Archive of Our Own

Blood and State

by: Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Disclaimer: Aaron Sorkin owns everything

Characters: Jed, Leo, Abbey, Ron, C.J., Toby, Josh, Sam, Donna… umm, you get the picture? We haven't actually dragged in every single character who's ever appeared/had a recurring role on 'The West Wing', but we're working on it <G>. What can we say?  Ensemble offers so much potential for evil fun and we love to mix and match. 

Category: Drama, Angst, a healthy dollop of H/C and - because we're weak-willed - Action/Adventure. C'mon, everyone loves a bit of excitement.

Rating: TEEN. Some language, a few adult/political issues and some violence.  Actually, pretty much what you've come to expect from us.

Spoilers: Up to 'Posse Comitatus' for sure, and of course the above mentioned stories. A brief note here that while Aaron Sorkin is a fast writer, we’re not. This part of our ongoing arc is still safely set between seasons 3 and 4, before ‘20 Hours in America’ begins.We should emphasize that this is very much a continuing story, so those who are unfamiliar with "A Frightened Peace", "Further off from Heaven" and "Falls the Shadow" may need to check those out first. Sorry about that. By way of apology, we honestly think you'll have fun with them.

Summary: This is a continuation of the story arc we began in our premiere story, "A Frightened Peace", and which subsequently progressed in "Farther off from Heaven" and "Falls the Shadow". We haven't been much more successful in persuading this juggernaut of a plot line to tie itself up in this installment either, but at least Jed, Leo and co. are starting to get a few answers - not that said answers and their implications make anyone very happy, you understand<G>. Hey, it's us. Don't act like that surprises you. The possible ramifications of this scenario - to say nothing of the potential for really serious mayhem - just kept growing.

Summary/Main: As the threat to his life continues, the President has several decisions to make. The enemy remains elusive, but the battle lines are drawn. Nothing is as it seems or as simple as politics would wish it to be.

Feedback: Vastly appreciated. We've been working on this epic for almost ten months - awww, darn! Kathleen just fainted! - now. That's a long time, and the end is still some distance away. Feedback really helps keep us focused, and we really appreciate the encouragement and enthusiasm you've shown us. Plus, all those guilt trips some of you laid down on us? Did wonders to get this finished.

A hearty salute once again to Sheila, a doyen among beta readers. We are so looking forward to the debut of your own new story, Sheila! Thanks for taking time out of writing it to do your best to steer us along the straight and narrow. As usual, any mistakes are probably a result of us not being able to keep our fiddling mitts off after Sheila had tidied up after us.

Author's Notes: To Mr. Scary, Lawyer-type Person, we make no claim of ownership for the characters contained herein. Like many authors who have gone before, we're just borrowing them. We wish we could keep them but... not ours. A fact for which said characters - and probably Martin Sheen <G> - are doubtless boundlessly grateful. To Aaron Sorkin, we want to thank you for producing and writing one of the most enjoyable, intelligent TV shows we've ever seen.

Remember, for all the new readers out there and those who need to refresh their memories, read the previous stories in this order...

1) 'A Frightened Peace'
2) 'Farther off from Heaven'
3) 'Falls the Shadow'

The President and his staff finally have a name for the shadow dogging them, but does this actually solve anything?

As always, we hope you enjoy it.

** One last author's note... promise <G> **

This has to be said and I can't let Anne get off scott-free with this one. I know it's an oft repeated phrase that the internet has made this world of ours a much smaller place, but it's incredibly true. If you'd told me three years ago that a shy, Texan recluse would find a friend and partner in insanity across the world in Ireland, I wouldn't have believed it. The world just didn't seem that small. But it is.

Three years ago, for my Mother who was gravely ill, I joined the 'Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea' fandom, - c'mon, I know there a few of you out there <G> - in writing and participating giving her and myself a relief from a reality that all too soon came to an end. In a very strong sense, it was a last gift from Mom, because of her, each person I met there leading to another, broadening my horizons and leading eventually to a friendship with a truly wonderful, laughing and generous soul on the other side of that now much smaller world. You paying attention, Anne? <VBEG>

So, in gratitude to both and ever conscious of the amazing soul and heart warming gift that continues to be given to me, I would first like to dedicate this round of story-telling to Anne Callanan. I can honestly say that I've never had more fun, or found more solace and laughter when needed than I have with this incredibly patient person.

And lastly, to my Mother for the gift which continues...

Fannie Elizabeth Lehew

June 28, 1935 - June 26, 2000

See what you started Mom? <G>

Now, having talked your ears off, shall we tell our story?

The glories of our blood and state

     Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against Fate;

     Death lays his icy hand on kings:

          Sceptre and crown

          Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

          James Shirley: 1596 - 1666

The Residence, several hours later…

"If this were anyone other than the President of the United States, Robert, would we even be having this discussion?"

Abigail Bartlet ceased her pacing and glared challengingly at her colleague. He didn't answer her. How could he? Abandoning pretense, she threw her arms into the air and continued her frustrated quartering of the room.

Hackett shifted uneasily in his seat, rubbing his eyes and looking everywhere but at the agitated pacing of the First Lady. "Probably not."

An answer he knew would give neither one of them any satisfaction. He grimaced at the thought. There was no way the leader of the free world could be considered a normal patient. A human being with all the faults and frailties that went with the condition, but with so many other considerations tagged on that the humanity was nearly lost in the deluge.

To make matters worse, they were having this conversation in the President's private study while the Chief of Staff had his private meeting with the man in question. The door on that particular dialogue was closed. Even the First Lady's considerable powers of intimidation had been unable to stop it, not when – again - the man in question refused the advice and council of his wife and chief physician.

Needless to say, both the man's official physician, and his wife and personal physician - Hackett wasn't about to remove that title from Abigail Bartlet - weren't at all happy with that situation. But there wasn't much even their combined protests, medical or otherwise, could do about it.

Josiah Bartlett was the President of the United States. The art and intrigue of government didn't end because some nameless enemy had tried to maim and assassinate its head. Any and all considerations a healer might have for their patient were colored by that consequence and its attending problems.

Problems that only seemed to multiply. It was at times like this that Rear Admiral Robert Hackett seriously considered retirement and a nice, safe and mundane general practice. A few screaming, runny-nosed two-year-olds had never seemed more attractive.

"I'd have been a great deal happier with a few more tests," Hackett muttered, a bit of frustrated anger finding its way through his usual easy-going facade. "There's an open MRI in the basement. I can't see why Agent Butterfield would object to that."

"Ron wasn't the one who objected," Abbey sighed with exasperation.

Hackett understood her frustration, shared it and knew full well who had objected. Given the executive source of those objections, no reason had been provided to explain the negative. Even the respected naval and military tradition of physician override had been stomped on by that adamant and supremely stubborn will.

Still, he wasn't about to give up that easily. "At least we'd have known for certain."

Abbey smiled at her colleague with profound gratitude, finally giving in to the long hours of worried exhaustion and dropping into a chair opposite the uniformed medic. We. Such a simple word, but his including her in the equation meant more to her than she could possibly say. "You know as well as I do that there's no certainty with MS, Robert. Months, years, it doesn't matter how long he's been clinically inactive. Any tests are going to show the same thing."

"More lesions."

"It doesn't stop with a relapse announcing its presence."

Hackett could be as stubborn as his patient. "We'd know," he insisted.

A look of tired sadness passed across Abbey's features. She looked across at Hackett and held his concerned gaze. "He knows."

"So do you." And there, Hackett knew, lay the ultimate problem. Healer or not, Abigail Bartlet couldn't distance herself from the patient. "He won't change his mind?"

Abbey's short laugh was choked.

"Okay then," Hackett sighed. So much for that idea. Standing up, he straightened his uniform jacket and offered her a gentle smile. "Without the President's cooperation there's nothing more we can do."

"The jury is still out on that." Abbey's eyes narrowed. She had a few options unavailable to her colleague.

"I can imagine." Hackett replied dryly, fairly certain a new White House legend was in the making. "You going to be okay? A few hours’ sleep wouldn't hurt."

"I'll sleep when he does."

And he hadn't slept, that she knew. Jed had caught a few snatches after his initial collapse. Not enough before the comings and goings of his staff, the Joint Chiefs, Nancy McNally and God only knew who else, all desperate to spin what had happened into some semblance of order, had invaded the Residence. Despite her strongest objections, Abbey hadn't been able to stop it.

"Ma'am, relapse or not, you're going to need your rest to keep up with him."

Abbey tilted her head, looking up at the tall naval medic with a tired, indulgent smile. "You're becoming quite the mother hen, Robert."

Hackett's sense of humor took over and he chuckled. "Perhaps Ron and Leo will let me join. Their club can't be all that exclusive."

"It's not." Abbey spoke softly, caught between a laugh of her own at the mental image and the sob she'd been holding back all day.

"Abbey..."

"When he does, Robert," she said firmly, eyes flashing and countering Hackett's unspoken concern. Then her gaze softened. "That doesn't stop you though."

A snort was the only answer Hackett had for that suggestion.

This time Abbey did laugh.

It was a sound Hackett had wanted to hear, however strained. Events may be out of their control; their patient may be out of their control, but not this. They could agree on that. With an inquiring nod and her waved consent, he took his leave of the First Lady. He hoped she did sleep. Tomorrow would see the showdown with the President continue, and she, of all of them, was going to need her energies.

Watching him leave, Abbey couldn't help the feeling of abandonment that came over her. With Hackett gone, if only for the evening, it left her alone with her husband's stubborn will. And his staff wasn't helping, not even Leo. That had surprised her. The Chief of Staff’s concern had given way to an almost cold, frightening determination. She'd lost an ally and couldn't quite figure out how or why.

Jed certainly wasn't listening to reason and, when Leo was done, he had another meeting, probably another after that. Then another. Come hell or high water, the government would continue.

Screw the government. "Jackass," she muttered.

Goodness, but was she back to that again?

One of the myriad Secret Service agents standing guard poked his head into the study. "Ma'am?"

Abbey looked up, startled out of her thoughts. "Yes?"

"You asked to be informed when Mr. McGarry had left?"

Lips tightening, Abbey nodded. "He's gone?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you."

A curt nod and the agent withdrew.

Good! With a long, exhausted sigh, Abbey stood up, wincing at the pop of fatigued muscles and joints. It wasn't over yet. With Leo out of the way, however temporarily, she might be able to talk some sense into her asinine husband. It was a vain hope, but she was going to try. Glancing at the clock on the wall, a quick calculation figured she had a few minutes at best before the next wave of staffers hit him broadside.

A few minutes to get in a few shots of her own.

~ooOoo~

Ron Butterfield didn't bother to look back when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The quiet warning that came through on his earpiece, that yet another staffer in a seemingly unending and unstoppable wave was about to arrive, was also unnecessary. He knew who it was. Even the plush carpeting couldn't muffle the distinct belligerence and tenacity of the man's stride. The deduction and conclusion were both obvious.

Damn! Leo had warned him. It wasn't anything Butterfield hadn't expected; the man was the Communications Director. Ziegler needed to know. But still, a little more time to brace himself for the inevitable onslaught of protests would have been nice. Considering how everyone, including himself, had spent the last few hours scrambling for some sort of safe-ground, he should have known better. Nothing from here on was going to be easy.

Head turned to one side, he leaned his free shoulder against the sill, keeping his other with the weapon harness and gun clear. The window he was staring out was at the end of the corridor, but still gave him a clear view of the bedroom door. It was really a nice view. The sun was setting, the day almost over.

The footsteps halted. A tight smile lifted one corner of Butterfield's mouth. The man was good. He could make even coming to a halt sound combative. Crossing his arms, one hand unconsciously brushing against the gun beneath his jacket and checking its set, he didn't look up.

Clearing his throat, Toby Ziegler fired off the first salvo. "He still in there?"

He was asking about McGarry. And the President. A quick glance down the long corridor at the closed door, the still tense agents stationed outside, and Butterfield nodded in curt reply. Best to keep this simple, hold the unnecessary words at the bare minimum.

"Why aren't you in there with them?"

Butterfield shrugged. "I said what I needed to say."

"Apparently not enough."

"You've got issues?"

"I've got issues."

Eyes narrowing, Butterfield turned away from the deepening reds of the sunset and gave his interrogator a calculating look. Brave man, but two could play this game. "Then why aren't you in there?"

"I wasn't invited." Ziegler scowled. He was damn sure he knew why, too.

"Go figure." Given the fireworks he had overheard when Leo first broached his plan to the Communications Director, Butterfield had a pretty good idea why as well.

Ziegler shoved his hands into his pockets. "You agree with this?"

"Nope."

"Then I ask again, with all due respect and keenly, painfully aware that you carry a loaded firearm and know how to use it..."

Butterfield smiled. Not even the most foolish of observers - and Ziegler was in no way foolish  - would have considered it friendly or encouraging.

Still, the Communications Director didn't let it deter him in the least. "... may I, respectfully, ask why you are not in there stopping it?"

There it was. The sound byte. Shaking his head, Butterfield let out a disgusted huff. He was hanging around the staffers too much. The politicalese was contagious. He frowned, eyes level under drawn brows. It was a rhetorical question.

The man already knew why. "You know the answer to that."

Ziegler's shoulders slumped and he looked away. He knew. "Yeah," he grumbled, admitting the truth sullenly if not graciously. "It's not good, Ron."

"Yeah." For the first time, Butterfield relaxed. Ziegler had made his point and left it at that. As conversations go, this one was right up the Secret Service Agent's alley. No wasted words or oxygen. Just the way he liked it.

"He's wired."

"Leo?"

Wrinkling his nose and scowling, Ziegler nodded.

"We're all wired, Toby."

"Not like him. You think I've got issues?"

That was a topic Butterfield didn't feel at all comfortable discussing. There were already too many layers to this mess without adding more. "It's not our place."

Rolling his eyes, Ziegler laughed shortly. "Well, gee, Ron. Where were you and your sage advice when I needed it?"

"If you'd curb those sadomasochistic tendencies of yours..."

Ziegler winced, cutting him off with a waved hand. That barb had struck a little too close to home. "What are the odds?" he asked, just a hint of self-mockery in his tone.

"With you? Slim to none."

"Will the President go for it?"

Nodding, not trusting himself to speak, Butterfield turned away.

It was all the answer Ziegler needed. "Damn."

"Yeah." Really, Butterfield was finding this whole exchange refreshingly direct and brief. Ziegler had a head on his shoulders and knew how to use it.

Down the corridor, the bedroom door opened and McGarry stepped out. A quiet word with the agents stationed outside and his searching gaze found Butterfield. His expression went a bit congested when he saw Ziegler, then quickly cleared. With a deliberately casual stride, he approached.

Butterfield stepped away from the window, clasping both hands behind his back. Face carefully composed, he waited.

Taking up the agent's vacated position at the window, Ziegler turned away and focused his gaze on the fading light of the sunset, the reds creeping slowly across the manicured lawn. His imagination, still fueled by the horrors of what he'd seen and heard earlier, saw only the spread of blood in the crimson display.

"It's a go," McGarry announced.

Butterfield scowled. "He agreed?"

"He understands the risks."

"No, he doesn't." Ziegler turned away from the window, shrugging past a startled Butterfield and giving McGarry the full extent of his considerable displeasure. "Not all of it. How could he? When most of his advisors don't even know?"

"Don't start with me, Toby," McGarry warned him, stopping just short of snarling. He didn't need this, not again and certainly not now. It was hard enough keeping himself focused without Toby helping. "We don't have time for you to pick this apart in your usual inimical style."

"Get used to it, Leo."

"You'll brief C.J." It was a command and another warning to end it, now.

As usual, Ziegler chose to ignore it. "No."

Butterfield winced.

Blinking, McGarry was taken unawares by that curt reply. He'd given Toby a great deal of leeway over the years, but not for this, and certainly not now. Eyes narrowing, he struggled to keep his voice even. "Toby..."

"I said no, Leo. You started this, you finish it. I want no part of it. I've had my say."

"It's your job."

Not generally privy to these discussions, even Butterfield knew enough of the White House personality dynamics to understand that was the wrong thing to say to Toby Ziegler.

"I'm a senior advisor!" Ziegler snarled, fairly bristling with indignation. "Where was I given the chance to exercise my job on this? Can you answer that? I don't remember getting an invite for that particular meeting. Hell, you've kept your own deputy out of the loop!"

He didn't give a fuming McGarry a chance to answer, waving his hand towards the bedroom door. "The President listens to you... listened to you," he amended shortly, knowing he was riding the thin red line on this. It was familiar territory. "You make C.J. listen. I'll pick up the pieces."

Down the corridor, the agents on guard looked up at the raised voices, regarding the trio suspiciously.

Butterfield waved them off.

Without giving McGarry a chance to respond, Ziegler turned abruptly on his heel and strode off, somehow managing to stomp rather convincingly through the thick carpet. "You'd better be there when he does, Ron," he called back over his shoulder to the grim Secret Service Agent. "Compared to C.J. on a tear, I'm a cake-walk."

A muffled curse was Butterfield's answer to that. A smaller, more reluctant part of his mind had to grudgingly admit the man knew how to make one hell of a dramatic exit.

McGarry was just a bit more vocal, and louder. "Damn it!" He turned to Butterfield, glaring as he demanded coldly, "You got anything else to add? 'Cause now's the time to give whatever objections you have left some air."

Butterfield's head snapped round at that, first incredulous at the question, then his expression stilled. Something indefinable, dangerous and lethal entered the gaze he leveled at the Chief of Staff. He took an abrupt step towards him, hand raised and one adamant finger held up for emphasis. "Get this straight, Leo..."

Startled, McGarry took an involuntary step backwards.

"... I don't like this. You know that. I've had my say. You're playing with fire; we both are. But remember this," his finger stabbed forcefully into McGarry's chest, forcing him back another step. "With or without the President's consent, I can call this off. My call. Not his, not yours. Don't forget that."

McGarry could only stand there, unable to offer up any rebuttal to that threat. Or was it a threat? He wondered briefly if the relief he'd felt at the agent's outburst should be accompanied by guilt. He had started this, over Butterfield's protests and reluctant agreement, but the game was his.

Stepping back, Butterfield adjusted his suit and the set of his firearm. Hand to his earpiece, his listened for a moment, then said calmly, "There’s another staff meeting with the President in twenty minutes. Your people are already gathering at the gates." He smiled thinly. "I don't think Toby'll be there."

"The gates." McGarry laughed shortly, bitterly. "The gates have already been breached, Ron."

Butterfield's eyes narrowed. "That's the only reason I'm going along with this."

~ooOoo~

Abbey slipped quietly into the darkened bedroom. The only light came from a lamp beside the bed. Leo must have dimmed the main lights on his way out. She would have appreciated the gesture more if she hadn't known that the senior staff was due to descend en masse within a very short time. A meeting called by Jed; it would hopefully be the last in a day that had already contained far too many such meetings for a man who had been forced to conduct all of them from his sickbed. 

"Abbey," he had said tiredly earlier, "I have to do this. Whatever happened here today, it didn't change that. Only made things more urgent. And there are certain things only the President can do. You know that."

Oh, she knew that all right. Knew it painfully well. No matter what personal catastrophes descended upon the man, the duty of the office remained - taking precedence over all else, including health... and family.

That last had been painfully demonstrated when a grim and intense McGarry had returned, and she and Hackett had been forced to withdraw from the field, their adversary not yet vanquished. The fact that they had been dismissed so that an even more deadly enemy might be engaged, one with a human form, had done nothing for the temper of either physician. 'First, do no harm' might be a fundamental tenet of the medical profession, but it helped immeasurably if the patient would actually listen.

Walking softly up to the bed, she studied the offender in question. The glow of the lamplight softened the stark outlines and hues of abrasions and contusions, lending a false color to his features. His eyes were closed and his breathing soft, with only a faint pucker between his brows to betray the ever constant discomfort.

About to sink into the chair beside the bed, Abbey impulsively settled instead on the mattress next to her husband, careful to do nothing to jar the injured limb that still rested on a pillow, the white of the bandages blending with the crisp linen in the half-light.

"Mmm..." Her husband stirred and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met and his lips curled slightly at the corners. He raised his good hand and Abbey captured it, squeezing his fingers gently with silent affection.

"How do you feel?"

"Not too bad." Bartlet's voice was low and slightly slurred by sleep and fatigue. "The hand is throbbing a bit, but it's, y'know, a clean pain? I can cope with that. Other than that, just a bit achy all over, like flu."

Abbey leaned forward, still holding his hand, to gently brush back the rebellious fringe and rest her hand on his forehead. He flinched at her touch and felt warm, but not seriously so. It was only to be expected after all, given the type of wounds. Infection; not yet a cause for concern and she sincerely doubted Hackett would ever allow it to reach that point.

The Admiral was coming by in the morning to examine and clean the injuries, check for any further signs of danger. She hadn't told Jed that yet, hadn't felt in the mood to listen to his complaining at having to go through all that again. When it came to being poked and prodded, the most powerful man in the free world could be such a child.

And she loved him for it.

"Tired?" she asked.

"Mmm, hmm." Bartlet barely stifled a yawn and grinned up at his wife wryly. He had a fair idea what was coming next.

"You should be sleeping, Jed. In fact, you should have been sleeping for hours. Leo's had his say..."

At the mention of the Chief of Staff, Bartlet's head dropped as if he suddenly couldn't bear to meet his wife's gaze.

Focused on her goal and driven by concern, Abbey didn't notice.  "... and you can afford to put the others off until tomorrow. They'll understand."

"No." Bartlet's voice was soft with understanding, but his words were firm. "We need to meet with the staff, Abbey. I can't finish for the night without doing that. This has thrown them, badly. The explosion, the attack was bad enough, but now with my thing..." He trailed off, not quite sure she was even listening or agreed, but needing to say it anyway. "They've spent the last year coping with the fallout from that, and the doomsday scenarios in case it happened again. Well, now it has happened again and their imaginations and fears are running riot. We need to reassure them."

"And you think their seeing you like this will help?" Abbey almost flinched at her own words, but forced herself to meet her husband's startled, hurt regard steadily. "Jed, I should bring you a mirror. You look awful."

"I always said doctors should be motivational speakers," the President muttered with mock severity, an indulgent glint in his eye. "Thanks for that, sweetheart. My fragile ego feels so much better now."

"Somehow, I think your ego will survive."

"Yeah." Bartlet tugged lightly on his wife's hand. "Seriously though, Abbey. So will the rest of me. All of this -" he indicated his face and slightly raised the wrapped left hand from its pillow, only to lower it again with a chagrined grunt of pain,  "- will mend. The staff will see that, need to understand that." He adopted his best cajoling tone, slowly rubbing his thumb in lazy circles across her palm. "It will only be for a few minutes. Then that's it for tonight, I promise."

His face fell slightly as he studied his wife's unyielding expression. Disappointed that his gentle teasing with her hand wasn't providing half the distraction he'd hoped it would, he tried another tact. "Abbey? Please. I... I just want to see them, speak to them."

Abbey sat back, startled by the note of almost desperate entreaty in that last appeal, the pleading expression in his eyes. Feeling mystified at the strength of emotion behind the words, she nodded wordlessly, ruthlessly crushing down the little tendril of apprehension that once again attempted to coil upwards around her heart.

"Thank you." The words were almost a sigh, and husband and wife sat together in silence for a few moments, basking in the reassurance of each other's presence.

The President finally broke the silence. "They should be here in a few minutes."

"I suppose I should straighten up in here a little." Abbey's eyes wandered vacantly around the bedroom. "Put on a few lights."

"Yeah." Her husband shifted painfully. "Abbey, how are the girls?"

Abbey couldn't help the short, rueful laugh that escaped. "Well, the senior staff aren't the only ones in need of reassurance."

Bartlet flinched guiltily. "You spoke to them?"

"I got off the phone with Liz a little while ago. She's worried, but calm and trying to keep Annie from seeing some of the more sensational news reports. Zoey called immediately after." Abbey took a deep breath as she remembered her youngest daughter's tearful, half-hysterical voice. "She's taking it pretty badly, Jed. It's too much like Rosslyn for her."

"I'm just glad she didn't have to see it this time." Bartlet's head was bent, his voice subdued.

"So am I."

Mother and father joined together in a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks that at least on this occasion none of their children had had to endure the spectacle of their father assaulted and wounded.

Her vision still clouded by the memory of that old event, Abbey said, "Zoey wanted to come here."

"What?" Bartlet's voice was sharp. "You explained to her, right? She should stay away. I don't want any of our family here just now." Neither a fool nor one to relish losing battles, he hadn't even tried to open up the subject of sending his wife off to safety. "Not until we have some answers. Did Charlie..."

"Relax." Abbey spoke soothingly. No sense letting him get worked up over nothing. She was trying to get him to relax, not rewire him for another emotional waltz. "Charlie's with her. I spoke to him myself. He'll take care of her, make sure she stays put."

"Good." Bartlet hesitated, then had to ask, the word dragging out reluctantly as if he half-feared the answer. "Ellie?"

Abbey winced slightly. So much for getting him to relax. "I couldn't raise her on her cellphone, so I spoke to her detail. They pulled her out of class. Gave her the news." 'What little there was of it anyway,' but she didn't say that aloud.

"She hasn't called?"

"Not yet." Abbey grimaced at the expression of disappointment and resignation that flowed across her husband's features and could not suppress a brief spasm of irritation at her middle daughter.

There had been no return call and Abbey couldn't quite relieve herself of some of that burden. She hadn't called back either, following up on the original reports and broken snatches of information she knew were all Ellie would receive from her agents. Brushing her fingers gently along the line of her husband's jaw - one of the few spots not covered with stitches or cuts - she could only ruefully admit she'd had a few other things on her mind.

A poor excuse, but all Abbey had. She'd try again later; fix it as best she could.

"Okay." Frowning, Bartlet abruptly turned his face away from his wife's trailing fingers. Pulling himself together, he smiled wanly. "It's not that I don't want them here, you know," he said suddenly.

Abbey squeezed his fingers, felt his hand twitch beneath her touch. "I know, Jed."

"It's just, with everything that's happening, I'm afraid that being near me might put them in danger right now." Bartlet felt as if he were strangling on the words. That he should be the cause of his children being in danger, that his very proximity might spell a threat to them...

He raised a woebegone face to his wife. "I really wish I could see them right now, talk to them. Before..."

"Before what, Jed?"

Bartlet shrugged away the question. It was easier, safer than trying to explain. "Nothing. I've just come to realize there's so many things I want to say to them, to tell them."

"You still have lots of time for that." Abbey spoke reassuringly.

"Yeah." Bartlet's voice was almost inaudible and his chin dropped down onto his chest.

Concerned and, if she were quite honest with herself, just a little frightened, Abbey watched him. Even allowing for the awful events of that dreadful morning, this air of resignation was so unlike him. Normally Jed would be spitting fire, gathering up his energies, however depleted, for the fight and filled with a righteous rage.

But not this time. This time he seemed to be withdrawing, from her and from his surroundings, retreating to a place she did not understand and where she felt ill equipped to follow. Something had changed, and she wished with all her being that she knew just what that was.

At a loss to know what to say, she settled for that physical contact that was so much a part of their private communion and comfortingly ran her hand up and down his forearm...

Only to watch with startled surprise as her husband twisted away from her with a low hiss of pain.

"Jed?" Alarmed, she kept the worry from her voice by sheer effort of will.

Bartlet looked slightly startled himself. "Man, for a second that hurt! Almost like my skin was on fire." Taking a deep, calming breath, he let it out in an unsteady laugh. "Guess that explosion jarred me around a bit more than I thought." Giving his wife an accusing glare, tempered with loving humor, he added, "Or my doctors did."

"Mmm." Abbey regarded him with narrowed eyes, puzzled by his reaction. It could be just after effects from the explosion - the impact must have been considerable, given how close he had been to the seat of the blast - but she felt strangely uneasy. She didn't bother to give his sly accusation the dignity of a second thought. Something, though, was scratching at the back of her mind...

The sudden thrill of the telephone effectively derailed her train of thought, and she scowled as Jed released her hand and with a tired sigh stretched out towards the receiver and picked it up.

"Hello? Yes."  He caught her eye and shrugged apologetically, mouthing, 'the NSA'.

Only one among many. The phone hadn't stopped ringing all day. Resignedly, Abbey rose and began picking up clothes and generally restoring order to the room. No doubt the stewards would see to the cleaning later, but right now it gave her something to do. Domesticity was far too underrated. The staff should be here in a few moments anyway. After a while, her attention drifted back to the one-sided conversation going on in the background.

"I know, Nancy, but..." Bartlet paused for a moment and listened before trying again.  "Leo said..." He winced and held the receiver away from his ear as tinny and faint but unmistakably enraged tones issued loudly from the earpiece. Cautiously, he drew it back towards him.

"Yes, as strategies go, it's not the ideal one, but Nancy, at least it's a plan." The receiver squawked indignantly some more. Bartlet rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. But at least we'll be doing something. It's worth a try. Nancy... Nancy, don't make me remind you who I am... Listen, I appreciate your sentiments, but I really think this might be worth considering. Yes. Now let me talk to Leo for a second, will you?"

After a momentary pause, in tones of gentle amusement, he said, "Almost talked you out of it, did she? Save some of your energy, you've still got C.J. to deal with. She's next."

Bartlet pulled the phone away from his ear again. This time the agitated voice on the other end had the nerve to issue a few scathing comments not normally issued to or in the presence of the President.

He chuckled softly anyway, though the sound was tired.

Abbey's fascinated and unashamed attempts at eavesdropping were thwarted by a discreet knock on the door. Hurrying to answer, she admitted a visibly uneasy Sam Seaborn and Joshua Lyman to the room, followed closely and just as nervously by C.J. Cregg.

Abbey shared a quick smile with the Press Secretary, reading the unspoken message of concern and affection. She nodded graciously to all three - it was their constant interruption to the rest her husband so badly needed, not their silent support and understanding that she resented. She took a brief moment to puzzle over the absence of Toby Ziegler and indicated that they should follow her towards the bed.

She was about to shut the door when a fourth presence made himself known. As silent as always, Ron Butterfield stood there, grimly waiting for her permission to enter. That troubled Abbey, that he would, even by implication, give her the yeah or nay on whether or not he would be included. Not that any denial on her part would exclude him should he be determined to join what she'd already decided was a waste of what little was left of her husband's time and energy.

Inclining her head politely, although the implied graciousness was forced, she waved him in. She didn't want him here, his presence was a reminder of failures and pain, but in truth she really had no choice. Why he was here, Abbey would leave for later.

Butterfield gave her a curt nod, and then stationed himself along the back wall. As usual, he faded, disappearing into the background. But not before the senior staff, each in turn, gave him a nervous, suspicious glance of inquiry.

He ignored them.

The President was still on the phone. "I know, Leo. But I trusted your judgment when you first brought this to me. I still do."  He paused, waving his gathering advisors closer. "We already know about the consequences... I know. Do it anyway. You going to be there much longer? Well, the staff is here now. As soon as you're finished with Nancy and..." - he gave a quick, shuttered glance at the group gathering at the foot of the bed- "... whatever, or she leaves anything worth salvaging of your carcass, get your ass over here. Okay?"

Dropping the receiver back on the rest and avoiding Abbey's accusing glare, he smiled and nodded at his senior advisors. "Hello, thanks for coming."

The senior staff gathered in a tight little huddle at the foot of the bed.  Bartlet studied them for a moment and almost smiled. They looked so worried and, while hardly what could be defined as professional, it was quite sweet and touching.

"How are you, Mr. President?" Seaborn's youthful features were furrowed with anxiety and his eyes continued to drift with reluctant fascination towards the hand resting atop the pillows.

“Fine, thanks, Sam." Bartlet attempted to wriggle the exposed tips of his heavily abraded fingers in illustration and winced slightly. "Well, actually, I've been better. But I got off really lightly, all things considered."

"If you say so, sir." Lyman didn't sound nearly so convinced. He looked even more frazzled and rumpled than usual, the shock of brown hair standing almost straight up, as if he had been clutching it in both hands. "Pardon my saying so, but if those are light injuries then I'd hate to see what would have happened if you'd still been holding the thing."

"Yeah." Bartlet considered his hand for a moment. An involuntary shudder at the memory passed through his frame. "Thank God for Fitz."

"Yes, Mr. President." The Deputy Chief of Staff felt his distress rise at the strained weariness of his Chief Executive's tones. Darting a glance at C.J., he saw the Press Secretary studying the man lying before them, taking in the mutilation, the tight, strained planes of the familiar face and the unmistakable air of general, exhausted infirmity.

Her pale features mirrored his own dismay and also a certain brittle emotion just barely contained. He recognized it, had seen it take open possession of this woman he thought of as a sister in a time that was all too recent. Grief, and a sense of loss.

The First Lady came around the foot of the bed, returning to her husband's side. As she brushed by C.J., she gently touched the younger woman on the arm. They exchanged a brief glance, comfort and sympathy communicated and shared.

C.J. blinked, and then gratefully nodded her appreciation to the other woman, who had so much to deal with herself right now, yet could still spare time and concern for a friend.

Abbey sank into the chair on her husband's right side and once again slipped her hand into his. He tensed, but then squeezed gently and she affectionately rested her other hand on his forearm, only to remove it with a frown as he grimaced slightly at the contact. She drew back, gently and carefully releasing his hand, a blooming anxiety creasing her forehead.

Catching her husband's eye, Abbey smiled softly to erase the signs of growing worry and silently withdrew across the room, settling into a chair near the silent and glowering Butterfield, who had taken up his station near the door. Allowing her husband this moment with his staff, his extended family. It was so like him to be concerned about them, and not himself. Maddening and familiar, but she couldn't find it in herself to fault him for the sentiment.

Lyman had observed the silent exchange between the two ladies, and now the subtle flinch the President had given at his wife's touch. He felt his anger flare. Their President had been hurt! Right before their eyes; and now even his wife had to second-guess every movement for fear of bringing further pain to someone she loved. The fury built and swelled, demanding a target.

"Sir, what are we doing?"

At Bartlet's quizzical and slightly startled stare, Lyman flushed and got his voice back under control. "I'm sorry, Mr. President." He took a deep breath. "Sir, we've been dancing around what happened all day, trying to keep a lid on the rumors without actually saying anything. We need to give the press something concrete and soon. But, more than that, we need to know what…"

He broke off, struggling to find the words to convey the outrage he felt. "Sir, you were attacked. Right here in your home. In front of us, and none of us could stop it. We want to, we need to…" he couldn't finish the sentence.

"To know what's been done to find those responsible," a quiet, troubled voice finished for him. Sam Seaborn's handsome face was flushed with a similar anger. "Mr. President, we want to help."

Bartlet glanced at Abbey, who smiled in reply, visibly touched at the show of support and affection from the three young people before them. He felt a slight twinge of guilt.  Surely he could just tell them? But… no. Now was not the time. Later perhaps...

Observing their eager, protective expressions and remembering what Leo had told him of his interview with a certain surly Communications Director, plus a presently even less sunny Security Chief glowering in the background, he felt himself cravenly grateful that Leo had insisted it was better to wait.

His Chief of Staff had pointed out that they would not be kept in the dark for long. "And you'll forgive me," he had said dryly, "if after the day I've had, I don't want to be screamed at by all three of them simultaneously. Toby was bad enough, and I suspect C.J. will be even worse."

Given such an irresistible target, the President hadn't been able to resist poking gently at his Chief of Staff's equanimity. "You only suspect? C.J.?"

Leo's acid response hadn't disappointed him and he warmed at the memory. Then that memory chilled.

C.J. The guilt bloomed as he met the concerned gaze of his Press Secretary. She would be the next to be informed, when Leo primed her tomorrow morning. Primed. He felt his mouth twitch as his unfortunate sense of humor got the better of him. It was an apposite word. Leo would probably feel like he was trying to handle unstable gunpowder on the morrow. It was his own fault. His strategy insisted that C.J.'s role be a major one. She would be the beater, flushing out the prey.

Still, executive authority or no, Bartlet was glad he wasn't going to have to handle that conversation.

Not that the respect due to executive authority had saved him from getting bawled out by the NSA, and rather unfairly he thought. It had been Leo's idea, even if he had signed off on it, weary and feeling an almost fatalistic desire to push events to a head. He wondered how long it would be before Fitzwallace called in on his turn to question the Presidential sanity.

Best to get this over with before he did, or Abbey took over completely. From the look in her eye he knew her patience was rapidly running out.

"I called you all here to talk about what happened this morning."

"Aren't we going to wait for Toby, sir?" Seaborn seemed slightly embarrassed to be drawing attention to his supervisor's presumed tardiness.

The President stirred uncomfortably and an expression the staffers, although not his wife, would have hesitated to describe as shifty flitted over his features. "No... no," he cleared his throat. "Leo told me that he's already briefed Toby. He didn't see any need to drag him back up here; besides, he has work to do, on a number of fronts. I agreed." He had agreed.

'And the last thing we need here and now is an outraged Toby anyway,' he thought with no little sarcasm. The day of reckoning on that confrontation couldn't be postponed forever. 'My implied authority barely held him in check; I just don't have the energy to deal with the entire senior staff.  Much easier to present them with a fait accompli.'

Fait accompli. He'd said much the same thing to his uncharacteristically flustered Chief of Staff when he had called to inform him that Toby would most likely not be in on this briefing, for whatever reasons. Bartlet had a pretty good idea what those reasons were and somewhere, deep down, he agreed.

Everybody was right, and nobody was wrong.

The lengthy, Presidential silence was being noticed.

Ignoring their puzzled expressions and his own misgivings, he ploughed on.

"About what happened today; don't worry about it." Bartlet half-grinned at the trio of dropped jaws facing him, tilting his head to wink his amusement at his wife, who rolled her eyes in admonishment from her seat next to Ron. What he saw dance across his chief bodyguard's face he wasn't about to try and put a name to.

"Well, maybe I could have phrased that slightly better..." Maybe he could have. So far nobody seemed to be accepting the sentiment in the spirit it was given. Sighing, he tried again, "Look, I want you to know that we have it in hand. The Secret Service has spent the better part of the day crawling all over my office; the FBI analysts are putting the note that was found through just about every forensic test imaginable. The Security Council is investigating our intelligence on any and all possible suspects. We'll have a name, soon."

"Sir?" C.J.'s voice remained troubled. "The note worries me. I know we're not releasing that detail to the press, but the wording..."  She bit her lip. "Sir, the perceived motive for this attack, Leo gave it to us at the briefing yesterday - Russia, the nuclear inspections and their threat to the Red Mafia's black market. It made a kind of sense. The accident with Marine One, it was so subtle, so careful. But what happened this morning wasn't. What's changed? And the note, it was almost... forgive me, Mr. President, but terrorists rarely take a personal interest in their targets. The wording of that note, the private knowledge, it seemed more like a stalker."

Maybe not the best choice of words. A collective breath seemed to be held and C.J. found herself the unwanted center of attention.

Her own innate dryness asserted itself in an attempt to relieve the tension, and she added, "Speaking from personal experience, you understand?"

Bartlet regarded her with genuine admiration. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Butterfield straightening in his chair. The unflappable Security Chief was looking distinctly edgy, and no wonder. He'd lost one of his own to that stalker, if indirectly, and had nearly lost...

With an almost physical effort, the President shook away those thoughts. Best not to think of that right now.

Bartlet shrugged and spoke matter-of-factly, "Yeah.  Well, the FBI and the Secret Service would seem to agree with you there. Honestly, C.J. we don't fully know or understand what's changed. But I do know this." His gaze hardened. "We're not going to be able to hide this morning's events as easily as we did the NTSB report. So, if we can't hide, we're going to come out with guns blazing. We're going to reassure the country, and let the world know that the United States is not going to take this lying down.  In pursuit of this... individual, we will use every available means at our disposal."

He broke off as the bedroom door opened again to admit Leo McGarry. He raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry. McGarry nodded shortly and tilted his head towards C.J., his message clear.  Bartlet's mouth twisted slightly, then he curtly nodded in reply. Refusing to meet anyone else's questioning gaze, his old friend stood there for a moment, regarding him with a troubled expression. Then McGarry quietly slipped back out through the door, without a word or a backward glance to the unasked questions his immediate staff hadn't the courage to voice.

Gaining silent permission from his President and charge, Butterfield rose and followed him, closing the door with a soft click.

The spell broken, Bartlet took a deep breath and carefully avoided Abbey's quizzical expression, returning his attention to the three people before him. "As part of this pursuit, we will release a formal statement in the morning. C.J., Leo and Ron will brief you on the details and strategy for that. We're also going to continue to push forward in our demands for greater nuclear controls. To that end, Toby is going to be working with me on a statement for release in a few days’ time."

He reached down inside and somehow managed to summon the energy to smile encouragingly at the young people. "We're going to hit these people where it hurts, in their bank balance. And generally make life a little less comfortable for them."

"Yes, sir!" Lyman sounded genuinely enthused. The Deputy Chief of Staff always enjoyed a good scrap, even managed to win a few on occasion. "We'll show them what it means to take on this White House."

"Mmm." Bartlet could feel himself sinking deeper into weariness, unable to match his subordinate's energy. Maybe because he knew it wasn't that simple. The obfuscation never seemed to end. "Sam, I'm guessing Toby is going to want some input from you on the speech, in view of your preliminary work for Helsinki."

"On it, Mr. President." Seaborn's tones were filled with confidence, and he was jotting rapid notes on one of his ever-present notepads.

"Of course." The President now glanced at his Press Secretary, seeing the same desire for action and a good fight beginning to bloom. "C.J., you will in effect be leading the charge in this campaign. I hope..."

"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. President." C.J.'s tones left no doubt of that.

"I appreciate that." Now came the hard part. She had to believe this. "C.J., I want you to know that the strategy Leo will outline to you has my full support and approval. I just want to make that clear. You need have no doubts on that score." Bartlet felt his tones verging perilously close to entreaty.

Across the room, he saw his wife's head raise in confusion. C.J.'s forehead pinched in bewilderment. "I understand, sir," she said slowly, her tones declaring that she didn't, not fully. 

Bartlet rubbed his forehead, feeling the headache and the tension building. Too tired. He was coming dangerously close to making revelations he had no business disclosing just yet. And yet these people were more than colleagues. He felt himself giving in to the impulse to offer them something of himself. Before the opportunity might be lost forever.

"I just... I want to let you all know how very much I appreciate the hard work and support you've given me. You've given me more than that.  Not only loyalty, but your friendship as well.  I can't let this day pass without letting you know how much that has meant to me, how it has lightened the burdens of this office."

His companions regarded him with sober faces. They were warmed by the evident sincerity of the sentiments their President had expressed, but the vaguely elegiac nature of the speech was not lost on them. With a rising coldness, each reflected on what had almost been lost this day. Might still be lost, and the damage already sustained.

"Sir?" Lyman's voice was soft. "How do you feel? Will it be... will you be all right?"

Aware that he had cast a pall over the gathering, the President summoned his most reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, Josh. I have excellent doctors."

"Yes." McGarry's deputy wrung his hands in anxiety, then realizing how ridiculous that looked, stuffed them into his pockets. "Sir, the relapse. How bad is it?"

Bartlet shifted awkwardly. "Well, it's a relapse, Josh. That's never good. In view of the year we've had, it's lousy from a whole range of viewpoints."

"Yes, sir." Lyman exhaled a nervous snort of laughter. It was a PR nightmare for sure.  The embodiment of their greatest dread since the initial revelation. But sometimes politics weren't everything. "But, you will be all right, won't you?"

Bartlet looked helplessly at their entreating faces. Once, just once, it would be nice to be able to offer a solid reassurance. But he knew that option didn't hold. He had lost his ability to sell glib reassurances on this topic. No one was buying. Bartlet scowled. They would turn to just about anyone else for an opinion rather than ask him for his judgment on the state of his own body.

Sure enough, the staffers rotated their heads as Abbey leaned forward and spoke from her rear vantage. "We're not sure yet. There are no quick answers with MS. For now, the President's..." - deliberately, she chose the emphasis of office rather than family - "... relapse seems to be following its usual pattern. We're hoping recovery won't be protracted, but we can't promise that with any degree of reassurance. What he needs to do most right now is to rest."

The faint tone of reproach that leached into her final words was probably accidental, but the others picked up on it and began to edge away from the bed. Certain signals, when given by the First Lady, were a matter of course.

"We should let you sleep, sir." Seaborn was flustered. "It's been a long day."

"I guess," Bartlet spoke ruefully and again adjusted his position, unable to find a comfortable angle. "Listen," he halted them as they began to turn away, his wife moving to meet them at the door. "I want to let you know we can handle this. What happened today seems hard to believe, but we'll weather it, and this whole crisis. I'm just sorry you didn't have more time to deal with it."

"That's okay, sir." Lyman tried to be reassuring. He didn't feel very successful. "I guess we all kind of sensed that something was wrong for sometime now. All the extra security for one thing."

"Hard to miss, wasn't it?" Even now, the President's tone showed some irritation at the suffocating security of recent months, and no doubt for some time still to come. He couldn't help grinning though. "You guys seemed to be doing your best to help Ron out too, with all that hovering. What did you think you were going to do?  Play amateur secret agent if anything went down?"

"Oh, that wasn't why we were hovering." Seaborn, still lingering near the foot of the bed as if reluctant to leave his Chief Executive's presence, spoke absently.

"I'm sorry?"

The Deputy Communications Director suddenly flushed up to the roots of his hair and began to stammer.  "I... I meant..."

"You meant?" The President's tone was becoming a little testy. "Then just why has my entire senior staff been fluttering around me like demented mother hens for the last several weeks?"

"Well, you see...” Seaborn glanced at his colleagues desperately. They carefully avoided his eye. No life ring there, or the prospect of one either. Callously abandoned to sink or swim alone, the Deputy Communications Director opted for the desperate choice of candor, never safe idea when dealing with a politician. "We didn't know about the security threat, sir. Not for sure. We were worried because... because you looked so crappy lately. We were afraid you might fall ill."

Bartlet regarded his youngest senior staffer wonderingly. "Crappy?" he repeated weakly, unable to muster a suitable comeback.

By the door Abbey looked both frustrated and amused.

"Yes, sir." Seaborn swallowed miserably. "Sorry sir, but... you really did."

Bartlet waved the apology aside somewhat numbly. Hell, it wasn't as if he could offer a convincing refutation right now anyway, not when his own wife had so lovingly informed him that he looked awful. Only slightly better than crappy. Where was the dignity in that?

"Never mind, forget it. Oh," Bartlet looked up, smiling gamely if not convincingly. "I may not appreciate the phrasing, but I do appreciate the thought."

"Thank you, sir." Seaborn looked relieved and stepped away from his colleagues, moving slightly closer to the President, feeling an obscure need to atone somehow. "Anything I can do for you before we go?"

"Just toss me that pillow at the foot of the bed." Bartlet began to hitch himself up awkwardly, not an easy task with one hand throbbing painfully at the slightest movement. "I need to change position, sit up for a while.  My back is starting to kill me."

"Here you go, sir." Seaborn slid the pillow behind the President. As the man struggled to sit up, he impulsively reached out to grasp Bartlet's shoulder. "Let me help you..."

He snatched his hand back as if burned when the President twisted away with a strangled gasp. "Sir? Oh, God! I'm sorry!" He desperately willed the shake from his voice, even as Lyman, C.J. and Abbey rushed to the bed. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

Bartlet raised his own hand to his shoulder, probing tentatively, a puzzled and slightly anxious expression on his face. "No, Sam. Sorry to have scared you. No harm done. I guess..." His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Everyone waited in tense expectation for his next words.

"I guess I'm still a little sore all over." Bartlet looked up and smiled cautiously. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Plainly unconvinced, and with anxieties renewed but reacting to the clear tone of executive dismissal, the staffers murmured their goodbyes and turned to leave the President with his wife.

"C.J.?" the President called.

Pulled up just short of the door, the Press Secretary allowed Seaborn and Lyman to pass her before turning back towards the bed. "Sir?"

"Could I talk to you for a minute?" Alone, the President's tone and expression clearly conveyed.

Confused C.J. glanced at the First Lady, almost as if to ask permission. Abbey seemed taken aback, and the concern and irritation were writ clear upon her features. Suspicion was there as well, but something passed between her and her husband.

Whatever it was, Abbey sighed her frustration and yielded.

"Okay, but only for a few minutes," she said warningly, and there was no doubt who she was warning. "Then, so help me, Jed you are going to get some sleep. No more meetings."

"Thanks, Abbey." Her husband followed her with his eyes as she crossed the room. Only when the door closed on her, did he direct his gaze back to his Press Secretary. "C.J., come sit down, would you?"

~ooOoo~

Abbey heard the door click shut behind her, but it didn't really register on her mind.

It was only her imagination it had to be. She was reading too much into a simple reaction from a man who only hours before had nearly lost some fingers, if not his hand, to an explosion. Abbey remembered the aftermath with a shiver of vivid recollection. He was bruised and battered, probably in areas his doctors weren't even aware of. And knowing Jed, he wouldn't tell them if he were.

Recoiling from an inadvertent touch in the wrong place was only to be expected, right? It was the simplest explanation.

The man was hurting.

The man was her husband.

Abbey couldn't help it. It may not be anything, but she found little consolation in that reminder.

Her musings were interrupted by a cautious, male voice.

"Ma'am?"

It was the evening shift, so the man who was tentatively requesting her attention was not her Head of Detail, Emil Torres. This man's obvious unease was much the same, though. Abbey was used to the agents approaching her with extreme caution. However, this time there was something else in the man's voice that gave her pause. "Yes, Henry?"

He perked up a bit at his name, eyes brightening and losing a bit of that hunted quality. It never failed. When the President couldn't get it right, it was a serious treat when his wife did. Still, he shuffled uncomfortably, hand to his earpiece. "We have a situation."

"A situation?" She tried to keep her fragile control. Please, God. Not another one.

"No, ma'am, nothing like that," Vaughn quickly reassured her. He hadn't missed the flash of anxiety. Quickly getting to the point, he explained, "Your daughter just blew through gate security. She's on her way to the Residence."

"My daughter?" Abbey experienced a surge of mixed emotions. She'd had this out with Jed already. This was supposed to have been handled. A mother's fury quickly won out over the shocked frustration. "Zoey! Damn it! Charlie was supposed to keep her..."

Vaughn winced. Yep, that had set her off. "Not Zoey, ma'am."

"Not Zoey?" Abbey hesitated, blinking with bafflement. Baffled wasn't a state of mind she enjoyed. "Elizabeth?"

 "No, ma'am, it's..."

"MOTHER!"

Caught off guard by the sheer unexpected volume of the bellow, Abbey jumped. With some satisfaction, she saw Vaughn jump as well, and felt just a little better at being taken by surprise.

She gave the poor agent a side-long glance of utter surprise and dead-panned, "Ellie?"

Vaughn nodded and sighed. "Ellie, ma'am."

"Oh, dear."

The First Couple's middle daughter blasted through the door, leaving a trail of confusion in her considerable wake. Watching her leave the agents scattered behind her, Abbey's astonishment was genuine. Of all her children, Eleanor was the last she would have expected to see so flushed and angry, so ready and willing for a confrontation.

She was looking for a fight, and Abbey had a pretty good idea about what.

"How could he do this?" Ellie didn't bother with any preamble, brushing past a clearly startled Vaughn and confronting her mother. "I don't count?"

"Eleanor!" Abbey's voice cracked like a whip. It wasn't a tone she'd had use on this daughter, ever. Ellie was usually so subdued and quiet. This spitfire, eyes flashing, body-language screaming defiance and fury was a surprise she could have done without. "Lower your voice - now."

Ellie knew better than to argue with her mother when she used that tone of voice. However, lowering her volume levels was the only concession she made to the parental order. "How could he do this?" she repeated, the anger in her voice barely bridled.

"He is your father, young lady, and he did what he thought was best." Oh, yes. Abbey knew exactly what had set her middle daughter off.

"They," a furious toss of her head included Vaughn in that growled statement, "told me Dad ordered them, he ordered them, to keep me away!"

Vaughn shuffled his feet - a bad habit he really needed to stop, but one most of the First Lady's agents had acquired - and mutely appealed to the lady in question for a quick, merciful release.

Taking pity on him, Abbey inclined her head towards the door. "A bit late, but thanks for the warning, Henry. I'll take it from here."

His relief more than apparent, Vaughn made his rather hasty escape. He raised his hand, giving the rest of the agents the quick heads-up that the situation, for the moment, was under control.

Ellie continued to confront her mother; hardening her heart by reinforcing the enraged barriers she'd been building brick by brick all day. That much she could control and hold on to. The hurt she couldn't control. "He didn't want to see me."

"Oh, no. Not that." Is that what she thought? How could she? Abbey reached out and framed her daughter's face with her hands, felt and saw the hurt. "He would never do that."

"But..."

"Listen to me. He kept you all away, for your own safety." And he would have sent his wife away as well, if he'd thought he could get away with it. To Jed's credit, he hadn't even tried. Not that Abbey had given him the opportunity.

Ellie's eyes were bordered with tears she refused to let fall. "Even Zoey?" she sniffed, dropping her gaze from her mother's, trying to hide the hurt.

Abbey saw it anyway. "You know better than that."

"Bet she didn't stay away." The hurt was now colored with something else.

"Yes, she did." Jealousy? Was that what she was hearing? Brushing her hand gently across her daughter's cheek, Abbey took her hands and led her to the sofa. Thankfully, Ellie didn't protest as they sat down. "Your father sent Charlie to sit on her."

Ellie blinked, then shook her head with a harsh laugh. "Sneaky."

"That's your father."

Her father. Some of the bricks she'd so carefully laid began to crumble. "Got Charlie out, too, didn't he?"

Abbey squeezed her daughter's hands. "If he could have emptied the White House, he would have."

Another brick shattered. "Even you?"

Her own feelings on that subject were too raw to discuss. Thickly, Abbey answered, "I didn't give him the opportunity to try."

"Really?" Ellie tried to hold on to the anger, to keep the hurt. It wasn't easy. She could feel her throat closing up, the tears she'd been desperately fighting escape and run hotly down her cheeks. "I saw the news, Mom. The reports... I tried to listen, to call, but I couldn't get through..."

Abbey winced, wondering which poor staffer had borne the brunt of Ellie's rage. Guilt was there, too. Jed had been the center of her attention; she hadn't a chance to spare a thought for her children. After that first, abortive attempt, she'd staffed it out.

No wonder Ellie was furious.

"Nobody would tell me anything. Nothing, not one word. And you weren't there."

There was no mistaking the accusation there, the implied abandonment. "They didn't know anything." She didn't know anything. Abbey opened her mouth, trying to explain, but Ellie didn't let her.

"Then those... people came, wouldn't let me come."

"The agents were just following orders." Up until that moment Abbey had no idea a simple little word like people could be uttered with such vindictive enthusiasm, especially by Ellie.

"He's my father!" The last brick crumbled into dust.

Abbey stared at her daughter, could find no words to give her. My husband, she wanted to say, but couldn't. It was a shared pain.

Ellie stared back, looking for something in her mother's eyes, she wasn't sure what. Disappointed, she realized that maybe a little bit of everything was what she was looking for. Her mother had always seemed to have all the answers before. Added to her disappointment was a feeling of guilt. This was her father. Her father...

And she was angry with him.

"Mom?" Another tear rolled down her cheek.

A flash of wild grief ripped through her and Abbey drew her troubled daughter into her arms. She felt her relax and give in to the quiet sobs she'd been fighting. She'd never understood why Ellie and her father clashed the way they did. They were so different.

Yet so much alike. Perhaps that was part of the answer. Abbey swallowed and bit back her own tears. She'd thought she'd cried herself out, given the fear and grief its due. Never had she been more wrong.

Mother and daughter clung to each other, conscious only of their own fears and the relief given by simple, familiar comfort. For one, long timeless moment, it was all they needed.

~ooOoo~

Somewhat nervously, the Press Secretary sank gracefully into the bedside chair that had been vacated by the First Lady.  "Sir?"

"I just wanted to say thank you." Sinking back against the pillows, Bartlet regarded his companion anxiously. "For your caring. The concern all of you have shown to me. I appreciate it, and I know Abbey was touched as well. It means a lot to me, to us."

C.J. blushed slightly. "Sir, you mean a lot to us. I just wish there was more we could do to help." She smiled at him and was heartened to see that same warmth reflected back.

"Trust me, C.J. You guys always help." His mood darkened slightly then. "Anyway, there will be plenty for everyone to do tomorrow." He regarded her almost apologetically. "That press conference is gonna be tough."

"I can handle it, sir."

"I know you can. There is none better at what you do. But it may not be pleasant."   Bartlet's expression had shifted to outright concern. "I know your job has demanded that you do and say things you didn't agree with before now. I want you to know that everything you will say at that briefing tomorrow actually has a purpose  - a strategy that I personally agreed to, whatever you may think of it."

C.J. felt herself stiffen in renewed apprehension. "Sir, this is the second time you've reassured me about whatever Leo is going to brief me on. May I ask, what exactly is the nature of this strategy that you so clearly expect me to dislike?"

It is physically impossible for a nearly supine man to shuffle his feet guiltily, but Bartlet managed to convey just that impression. "Never mind, C.J. Leo will be going over it with you." Feeling rather ashamed of his own cowardice, he added, "Just don't kill him, okay?"

"If you say so, sir," C.J replied blankly, not one whit reassured.

"Fine." Clearly eager to move on, Bartlet cleared his throat as he came to the real reason he had asked her to remain. "So... how are you doing?"

"Me, sir?" The surprised tones declared that, whatever C.J. had been expecting next, it hadn't been an enquiry about her own well-being. Unable to help the slight lilt of amusement, she cocked an eyebrow at her disheveled companion. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

"Seriously." Bartlet for once refused to be drawn. "This has to be especially hard on you, in light of recent events. And don't tell me they're not dwelling on your mind. Because that little bit of insight into my own problem earlier would indicate otherwise."

“Sir, really, I'm fine." C.J. could not repress the warmth she felt, nor did she really try. That, after all that had happened, he could still think of how it might affect her... "I certainly came out of that better than you have out of this."

"Maybe, but it was frightening at the time." Bartlet was not asking, but stating a fact; as if he were quite certain what emotions such circumstances would invoke.

C.J. supposed that if anyone would know, it was he.

"And it was responsible for you meeting Simon."

The Press Secretary continued to hold his gaze, even as she felt the treacherous film forming over her vision. "No!" she told herself fiercely. "None of that. Not here and not now. I don't care how horrendous a day it's been." A couple of blinks and a swallow, and she was back in control. "I don't actually regret having met him, sir."

"No, I don't suppose you do." The President was silent for a moment. "C.J.", he continued gently. "I was so sorry about what happened."

"It was a tragedy, a stupid mischance." C.J. swallowed again. "Simon was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens so often. It doesn't make it any better, of course. And I felt so sorry for his family and their loss."

"What about yourself?" Bartlet was still gentle, but insistent. "You lost..."

"A friend." C.J. interrupted, not quite sure why he was taking this depressing path. "Thank you for your thoughts, and concern, Mr. President. But I don't want to over-dramatize anything. I lost someone I had known a short time and had come to like and admire. Simon's family lost a son and a brother. Their grief comes from years of companionship and knowledge." She studied her hands, struggling to find the right words. "I honestly don't consider I have the right to feel my grief outweighs theirs. Simon and I, we liked each other enough to consider the possibility of spending time together in the future, but we hadn't even gone on one date yet. What I lost was..."

"A future possibility." The President's voice was soft. "That is a real loss in itself, C.J.  To never have the opportunity to explore what might have been."

C.J. ducked her head suddenly, feeling the emotion well. How did he do that, read her so well? He wasn't quite old enough, of course, and she'd only known him, what, five years now? But at times it was almost like being with her father, before the Alzheimer's had caused him to drift away from her. Her father would have offered exactly the same kind of gentle comfort, coupled with an insight born of both love and truly knowing her, that could sweep aside all barriers and protestations, forcing her to face her true feelings.

For a moment she sat there, both drowning in the memories of Simon and of that awful, awkward interview with Ron Butterfield, and soaking up a sensation of deep consolation and understanding that she had never thought to feel outside her parents' presence.

Looking at the man lying before her, she felt a sudden surge of affection. He could never replace her father, had never tried to, but she knew in that moment that the blind terror of that day at Rosslyn had not come merely from the breaching of their defenses, or the attack on the very personification of their national identity.

It had been far more personal than that, a bone-weakening sense of an almost insupportable loss barely averted. She had felt it and knew all her colleagues had too. To lose this man would be almost as devastating as losing her own father, never mind that she had only known him a few years. Those few years were crammed with enough joys, triumphs, rages, griefs and tragedies to fill a lifetime of experience.

And that was his very point, she realized suddenly. You didn't have to be family, didn't have to have years of shared experience behind you in order to feel the right to grieve.

"It's just that... he really was prepared to risk his life to protect me. Before he even knew me." She swallowed painfully. "I'm so glad that wasn't why he died though. Because of me. I couldn't have borne that."

"Yes, that can be very hard to bear." The President's voice was carefully neutral.

~ooOoo~

Drawing back, Abbey took a deep breath and smiled. "So how'd you escape?" she asked, brushing one of the last tears from Ellie's reddened face with a hand that trembled only slightly. Her own face, she knew, looked no better.

Ellie laughed, surprised she could find the strength to do so. "I just... ran. You'd think they'd be faster. You know, running alongside limos like they do."

"You had the element of surprise."

"Yeah," Ellie sniffed, the last of her grief and anger disappearing as she remembered. "Nobody expected that from me. So quiet, so mousy..."

"Ellie," Abbey warned her sternly. That was a subject they really didn't need to get into right now.

"I made it to my car, and then..." She broke off, her face clouding.

"And what?" Abbey's eyes narrowed with concerned suspicion. Ellie looked like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"One of them caught me; he was quicker than the others, I guess. I don't know who, I wasn't really thinking..." Ellie paused, rubbing her right elbow and wincing. "I just... reacted."

Abbey sat back and added up the clues. Her daughter was here, having run the gauntlet and accomplished an escape of truly epic proportions. She was looking guilty as charged and rubbing an obviously still painful elbow. Was that a trace of blood on her sleeve? Either of her other daughters and she wouldn't have had to ask.

Ellie she had to ask. "What did you do?"

Looking away from her mother's gentle though insistent gaze, an unwelcome blush crept into Ellie's tear-stained cheeks. She wasn't sure - a diagnosis from the act and not the result wasn't all that easy - but still... "I think I broke someone's nose."

Abbey's confusion was only momentary. Then she sighed. Fighting back a laugh she knew bordered on the hysterical, this was after all Eleanor admitting to the act, she called out, "Henry!"

Agent Vaughn poked a cautious head into the room. "Ma'am?"

"Could you come in for a moment, please?"

Please? Not good. Stopping himself just short of asking, "Really? Must I?" Vaughn stepped in and shut the door.

Not really knowing how to ask this, the First Lady regarded the obviously uncomfortable agent for a moment, then stated calmly, "My daughter informs me that when she... escaped," - really, there was no other word for it when dealing with the Secret Service - "there may have been an... altercation." Nice word that, suited what may have happened perfectly. Abbey rather liked it.

Vaughn liked it, too, but for different reasons. Giving the fidgeting First Daughter an apologetic look, he replied matter-of-factly, "There was."

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ellie lowered her head, hair falling across her face.

Rubbing her eyes, Abbey asked, "Anything broken? A nose perhaps?" She patted her daughter on the shoulder. "Lift your head up, dear, and face the music."

"You sound like Dad, Mom." Still, she lifted her head with a small smile.

Abbey thought about that for a moment. "I'm not at all sure that's a compliment."

"It is," Ellie told her softly.

Now Vaughn was fidgeting and - Damn! But he was really going to have to work on that - shuffling his feet again.

"The nose, Henry?" Abbey prompted patiently. "Broken?"

"No, ma'am." Vaughn answered with obvious relief. He'd already got the reports, along with the frantic hollering of the agents Ellie had left behind. "Agent Haefy just somehow managed to get in the way of her elbow. Nothing broken. Just... squished." He smiled reassuringly at Ellie Bartlet and earned one in return. "Luckily Miss Bartlet doesn't know a thing about follow-through."

Abbey's brows rose. "Follow-through?"

Vaughn shuffled. "Yes, ma'am."

For the first time, Ellie gave out with a genuine laugh.

Quelling that bit of youthful enthusiasm with a stern look, Abbey said, "Give him our apologies, Henry. Ellie..." she took her daughter's hand and squeezed gently, "... will offer her own in due time."

Vaughn shook his head. "It's not necessary, ma'am." When the First Lady chuckled softly at that and momentarily looked away, he broke with procedure a bit and gave Ellie Bartlet a quick wink, earning a grateful smile in return.

Hoping his job here, for the moment, was done, Vaughn asked, "Will that be all, ma’am?” He could hope, couldn't he?

"Stay for a moment, will you, Henry?"

No such luck. Nodding, Vaughn stepped back against the far wall. Still here and not, he turned off the presence of the two women and faded into the background.

Abbey turned her attention back to her daughter, pleased to see some composure back in her features. A bit of normal color had returned to her cheeks, although her eyes were still red.

No less red than her own. That wasn't going to change anytime soon. Abbey knew that, even if her daughter didn't. As the image of her husband focused in her mind, the deliberate blankness in his eyes and the aura of resignation that had covered him, a realization struck her. She couldn't fix the broader picture.

But she could fix this.

"Go in and see him," she told Ellie.

Ellie blinked, looked over at the silent agent. Was she allowed? "Mom?"

"Go." Abbey stood, lifting her daughter's hands and forcing her to stand. "Wake him up."

"He'll bark."

"He's always barking. You should know by now he doesn't bite."

A soft, gentle huff was Ellie's only response.

"Much," Abbey amended. "Just bark back. He needs it, especially from you."

"You sure?" Still skeptical, Ellie couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. The question she'd wanted to ask, been afraid to ask, burst from her lips. "I mean, he's gonna be okay, right?"

Vaughn was only human. His head turned imperceptibly, gaze focused on the First Lady.

Abbey felt his eyes on her. There was more than concern for his charge in that hardly noticeable tilt of his head and look. It was mirrored in the regard of her daughter, only amplified. She simply didn’t have the answers, so she could only reply tiredly, "Baby, I don't know. Too much has happened...."

"It's okay, Mom." Ellie didn't really need to hear the words. She and her sisters had lived with so much, starting long before her father had taken charge of the Oval Office. She was a med student. She also knew how very few answers multiple sclerosis provided its victims.

Assassins and bombs sure as hell didn't help. Ellie looked at the closed bedroom door, then back at her mother. A shy smile lit her face. "Bark, huh."

"Bark."

"Woof," Ellie muttered. Straightening her shoulders, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks, she opened the door and stepped in.

For a brief moment, the voices inside could be heard. As the door closed, they abruptly cut off. No familiar, rich voice raised in protest. Not yet anyway, if ever. Abbey didn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

Vaughn took the opportunity to point out, "Miss Cregg is still in there."

"Not for long," Abbey smiled sweetly, glancing at her watch. Knowing C.J. as she did, she gave the woman only a minute or two to endure the strained beginnings of the father/daughter dispute before making her hasty exodus.

Now to take care of some of the minor details.

~ooOoo~

C.J. glanced at the President in surprise at that quietly issued statement, and then had a wave of sudden revelation so sharp that she felt herself flush in mortification. "Oh! I'm sorry sir. I never thought..."

"What? You believed I never think about that?" Bartlet's tone was joshing, but there was just a hint of hurt in the eyes.

"No. Well..." C.J. struggled to give form to the just conceived thought. "I suppose that we just never really thought about it at all, sir. The guards are so much a part of your existence, wherever you go, we just take them for granted. I suppose we thought you did too." She looked at him with regret. "I am sorry."

"I don't think I ever did that." Bartlet spoke slowly, gently rolling his injured limb on the pillow. The motion seemed to ease the ever-present throbbing. "It was always there, at the back of my mind. Then Rosslyn pretty much pushed it right up front and center. I've always admired Ron, but what he did that day..."

Regarding his own hand again, he looked up. "If that bullet had done any more damage to his hand, he might never have gotten back full use of it, might have been forced to retire. And I've always wondered where that bullet might have ended up, if he hadn't been all over me so fast." He couldn't repress a low chuckle. "And after all that, he still felt guilty, can you believe it?"

C.J. smiled, feeling herself get a little teary. "I think I can, sir."

"I mean, he was bleeding all over the seat, had to be in a hell of a lot of pain. Had me jabbering on at him and he still wasn't thinking of anything but his job. I scared him, though." Bartlet's grin dimmed a little. "Scared myself a bit, too."

"Yes, sir." Between the President and Josh, the senior staff had been considerably more than a bit scared that night. The Secret Service too, for all its professionalism, C.J. reflected. She wondered what Simon had been doing that night... after the shots had died away.

Looking back up, she noted she wasn't the only one lost in thought. Examining the very tips of his fingers, where they peeked from the wrapping, the President gingerly brushed against the nails with his thumb. Despite his doctors' best efforts, blood remained encrusted beneath them.

Unaware of her regard, Bartlet's expression darkened still further, caught up in memories.  The feeling of blood drying under his nails, of horribly wet and sticky hair beneath his fingers, of being pinned down, closed in and unable to help; himself or anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, he broke from his introspection and rejoined his companion, who was regarding him with quiet empathy. "You just never really think about it until the reality is shoved in your face. I'd never truly forgotten, but Rosslyn brought it home.  Since then, I've prayed every day that Ron would be as bad as it got."

The President laughed bitterly. "Guess I was kidding myself."

C.J. felt desperately sorry for him at that moment. "Marine One?" she inquired gently.

"Yeah." The grimace she received in reply could not even charitably be declared a smile.  "Five people died there because of me, C.J. Five. One so close to me I could touch him, did touch him, and I couldn't do a damn thing to help, couldn't even help myself." He looked up at her seriously. "I'm so sorry that we lost Simon. But I'm selfishly glad that it wasn't in a way that risked you as well, or that left you feeling a burden of personal responsibility."

Okay, those tears were definitely threatening now. "Thank you, sir. I just wish..."

"Yeah." The President gave her that warm smile that reminded her again of family. "Me, too."

C.J. smiled back tremulously, but with increasing warmth, trying to project the caring, the affection that protocol would not permit to be expressed aloud.

The soft sound of the door latch caused her to begin to turn, expecting that Abbey had finally returned to possibly sedate her intractable patient. The frozen expression on the President's face stalled her.  Slowly she completed the turn, and felt her eyes widen in recognition and apprehension.

Lost and looking terribly frightened, Eleanor Bartlet stood silently with her back to the door, staring with wide-eyed horror at her father. She looked like she would jump at a shadow, let alone her father's voice.

Her father, the President, stared back, the warmth and understanding of earlier shuttered by something C.J. couldn't quite put a name to. Shock? Confusion? Anger? A combination of all the above, maybe. One thing for certain, C.J. wasn't about to stick around to find out.

Well, this was going to be interesting. The atmosphere of the room became charged. Pursing her lips, avoiding eye contact with either of them, C.J. stood up, trying desperately to disappear. Discretion was the better part of valor and right now, discretion was her only choice. Even the rules of protocol were forgotten, she didn't even dare ask for permission to leave as she quietly, and hopefully invisible, slid towards the door.

Neither father nor daughter paid any attention to her, which suited C.J. just fine.

~ooOoo~

"Henry?" Abbey asked, glancing once again at her watch.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Can I ask you a favor?" At his slightly constipated expression, Abbey quickly added. "Nothing big, just a bit... out of the ordinary."

The agent nodded. "If I can, ma'am." Since Vaughn was still relatively new to her detail, Emil Torres had warned him that the First Lady had a habit of doing this. With her, the rules tended to get bent quite frequently, if not broken.

"If they run to pattern, and they've been depressingly predictable this evening," the lady in question was saying, watching him carefully, “the Chief of Staff and your boss should be descending on my husband," - for this, she put the emphasis on my - "in about twenty minutes." Oh, yes. They were being very predictable; who needed a watch?

Neither the time frame mentioned nor the pointed emphasis was lost on Vaughn. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stood at attention, head to one side and let his charge finish. There was respect in his posture, as well as understanding. He had a pretty good idea where this was going.

"Would you send them to me, please?" the First Lady asked. Not demanded or ordered, asked.

"Of course, ma'am."

"No problems?" Considering the events of the day, the kicked-up anthill that was the White House and its jumpy occupants, it wasn't something Abbey, even now, felt safe in asking. Jed was her husband, and Ellie's father, but these men had their jobs.

She was sadly aware that everything took a back seat to those considerations.

A suspiciously humorous twist appeared at the corner of Henry Vaughn's mouth. "I didn't say that, ma'am." He shrugged. "But when I tell them that you made the request..."

"Enough, Henry." Abbey held up her hand, bringing that observation to a close. However, a reputation did have its uses. "Thank you."

"Thank you, ma'am." Vaughn actually smiled then. "Can I go know? Set up the barricades? Write my will?"

Abbey laughed, a true outburst of gratitude and relief. "You almost sounded human there, Henry."

"I did? Really?" The Secret Service Agent shook his head as he opened the door. "Gotta work at that."

The door closed behind him.

Looking again at her watch, Abbey counted the seconds. Predictability did have certain advantages. You just had to know how to use your aces properly.

Sure enough, the bedroom door opened and C.J. Cregg quietly stepped out. Shutting the door, she leaned against the frame, let out a very long, deep sigh, and gave the smiling First Lady a narrow look. "Abbey?"

One elegant brow rose and Abbey countered simply, "C.J.?"

The Press Secretary smiled. Oh, yes. She had definitely planned that timely little interruption. "You're a conundrum, you know that?"

"Maddening, isn't it?"

"Sneaky."

"Of course."

"Is it just me, or is there going to be fireworks in there?" C.J. glanced at the door.

"I hope so, C.J." Abbey spoke softly, dropping on to the sofa and rubbing eyes burned dry from tears and fatigue. "I hope so."

~ooOoo~

As C.J. Cregg hastily - and with a quickness and obvious relief that bordered on the comic - left the room, Ellie found herself falling into old, familiar patterns. She was alone with her father. Holding close to the wall, she dropped her head, refusing to look at him. As always, she felt her hair fall across her face. Unsure of herself, it was easier than trying to bridge the emotional gap between them. Being out of sight and out of mind always was with him.

Hiding from her father.

She could feel him studying her with a curious, almost sad intensity. Ellie heard the rustle and creak of the bed as he shifted, a soft grunt of pain at the ill-considered movement. Waiting for him to say something, anything, she was almost disappointed when he didn't.

This wasn't going to work. She shouldn't have come. Whatever her mother had planned or hoped for - and Ellie understoodher well enough to know she'd something up her sleeve - hit a blank wall. Whatever she'd hoped for, wasn't going to happen either. The urge to leave, to escape, became almost unbearable.

A mocking voice inside her wondered why. Why are you doing this? Look at him, girl! He's your father! Listening to the internal gibes, she found her anger again. Anger at the world, the person who did this and a God who would allow it to happen.

The silence between them lengthened, fueled by her own fears and insecurities.

Not this time. Tossing her head defiantly, flinging her hair out of her eyes, Ellie looked up. She observed him lying propped up on the bed through lowered lashes. A phone lay next to him and papers were scattered across the covers. Even now, he wouldn't quit. Oddly, looking down on him she found herself at an advantage.

An advantage she didn't want, not like this. The courage it gave her was false.

He continued to say nothing. Not a good sign. Ellie almost bolted at that point.

The med student took over. He was pale, the cuts across his cheeks and lower chin standing out starkly against that ashen background. Only an effort of will kept her from gasping aloud at the sight of the closed wound that slashed across one eyelid. So very close.

Too close.

A few stitches showed through the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow. The graying stubble on his chin did little to hide the angry wounds. Clinically, she observed that they'd done a good job on that; the scaring would be minimal, but he was still going to have fun shaving for a good while to come.

Or her mother was. Ellie almost laughed at that. She knew her parents; at times it was almost embarrassing. They both would have fun with that.

Still, he said nothing.

Elevated on several pillows beside him was his left hand. Poking out through the bandages she counted one thumb and four fingers. All there. Ellie had heard the reports; the snatches of information that had slipped from her agents before she'd made her frantic break. They'd slipped up there. That had been what had set off her panic, the need to see for herself, to speak with him. The broken snatches of speculation from the TV reporters and the radio in her car hadn't helped. Without answers, they'd kept repeating the same thing over and over again till she'd wanted to scream.

There had been an explosion in the Oval Office. Her father's office.

Her father. Who was still not saying anything. His steady regard could have burned holes through casehardened steel. The scream of frustration building just at the back of her throat was definitely becoming an option.

His eyes searched her face, reaching into her thoughts and feelings like he always did. Hiding had never really worked with him and right now Ellie couldn't think of why she'd ever really tried.

Now, if he would only say something, they could get this show on the road.

No such luck. Her father continued to... stare at her, waiting. For what? To her vast annoyance, Ellie felt herself starting to blush. That was new. Was he trying to embarrass her? If that was his plan, he was doing a pretty good job. The alternative, that he was just too far down the emotional scale to even work up the energy for a good, righteous tear, frightened her more than the first reports of what had happened.

Knowing her father, Ellie was putting her money on the former. At least, she hoped she was right. Anything else was too awful to contemplate.

She swallowed and squared her shoulders. Not this time. He wasn't going to get away with it. If he wouldn't say anything, start the ball rolling, she would. What was it her mother had said? Wake him up? That she had trusted her with this gave wings to her courage. Love did the rest.

"Woof, Dad," she blurted, scarcely aware of her own voice. Had she just said that?

Apparently she had. Her father's brows arched and he inquired coolly, "Woof?"

"Woof." Ellie repeated, fighting the urge to drop her gaze. It would have set him off, maybe, but not the way she wanted. The familiar, rich tones she'd grown up with sounded so tired, harsh and grating, resigned. There was no fight, no fire or fury. Just a blank, exhausted withdrawal.

For the first time she understood her mother's fears and added them to her own. Ellie dropped her eyes from his steady regard, focusing her gaze on the bed stand. Looking anywhere but at him kept her from losing what little determination she'd managed to salvage. A glint of simple gold sparkled on the table corner. Her eyes widened. His wedding ring. Because of the swelling, they’d had to take it off.

Her breath caught in her throat. More than anything, that undeniable and dreadful sight gave the reality a fearful clarity. Never in her life could she recall her father without that precious band on his finger.

"What are you doing here?"

That voice, full of a depth and authority she both feared and loved, snapped Ellie back to the present at hand.

"Isn't it obvious?" she replied, proud that no hint of a stammer cracked her facade. There was the question. Ratcheting up her courage, surprised she could actually find it, Ellie shrugged with forced nonchalance and moved towards the bed and her father. Each step made the next easier.

Bartlet's eyes followed his middle daughter, calculating. "Eleanor..."

"I'm defying you, Dad." Oh, that was good. Eleanor. She'd got that much at least. Multiple syllables from him were a clear indication of parental wrath. Good! This was getting easier by the minute. She carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. "Willfully and with malice aforethought disregarding your executive orders, violating goodness knows how many traffic laws, probably burning out my clutch in the process and..."

"My orders..."

"Your orders," - Ellie wasn't about to let him finish that statement. She knew where it would take them and it wasn't her path of choice at the moment - "were to keep me away. Is that what you wanted?"

When crossed, Ellie knew her father's temper was formidable. Frightening sometimes in its intensity. She waited for the flare, the familiar growl. It never came.

A long, drawn-out breath. "What I wanted was to keep you safe."

"Safe? Not knowing anything? No calls, nothing? Just those agents you've hung all over me scrambling around like chickens with their heads cut off?" Angry now, surprised at her own reactions, Ellie snapped, "It got staffed out, you know that? You couldn't call?"

"I assumed your Mother had called." His tone didn't quite accuse, but the defensive censure was there, a brief spark of parental anger as he waved at the papers scattered across the bed. "I do have a job, you know."

That was weak, not at all like him. The job had never been an excuse. This wasn't a situation Ellie was comfortable with, at all. It was more Zoey's territory than hers. The verbal clashes between her father and his youngest child had become the stuff of family legend. Maybe comparing a few notes with her baby sister before she'd started this might have helped. She had him on the ropes and he wouldn't fight.

She wanted him to fight. The safety of the familiar was all she had left.

Still, Ellie's gaze softened and she reached out. Unsure of what was safe, she dropped her hand on his right shoulder, felt him tense. "Mom had other things on her mind, Dad."

He flinched, subtly pulling away from her touch as best he could within the confines of the bed. "There were reasons." His winced reply lacked any real ring of truth or finality.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously at his unexpected reaction to her touch, Ellie quickly snatched her hand back. He wasn't denying her, it was something else. Maybe she should have asked her mother exactly what his injuries had been before barging in here. She hadn't felt any bandages under the pajama top, but there may have been secondary bruising. Maybe...

"There are always reasons, Dad." Clasping her hands in her lap, she asked reasonably, "Why not try giving me a few?" She was rather proud of the strength in that question, the quaver she kept out of her voice.

This wasn't as hard as she'd thought it would be.

"Reasons?" The President regarded his middle daughter with open astonishment, not the least of which was inspired by her uncharacteristic defiance. Truthfully, tired as he was, he was beginning to enjoy it.

Raising his bandaged hand, he managed to wiggle a few fingers. "How's that old saying go? 'Here's five good reasons'? Besides, aside from the fact that I can issue a few executive orders…"

Ellie laughed. She couldn't help it. He was trying so hard. Sarcasm? Not quite sure it was a good thing or not, Ellie also detected a thawing in his voice. Maybe she'd taken the right tact on this after all. It was certainly proving to be educational, a side to her father she'd never seen before.

Or maybe she just hadn't been looking close enough.

Bartlet's eyes had narrowed. "Are you laughing at me, young lady?"

Ellie raised her hand to her breast, blinking her eyes with patently false innocence. "Would I dare?" Would she? Goodness, but she was. An interesting turn of events and one she found heady to the extreme.

"I'm your father."

"True." Ellie smiled. He was actually sulking just a bit.

"You should have listened."

"Don't you mean obeyed?"

One brow rose with elegant sarcasm. "There's a difference?"

"Depends on who's doing the defining. I'm not going to fight with you, Dad." Her smile faded and she regarded her father with all seriousness. It hurt to see him lying there, not quite broken but so very close. He'd never truly dominated her, not willfully. But still, he'd intimidated just a bit and she found she missed it.

She missed the fire. Time for that wake up call. "I'm a grown woman, Dad. I make my own decisions." Ellie paused, letting that first sink in before adding firmly, "I decided to come home."

"This isn't home." Bartlet's head fell back against the pillows, closing his eyes. "And it isn't safe."

"Yeah," Ellie muttered, unable to argue with that. Taking his good hand, she tried to bring him back from the tired resignation so apparent in his voice. She felt him stiffen at her touch, almost anticipatory. "It isn't home, but it's where I belong."

She gently squeezed his hand.

Wincing, her father wasn't quite able to prevent a hiss as he jerked his hand out of her grasp.

Shocked, Ellie almost jumped off the bed. Restraining herself, she stammered, "I'm sorry… I should've asked…"

"It's nothing." He forced a laugh, flexing his fingers to show no harm had been done. "Between your mother and Hackett, I think I ended up with more bruises and contusions than what I started with."

Ellie regarded him suspiciously. That was twice. Shoulder? Hand? She knew her mother could get carried away and maybe, just maybe, navy doctors were a bit rougher than most. But neither Admiral Hackett nor her mother were that rough.

"Dad?" He still hadn't opened his eyes, wouldn't meet her concerned gaze. She wanted to look into them, find out what he was hiding. That he was the one doing the hiding was a terrible irony she didn't at all enjoy.

"Why did you come?" he asked quietly, almost fearfully.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the threatening tears. Their last argument, one among many he'd won and she'd lost, flashed through Ellie's mind. She'd thought they'd found resolution there, if not balance. A good movie, a few laughs, and what he'd said… it had almost broken her heart.

Understanding, just a little perhaps, she forced her suspicions to the back of her mind and told him softly in a broken whisper, "All I have to do is come home, remember?" She didn't fight it this time, dropping her head and letting her hair fall across her face.

Old habits die hard.

"Hey." The voice had the familiar ring of authority again.

Ellie sniffed. "Yeah?"

"Lift your head up so I can see you."

Not quite a bark, but close enough. Ellie blinked and looked up, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

With his good arm he drew her into his embrace, holding her tightly as only a father knew how. The only way he knew how. It had been a long time coming and right now it was all he really needed, all he wanted.

Again, before succumbing to the safety of that strong embrace, Ellie felt the subtle recoil in his muscles. An involuntary shudder that quickly passed. Maybe he felt her own reaction to that, or not, but he tightened his hold, giving her no chance to question or escape.

Not that she really wanted to.

The phone rang.

This time, Ellie did jump.

Her father growled something bordering on unintelligible but quite probably foul.

Wiping her eyes, Ellie managed a short laugh. "I'm not exactly a minor, but do you think Mom would approve of you using language like that in front of me?"

Bartlet's laugh was honest, if not up to his usual standards. "What she doesn't know…" he grimaced and let the rest trail off, brushing a thumb across her cheek. "You won't tell her, will you?"

The phone rang again.

This time Ellie's muttered curse wouldn't have passed either parent's approval. Before her father could protest - and ask the ridiculous question of where she'd learned it, as if he didn't know already - she said, "You've a job."

"So it would seem. I've been hit by my National Security Advisor already. It's probably Fitzwallace, getting his licks in," Bartlet muttered. Giving his daughter a profoundly apologetic look, eyes clouded with something Ellie couldn't quite put her finger on, he asked, "You gonna stick around?"

"Feel like trying to order me to leave?"

"Not at the moment."

"Then I'll be here." No, they weren't quite finished. He was hiding something, or at the very least not admitting to it. She needed to talk to her mother. "I'll hang with Mom."

The phone almost sounded furious at this point.

"Damn it!"

Ellie laughed. "Tame, Dad. Way tame."

"Stick around, you'll hear worse."

"I intend to." Ellie got up, watching him carefully as the bed shifted a bit from the weight. He winced, a little, but no more than expected. Right? "Oh, and you're probably going to get billed for something."

"Something?" Ignoring the phone for a moment - after all, whoever was on the other end had to wait on him, not the other way round - Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "Traffic tickets?" Considering her timing, she'd had to have blown through a good set of laws on her way down.

"Hospital bills," Ellie responded lightly, hand on the door and opening it a crack. She may have just been a beginner at this, but her father wasn't the only master of timing in this family. "Nose, maybe not broken, but definitely squished."

"Nose?"

"One of the agents got in the way of my elbow." She was going to have to thank Agent Vaughn for that one. It was worth it to see the look on his face as she pulled the door shut behind her.

His full-hearted though subdued laughter was even better. Ellie caught that just as the door closed. Then the ring of the phone again. The word uttered at that point was definitely one her mother wouldn't have approved of, or her father if he stopped to think about it.

Ellie chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. The whole confrontation hadn't been what she'd prepared for or expected, but she felt some good had come of it. The mouse had roared, surprisingly, and she wasn't quite finished yet. She'd woken him up, maybe just a little. For now, it was all circumstance would allow her.

It was time to really talk to her mother.

Abbey sat on the couch, quietly watching her daughter with concern as the younger woman took a deep breath, rubbing a shaky hand across her eyes to erase the tears. She'd hoped for something more, the sounds of raised voices, her husband's wakened ire as he berated his daughter for her stubborn disobedience. His stubborn and bullheaded thunder would have been a blessing, if not entirely logical. He rarely was when it came to his daughters, probably overcompensation for being the only male in a female dominated household.

Ellie stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, staring off into space before slowly walking across the room and stopping in front of her mother. She looked down at her, not quite sure what to say or do.

Extending her hand, Abbey laced her fingers through her daughter's and drew her down on to the cushions beside her. Gathering her into her arms, she held her snugly, rocking slowly back and forth. The motion was as old as motherhood and gave them both a comfort far beyond its simple, profound beginnings.

Parental hugs were at a dire premium this evening and Ellie accepted this one no less gratefully than she had the first. Both were precious and she couldn't quite stop the frightening thought that one or the other might someday not be there.

Head on her mother's shoulder, Ellie spoke tentatively, "It's bad, Mom."

Abbey nodded. "I know."

"The fatigue?"

"Constant," Abbey replied, dispirited. "Long before this happened."

"There's more."

"You're an expert on multiple sclerosis now?"

The med student's choked laugh was bitter. "You are?"

"Circumstances," - there was that awful word again, one Abbey had truly begun to hate, heart and soul - "have forced it on us both. You would choose the medical profession."

"You needed the help."

"Is that your only reason?" Abbey asked quietly.

Ellie froze for a moment, unable to voice her thoughts. Her reasons were many and varied, not the least of which was a deep, abiding pride in her mother's own accomplishments. There was another though, fiercer and darker.

"He did," she replied in a broken whisper.

She felt her mother shudder as she drew in a sharp breath. Her hold tightened almost desperately and Ellie responded in kind.

A nearly suffocating sensation tightening her throat, Ellie pulled back from that reassuring embrace, looking her mother in the eye. For both of her parents, she'd learned and forced herself, more so than her sisters, to confront the reality of her father's condition. Touch and movement, it all added up. Holding her mother's gaze, watching for a telling reaction, she said the one word that had been hiding like a demon at the back of her mind.

Saying it, she prayed she was wrong. "Dysesthesia."

Abbey went very still. "You touched him?"

All Ellie could do was nod. She wasn't asked what her father's reaction had been. The grief-stricken realization she saw on her mother's face was all the proof she needed that the older woman, the doctor, already knew.

Ellie was shocked when her mother's eyes suddenly filled with a fierce, enraged spark. She could only stare, tongue tied, as that fury which could rival her father's quickly spread across her features.

Surprise siphoned the blood from her face and she dropped her head. Bewildered, Ellie fought to control her own churning emotions. Along with the anger, she'd seen something else that had finally confirmed her worst suspicions.

Fear.

The sound of her mother's voice broke the strained silence and Ellie cautiously lifted her head.

"Damn them." Abbey's tones were cold and exact.

"Mom?" Ellie didn't know how to respond to that. Damn who?

Abbey surged angrily to her feet, followed closely by her startled daughter.

"Henry!" The First Lady's shouted summons carried easily through the closed door.

Vaughn was inside on the double, expression concerned and wary. With only slightly less carrying power and authority than her husband's, when the First Lady bellowed people listened. Observing her enraged demeanor, barely under control, he let his own settle back into a professional mask.

Something had hit the fan. "Ma'am?"

Hands on her hips, Abbey regarded her bodyguard with a decidedly chilly intensity. He didn't flinch. Good for him. "Made out your will, Henry?"

Vaughn blinked. She was furious. Not the most promising of openings when dealing with this woman. "Ma'am?"

"Mom?" Ellie wasn't any more in the know than the poor agent.

Abbey ignored them both. "Where are they?"

Mask cracking, Vaughn exchanged a confused glance with the First Lady’s daughter. Her helpless shrug didn't help matters any.

"Your boss and the Chief of Staff," Abbey replied to the unasked question, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes dangerously. "Since this whole nightmare began," - and the beginning had been months ago. This day's events had only been the latest in an ever-growing line of attempts and political fiasco  - "those two have been joined at the hip. Where one goes, the other follows. The only council they've given or taken lately has been to each other," she spat the words out almost contemptuously. That was about to end. "Where are they?"

It was a demand, not a request. Technically, the First Lady could demand nothing of the Secret Service. Not bothering to quibble about technicalities, Vaughn lifted his hand and spoke quietly into his transceiver. The response, as always, was instantaneous.

"They're in Mr. McGarry's office, ma'am."

"Thank you." Abbey said gratefully, meaning every word. She relaxed slightly. "About your will..."

Vaughn frowned. "Am I going to need it?"

"You might."

"I was afraid of that." Vaughn sighed, glancing at the closed bedroom door. Emil Torres, the First Lady's detail leader, had warned him about this. It wasn't the first time and it wasn't going to be the last. "Nobody gets in, ma'am?"

"You're learning." Abbey actually smiled. Not long ago, she'd made herself a promise not to be quite so predictable. Apparently, that particular failing had its uses. "Any problems with that?"

"No, ma'am. I'll coordinate with the President's detail, make a few calls." He shrugged and added in an off-the-cuff tone he didn't exactly feel, "Besides, if you've got Agent Butterfield in a head lock, who are they going to complain to?"

"Please," Ellie muttered, only half-joking. She knew her mother. "Don't give her any ideas."

"It's not a bad idea." Abbey turned to her daughter, the small amusement fading from her eyes as she regarded her with searching gravity. "You're back-up, young lady."

"Me?" Ellie squeaked.

"Her?" Vaughn didn't quite squeak, but he came close.

"Both of you." Abbey was already headed towards the door, galvanized by a furious determination that wouldn't be denied. Not this time. Two men in particular were going to catch the brunt of it.

The door actually slammed behind her.

"That's not good," Ellie observed with some trepidation. "Mom's not a door slammer."

"Nope," Vaughn agreed. You learned a few things in this job. "Your father's a door slammer, though."

"Oh, yeah," Ellie muttered with a fond sigh. And she had just admitted that to a total stranger. A blush flashed across her cheeks and she colored fiercely. "So," she stammered weakly, changing the subject. "Now what?"

"Miss?"

Miss? She supposed that was better than ma'am. "About that elbow thing..."

"Agent Haefy'll be fine, miss. Seriously. For all you throw a mean elbow, there was no permanent damage done."

"That's not saying a whole hell of a lot."

The corner of Vaughn's lip twitched suspiciously.

Ellie caught it and despite the evening's emotional upheaval, felt herself smiling shyly in return. "Follow-through, huh?"

"We'll work on it."

~ooOoo~

"You did good," McGarry told Butterfield, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Hauling C.J. back like you did."

Butterfield didn't bother dignifying that with an answer. C.J. Cregg's reaction to what she'd been told to do tomorrow morning had been no more or less than what he'd expected. Toby Ziegler had almost seemed tame by comparison.

"It was the truth," was the only response he felt safe giving the Chief of Staff.

McGarry snorted. "The truth isn't exactly at a premium right now, Ron." From behind the safety of his desk, he eyed the tall Secret Service Agent warily. "You having second thoughts?"

"Second thoughts, thirds, fourths..." He turned a cool gaze on McGarry. "It's my job to second-guess fate, Leo, and we're tempting the hell out of it."

"Give me an alternative, and I'll take it."

Butterfield said nothing.

"I thought as much."

"You're getting way too good at pushing my buttons, Leo."

Taking the implied rebuke in stride, McGarry smiled thinly. "Scary thought, isn't it?" He ignored the responding growl that one earned him. Leaning back in his chair, he stared up at the ceiling. "I hear Eleanor Bartlet gave your people a run for their money."

Butterfield winced. Not one of the United States Secret Service’s most shining moments. "She... surprised them." It was the only excuse he would allow the agents in question.

"She put on quite a show at the front gate."

Stopping himself just short of an exasperated groan, Butterfield snarled, "Lucky for you there were no press in sight. Would've made for some interesting pictures."

"The nose?" Maybe he was more drained by events than he'd originally thought. There was a certain reckless disregard to safety in the way he was picking at Ron's armor. A dangerous form of entertainment at best.

Sort of like poking a hungry lion with a very short stick.

"Heard about that, did you?"

"Most of the White House has." McGarry shrugged, hiding a smile. Yep. Ron was definitely not amused. Why he was finding this so much fun, he had no idea. The thought occurred to him that maybe it was because his usual sparring partner wasn't available. "News travels fast."

"Too fast," Butterfield muttered.

"Broken?" McGarry asked innocently.

"Messily rearranged, but not broken."

McGarry tsked sympathetically. "Nick Haefy, wasn't it?"

"Buttons, Leo." The warning was dangerously close to that familiar, low growl.

"I like pushing buttons."

"I am not the President."

"For the moment, you'll have to do." McGarry stirred uneasily in his chair, remembering his last meeting with the President, his oldest friend. It was becoming harder and harder to separate the two.

"Do it, Leo." He'd said. At the time, McGarry hadn't been sure if that was determination in his voice, or pained exhaustion. "You'll brief C.J.?"

"You understand the possible consequences?"

The question had been empty rhetoric. How could he, when his closest advisor couldn't even tell him? It was a game, one they couldn't afford to lose, and the stakes were beyond counting.

"Do it." And that was that. Executive decision made. "Inform the Chairman and the NSA. They need to be in the loop."

Maybe he did understand. If so, McGarry wished with all his heart that the President would please explain it to him. He had started this, and he would have sold his soul at that point to see how it would end.

If it would ever end.

"Leo?"

McGarry blinked, snapped out of his darker musings by the concern in Butterfield's voice. "I'm here."

"You had me worried there for a minute."

"Just for a minute, right?"

In spite of himself, Butterfield chuckled.

McGarry joined in, finding some small relief in the action. However little it was, the day and its events needed it. As verbal sparring partners go, Ron wasn't so half bad an opponent.

A commotion from the outer office, one raised voice in particular, carried through to the occupants within. Both men exchanged similar knowing and cornered glances.

Butterfield's brows rose in surprise. Everyone in the White House knew that voice. There'd been no warning traffic about her coming on his transceiver. Yet another hole that needed to be plugged. He had a pretty good idea who had put the lid on that warning.

Still, he had to cautiously ask, "Is that…?"

"It is." McGarry stared at the main door to his office, then gave the door to the Oval Office a wary glance. He quickly dismissed that idea. Despite Margaret's obvious delaying tactics - like that would work for long - Abigail Bartlet would have absolutely no compunction about following her prey in there.

And from the sound of her voice, McGarry knew that she was on the hunt, and who her intended target was. Hell, he was getting used to it.

"I think the First Lady is about to make an entrance," McGarry observed dryly.

"Damn," Butterfield swore with honest sincerity and admiration. "Good timing, though. She's almost as good as her husband."

"Who do you think taught him?"

"Now that's a scary thought."

In the grandest manner, the lady in question made her entrance. The door didn't quite slam open, but it came close. She stood there, giving both men the full brunt of her angry glare.

Margaret, hovering nervously over the shorter woman's shoulder, gave her boss a frightened yet still poignantly apologetic glance. "Leo, the First Lady..."

"Yeah, yeah." McGarry stood up and waved her off, making a mental note to give his long-suffering secretary a raise. God knows she'd earned it. "I can see that she's here, Margaret."

"You can? Really?" The sarcasm was thick and, to Margaret's mind, not entirely unwarranted. "I was afraid you wouldn't notice."

"You'd best leave, Margaret," Abbey told her gently but firmly, never once taking her eyes off the two men. "You can't be here for this."

Margaret hadn't really thought she would be, but the polite dismissal from the First Lady gave her the means to depart with not only dignity but also hide intact. One last silent communication with the Chief of Staff, a quick nod promising no interruptions of any kind, and she left, pulling the door shut behind her.

Whatever was about to happen was not going to be pretty.

Wisdom had little to do with the wary caution that Leo McGarry and Ron Butterfield offered the glowering First Lady. Given the day's events, the depths to which she'd been taken, they'd both expected this. Accusations, recriminations and the demand for answers. Love made little allowance for political power and the rules of state.

McGarry saw something disturbing replace the smoldering look in her eye. There was more to this than a wife's well-founded fears and concerns. Alarmed at what he saw, his own emotions bottomed out and he demanded, "Abbey, what happened?"

"What happened?" Defiance was there, challenge as well. She pretended to not understand the surprise that flashed across the features of her husband's oldest friend. "Somebody tried to kill him, Leo."

McGarry couldn't rally quick enough to offer more than, "Abbey..." before she ran right over his protests.

"And the rest of you," - she included the grimly silent Butterfield in that accusation - "are finishing the job."

"They failed, ma'am." Butterfield had stiffened as though she had struck him. The fault had been his, nobody else's. "It won't happen again."

"Won't it? Your sterling track record to date is not at all reassuring. No -" Abbey met their gazes head on, shutting them both down and finding a perverse pleasure in the fact that neither of these accomplished men could hold her stare for long. "I don't want to hear it. No more excuses, no more lies..."

McGarry's spine went rigid at that last word and he exchanged a guilty, sidelong glance with Butterfield. The blank, emotionless expression on the man's face did little to reassure him.

Abbey didn't notice, or chose not to. "... it stops here. Now. You two are going to listen to me and by God, if I don't hear the right words after I've had my say, I'm leaving. And if you don't think he'll follow..."

"Nobody is leaving, Abbey," McGarry snapped, a sudden chill frosting the edges of his words. This had gone too far. "Please, calm down. Threats won't accomplish anything."

"I'm not making threats, Leo. I'm taking him home." She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. "Try and stop me."

McGarry jerked back, knocking his chair and sending it sliding into the back wall with thud that rattled the shelves. She wasn't threatening, wasn't making an empty gesture of misdirected rage and frustration. He had to fight a battle of personal restraint not to ask her why.

He knew why. With a shaky, defeated hand he reached back and pulled up his chair, collapsing onto it with suddenly weak knees.

Abbey saw that, the raw grief etched on his face, and she relented, just a little. He understood, some of it at least. Some of her anger towards him disappeared at that point. Her heart squeezed with anguish as she remembered how much this man did care for her husband.

"You can't do that, ma'am," Butterfield said softly, his calm voice shattering the brittle silence that had settled across the office like a dark shroud. "It isn't safe."

"Safe?" Turning the full force of her re-ignited fury on him, defying him to try and contradict her, Abbey snapped, "Don't you dare use that word. Not here. Not now. Safe?" her choked laugh was bitter. "Was he safe on Marine One? Was he safe in his own office? Please, tell me because I'm confused, how do you define the word safe?"

A muscle twitched convulsively in Butterfield's tightened jaw. There was more to this than met the eye. "What are you afraid of, ma'am?"

"You. All of you."

Mercifully, McGarry managed to keep his face blank. It was the best he could do. The hurt and betrayal lay naked in her eyes. The anguish, the fear she was radiating was almost physical in its intensity.

But still, cowardice perhaps, he didn't ask why. Not yet.

Butterfield carefully assessed the depth of her anger, the anxiety and sheer heartache underlying it all. He wasn't indifferent to her or her fears. In many ways he shared them, and it wasn't just his job. Dredged up from somewhere beyond logic and reason, he realized that he had become involved. There was no way back, not anymore.

He asked what he knew Leo McGarry couldn't. "What happened?"

Such a simple question. Abbey's throat was raw from shouts and protests she couldn't utter. She wanted to scream, to lay into them with all fury and indignation she could muster. What happened?

"I can't touch him." She forced the words out, the calm, even tone only a thin facade over her churning emotions. "His daughter can't touch him. Do you want to know why? You did ask why, didn't you?"

Frozen in limbo where decision and action was impossible, McGarry wavered, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. An effort of will and he asked, "Why?"

Abbey blinked, momentarily thrown off balance, almost surprised that he had spoken at all. "Don't you know everything, Leo? You and your people have done such a wonderful job educating the public about MS, covered all the conceivable bases, I'm surprised you can't guess."

"I won't guess, Abbey." Not about him. He looked away.

Butterfield stared at his feet. He didn't shuffle; he hadn't quite picked up that bad habit yet.

"No, you won't." Abbey glared first at one man, then the other. Then it was gone, the fury, the righteous indignation she'd so wanted to fling at them, defeated by their helplessness. A helplessness she shared. "You can't possibly understand it all. I don't and I have lived with it. This... thing, it changes, is different for every patient, every victim. Symptoms, new and old, come and go without warning. Ellie saw it. I saw it."

"I can't touch him." She paused, gathering her determination, making sure that this time they'd listen. She could care less if they understood. "Dysesthesia. That is your why. A symptom common to many MS sufferers, but until now, not to him."

Half in anticipation, half in dread, McGarry asked, "What does it mean?"

"It means the slightest touch to the skin, gentle or otherwise, is distorted. The nerve pathways misfire. It can feel like a fierce burn, or an electric shock. Sometimes it goes away," she drew in a deep breath and despite her fears felt a hot, awful joy at the shock on both men's faces "sometimes it doesn't."

"Oh, God." McGarry closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in despair. "It's progressing?"

"Maybe. I can't say. Only time will tell. You want him to heal? To be the man you need him to be? Then let him go home, to rest. Not Camp David, not the Residence, not any of your damn safe houses." Abandoning all pretenses to civility, not that she'd really tried in the first place; she forced her lips into a stiff, false smile. "I'm taking him home. I leave it to you two to work out the details."

Ultimatum given, Abigail Bartlet didn't give them a chance to respond. If she did, it would have been her undoing. With stiff dignity, she opened the door and left, leaving them to work out the solution to their problems. Her problems were only beginning.

This time, she didn't slam the door. Her point had already been made.

Ron Butterfield stirred as the door shut, almost shaking himself out of a numb shock he found unfamiliar. This was not in the books. "I'll get the ball rolling," he said softly. "We can leave in the morning."

McGarry looked at him in surprise. "You agree?"

"Yes, I do." He shrugged, trying not to reveal the frustrated anger threatening to escape his iron control. "Manchester, here, it doesn't matter. The lady's right. Our definition of safe is painfully relative. They got into the Oval Office, Leo. What difference does it make where he is?"

"Where," McGarry muttered, running a shaky hand across his face. "You think we should call it off?"

"Like I said, it's all relative. Here, there, the reaction will be the same. Location won't mitigate the circumstances." Butterfield's expression became calculating. "Truthfully, Manchester is the better of the two options. Smaller, tighter. Strangers will stand out more. It'll give them... him - pause."

"Is that enough?"

"It'll have to be, won't it? You've got me playing with fate here, Leo, and she can be a bitch. Besides, if we can't keep him healthy enough to sit in that chair, in that office, what's the good of keeping that chair safe?"

"Shit," McGarry swore hotly. "What the hell have we started?"

Butterfield didn't bother to point out that it wasn't what they had started, but what Leo had started. That he had agreed, let it continue, had little bearing on his conscience. He had a job to do, and damned if he wouldn't do it well.

"I'm still trying to figure that one out," was all he said.