And The World Stood Still

by:SheilaVR

Character(s): Jed & Co.
Category(s): General
Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.
Author's Note:I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place.

Even Presidents had to break for meals, so certainly anyone further down the ladder was constrained to do the same. Exactly when the tradition started has been lost in American antiquity, but as a rule food was not allowed in the Oval Office, the President's personal coffee and a water pitcher being the sole exceptions. Briefings of any length where beverages and munchies might be served were always scheduled for some boardroom, even if the Chief Executive found this less convenient. So far at least, no Chief Executive had formally complained.

One advantage to this, besides keeping the Presidential Seal free from crumbs and stains, was to force the President to break for proper meals. Whether he returned to the Residence, chatted with a confidant, entertained an official visitor or just snacked alone someplace, he left his desk, its phone and its workload to do so. Definitely healthier.

All this to say that John Hoynes encountered far more resistance than he'd run into on any other subject yet when he requested that his lunch be served right at the President's desk. Apparently this article was *not* open for amendment. Which forced him to go elsewhere, and since the Residence was off-limits and no other public meeting or private rendezvous had been arranged, he resigned himself to ordering a mere sandwich and finding a quiet corner on his own. Certainly the Vice-President was above joining the line at the cafeteria.

An added nuisance, from *his* point of view at least, was that such short internal trips were not deemed to merit a Secret Service escort... thereby depriving him of the most prevalent symbol to his promotion. Some people just could not grasp the importance of this.

In any event, he marched back to "his" Office as soon as possible. Reveling in *that* great distinction, at least.

Only to find that it was not empty.

At the sight of someone *else* seated behind that desk he braked dead.

Perfectly cast by sunlight through ceiling-high windows, the profile was rather unmistakable, never mind the hubris on the part of *anyone* else at being in that particular spot.

"Mr. President!"

The *real* occupant of this office looked around. "John."

They were face to face at last.

Slowly, the Vice-President approached. Having little choice. Feeling positively cheated. And hurt, and angry. That had been *his* spot only minutes ago.

Could the presidential hiatus be over *already*?

He hadn't had two full days yet. This wasn't fair!

As he got closer, he could see the dressing-gown, the splint and bandages, the pallor and bruises. And then he saw the wheelchair.

The leather seat of supreme authority had been moved aside to make room for Bartlet's currently required method of locomotion.

Hoynes glanced around, but there was no one else present - not even Charlie Young. If the President could already propel himself around unaided, then his full recovery and return to duty would not be long away.

Well, so much for the new and improved administration. DAMN!

The Vice-President managed not to let any of these less-than-supportive thoughts show. He really had no choice. He just walked up to the desk's front edge and silently stood there, his clenched fists out of sight. As he'd always had to do in the past - before yesterday.

And, somehow, *un*clenched his jaw. No point now in raging over what could not be, despite all his fervent wishing. "Well, welcome back, sir."

Bartlet smiled wanly. Was that because he knew just how sincere his subordinate was *not?*

Or, perhaps he didn't feel so well after all...

"No, John, this is just a moment of nostalgia. I know I'm not up to the workload yet." He leaned back - much the way Hoynes himself had on his first arrival, yet without any arrogance at all. When you really possess such power, you don't have to flaunt it. "Besides, this chair is a bit too low. I feel like my entire perspective of the world has changed somehow."

Perhaps it was the wheelchair itself, and all it represented in terms of illness and injury, rather than just the reduced height. When a person can do almost nothing without aid, then just about every aspect of life enters a whole new light.

Reassured, somewhat, that his own cherished time in that leather seat might not be over just yet after all, the Vice-President managed to accept his old niche without too much ill grace. "How are you feeling?"

"Don't ask." With some effort Bartlet used his good hand to carefully place his splinted arm on the desktop, and leaned forward on both. He looked tired, and pale, which only showed off the dark bruise half-encircling his left eye and the red abrasion across his right cheekbone to full effect. The white gauze headband helped hold his rumpled hair in check. Still, his eyes seemed clear enough.

Hoynes smiled despite himself. "If you don't mind my saying, sir, I'm reminded of 'The Red Badge of Courage'."

The President touched his wrapped forehead at that thought, and flickered a grin. "Well, I feel like I've been through the wars, I can tell you. And not just because of that little contretemps with the limo, either. If my doctor *and* my wife didn't insist so much that all these drugs do help the healing process, I'd never go near 'em."

He sounded utterly *himself*; such a personal rebellion was typical of his character. And yet, there *might* have been a quaver in his tone that hinted at the uncontrolled pain beneath.

A heavy sigh confirmed this. "It's so frustrating when you need help all the time. I can't wait until my left arm is strong enough to do its full share of the work."

"I imagine." A neutral enough comment that masked rising irritation. How dare the President keep him standing like this?

Bartlet looked aside, then back again. "Oh, speaking of which: John, could you just move me around here, please?"

For one eternal heartbeat the Vice-President was sorely tempted to refuse. Fortunately, his sense of self-preservation reasserted itself in time. "Sure."

He stepped behind the desk and took his position at the chair's back. Incensed by this deceptively simple request, resenting the menial role more deeply with every second; it seemed to epitomize his position of political powerlessness and the obscurity of living in the presidential shadow. Both sets of knuckles grew white on the handgrips, and not because of the mild exertion required to make four rubber wheels roll across carpet.

Thinking... what?

"Funny thing," the President mused as his conveyance slowly came about, "I never noticed before how many sharp corners there are in this room." The handsomely-carved century-old "Resolute" desk had four hardwood points alone. He touched one idly in passing. "A person could fall against almost anything around here and half-kill himself."

Behind him, safely out of direct view, Hoynes' mouth tightened.

Oblivious, Bartlet continued to talk to himself. "Of course, in *my* case that would just about finish the job."

Knuckles *and* arms tensed even more. Evidence of fast-rising emotions.

"Good thing I've got a reliable source of propulsion, huh?"

It was as if the President knew exactly how the *Vice*-President thought and felt. How much he hated playing second fiddle. How much he wanted that leather chair for his own.

The scary thing is, the temptation did exist, undeniably, to take it.

By force. NOW.

Hoynes would be less than human to have never at least thought about it. Of course, he had never actually *considered* it.

Not before this moment.

And never before had the idea been so strong a siren call. Like a long-chained demon, beating furiously against the sole barrier left - the fear of legal prosecution. A barrier wearing thinner with each passing second.

Of course the Oval Office was exempt from official surveillance, both audio and video. No one could have any possible *factual* grounds to doubt the Vice-President's version of whatever might happen next.

It'd be so *easy*. Just one good shove in the right direction -

In Bartlet's current precarious health, a mere tap on the head could...

Hoynes wouldn't have to wait two and a half years more, and another four after that if the President won a second term - nor would he have to risk losing his own election to a fickle populous. He could have *everything*... without waiting any longer at all...

Did The Man possess ESP? Could he sense the very real threat right behind him, and that it was growing? Was his only hope to nip it in the bud?

Or was he, for reasons of his own, deliberately taunting the person with the greatest possible motive in the world into a murder attempt? If so, he had to have some kind of defense handy, just in case -

Or *was* he in fact completely unaware of this second dire threat to his existence in less than four days... at the hands of someone he trusted?

The man who would be President hesitated dangerously, teeth bared -

Before those riotous thoughts could come to a full boil, the moment broke. The President indicated where he wanted to be. Right in front of his desk, away from any convenient impact. "Here's fine."

And, again, reluctant, seething, Hoynes obeyed. Not at all certain within himself of what he would have decided in one more moment -

Of course, there was still time to consider it further. This badly-injured and virtually strengthless Chief Executive could hardly put up a fight...

"Thanks. Now put my real chair back, would you?"

This time the Vice-President paused to look his superior full in the face. Hardly believing that such a degrading task had been asked of him. But Bartlet could not have appeared more innocent of any deliberate slight, watching him calmly.

It's hard to contemplate assault when your helpless and unsuspecting victim is smiling at you. Besides, killing the U.S. President takes a level of either fury or insanity that few indeed are capable of, thanks be to God.

So, yet again, Hoynes finally, silently yielded to his survival instinct rather than his pride, and shoved the large leather chair - not his *yet* - back where it belonged.

The Vice-President of the United States shifting furniture! He could almost make a case for presidential delusions right now.

What next? Carpet-cleaning? And how should he respond *then?*

Capitulate - or NOT?

And if not...

Hoynes straightened and waited, standing as before. There still hadn't been, nor would there likely be, an invitation to -

"Have a seat."

That caught him completely off-guard. His whole expression changed. Sit? In THIS chair? NOW?

Bartlet smiled a bit wider. "Go on. You have to get used to it anyway."

The Vice-President hesitated again, this time in amazement. Wondering if it could be some new kind of trick. But as the silence stretched out and his boss patiently waited, at last he reached out to swivel the chair towards him, and slowly descended into it.

This was not the same experience as the morning before, where he sauntered in and claimed it as his right when all of them knew it was not. This was more like being presented with it willingly by his predecessor: both exalting and humbling at the same time.

Having made himself comfortable, Hoynes finally had to look up again and meet the eye of said predecessor - who would also succeed him again before long.

And, in some unfathomable way the President, on the receiving side of his own desk, in a wheelchair and pajamas and bandages and too weak to even stand, still maintained that serene air of supreme authority. Another man may be occupying his virtual throne right now, but *he* remained very much the Commander-in-Chief of this great nation. Never in doubt.

How did he *do* that?

"I'm glad we have this chance to chat, John." Bartlet spoke now with quiet import. "You and I don't talk much these days, and we both know why. Which is really too bad. But never mind that now. There are a few things I want to discuss."

Ah, finally - the anticipated sermon about just how the *Acting* President was expected to handle this great responsibility. Did anyone honestly believe such *advice* would in fact be taken? This was HIS show now, and no one was going to tell him how to run it.

Not even President Josiah Bartlet himself.

"Constitutionally, *and* personally, I can't do without your help here. You know that. And I'm giving you my vote of confidence right now that you're up to it. But be warned: this job is gonna test your utmost abilities."

And his trustworthiness as well. But that could hardly be said aloud.

"That chair, and the person sitting in it, is the focus of the world. There's no escape from its envied influence or its awesome responsibility. Your prominence, and your risk, will increase as a result."

Hoynes didn't quite yawn, despite the simplicity of all this. The President would have his say, and the *Vice*-President could afford to be generous and endure it since *he* was the one in that chair.

"All of us are relying on you as the current custodian of the nation's future. And make no mistake: one day's decision may be just as vital as four whole years of choices, especially in a crisis. I don't want you to feel shortchanged because you don't have a full term ahead. Believe me, a day in this office would terrify and paralyze almost anyone. A short future can be every bit as important as a long one."

Hoynes nodded willingly enough. The concept was valid and thought-provoking. It also underscored the potential impact of his substitution, and made him feel less like a temporary stopgap measure that wasn't especially wanted or needed.

"People will certainly compare you to me - just as every other President is compared and contrasted to his predecessors. That's inevitable. And every President is still different, and every President has had to answer accordingly. You won't be able to just fall back on *my* policies here: you're going to have to make it largely on your own."

Hoynes looked more than slightly stunned at this - that he was not supposed to pretend to be Jed Bartlet the Second or some similar clone-like figurehead, and simply maintain the status quo. That he actually had *permission* to put his personal stamp on the next few weeks.

"You know as well as I do that public opinion is absolutely essential. Don't ignore it even for a short time, just because you don't expect to be here too long. This Office can go to your head - and I speak from direct experience on that. You won't want to endanger your career afterwards because some people have longer memories than elephants."

Every politician lived with that basic truth. Still, any adverse publicity could stain *both* of them for a long and unpleasant time. A reminder didn't hurt.

"Don't hesitate to rely on the people around you. It's not a sign of weakness or capitulation; you're making use of some very valuable resources at hand. When things go wrong, they can help. Hear them out, and then make your best call. That's what's expected, not a miracle cure. If it's the fault of others, don't rub their noses in it *too* much, or they'll be less inclined to work towards a solution or to offer input again later. And if the fault is yours, the staff *and* the public will know it no matter what you do. I can't help you there; no one can. The only safe path is just to admit it, learn from it, and move on."

This did sound a bit like Elementary Political Science 101, to be disregarded at greatest peril. Every politician knew it cold. But that didn't dilute its truth.

And not only that: the President did not sound condescending at all.

"You know, this is some opportunity you've got, John. Sure wish *I'd* had one like it. Neither Congress nor the Senate can prepare a man for the Oval Office. You have to learn it the hard way, by trial and error. Quite a few Vice-Presidents inherited it unexpectedly, and a couple others won their own elections, but that didn't train them any better. None of them ever got the chance to try running the White House on their own, even for a little while, before they had to do it for real. Well, today we're launching the exception to the rule. It's entirely possible that that chair will be fully *yours* one day. Consider this a dress rehearsal."

Several seconds ticked quietly past, where Hoynes could find no words at all. All of the anticipated pressure to conform, to do nothing untoward or individual, had not materialized. All of his carefully prepared and rehearsed resistance had to be scrapped, forcing him to rethink his whole campaign.

Now Bartlet relaxed and leaned back, his advisory role finished. "So, fill your boots. Take the ball and run with it. I want to stay in the loop, because if I *don't* I'll go insane. But I won't interfere in any way, shape or form - not until I'm certified to return."

And then he grinned. "Unless you ask my opinion, of course. *Then* you'll get it with both barrels."

Which was a far better bargain than Hoynes had ever expected. And far less contemptuous orders than he'd dared hope for. Perhaps - just perhaps - he wasn't permanently cast in the role of the villain in this democratic melodrama after all.

He still had every intention of some day becoming President in fact. Almost all VPs shared that dream. But *they'd* never personally held the reins of power during their predecessors' tenure, never been able to learn first-hand, to feel the influences and the pressures, to experiment, to make a *real* difference, while a more experienced man watched from the sidelines with advice and encouragement and assistance...

*This* Vice-President did not plan to waste such a big break. He would learn as much as he possibly could, make himself the very best candidate for this job's future openings... and when his own administration finally began - whenever that might be - he would know precisely how to handle it *right*.

Because the man he so envied was willing to help him, not judge him.

"Thank you very much, Mr. President." And for most of the last year and a half John Hoynes had gone out of his way to deny Jed Bartlet his deserved title at every safe chance. "I can't promise to be great at this, but I *can* promise to give it my very best shot."

The President nodded, as if he'd had no doubt. "I'll be perfectly happy with that."

What precisely motivated Hoynes to make this next move, even *he* wasn't sure. But after a pause for further reflection the young Vice-President rose from that plush leather chair, circled the desk, and extended a hand to his older, wiser Chief Executive in heartfelt gratitude.

Who smiled and took it firmly, despite his obvious aches and weariness.

When was the last time these two had indulged in such a personal formality? Certainly it would have been even longer since they used it as an expression of genuine friendship. Politics has an ugly tendency of driving friends and allies apart.

But here, now, the Vice-President seemed to be taking his own oath of office. A pledge, accepting this great trust with full comprehension for what it required of him, and committed to doing it properly.

Had the President been trying to scare him into behaving? Or to revitalize whatever embers of honest public service Hoynes' fierce ambitions had not completely smothered? Whichever it may be, the strategy just might have worked well enough to set them both firmly on the same side of the fence for the first time in a very long while.

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

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