Author's
Notes: There are some things I've condensed to avoid repetition. Hopefully that doesn't hurt the story too much. If you feel
it does, I'd be happy to do a separate one-shot of whatever event you want to see in more detail. This is the last post of
chapter five. The epilogue is next. So, enjoy and let me know what you think. Throttling is discouraged but CAPSLOCK is totally
acceptable.
~!~
She was sitting beside him when the filing
papers made Fox News and CNN. She was holding his hand by the time MSNBC caught up. By the time it was breaking news
on the broadcast networks, she was rubbing his back as he proceeded to get sick again.
The two of them might have been leaving this thing together but Susan was already gone.
Nearly twenty years of his life gone with the stroke of a pen. He was panting where she left him on the bathroom
floor. She came back with damp towel and mopped his face with it. He’d never looked so sad or so dazed.
She touched his cheek to bring him out of it.
“We can still do this, you know.” It wasn’t a question. She wasn’t accepting failure from her wingman
now. “Come back from this. Pull it together. Go to counseling in four years if you need it, but you have other
priorities now.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Like a haircut, for starters. Take care of this.
Then, move on.”
He leaned into her hand, nuzzling it in a tender, tired way. “The reason I’m so sick of myself—it’s
because I already have.”
She got down on the rug beside him and took his hand. “I’m not going to tell you that’s okay or that
it’s not. I’m, well, let’s say I’m a bit biased,” she teased gently and got a dimple for her
jibe. “But, I will say that it’s okay to know that something was over long before the papers were signed.
It’s okay to grieve for something as crucial as marriage. It’s okay to want to go back.”
“I just want my boys to understand.”
She kissed his forehead affectionately. “Someday they will. Like anything else, it will take time. Just let them
know how much you love them and the rest will take care of itself.”
“Even the electorate,” he asked without an ounce of hope to his voice.
Hillary smirked. “Nah, them we’ll take care of personally.” She slid her arms around him and let him
rest against her. “Between my pantsuits, your dimples, and our combined intelligence and charm, we’ll have
them eating out of our hands.”
He smirked right back. “Even though they think we were having an affair?”
She took on a feral grin. “Especially because they think we’re having an affair. Have you seen the primetime
lineups? Nothing this interesting ever happens on TV.” She nudged him in the side, playfully.
“If you say so, Madame President,” he conceded with all the deference of a puma on the prowl. She’d have
to deal with his reservations later on. For now, she just wanted him to smile.
“You bet your ass I say so, Mr. Vice President.” Mission accomplished.
“I knew you were checking me out earlier. I could feel the heat of your seductive gaze on my muscular thighs.”
She raised both eyebrows in surprise. “What books have you been reading in your spare time and how did you get them
out of my suitcase?”
He looked at guilelessly. “Chelsea just mailed me some old ones from Chappaqua. Your taste in reading material
would make the electorate cringe.”
She shrugged. “Only because they read them, too.” She was too old to be ashamed of the things she
enjoyed. Beautiful people and stunning prose was wonderful when she could get it. Happy endings were icing. Sometimes,
she enjoyed reading about things that it seemed she could never have.
He struggled onto his knees, where he was taller than her once again and pulled her close. “How do you think they’d
feel about a political bodice-ripper?”
She pouted her lips in false introspection. “Oh, I don’t know about that. It’ll depend on a few things.”
“Such as?” He rubbed his cheek against hers and she could feel that old, loving feeling revving up like new. With
it came just a flicker of panic, which she tamped down on as immediately as it arose. Things are better, she
told herself. They might even someday be good.
She rubbed right back and sighed in momentary disappointment. “Mmmm. I’m thinking mouthwash for one.” She
wound her arms around his neck. “Can’t kiss Prince Charming with that breath.”
His dimples flashed along with his eyes. “Just God’s way of saying there are more important things to do.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Such as?”
He played with the hem of her shirt. “Talk. Make up. Reconnect.”
“You really think all that is necessary?” He dragged the pads of his fingers distractingly down the center
of her back in answer and the last thing that made her want to do was talk.
She hadn’t wanted to talk through all this. She hadn’t wanted the chance to believe the lie if it was false
or see the truth if it was to be believed. She’d wanted to be oblivious. It was dangerous, but it was bliss. In
this one relationship in her life, that was something she’d wanted to keep.
“I know I can’t take back all the pain you’ve already been through, but I want you to know—just you—that
nothing mutual happened between that girl and me. She misunderstood and, boy, so did I.”
“You misunderstood her being on top of you?” Hillary was born on a day, certainly, but it was not yesterday.
That was something she thought that Evan must have figured out by now.
He narrowed his eyes. “What exactly did you hear?”
“That non-standard yoga positions were involved.”
He leaned away and looked at her suspiciously. “I don’t think anyone said that.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not, but I know what you’re capable of.”
“If I’d tried it on that couch, I’d be in traction and you’d know I was guilty.”
For Hillary, it was a sobering thought and she really couldn’t grin anymore. “How do I know you’re
not guilty anyway?” Smoothing his rumpled oxford shirt kept her from having to look at him. If she looked at him,
she’d believe him. They always seemed so sincere when she loved them.
“Because I paid, Hillary. I paid for something I did”—he kissed her hand—“by being punished
for something I did not do. I can accept that and all its implications…if you can.”
She patted his chest sweetly. “Of course, I can. It’s part of the job description.”
“Is loving me a job,” he asked and it seemed to her like he was waiting with bated breath for her answer.
There was no way he could understand all the demons he had rustled up with that question. They’d been close for
years, but there’d always be things she couldn’t share.
“Loving you isn’t a job, babe, but it makes one hell of a hobby.” She ruffled his fringe distractingly,
and he was diverted. “Haircut, first thing in the morning. I mean it,” she ordered with all the presidential sternness
she could muster.
She’d let him kiss her after the mouthwash, but she still wouldn’t stay till morning.
He didn’t need to know, as she’d shower that night, how urgently she’d fight to believe.
~!~
He combed his hair and buttoned his jacket.
They’d tap danced for a dream and it had panned out.
He waited anxiously outside her bedroom door for a quarter of an hour.
She’d slept next to him again for the first time June 6th.
He was about to summon the Secret Service when she stepped out to meet him.
Her challenger had refused to yield before the Convention.
He thanked God for kiss-proof lipstick.
He hadn’t shared a bed with her since.
His favorite coat of hers was the blue one.
He liked to clutch the fabric in his fingers, to trace the discreet pattern of intertwining leaves as it skimmed her hips.
Eyes everywhere, he’d consoled himself
then. Care had to be taken.
He pushed her against the back seat of the
suburban where they rode alone and no one could see. It wasn’t nearly enough.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t missed her.
They arrived at the convention center just in time. That didn’t mean he was ready to let go.
~!~
Angels had danced on pinheads or they two had made Someone upstairs very happy over the years.
They’d walked away with their necks and their nominations intact. They were saved.
Even if only for wont of a completely useless opposition.
Regardless, she was still there—and so was he.
She hoped that made a difference.
~!~
He was sitting beside her as the election results poured in. Chelsea was on her other side, clinging to her hand.
This could be history rewritten again or this could be the most unnecessary loss in Democratic record.
He watched the projection map with his heart in his throat. With the rumors, and his gaffes, and his weakness against loving
her, he could be the death of this administration. He could be the thing that brought her down.
He could have been…
They took New Hampshire.
Massachusetts.
Connecticut.
Maine; then, all the Atlantic states.
New York. He felt her take a shuddering breath. He resisted the urge to kiss the hand he daringly held.
Illinois. She grinned.
They owned Indiana.
Pennsylvania. He knew she was thinking Scranton and he gave her hand a squeeze. Someday, they’d have that cabin on the
lake.
Michigan and Florida. He wanted to write each voter a thank you note for even bothering after last election’s
debacle. He just might.
California.
Sometime between New Mexico and Washington, they’d edged across the threshold, but he hadn’t believed it. He hadn’t
heard the whooping, because there hadn’t been any. He could feel her holding her breath. He could also feel her shaking.
He knew who she was thinking of now; he was thinking of him, too. She did it, old friend.
After a few more minutes of stunned silence,
she turned to him. “Did we?”
He looked at her and without hesitation wiped the escaped tears from her face. “We did,” he grinned.
Then, the whooping started.
…And the streamers.
…And the music.
His first act was to dance with the newest two-term Democratic President in American history. For once in so long, no one
gave them a second look when they shared a celebratory hug. It was all too brief, but worth all the pain. “We
did it,” he heard her whisper among the score of bottle corks popping. “Twice in sixty years.”
He knew the hard part would begin again tomorrow, but for tonight, he held his President and raised a glass to history—and
to the future.
Next Part
Last Part
