Detonations from the Minor Leagues

Synopsis: If you loathe John Hoynes you might want to skip this
one. :)
Characters: POV minor characters.
Spoilers: Mentions events from season one and from TSF onwards.
Archive: No archiving, thanks.
Disclaimer: All of these people belong to Aaron Sorkin and a large
multinational conglomerate. I intend no infringement of Mr. Sorkin's
intellectual property rights because he's far more intellectual than
I and most likely owns property, which I do not. Note to
multinational conglomerate: I have no money or assets and don't look
like having money or assets any time soon.
Author's Note: Laurelin Vernét is a pen name.

****

Candy debated with herself for a moment, looked down at her cell
phone and decided to switch it off. She had been fielding calls all
day and truth be told she was a little tired of it. Everyone from
journalists to the leadership to the guy in the mess who gave her an
extra dollop of cream in her coffee: they all wanted to know what she
knew. That is, aside from their neighbors across the road. From them
there was nothing but silence. No queries, no summons, no détente, no
nothing.

Today, calls for the Vice President were lucky to get through. His
supporters wanted him. Those who had hated him all along wanted him.
Those who dumped him when a populist, gold egg-laying goose invaded
from the north, well, they wanted him more than anyone else. He had
been to the White House unasked, after they heard the news but he
wasn't going to do it again. He didn't have to beg.

In some ways Candy wasn't surprised about the silence. The White
House had other things on its mind. But they had to be wondering,
right? Wondering whether celebrity golf and broom closets were going
to come back and explode in their faces, perhaps.

What was it the party strategists said to her? A huge fundraiser so
it's gotta be Hoynes. That hadn't helped him last time, she noted,
yet now it was "Save the party, John! Ya gotta run, John! You have
our full support, John!" Candy tried to picture her boss as the
knight on a white steed riding into Congress to save all the scared
little politicians. All she got was his acerbic voice saying that
idealism was all very well and good but he preferred getting work
done rather than just talking about it. His incurable preference for
practicalities often got him into trouble. In Iowa, for instance.

Today he looked tired. Today he didn't look at all presidential.
Today he didn't even look interested. Sitting slightly apart from the
others in the room, divorced from the waving arms around him, his
eyes followed the arguments but he looked almostbored. No,
expressionless, that was the right word. Mostly. The waving arms all
had coffee and so did he, but every now and again he'd glance into
the cup as though he'd prefer something a little stronger.

Candy could sympathize with the sentiment; even Russell and Gillette
were sliming up to him. They could do great things together; they
could take the White House. Blah blah. Like it was a beachhead. He
had taken the meetings. Of course, he had. He had taken this one,
too. It was his future on the line as well as the President's.

But when people asked her if Vice President Hoynes had known about
President Bartlet's illness, all she could reply was "The Vice
President has no statement at this time." She didn't know what he
knew. When she was asked what Vice President Hoynes intended to do in
light of the President's revelation, she could only repeat "The Vice
President has no statement at this time." She didn't know what he was
going to do.

And as she watched him grimace down into his cup again, Candy
realized that he didn't know either.

****

Nancy remembered the last time the Vice President had come in like
this "Did the President have a minute?" and the way he stood with
his head bowed, gazing into nothing. But today the President didn't
have a minute, didn't want to have a minute, didn't pause then
say, "Yeah, okay" and she had said, "No, I'm sorry, sir." She
couldn't even remember what excuse she gave him; what she did
remember clearly was the antipathy on Leo McGarry's face when she
said Hoynes had asked to speak to the President.

She stared at her hands spread out flat on her desk and wished that
Mrs. Landingham were here. There would be trouble, as Margaret would
say, but Mrs. Landingham would have known what to do. Perhaps she
should pass the task to Leo in exchange for the face he'd made.

The Vice President had stood in the same way this time, looking down
at the floor with his hands clasped behind his back. He didn't look
into the Oval Office to see that the President wasn't on the phone or
in an important meeting. When she said the President wasn't
available, Hoynes looked up and under the narrow glare his guise of
humble foot soldier vanished. He met her eyes and Nancy knew he could
tell she was lying. He gave a tense, fuse-lit gunpowder smile and
with a shrug, thanked her for her time.

"Should I let your office know when the President is free, sir?"
Nancy had asked. How could you not have known? Then she remembered.
The Vice President hadn't been in town and it wasn't as though they
talked to his staff unless it was absolutely necessary.

He nodded, thanked her again and left. His Press Secretary was
standing in the doorway with her arms folded tightly and she gave a
faint protest of "But, sir." He touched the woman's arm, shook his
head, and kept walking. The Press Secretary shot a look at Nancy and
with a final, venomous glance at the Oval Office door, turned to
follow him.

Nancy stood as Leo McGarry walked out of the Oval Office, his
polite "Thank you, sir" in ritual answer to the President's "Thank
you, Leo." They're like Laurel and Hardy, she thought distractedly,
irreverently.

"Leo? The Vice President asked if his office could be told when the
President has time to see him."

Today, tomorrow, never?

Leo regarded her for a moment in silence. He turned back to the Oval
Office, knocked on the door and went in without waiting for a
response. Nancy waited a breath before switching on her computer's
screensaver. The cold war continued; it was time for her break.

****

Mildred kept her head down. There was no jovial "I'm the President of
the United States" this time. The rest of the patter was the same
"I have an Energy Secretary who's never changed a light bulb in his
life!" but he gave her an icy look as he came into the Cabinet Room
and she realized that he knew it had been her. She was on notice: any
query from any journalist and she'd be hawking her skills elsewhere.

The President was on time for this Cabinet meeting. It was the Vice
President who was late. Not really late, not enough to be noticed by
anyone who wasn't looking. What did she hear Mr. McGarry say
once? "Flying under the radar." That was it. He didn't sit next to
the President, nor did he contribute a great deal to the meeting. He
was keeping his head down, too.

Catch-22: you're screwed either way, Mr. Vice President.

"What do you think, John?"

Mildred froze and fixed her gaze on her notepad. Incoming! The Vice
President lifted his shoulders up then down, just ever so slightly,
and she wondered absently if there was some French ancestry in there
somewhere. Hoynes was an English name. Old English, Anglo-Saxon, pre-
1066: she had looked it up.

"Mr. President," he replied, neutrally.

Couldn't hang anything on that blank tone. Except. Even if you were
invited, you shouldn't have done it. Didn't you know you weren't
allowed to make speeches in New Hampshire? You know now, don't you?

"Was that a "Yes, Mr. President" or a "No, Mr. President" there,
John?'

It was the cheerful tone that chilled Mildred the most and it
occurred to her that maybe this wasn't a punishment for John Hoynes,
maybe it was a test for her. The Vice President carefully turned the
pen in his hand, then leaned back in his chair before facing
President Bartlet. She risked a look around the room; the Cabinet
were all carefully studying the agenda. Oh, what a lovely war.

"That was a`Mr. President'Mr. President." His was a perfect, silver-
dollar smile; John Hoynes roped-lined only when he had to.

She held her breath but President Bartlet just laughed and the
meeting went on. When it finally broke up, she scurried out of the
room but bumped into the Vice President at the door. Going somewhere
in a hurry, sir? She dropped everything and he bent down to help her
pick them up.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said.

"No, it was my fault," he replied. He handed over her handbag, her
pen and notepad, gave her a quick smile and went to join his waiting
staff.

Mildred saved the minutes and emailed a copy to her supervisor for
approval then started preparing labels for the hard copies. She
paused as she typed in the Vice President's office address and
thought about the fury she had seen in his face just before he turned
to Josiah Bartlet. Then she thought of the smile he had given her and
his staff who had encircled him like a human shield.

She hadn't voted for the President.

****

There were flowers on her desk this morning. He did that. Sometimes
it was because she was the best personal assistant anyone could have,
let alone the Vice President of the United States; other times it was
just because she was there, like when she stayed late the night Mr.
McGarry wanted to see him about the gun control bill. He had frowned
and Janeane casually said she was staying back because she had a
report to finish typesetting. He had given her a wry smile and there
were white roses on her desk the next morning. This time they were
pink.

She looked across her office. Hoynes v Sluman wasn't that well-known
a war so Janeane hadn't thanked Toby Ziegler when he came in for the
opportunity he had given her boss for yet another slapdown of the PPA
chairman. She'd merely said the Vice President was running late.
Ziegler said he'd wait; he only needed a few minutes, if the Vice
President could spare the time. Could she take a message? No, he
said, she couldn't. Every now and again, one of the staff would come
in with messages and paperwork; Janeane was fairly sure after the
fifth person wandered in ostensibly to grab a cookie that word
was spreading. Ziegler seemed a little agitated but she was unsure if
that was normal or not.

Janeane suddenly realized that he was watching her and stared back
a sniper's gaze, just to bother him before she asked, "Can I get
you a coffee, Mr. Ziegler?"

He sat back in his chair with a look of vague surprise and rubbed one
of his hands over his balding pate. The rising inflection on his
softly voiced "No" made it sound like a question. She pressed a
cookie on him; thank you, but he didn't want anything. Janeane went
back to her work, satisfied.

She was actually surprised that he had come to the OEOB to see the
Vice President instead of seeing him at the White House. Or worse.
Despite the always politely worded "Would the Vice President have a
few minutes spare to step across to see Leo McGarry?" she got from
Margaret, she had no doubt what was really said was "Get Hoynes over
here." And he went. She hated that they thought he'd just accept
being their collateral damage as if he had no opinions of his own.
Always, he went. Janeane glared across the room at Toby Ziegler and
it startled him into small talk.

"Uh, will the Vice President be much longer, do you think?"

"Depends on the sewing circle," Janeane busied herself at the
computer.

"Sewing circle?"

"They won a prize," she snapped.

"Last week, didn't he?"

"Quilts," Janeane interrupted him. "They won a prize, too."

"The President made a speech to trout fishermen," Ziegler tried to
one-up her.

Janeane was willing to allow, albeit grudgingly, that President
Bartlet might also have to do some pretty trivial stuff. "Does he
fish?"

"No," Ziegler said, again with that odd, softly rising inflection. He
steepled his fingers and gave her a mournful, hangdog look.

Janeane turned her head to the door, then stood beside her desk,
hands clasped together. Ziegler shifted in his chair. She smiled as
the two agents walked in and managed to get a grimace from one.
Choosing to believe that he'd really made a face at the White House
Communications Director, Janeane wondered what would happen if she
screamed and pointed at Ziegler. The only person she knew for sure
who would find it funny was John Hoynes.

He was laughing as he came in with Candy and Mark. She loved it when
he forgot to leave on his politician façade and as she watched the
mask slip back into place to usher Toby Ziegler into his office,
Janeane stopped him.

"Mr. Vice President?"

He turned in query and she beamed at him, touching the flowers. He
quirked an eyebrow at her but the answering smile lit his face.
They'd been together a long time.

"You're spoilt," Candy commented.

"Yes," Janeane said. "Yes, I am."

****

It almost felt like trespass. He was sitting alone, scribbling on a
notepad, unheeding of the rush going on about him. Carol looked
around but the rest of them weren't in sight. `Them' was how they
were referred to around the west wing. It was a little nicer than
what they called the First Lady's staff; after all, the Vice
President's people weren't completely amateurs.

She wandered over to be polite. "Hey Mark, how you doing?"

The scratching of the pen stopped and she could see him take a breath
before he looked up to acknowledge her. "I'm just finishing something
off," he excused. "Waiting for the boss. I'll be out of your way in a
minute."

The boss, Carol considered. "Hey, no problem. The Vice President has
a press conference?" If so, why aren't you there?

"Toby Ziegler asked to see him," Mark shook his head.

"Ah," Carol nodded sagely. Change the subject, Carol. Nothing
important. Travel seemed innocuous enough. "Where you guys headed
this afternoon?"

"Florida," he said, shortly.

"Lucky you. I hear the Vice President's got a pretty good handicap,"
she persevered, resisting the temptation to wisecrack, "and his
name's Bartlet."

"Yes. He has."

A real conversationalist today, Carol sighed. "Well, have a great
time!"

"Yeah, thanks," Mark stood. He headed off, paused in the doorway and
said, "Hey Carol?"

"Yuh?" Carol spun back to him.

"He hates golf."

"What?"

"The Vice President. He hates golf."

"Oh, uh, what" Carol stuttered, trying to dodge the landmine that
was about to fling itself under her feet, "what does he like?" Nice
one, Carol, she chided herself.

"He likes jogging, he likes camping. But they're not really Vice
Presidential, are they," Mark sniped. Then a little less
forcefully, "He plays racquetball."

"Camping?" Carol repeated. Hoynes didn't seem particularly outdoorsy.

`Yeah," he nodded. "He's giving a speech in New Hampshire next
Friday. Whole thing's been planned for weeks: speech then the weekend
camping in Vermont."

"Not golf," Carol winced slightly, in memory of the celebrity golf
tournament jokes that went around the west wing each time Hoynes
headed off to Georgia or Florida. "Then why?"

"Not golf," Mark agreed. "It bores him to death." He shrugged at her
in a gesture of farewell. "Other people play golf."

There was really no answer to that. As Carol stood frowning after
Mark, there was a voice behind her.

"You don't think of it, do you?" It was Ginger, couriering paperwork
to CJ.

"Huh?"

"Them. He's not the President, is he," Ginger said. "You don't think
of them liking their guy; you don't think of anyone liking him."

"No" Carol nodded, slowly. "No, you don't."

Boom

And for a moment, Carol imagined she could hear the sound of
detonations, one after another, echoing all the way through the west
wing and into the Oval Office.

FINIS