Chapter Eight
“Okay, well, he’ll be on at eight our time, so it’s gonna be early for you.”
“That’s fine,” Buffy replied. “Xander and Ahn will be over around four. I think they’ve finally hit a low point in the ‘living with the parents’ thing, and have been over here practically every night this week.” Her voice sounded isolated and somehow reinforced the miles that separated them. Willow found that disconcerting. She had always assumed that phones, regardless of distance, did not project sound according to the space between callers. It all drew back to that fundamental of how much she missed her friends.
Not that she hadn’t grown to love DC; she had. She was past that touristy stage and nearing the point where the incursion of tourists bothered her. As grand as it was, there were only so many times one could ogle the Washington Monument or feel humble at the feet of a massive Abraham Lincoln. Donna had told her it would happen; and while logic encouraged it, the redhead was somewhat disappointed in herself. She was not one to poo-poo history, regardless of location.
“Doesn’t Anya have her own apartment?”
A sigh. “So they say.”
“And doesn’t Xander hate Spike?”
“Well, he used to. Really, since you’ve been gone, he’s gotten a lot better. I think it’s because he doesn’t have you so readily to gripe to, or escape to. He even came over one night when Anya was…well, going through that lovely monthly time where we all wish we could be vengeance demons—” Willow snickered, and Buffy laughed her agreement, “—and bribed Spike to take him some place to reaffirm his testosterone.”
“Xander has testosterone?”
“That’s not nice,” her friend berated.
“Spike said the same thing, didn’t he?”
“And to his face.”
“And Xander still nominated him as a drinking buddy?”
She could practically see her friend’s nod. “And gave him the award. It didn’t take much; he’s a lightweight. I think he had three shots and was on the floor. Spike was back an hour after he left with Xander slung over his shoulder. He didn’t remember anything the next morning, so Spike made up some huge story about him dancing with a transsexual with his underwear on his head to wig him out.”
Willow’s eyes bulged, a shrill of unladylike laughter tearing through her mouth. “What?”
“I think he might’ve included a goat somewhere. And something about David Hasselhoff.”
“Oh my God. And he bought it?”
There was an amused rumble. “He would have if I hadn’t incapacitated myself with giggles. Spike got through the first part, then started laughing because I was laughing and either he felt it in the claim or was just amused that I was amused…it was an amusing day.”
The redhead smiled into the phone, ignoring the now-expected pang of homesickness.
It will get better. It will.
“So what’s this thing tonight?”
Willow snapped back to herself. “Capitol Beat,” she said. “Sam’s going against some guy on a few things, the education package is the big one. Something about why the President’s signing the new bill after he vetoed the one presented by the Republican leadership.”
“Gah. I would be all kinds of wigged if I had to be on national TV. I’d make an even bigger fool of myself than I do just being me.”
“He’s on the President’s staff. He’s used to it.”
“Making a fool of himself?”
“Being on TV.”
“’Cause Sam makes a fool of himself a lot, you know. Remember the near apocalypse?”
The redhead scowled into the phone. “He didn’t know better!”
“Turned me into a god, Will.”
“Well, at least you don’t have that monthly time where you wish you were a vengeance demon anymore.”
Buffy snickered. “Got me, there.” A pause. “Okay, Spike’s home and we’re debating Chinese or pizza for Sam’s debut. I gotta run.”
“It’s not a debut. He’s done this a lot.”
“Yeah, okay. I gotta run.”
“He’s really good, too. He usually kicks his opponents’ ass in policy debates.”
“No, honey, we don’t want anchovies. No! He’s allergic.”
“Not that I’ve seen him do it before—live, that is. Toby’s got them all taped.”
“Well, yeah, you’d think it’s funny but—” Buffy stopped, seemingly recalling that she was on the phone. “Will, I really gotta go. We’re getting our thing together to watch Sam kick Republican ass, okay?”
Willow nodded proudly. “Yeah, I have this study group, then I’m heading over to the White House.”
“You say that as though you do it every day.”
“Only when Donna wants to steal me for lunch.”
“Which is?”
“About every day.”
“Yeah—Spike! No, we’re not going to put Xander in the emergency room for kicks!” She couldn’t tell if Buffy was genuinely upset or not, but whatever it was, she doubted Spike’s evil indiscretions would be enough to cause trouble in paradise. “I gotta go.”
“So you’ve been telling me.”
Only this time she really hung up. Willow grinned in spite of herself and set the phone back onto its cradle, turning to face the hall just as Sam emerged from his lavatory. He had dedicated the past hour and a half getting ready for television’s harsh glare; doing everything from showering to fretting over what tie to wear. And it had paid off. He looked good. Lickably good. All proper and ready for television. Her little brainiac. “Sounds like that went well,” he said.
“You’re gonna have at least four people rooting for you in Sunnydale.”
“Ah. So, my nerves of a million viewers go up by four.”
“You’re not nervous.”
He smiled. “No, not really.”
“’Cause, you know, millions of viewers…kinda of the nerve-wracking.”
Sam’s grin broadened. “Plus four. You just get to a point where you don’t notice any more. A healthy rush of adrenaline is a good thing, of course. You don’t want to be overconfident. Not when you’re facing Republicans.”
“Dirty politics.”
“Yes.”
“And Republicans, too.”
He smirked. “Funny. Wengland’s going to be overconfident, and that’s why—”
“You’re gonna mop the floor with him?”
Sam’s eyes warmed. “Well, he never has anything new to say and he refuses to change his method of debate, no matter how many times he gets defeated. Furthermore, I’ve heard him argue on the GOP’s education package versus ours and there are glaring errors in his logic that I will have absolutely no reservation in pointing out on national television.”
“What else are you guys arguing?”
“I’m thinking the reasons the President’s adamant against privatizing social security and why we vetoed 831.”
Willow plucked his coat off the mount next to the front door and helped him worm into it. “Why did you veto 831?”
He shrugged, straightening his tie. “We felt like it.”
“You’ll have a better reason tonight, I hope?”
A nod. “If not, I’ll make it up. Right there on my feet, I’ll make it up.” Sam turned with a brilliant grin. “You have the thing?”
She nodded. “Yeah, then I’ll head to the White House to watch with Donna.”
“Donna’s going to be at the White House?”
Willow’s eyes narrowed. He knew damn well why Donna was at the White House. “Josh is working today on some thing. He’s a crazy man that doesn’t understand that he’s not responsible for his three-month house arrest, and practically lives in his office and on the Hill. And because he’s, well, Josh, he can’t be at work unless Donna’s in the bullpen.”
Sam shrugged again, a sheepish grin crossing his face. “Well, that’s Josh for you.”
“But it is Sunday.”
“The country’s not open on Sunday?”
“You should really consider closing it.”
“The country?” He neared to kiss her lips before tearing toward the door. “If you’re willing to wait, we can grab dinner after I get done with this thing.”
She beamed. “Sure.”
In just seconds, she was alone. Alone in the solitude of Sam’s modest townhouse. One of those quaint establishments that stood the test of time. She figured the house to be at least a hundred and fifty years old—a tribute to history even as the modern world thrived around it.
A grown-up’s house.
Willow frowned at that. There were times, like now, when she was overcome with severe reminders of their age difference. This was the sort of place she wanted for herself; the sort of place that had, until a few short months before, resided in the far recesses of her psyche. She didn’t have a major, didn’t have any idea what she wanted to do with her life aside strengthen her witch powers and eventually become Mrs. Samuel Norman Seaborn. But she couldn’t—she refused—to allow him to support her. She wanted a career of her own. Wanted to teach. Wanted to learn. Wanted to be a scientist and write the great American novel. Wanted to do it all.
A sigh rolled through her throat. No decision needed to be made right now. She was just two weeks away from twenty, a few credits short of being a sophomore—something that would be otherwise had she not missed so much school in Sunnydale. She had time to figure out what it was she wanted to do. How she would live out her professional life aside the witchcraft and be in love with a man who could not take her out because of public opinion.
Her insides shuddered at that. Not tonight. There was no reason to make herself upset tonight.
Tonight she was going to watch Sam kick Republican ass. Then they would have dinner. Not out, but together.
It wouldn’t always be this way. She would get older.
Until then, they had what they had. And she could live with that.
*~*~*
Sunnydale, California. 4:47pm.
“Pizza’s here!”
“Thank God.” Buffy snatched the cash from her mate’s hand and followed Xander’s call to the front. “I was about to call again.”
“It hasn’t been twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, and this is a town with the population of thirty. It should’ve been here after I hung up.”
Spike emerged from the back room with an amused look on his face. “Excuse her,” he said. “She’s worried ‘f she misses a minute of Seaborn’s performance, she’ll fail Red’s exam an’ get kicked outta the class.”
Buffy scowled and thrust the wad of bills into Xander’s hand, tacitly passing on the duty of the pizza transaction to him. “This is very important to Willow,” she argued. “I haven’t seen her for three months and this is the first best-friendish duty she’s charged me with, so I’m not going to miss a minute.”
A teasing smile tickled Spike’s mouth. He rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “You’re a good best friend, sweetling.”
“Well, I am now. The pizza’s here. No more distractions.”
Anya turned from where she was examining the contents of their refrigerator. “When you two said you had nothing here, you were being serious.”
“They have soda,” Xander pointed out. “Soda is of the good.”
A scowl marred her face. “Soda is a cheap beverage for serving guests. I was expecting an expensive bottle of wine or at least some good liquor so that I might drink myself into such a stupor so that this show you’re forcing me to watch is actually entertaining. It is not my goal to be kept awake with legal stimulants.”
“Sorry. We only break out the good plastic for company that matters,” Spike retorted. Anya’s shoulders slumped and she quickly backtracked away from the refrigerator and moved toward the counter that Xander had set the pizza on. It was the typical first apartment counter; accessible either from the den or the kitchen, made into a window by the cupboard that boxed the kitchen in. “Grab a plate, kiddies. Show’s about to start.”
Buffy arched a brow as she maneuvered toward the fridge, the vampire right at her heel. “You really care about the show?” she asked, voice hushed. “I thought you were just humoring me.”
Her mate’s eyes twinkled as he reached around her, carefully withdrawing the booze he had snagged at the store when they had picked up the paper plates and napkins the day before. He stealthily poured some of the bottle’s contents into a glass, though she knew it would do little good to ask him to hide it from their guests. There were some times when the lack of a conscience on his part benefited her as well; he could be rude and deny Anya and Xander alcohol and so that he’d come across looking like the bad guy and not her.
It was better to keep anything with booze away from Xander, anyway. He was such a lightweight. And despite however much Spike might deny it, he felt something other than cold loathing for the boy—enough not to humiliate him in front of his woman at a friendly get-together. The purpose here was to make fun of Sam, his opponent, or both. Not each other.
Not, at least, until there was nothing else on.
“I’ve told you,” Spike replied, handing her a drink. Soda, much to her dismay, though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes that answered for it. He knew what a lightweight she was from firsthand experience. “Some of these programs are highly entertainin’. Granted, unless there’s a bloody controversy sweepin’ the nation, I’ve never watched Capital Beat for kicks.”
“And now?”
“Now, it’s a bloke I know goin’ up against one of those politicians that uses religion to pass legislation. You can call Prissy many things—”
“Prissy being one of them?”
He grinned. “Well, yeah. Call him what you like, he has brains an’ the ability to sell a message to the public. So, on one hand, you have a right-wing fundamentalist who’ll pull on family values. On the other, you have Red’s boy who’ll try to use logic an’ common sense while hopin’ the country has some of both. ’S bound to be funny, luv.”
“You’re adorable.”
The smile faded into a playful scowl. “What’ve I told you about that word?”
“You tell me many things that are subject to revision.”
“By who?”
“By me.” She grinned perkily, grabbing a paper plate. “Come on. Let’s go grab some couch. You can brag about being the only person here who knows what they’re talking about.”
He smirked and turned to follow her.
Tonight would be entertaining if nothing else.
*~*~*
Washington, DC. 7:58pm
Donna released the breath she had been holding as Willow all but ploughed into the bullpen, dropping her book bag onto a vacant seat. She was flushed and wheezing for air, but she had made it nonetheless.
“You didn’t run into the White House like you were trying to dodge an explosion, did you?” the blonde asked.
“No. Yes. Maybe. Has it started yet?”
“No. Two minutes.”
Josh emerged from his office, thumbing casually through a file. He took one look at her and snickered. “You do know we tape these things, don’t you?” he said. “You spent three hours here the other day looking through old footage.”
“That’s not the point! I want to see it live.” She nodded to herself, brow furrowing. “Moral support. I’m his girlfriend, and I have a moral support thing going on. I need to see it live so I can give him moral support through…well…seeing it while he does it.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Donna murmured.
“Not exactly.”
Josh grinned wryly. “I’m sure Sam’ll be glad you risked looking like a lunatic and possibly getting arrested to get here and watch him do something he does at least once a month.”
“Shush!” The Witch scowled and pointed to the television. “It’s starting.”
Indeed it was. Suddenly, everyone in the bullpen was drawn to one of the small televisions that hung from the ceiling; familiar, proper political-show music filling the air. A rush of anxiety flooded Willow’s veins, and she murmured a small blessing that her boyfriend would do well.
Her heart jumped when the announcer started speaking.
“Capital Beat with Mark Gottfried. Tonight from the right, Republican political analyst Ainsley Hayes, and from the left, White House Senior Advisor Sam Seaborn. With Chris Eisen at the Pentagon, and Marjorie Clarke in New York.”
Josh was frowning. “When did Ainsley Hayes happen?”
“Shush!” Donna and Willow snapped simultaneously.
“I’m just saying…wasn’t he supposed to go against Wengland?”
“By god, Watson, he must have cancelled,” the blonde said shortly. “Willow’s trying to watch; don’t ruin this for her!”
“Shhh!” the redhead hissed, her eyes fixed on the screen.
“Good evening,” the moderator began. “Before we get to Chris and Marjorie tonight on the Capital Beat, the House is expected to vote next week on President Bartlet's one point five billion dollar education package. Sam Seaborn: Why is this bill better than its Republican counterpart that the President vetoed last year?”
Her heart leapt again. Her boyfriend looked damnably good on television.
He looked damnably good just about anywhere.
“Because it buys things the teachers need,” Sam replied in an obvious manner that managed to be both engaging and appropriately condescending in the same tone. “Like textbooks. In a fairly comprehensive study that was done, an alarmingly high number of teachers—forty percent of teachers in Kirkwood, Oregon, for instance, and Kirkwood, Oregon being a fair model for public school districts across the country—forty percent of the teachers in Kirkwood, Oregon report not having sufficient textbooks for their students.” The woman at the right, a young blonde woman whose name Willow had already forgotten, was jotting down hasty notes, and that made her nervous. Only Josh had once told her that attractive young women who went on television for the Republican party were usually looking for a good gig, and since no one had yet to pitch a fit at her name or appearance, she assumed all was as it was supposed to be. “The package offered by the Republican controlled Congress,” he continued, “offered a grand total of zero dollars for new textbooks.”
Willow released a deep breath, slowly becoming aware of the beaming smile gracing her face. “That’s my boyfriend,” she said proudly.
Donna tossed her an amused glance, but didn’t have time to say anything. Mark Gottfried was turning to Ainsley Hayes.
Opening argument issued. Score one for the Dems.
There was just no feeling comparable to watching something like this from inside the White House.
*~*~*
Washington, DC. 7:51pm
“It's not gonna be Wengland,” Mark told him within seconds of his greeting.
Sam frowned. “What happened?”
“He’s stuck in Denver.”
“I wanted Wengland.”
Mark nodded his understanding. It was all he could do. Despite popular belief, Sam had discovered, the hosts of television shows did not possess the remarkable ability to conjure people simply by enacting wishful thinking. “Yeah.”
“Did you get Stackhouse?” he asked.
“Couldn’t get Stackhouse,” Gottfried replied, shaking his head. “Couldn’t get Santana, couldn’t get Munroe…”
Sam’s frown deepened. “Who’d you get?”
“A woman named Ainsley Hayes.”
“Aimsley?”
“Ainsley,” Mark corrected, “with an ‘n.’”
“I don’t know her.”
“Me neither, but I’ve got a producer. He brought her in.”
“Mark, tell me she’s not one of these—”
The other man nodded. “She is.”
“I thought that was over.”
“No, no, it’s not. She’s got blonde hair, long legs, and she’s a Republican, so she’s—”
He reached the obvious conclusion, heart sinking. Willow had gotten her hopes up for an intelligent debate. Not that there wouldn’t be other debates, of course, but this was the first he was taking that wasn’t under the pressure of post-shooting first-account stories on the morning shows, and he had been looking forward to showing off for her against someone who stood a chance at besting him.
From experience, he knew that wouldn’t happen today.
“She’s in show business,” he concluded.
“Yeah,” Mark agreed.
“A young, blonde, leggy Republican.”
“Yeah.”
Sam snickered. “I thought it turned out they didn't know anything.”
The other man tossed him an amused glance. “They don’t.”
He was about to reply when an aide with a clipboard, needing him for something, steered him aside. Mark Gottfried patted his shoulder and continued to the set alone, where a notably nervous young woman sat, notebook at the ready. She stood when she saw him approaching, her eyes wide. For everything, she looked like a would-be model who had wandered in here by mistake.
“Ainsley?”
“Yes,” she replied brightly.
He took her hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Mark Gottfried.”
“Ainsley Hayes.”
He sneaked a quick glance to his watch. “So, we’ll be starting here in a minute. I understand you’ve never done TV before?”
She shook her head and he caught another glimmer of apprehension in her eyes. “No, no, not as such, no.”
“Not as such?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”
“It means no, I haven’t done TV before.”
Well, obviously.
“Okay,” Mark said, released a deep breath. “Well, can I give you a little friendly advice?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I would appreciate it.”
He nodded. “Don’t overreach.”
“Don’t overreach?”
“Don’t try to do too much,” he clarified. “Don’t try to know more than you do. My show is not the place for you to become a star.”
Harsh but needed words. It seemed to take a few seconds for Ainsley to process what he had said. “Okay.”
“You’ll be opposite Sam Seaborn,” Gottfried continued. “He’s done the show a couple dozen times; the White House wouldn't keep sending him if he didn't keep wiping the floor with whoever's in your chair.”
She nodded somewhat absently. “I’ve seen him.”
“Don’t be scared.”
A smile at that. “I’ll try.”
He nodded; hoping the pep talk didn’t prompt her from nervous to freezing once the cameras went on. They were both seated in seconds. “I'll step in,” he clarified, backtracking appropriately. He had seen Sam Seaborn in action more than once, and knew how nasty it could get, especially with someone who didn’t have a strong argument to hold on. The last thing she needed was to be humiliated her first time out on television. “And I'll take some of the punches for you if it gets out of hand, but if you don't get too far from the talking points I'm sure that somebody will give you. Okay?”
“Yeah,” she replied, sounding even more distant.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Thirty seconds!” someone shouted.
Mark turned his attention to his crew behind the cameras. “Are we starting with the education package?”
“Yeah.”
Sam reappeared just then, pointing to someone in the back. “George!” he yelled good-naturedly. “You owe me twenty bucks on the Skins.”
“In the Green Room, man,” came the reply.
There was another chuckle at that, then the Deputy Communications Director turned his attention to his opponent for the night and approached with warm diplomacy. “I’m Sam Seaborn,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Ainsley Hayes.”
“Twenty seconds!”
“You bet with George on the Skins?” Mark asked.
“Over under.” Sam wiggled into his seat and adjusted his microphone.
“How’s Josh?”
“He’s good.”
“Ten seconds!”
Mark nodded. “Here we go.” He turned to Ainsley one last time. “Remember what I said.”
“Yeah,” she agreed softly.
“In five, four, three…”
The lights dimmed at that as the director continued his countdown silently with his fingers. Music poured into the stage and the announcer came on, cameras and small televisions bouncing their own images back at them as a mocking reminder that broadcast meant they could not even escape themselves.
“Capital Beat with Mark Gottfried. Tonight from the right, Republican political analyst Ainsley Hayes, and from the left, White House Senior Advisor Sam Seaborn. With Chris Eisen at the Pentagon, and Marjorie Clarke in New York.”
“Good evening,” Mark began. “Before we get to Chris and Marjorie tonight on the Capital Beat, the House is expected to vote next week on President Bartlet's one point five billion dollar education package. Sam Seaborn: Why is this bill better than its Republican counterpart that the President vetoed last year?”
“Because it buys things the teachers need,” Sam began civilly. “Like textbooks. In a fairly comprehensive study that was done, an alarmingly high number of teachers—forty percent of teachers in Kirkwood, Oregon, for instance, and Kirkwood, Oregon being a fair model for public school districts across the country—forty percent of the teachers in Kirkwood, Oregon report not having sufficient textbooks for their students. The package offered by the Republican controlled Congress offered a grand total of zero dollars for new textbooks.”
Mark nodded, pleased, and turned to his right. “Ainsley Hayes? Is that true?”
The blonde had been jotting busily throughout Sam’s opening statement, the small, nervous girl gone in a surprising bout of only a few seconds. What she radiated now was a cool business head. A persona that could easily be something she slipped into when in preparation for debate, but her body language was tight and controlled. “No,” she replied shortly, “it’s not.”
Of course, there was only so much a person could tell from body language. “Is Sam Seaborn lying?”
“Lying’s an awfully strong word…”
“Do you—”
Ainsley looked up finally, her hand stopping its furious scrawl across the page. Her eyes were clear. Professional and startlingly intelligent. “Yes,” she said. “He’s lying.”
Sam blanched at that. “I don’t—”
“And we should tell the truth about education,” she continued smoothly.
“Well, if you’re gonna call—”
“The bill contained plenty of money for new textbooks,” she argued. “Also computer literacy, school safety, physical plants. The difference is we wanted to give the money directly to communities, and let them decide how best to spend it, on the off-chance that the needs of Lincoln High in Dayton are different from the needs of Crenshaw High in South Central L.A.”
Mark turned back to his left. “Sam, why did the President veto the bill?”
“There are—”
Ainsley interrupted again in a manner that was surprisingly controlling rather than rude. “Because it guaranteed by law that ninety-five percent of the money go directly into the classroom and bypassed the pork-barrel buffet, which is troubling to this President because he doesn't work for the students—”
Sam balked at that as though she had slapped him. “Well, that’s just—”
“—and he doesn't work for the parents of the students. He works for the teacher's union.”
“The difference with the old…” He glanced to Mark who shot him a wry smile as Ainsley predictably interrupted him again.
“The bill contains plenty of money for textbooks, Mark, and anyone who says otherwise is flat-out lying. And we should tell the truth about textbooks. Textbooks are important…” She shot him a particularly condescending look, “if for no other reason than they'd accurately place the town of Kirkwood in California and not in Oregon.”
Sam froze, absolutely speechless. And Mark came to his rescue.
“And we’re in business,” the moderator told the camera. “We'll be back with more Capital Beat after this.”
“Out!” the director called.
As soon as they were at commercial, Ainsley leaned over to Mark, her voice shades away from the last time they had spoken diplomatically. “I’m sorry, did I overreach?”
Gottfried just chuckled and turned to his left. “Hey Sam.”
“Yeah.”
“This one might know something.”
Might. Talk about the understatement of the year.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed quietly. Then, even softer, to himself, “Please, oh please, let them not be watching.”
It was a pipe dream. Willow was watching. So were her friends.
And if he knew Josh and Toby, they’d be ordering popcorn popped at his expense.
*~*~*
Sunnydale, California. 5:07pm
“…if for no other reason than they'd accurately place the town of Kirkwood in California and not in Oregon.”
The laughter that Spike had been holding in throughout Ainsley Hayes’s quick display came barreling out at that. And once he started, he couldn’t stop.
And once he couldn’t stop, the others joined in.
*~*~*
Washington, DC. 8:07pm
Josh all but bounded into the Communication Director’s office. “Toby. Come quick! Sam’s getting his ass kicked by a girl!”
He was already bouncing gleefully back to the bullpen as Toby leapt to his feet.
“Ginger, get the popcorn!” the other man shouted, dashing after Josh.
“Yep,” Willow said resignedly, releasing a deep breath, degrees away from the beaming vestige of support she had been just minutes before. “That’s my boyfriend.”
TBC
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