Spoilers: Constituency of One

Rating: PG-13

Summary: They know things.

Author’s Note: This is not even remotely what I set out to write. So, yeah. I don’t know what else to say.

For: Angie. Forgive me for not going to a better place with this.

Disclaimers: The quotes belong to one or maybe two of the hundred new writers at The West Wing. The story, sadly is mine. But, I’m doing this for fun, not money. So, no lawyers okay?

Feedback: Is lovely.

Hidden Away

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He hadn’t known about Ben with the radio voice. Except he had. Not his name. Not the specifics. But he had assumed she would pay him back for the marriage. For choking down the bile at the ceremony, while she smiled. While she said “Mazel Tov”.

He supposes he deserves it. Always has. Things didn’t turn out the way either of them had hoped. And he’s as much to blame as she is. He would let the guilt be his alone, but he knows her Catholic faith is no stranger to guilt either.

He also knows that the only reason she told him about Mr. Radio Voice today is because of the twins. Because things didn’t work out. Again. The way they had hoped, wanted. He knows the anger is fading, though. She had said that was really all he didn’t know about. And he knows that she’s always felt somewhere that he had suspected anyway.

He knows her better than he’s known anyone. Perhaps even himself. He supposes it’s a fair trade since she can read him like a book. A book to which only she has the key.

He thinks about this because even though he’s never been good with examining his own feelings, it’s better than being pissed about Leo shutting him out. Shutting him down. Better than thinking about Will’s defection. Betrayal.

“Like what?”

He can answer that himself. He didn’t need her confirmation. He knows all the deep, dark secrets. The things that scared her as a child. The things that scare her still. He knows what moves her. Motivates her. Makes her who she is.

The other staffers know they’ve been friends forever. But, they can only guess at the secrets shared. He knows they see CJ as she wishes to be seen. She only gives out what she can afford to lose. She’s open to those around her, but they don’t see the lockbox hidden in the corner.

That box holds the unasked, unanswered questions. Who are you? How did you get here? Why? It protects the little girl afraid of tornados. The woman afraid of mediocrity. The lover hiding vulnerability.

“Like what?”

Of course the opposite is true. He’ll acknowledge that truth to himself. And to her, sometimes. She’s seen the autobiography imprinted in the lines around his eyes, on the pads of his fingers, in his very blood.

And she keeps up his façade as easily as her own. She returns the favor in kind. She lets the others believe he is gruff, abrupt. She encourages the theory that he just doesn’t like people much.

She knows the truth is closer than they can see. It’s hard to read the fine print. And she knows it’s farther away than even a telescope could find. He keeps his secrets close. She’s the only one who’s ever seen them. Even taken them for safekeeping, when he couldn’t show his own wife.

“Well, that’s about it really.”

That he doesn’t know. Everything else he’s held in his hand. Examined in the darkness. Hidden from the glare of the sun’s rays.

He knows that she pretends she can’t cook. And the others joke about, find it endearing. He perpetuates the myth. Though he knows she’s an excellent cook. But all the meals made for her father and brothers as the cancer ravaged her mother bring back too many painful memories. She cooked for him twice.

He knows she tells about driving the boyfriend’s Porsche into a lake for comic relief. And she always says that’s how she lost that one. But, really, it was the threats from her older, stronger brothers that if that son of a bitch ever came near her, ever tried to lay another hand on her that they would kill him. The car had been about her control. He wonders what would have happened if that guy had slapped her more than once.

He knows that everyone knew she was upset about Lowell Lydell. Because she is a humanitarian. He knows it reminded her once more why her beautiful brother moved to Napa. To escape the prejudice of his hometown. And that she won’t ever mention it because Tom never asked to be a poster boy for anything.

He knows that she doesn’t have a favorite color. But she has three favorite flowers, none of them roses. He knows that she hates death and dying, but that she’ll go to Dayton and maintain the vigil when the time comes. He knows that she should wear her glasses more than she does, and that she should eat more than she does. He knows that she still harbors the pain of being the only one told about the MS by Leo. And that she’s still embarrassed about trying out for cheerleading her freshman year of high school, and not being picked. He knows that she likes chocolate, but secretly prefers gummi bears. And he knows that he can never make up for all the things he’s ever done to hurt her.

“Well, that’s about it really.”

And the same could be said for him. He understands that she will forever know what makes him tick. She’s read the manuscript of his life and her memory is unparalleled.

She knows about the little boy who couldn’t tell his father about the boys at school pushing him down. Kicking him. Stealing his lunch. Because even though he didn’t know how, that little boy knew what his father might do to them or their parents would be much, much worse.

She knows that he talks about the necessity of public television. That he extols the virtues of Sesame Street and Miss Julia Child. But she also knows that was the only channel that came in on his grandparents’ set. And that he would describe the pictures to a grandmother who had lost her sight during the journey to freedom. From war.

She knows that everyone makes fun of the old Dodge Dart. And he pretends that it doesn’t bother him. But, she knows that car holds more pride than almost any other accomplishment because he had paid for it in full. Without help from anyone to get it. And it’s the first thing he ever truly could call his own.

She knows that his favorite color is gray, for all that it symbolizes. And that he never sends roses to anyone because she told him once it was a cliché. She knows that death bothers him as much as it does her, and that’s why he didn’t see his mother in the hospital. She knows that he eats better than he used to and smokes the cigars less. She knows that deep down he still feels like the second choice, even though he was told about the MS first. That he’s still embarrassed at having to dance at his own wedding. She knows that the small bag of gummi bears she finds in her desk once a month come from him. And she knows that no matter how many times she runs, she’ll always come back to him. In one way or another.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

And maybe it’s true after all. Because he’s seen her sitting in her office. Waiting, it looks like. But for all the things he knows, he still can’t figure out what it is. And she doesn’t smile the same way she did, even last year. She doesn’t seek him out like she did. And he really doesn’t know why.

He can’t give a good explanation about Andy and the twins. So how could she possibly understand that? And she doesn’t comment on the frustration he feels about their current position, so maybe she can’t see that either. Maybe his book doesn’t hold the same interest it once did.

He realizes that despite his resolve, he has gone over things that come too close to self-examination than he can ignore. And he’s not one step closer to understanding it all.

But he knows things. And so does she. And maybe, that’s enough.

The End