you need the media to hear, as annoyed as I may be." She stood up. "You do your jobs; I'll do mine."

She walked out. Sam and Toby stared after her.

"She's good," Sam said after a while.

"Yes, she is," Toby agreed. He stood behind Sam and scowled at the hand-written draft. "I don't like the word 'understanding' there."

Sam turned back to the notepad. "Should I change it to empathy?"

"Empathy's good."


* * *


After Hoynes told his wife, he made a call to his mother. As he listened to Betty Hoynes cry on the other end of the line, John found himself thankful that his father hadn't lived to see this day. Ruth had taken the phone and tried to comfort Betty, all the while shooting very pointed glances John's way. When he couldn't take anymore of it, Hoynes showered, shaved and dressed in his best suit. As Ruth knotted his tie, he had wanted to apologize to her, but he didn't know how. He took her hand, and she gave his a quick squeeze before she pulled away and walked out the door.

When he got to the White House, Hoynes navigated the halls quickly. He wanted to delay the inevitable meetings with Leo and C.J., not to mention the President, for as long as possible. As he passed people in the halls, he sensed their eyes following him. The back of his neck prickled, and his face was hot. He kept his head down and walked faster. Hoynes breathed a sigh of relief when he got to the small office he used and could shut the door behind him.

"Hello, Mr. Vice President."

Startled, John looked up and saw Agent Ron Butterfield waiting for him.

"Agent Butterfield," Hoynes walked past Ron and sat down at his desk.

"We need to talk, sir."

Hoynes motioned to a chair. "Yes, why don't you have a seat?"

Ron shook his head. "No, thank you, sir. I'd prefer to stand."

Hoynes eyed Agent Butterfield for a moment before looking down at his desk. "I take it you know about Justin."

"Yes, sir, I do know about Agent McCorkle. I know about how you paid him four hundred dollars to leave you alone last night. I know how you've been paying him to leave you alone for the last six months." Though Ron was restraining himself, the anger was evident in his voice.

"Has he been fired?"

"Yes, sir, he has been terminated."

"And he's been instructed not to speak to the press?"

"Yes, sir, but--"

"I wish you'd stop saying yes, sir," Hoynes interrupted.

"Yes, sir." Ron coughed politely before he continued. "If I may be so bold?"

John shrugged. "Everyone else has been."

"I'm curious as to why you think it matters that Agent McCorkle was told not to speak to the press."

"I'm sorry?"

"You were able to buy him with four hundred dollars, sir. I can guarantee you that reporters are on the phone with him as we speak, offering him substantially more money than you did."

"Agent Butterfield--"

This time it was Ron who interrupted. "You've made a joke of the Secret Service!"

Hoynes stood. "I resent that!"

"And I resent looking like a fool!" Butterfield's voice echoed through the room, and he realized that he had just yelled at the Vice President. Lowering his voice, he spoke again. "Sir, it is my job -- no, my responsibility to keep you safe. If you go off without proper protection, you could get attacked. If you go off without proper protection, you could get shot. If you go off without proper protection, you could die. If that happens, sir, it's on my shoulders. Whatever it is that you're doing -- is it worth your life?"

John took a deep breath, and a silence filled the room. He looked at the walls and his desk, his books and the hallway beyond his office, and finally responded. "No."

Ron nodded quickly. "Okay." He turned to leave, and his hand was on the doorknob when Hoynes called out.

"Agent?"

Ron looked over his shoulder. "Yes, sir?"

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, sir."


* * *


The day, Leo decided, was never going to stop getting worse. "We look like idiots," he declared.

"You don't need to tell me that," C.J. said, following him into his office.

"You went in there uninformed." He held up a hand when she started to speak. "I know, it's not your fault. Still. It's embarrassing. What do you have for the next briefing?"

"I have Sam's statement of vague support."

"Good." Leo sat down behind his desk. "And?"

"And I'm denouncing the picture as misleading, biased, and unreliable."

"Are you really saying unreliable? It's a photograph."

"It's blurry. I'm working with that." She yawned. "Excuse me. Is the President on his way over yet?"

Leo glanced at the clock on his wall. "Ten of six? Charlie's probably waking him up right now."

C.J. smiled dryly. "I'm not jealous of his job, at least."

Margaret opened the office door and leaned in. "Leo? Toby's--" Toby stepped past her. "Here," she finished, lamely, and shut the door again.

Leo and C.J. looked at Toby expectantly. Toby brandished a folder. "We got him."

Leo leaned forward. "Tell me."

"Does the name Christy Cable ring any bells with you?" Toby asked. Leo shook his head. "Well, that's probably because you're a rational, thinking person."

"I know that name," C.J. said, thoughtfully. "Is he the one who drives around shouting ethnic and sexual slurs at tourists?"

"Out of the window of his yellow Chevette," Toby confirmed derisively. "Guy publishes a newsletter -- and by 'publishes' I mean he drops it off at Kinko's -- called 'Right Power'. He's also a frequent caller to right-wing talk radio shows."

"He hates our guts," C.J. summarized.

"Him, and a couple million other people," Leo said. "Well?"

"Christy Cable has a criminal record -- a couple counts of trespassing from protest rallies, a couple disturbing the peace -- but he's stopped short of actual stalking." Toby didn't need to consult the file; he'd already memorized its contents. "His cousin, Travis Cable, seventeen years old, flunked out of high school, helps him deliver these newsletters."

"Ah," C.J. said. "Travis Cable waits tables, maybe?"

Toby smiled humorlessly. "Travis Cable works at the Madison."

"A teenage boy," Leo said, flatly.

Toby continued. "Phone records show that someone called Christy's apartment from the pay phone in the lobby of the Madison, twenty minutes after midnight. The call lasted about five minutes."

"A teenage boy."

"And a radical bigot," C.J. added. "The biggest newspapers in the country bought a cruddy picture from a guy who painted 'Slaves obey your masters' on the hood of his El Camino."

"Chevette," Toby corrected, automatically.

"Whatever!" C.J. was exasperated. "Isn't there something we can do about this guy legally?"

"Technically, Cable didn't break any laws," Toby said, frowning. "You'd think it would be libel, or something."

"Unfortunately, it's not libel if it's the truth." Leo sat back in his chair and consulted some notes. "I'm having this Tim Bayliss brought in. C.J., I want you in there with me."

C.J. looked uncomfortable, briefly. "Yes, sir."

He turned to Toby. "Good work finding this guy. The President's going to want everything you've got on him."

"By the end of the hour I'll know his damn genetic code," Toby guaranteed.

As he left Leo's office, Margaret hovered in the doorway. "I didn't know he was going to march past me like that, you know," she said, abruptly.

"For heaven's sake, Margaret, who cares?" Leo put his glasses on and rummaged through the files on his desk. "It's Toby, not the Iraqi president."

"Can I get anyone anything?"

"More coffee," C.J. requested, plaintively.

Leo got up and handed Margaret a sticky note with a phone number. "I need you to make a call."


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