Author: Regency
Title:
Win, Lose, or Also-Ran
Rating: PG for a bit of swearing.
Sub-chapter summary: Nothing ever goes downhill slowly;
not even the campaign with everything pulling for it and nothing against it. Well, almost nothing.
Author's Notes: I wasn't
kidding about the wanting to kill me part. It's expected.
~!~
The Vice President could have been having a better day today. Their numbers were beginning to backslide, the tabloids
were out for blood, and, according to the pollsters, women were not his biggest fans. Scratch that, some women adored him.
The problem was the only ones that adored him were political groupies with delusions of grandeur and a woman who wasn’t
his wife but carried his heart around in her pantsuit pocket.
The first one, he didn’t want to think about ever again. She’d been young enough to be naïve and old enough
to keep him out of prison. Regardless, she’d been doting and persistent. A diligent student, she’d been one of
the most visibly thrilled attendees of a talk he’d given at UNC-Chapel Hill. He’d been glad
to be more than lukewarmly received. He supposed his working status as a Blue Dog moderate had earned him
a fair number of fans here. He’d come to earn more for himself and the ticket.
He’d only even given her a chance because she reminded him so much of Hillary. The twang was different—and
he had to admit, moderately alluring—but she spoke with endless knowledge on anything he could conceive of.
He’d wanted to get to know this girl better. Hell, he’d wanted to hire her for the campaign. If they could
use anything, it was another wonk in shouting distance. She’d been flawless in an auditorium setting.
She’d only become a disaster when he got her alone.
Note to self, invest in chaperones. Doesn’t matter who it is, as long as they make sure I’m never alone
with another person of the opposite—scratch that, any—sex ever again.
He ran his fingers across his face as he looked into the pristine mirror of the bathroom he’d retreated half
an hour ago. He’d peed, he’d paced, he’d splashed water on his face like it was going out of style. This
nightmare wasn’t over yet. This girl was going to be a thing. He could already hear the masses lighting up their torches
and sharpening their pitchforks for the hunt.
She’s young, she’s pretty. She’s Monica personified with Hillary characteristics. He closed
his eyes. Oh, God. Evan had never wished for death as much as he did right now. If he just up and died, Hillary might
just be able to replace him with someone not tainted by a nonexistent sex scandal. Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy, do your
worst.
He tried envisioning how she’d find out. He didn’t want to, hated even imagining it, but he had to. He
was her attack dog, he was her guy. Having her back was his job. He’d failed badly
at it today.
He wanted to shout as loudly and clearly as he was able that he hadn’t done anything. One moment the girl had
been remarking on the growth of his liberal record from his time in the Senate to his time as VP; the next moment she’d
been a little bit of everywhere, all over him. It had not been good and he’d been at a loss for what to do.
His immediate reaction had been, “What the hell?” which, while unbelievably inappropriate, had gotten his
point across fairly well. She’d pulled away and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. For a crazy woman,
she seemed to be completely sane when she did this. Her dubious claims to sanity were supported when she
responded to his question about what the hell she was thinking.
She reached over and grabbed his left hand to show him his bare ring finger. He’d begun cursing inwardly then
and hadn’t stopped since. It hadn’t helped that she wasn’t stupid.
“I forgot to put it on this morning,” fell flat at her crossed arms and tipped head.
“You don’t have a band.” She’d rolled her eyes at his oblivious expression and explained how
he should have had a pale band of skin where his ring had always rested. It was gone—long gone, to
tell the truth—and she’d noticed it. She was an attractive woman and he an attractive man. She’d
put the pieces together from moment one, she’d said, and just about everything else had fallen apart from there.
After he’d gone on to say that it was all a big misunderstanding, she’d enquired as to whether he was already
seeing someone else. He’d been completely unsure what to say. Evidence hadn’t
exactly been in his favor. She’d given him a coy look and began naming off some of the most eligible women in public
life. He hadn’t budged on a single woman…until she got to the most eligible and least attainable woman of them
all.
The very woman he already had.
He could face down a deadlocked congress and knock some partisan heads together to get legislation passed easy; but,
he couldn’t stomach questioning by a presumptuous co-ed who was too bright for her own good—and for his.
He’d thought her amused “I see” had been the crux of his nightmare. It turned out that when things
couldn’t possibly get any worse that they still usually found a way.
When his political instincts had told him to run, the gentleman in him had just managed not to throw the petite young
thing aside in search of an escape route. Thus, when the door opened and the dean of the school stepped inside, they were
still too close for comfort—or propriety.
Adding misconception to catastrophe, Evan had jumped up and left the room to sound of, “It was pleasure to meet
you, Mr. Vice President.” He had responded terribly under the circumstances, which wasn’t like him. When the going
got tough, he stuck to his guns. This time he just couldn’t. There wasn’t enough subterfuge in the world to ward
off both the girl and the dean at the same time.
Just like there wasn’t enough honesty in the world to make up for all the nasty things Hillary would have heard
by the time he got back to her side. He seriously considered calling it a day right then. He could have written a letter and
laid it all out for her in black and white—and run for the hills before she ever read it. Nice stationery, heavy stock,
with an impressive letterhead. He could have done it and chances were that the President could have survived that.
Evan
just didn’t think he could have survived that.
A
little over three years ago, he’d promised to be her partner-in-crime and her friend. He’d become so much more
since, then. What remained, what would always remain, was that he had her back.
He
straightened the knot in his tie and dusted a bit of hair from his shoulder.
He’d
always have her back, even if that was all he ever had again.
~!~
He entered the suite as she was pouring herself another drink. She’d had more than a few tonight
and she wasn’t totally lucid anymore, but he looked good for a man with a reputation. Instead of
taking the sip she wanted so much, she offered the snifter to him. He didn’t say a word, but downed
it in one. On any other day, she would have applauded his skill and prowess. Today, she’d be glad if she succeeded in
not punching him in the face.
She didn’t need the news report she’d gotten today. She didn’t need Huma cautiously telling her that
that speculation was beginning about Vice President’s Bayh’s fidelity. She didn’t need to be asked whether
they should find Susan’s contact information, so that Hillary could call. Because, after all, Hillary understood.
She didn’t need to be reminded who the world would think he was really hurting if he strayed.
Most of all, she didn’t need this shit in her re-election campaign. They'd fallen dead in the water before and,
now, they were actively sporting a leak. That’s what had triggered an emergency strategy conference
with the party leadership in this very room. Had she known they were all within a couple of hours' traveling
distance of North Carolina, she would have made damn sure not to be here. But here she’d been and
here she’d stay. The question remained, Could Evan?
He drank and she drank vicariously through him. She was buzzed enough and at least one of them of was going to need
a cool head for the conversation that was coming.
Hindsight, my name is Hillary. What great vision you have. She might have laughed at her
internal attempt at ha-ha humor if she weren’t so worried she’d puke in the process. She wasn’t that far
gone, but she was that nauseous. She didn’t want to be wrong about a man twice in a row; she couldn’t be that
faulty at love.
“The National Enquirer has a very interesting story to tell,” she began.
Evan turned to her and blinked. He put down the empty glass and waited. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed, nodding. She read him as she walked away, seeking signs of discomfort
or anxiety. He seemed mostly curious, mostly harmless. Mostly so much like the man who looked me in the eye and
said, “Honey, there’s no truth to that.” She could barely stand it, so she stopped standing.
The chair she planted herself in was built for beauty, not comfort and she knew so immediately. Her
back ached and it spread up along her spine and across her shoulders like the plague. It was a confluence of tension and chronic
back and hip pain so pointed she could weep. Oh, joy, she thought. Oh, fucking joy.
“Nothing happened,”
he began with hands wide open.
She would have looked at him sideways if she’d thought she could believe her lying eyes. “Okay.”
“I wouldn’t lie about this.”
Hillary sucked her teeth and guffawed at his earnestness. “Of course not, sweetheart. Maybe
you simply fell in love with her while you were falling out of love with me.” She stood up
when her body couldn’t take the strain and walked away. She didn’t acknowledge the slight limp in her step that
had flared up with the pain. She also didn’t acknowledge the shuffling of his feet on the carpet.
He’d want to come to her, to massage the hurt until it stopped or until she stopped caring. That
was the very last thing she wanted right now.
How she wished that were true.
~!~
They really should have talked about all this when it first happened. It was a small snafu at that point, could be
easily corrected with a press release and maybe a conference. It could have been fine.
But the dean talked too much.
The girl was quiet as a church mouse and the words cover-up and pay-off were said so often that they
Clinton-Bayh ticket had a new title: Bank of America.
Hillary wanted to rage, she wanted to defend the man she loved. She wanted this whole thing to go away.
She wanted to believe him more than she wanted to any of that. Yet, at this point, she couldn’t even look at
him, much less talk to him. That fact was probably hurting them more than anything.
She couldn’t support him if she couldn’t believe him. This wasn’t 1998, this was
2012; she was supposed to be better at discerning a liar at 100 paces. How could she expect the American public to trust her
if she couldn’t even trust her judgment of character after all these years?
Simple answer: they didn’t. Her numbers went down with his—in fact, more than his.
Of course, the great unseen Susan’s were on the rise. She’d been a notable absence in
the primary campaign thus far and it looked like she’d stay that way. She didn’t have to show her face, everyone
loved her now. She was the wronged wife, the betrayed spouse.
If Hillary had ever been this jealous in her life, she couldn’t remember it now. She envied her, because at least
she got to be mad and hurt and offended. Hillary didn’t get that. She had to be the consummate pol, poker face always
in place, smile on snug and secure. If she cracked, there’d be questions they couldn’t answer.
If she cracked, they’d all wonder why.
She couldn’t tell them why since there was a good chance that the very reason would be out on his ass in a matter
of days.
The leadership hadn’t come for Pictionary. They’d noted some concerning trends in the
numbers even before. Evan was a drag on the ticket. Women didn’t love him and
men were unsure of him. Her numbers with both were better. People wanted to see him with his wife, they wanted to see that
adorable family they’d been sold on years before. “Absentee fathers don’t sell,”
they’d said.
“Neither do cheating husbands,” said the call she’d gotten four hours later. It was a little
more irony than she could stomach, but she carried on.
Every argument she made for keeping him on sounded like an echo of other people from the past. It was far from funny
how right those people had turned out to be.
“Hate the allegations, love the mind,” she'd remarked valiantly. “He’s brilliant. I can’t
let him walk away. He’s exactly what this country needs. He’s what I need with me at the helm.” Personal
betrayal aside, he was perfect. She trusted him, mostly.
“You’ll have to do without him,” said the DNC chairman of the day. She’d picked him, but there
was only so good a friend he could be. She heard Terry sigh and she knew it was all coming back to him,
too. “You may be willing to risk the White House on this guy, but I’m not willing to risk Congress.
Either send him back to wherever he came from or...Hillary, I can’t assure you the nomination.”
To her, it sounded like he hated to say it. Yet, it couldn’t have been more than she’d hated to hear it.
“I understand, Terry. Guess I’ll just have to pull off another miracle.”
“I guess you will.” She heard him take a deep breath and click the top of his pen. He was always doing
that. “You’re not running unopposed, y’know. He’s coming for you again.”
Hillary sat back—on the bed, not the chair; she wasn’t that well recovered. “That’s all right.
The first time was just practice. I’ll hand-deliver his ass this time.”
She could almost hear that gleeful grin. “I can’t wait to see it.”
Frankly, neither could she. She had no idea how she was going to do it.
Next Part
Last Part
