This is a post-ep for "Gaza" and "Memorial Day." Thanks to Linda M. for
looking over it and correcting the name of Jed's Navy doctor from the
second episode of the show. I like the better relationship between Jed and
Abbey that they were showing at the end of the season but, as always, I
would like to see more of them together. Because of that, I decided to
input my own little scenes. Hope you enjoy!
POV: Jed Spoilers: "WKODHIB;" "ITSOTG;" "The State Dinner;" "18th and Potomac;" "The War at Home;" "No Exit;" "Gaza:" "Memorial Day" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters were created by AS. They are not mine, unfortunately
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter One of Three
All is best, though we oft doubt, What th' unsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings about, And ever best found in the close. Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns And to his faithful Champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns And all that band them to resist His uncontroulable intent, His servants he with new acquist Of true experience from this great event With peace and consolation hath dismist, And calm of mind all passion spent. ATTRIBUTION: John Milton (1608–1674), British poet. Samson Agonistes (l. 1745–1758). . .
He had never gotten the answer about the rug.
It would have been simple, really, but he had never done it. Granted, he had been a little distracted that day – getting shot and all – but that didn't stop him from regretting not finding out the answer to the rug.
It was the least he could have done for Fitz. He still wondered, glancing down at the eagle. He wondered if they really did change it. He wondered if he was about to make a move that would call for the noble head to turn, to face the arrows of war. He wondered if maybe they were already there. He wished Fitz were going there with him.
The ache in his chest twisted as he pictured the imposing, gentle man who had held his hand through that first trying year as a novice President, before his naivety had hardened into perceptive decisiveness. Fitz, who had brought the Joint Chiefs to him. Fitz who had been his favorite, most- trusted Chairman. Fitz, who had talked him down to a proportional response after Dr. Tolliver had been killed and talked him up to a covert execution two and a half years later, then tried to take the fall for it. Fitz, whose quiet assurance had given solidity and comfort to a president who was struggling for secure footing on foreign policy.
He hadn't deserved such an end. Hadn't asked for that fate. He had served dutifully for thirty-nine years, had survived real combat, only to be blown to bits by a coward's device. And at whose request?
But that certainly wasn't unusual. Jed Bartlet had become accustomed to being responsible for the deaths of other human beings – those he loved – those he despised – those he didn't even know.
Nine men in Colombia. An entire tender ship. Delores Landingham. Abdul Shareef. Percy Fitzwallace.
His decision. His request. His order. His fault.
The sun's muted rays punched their way through the thick waving glass of the huge Oval Office windows as he stood, staring out into the dual creatures of terror and vengeance that panted in eagerness to rake their claws through his soul. If one didn't get him, the other most certainly would. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. But he was damned if he would act rashly, that was certain.
His fingers, his lips, his lungs ached for a cigarette. Just one. Just a puff or two to settle his thoughts. But he had promised Abbey he would quit. Or try to quit, anyway. And as minor as breaking such a promise seemed compared to the massive infractions of his past, he didn't know if that small additional weight on his guilt might not just be the ounce that broke him.
No. He would do without. He just hoped he could survive the effort.
"Mister President?"
Leo stood at the door, formal as always, deferential as usual. But his body leaned forward in expectation, almost as if he had trouble refraining from taking his friend and physically dragging him to the red button himself. He expected action. They all expected action.
"Yeah?" The President turned back to face the window, not wanting to see the disappointment in the weathered face.
"Here are some preliminary numbers. Kate Harper is arranging contact with the Chairman."
"Thanks." Jed didn't move to accept anything.
After a moment, Leo prompted, "Mister President, you know it's useless. We have no choice but to bomb."
No. Not now. Not yet. It had been a hell of a long day and he just needed a few more minutes to think. Ten minutes of not being told that the People of Jehovah were trying to obliterate the People of Allah or visa versa.
"I'll be in the Residence, Leo. I'll call you when -- when I come back down." It was a clear brush off, and one his oldest friend had seldom, if ever, heard.
After a tight pause, the response came. "Yes, sir."
The door closed with a soft click, but Jed thought it might be the most obvious symbol of a more significant closing. That of a relationship. Wearily, he trudged toward the Residence.
Just a few minutes, he decided. He would lie on the couch for just a few minutes, trying to push back the headache that had begun a slow but dedicated hammering against his temple. His loafers lay on the floor where he had kicked them off, one perpendicular to the other. He shook his head at the symbolism of that. But was he the one pointed in the right direction or was it the rest of the country? The report lay in his lap, stark black and white statements that proclaimed the strength of the combined military might of the United States of America. Might that waited for his mere nod to sweep across continents, to incinerate nations. It was terrifyingly intoxicating at times.
They were pushing hard. Democrats and Republicans alike. Pushing for a response. Pushing for a show of power. Pushing for vengeance.
Pushing.
Even Leo. "Sir, the country wants action."
It was not as if he had never disagreed with his chief of staff. But he had always seemed to bow to the veteran's experience in military matters. Leo knew. Leo had been there. He had not. At least not until he became President of the United States.
He always deferred to Leo. Until now. Because Leo was wrong. And last time Leo talked him in to something that was wrong, unthinkable disaster had struck. He would not let that happen again. No matter what. And now he was actually entertaining the possibility of talking with a lying, conniving, son of a bitch whose highly questionable cooperation he need to broker the peace deal he sought.
"That wasn't Toby's speech."
The curse left his mouth involuntarily. He hadn't heard her come in, but there she was, strolling toward him with that cocky smirk she wore when she was challenging him on something. Throughout their marriage, she had perfected it with use.
Recovering, he picked up the document and feigned interest in it. "Hmm?"
"That wasn't Toby's speech," she repeated simply, resting a hand on the back of the sofa.
He glanced at her over his glasses, the new ones he was still trying to get used to, then returned to the paper. "It was."
But she knew him too well. "Not unedited," she amended.
He shrugged, and allowed another glance. "No."
Although her tone remained casual, he heard the purpose behind it. "He didn't mind?"
Toby? Mind? What would make you think that? "Doesn't matter."
Now she propped on the couch arm and dropped her hand, rubbing gently over the foot he had braced there. "No, I suppose not. What's the latest?"
A dry chuckle brushed past his lips. "The Jews and Arabs hate each other. Have you heard?"
"Something about it," she returned with a slight smile, which sobered almost immediately. "It's bad?"
His lips pressed together hard as he nodded.
"And you're getting pressure to do something about it." Not a question.
He looked at her, his eyes clear enough for confirmation.
"Something you don't want to do," she surmised easily.
His eyes lowered again.
"Well, in the end, it's your call."
"Yeah," he agreed, his tone almost one of defeat.
With a knuckle, she pressed against his heel and inched up firmly toward the ball of his foot. It felt good. "Fitz was your friend," she said quietly, gazing past him toward the window. "It would be natural for you want to see justice done for his death."
His eyes narrowed. Was she throwing in with all the war hawks to annihilate Gaza? "Yeah?"
Meeting his gaze steadily, she asked, "Wouldn't it?"
"You tell me."
"What does Leo say?"
Leo. He blanched and saw that she noticed. He didn't want to think about what Leo said.
"Jed?"
Looking away, he muttered, "That doesn't matter either."
"It always has before."
He glanced back, wary of the accusation he might see, of the blame for letting Leo's voice guide him where he didn't want to go, where she didn't want him to go. But there was only a soft compassion and acknowledgement of the truth. It always had before. What had changed?
He couldn't reason with Leo. Couldn't make him see why bombing Gaza would be wrong, why he so desperately needed peace. But Abbey seemed perfectly willing to reason. In fact, she looked as if she was asking him to talk it out with her. The sudden appearance of someone who wasn't pushing him to act, to send out the planes, whipped a rush of relief through him, and he sat up, taking off the glasses and tossing them onto the coffee table.
"They all want me to – the leadership, the press, the staff. Abbey, what if – I can't – "Pressing his lips together momentarily, he was able to verbalize what he feared most. "I bomb Gaza and the whole world plunges in. This could be the beginning of a real life World War III, and I'm telling you – Fitz or no Fitz – Leo or no Leo – I'm not gonna be the one to – "
She slid from the couch arm to kneel by him, one hand covering his, the other brushing the hair back from his forehead. Suddenly, the anger, the fear, the pain found an enemy in the tenderness and understanding in her eyes.
"Leo doesn't know everything," she said, not unkindly.
"No?"
"No."
"He knows a lot," he offered, curious for her response.
She smiled. "But not everything."
"No," he agreed finally. "Not everything."
"You know a lot, too," she reminded, skimming his cheek with the backs of her fingers.
As she had probably intended, a smile tugged at his lips. "But not everything."
"No," she had to concede.
He wished to God he did, though. He wished he knew what to do. He wished Leo understood his point. He wished Fitz were alive to advise him. He wished –
"If wishes were horses," he muttered, not realizing he had said it aloud until her flat observation.
"You'd be up to your ass in horse shit."
He laughed, the first moment of levity in a decidedly un-amusing day, and nodded. "Like I'm not already."
Nudging him onto his side, she lay on the couch next to him, her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist, her mouth turned up in a satisfied smirk. It was only natural that he should lean down and kiss her, letting his lips move slowly and gently. Only for a few minutes, he decided. They would need him back in the Sit Room soon. Or the Oval.
They were pushing. Democrats. Republicans. Senators. Representatives. The Joint Chiefs. The Secretary of Defense.
Leo.
They were pushing.
But as his wife's body snuggled against his, he let her warm silence feed his strength. He would need it.
Because he was about to push back.
POV: Jed Spoilers: "WKODHIB;" "ITSOTG;" "The State Dinner;" "18th and Potomac;" "The War at Home;" "No Exit;" "Gaza:" "Memorial Day" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters were created by AS. They are not mine, unfortunately
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter One of Three
All is best, though we oft doubt, What th' unsearchable dispose Of highest wisdom brings about, And ever best found in the close. Oft he seems to hide his face, But unexpectedly returns And to his faithful Champion hath in place Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns And all that band them to resist His uncontroulable intent, His servants he with new acquist Of true experience from this great event With peace and consolation hath dismist, And calm of mind all passion spent. ATTRIBUTION: John Milton (1608–1674), British poet. Samson Agonistes (l. 1745–1758). . .
He had never gotten the answer about the rug.
It would have been simple, really, but he had never done it. Granted, he had been a little distracted that day – getting shot and all – but that didn't stop him from regretting not finding out the answer to the rug.
It was the least he could have done for Fitz. He still wondered, glancing down at the eagle. He wondered if they really did change it. He wondered if he was about to make a move that would call for the noble head to turn, to face the arrows of war. He wondered if maybe they were already there. He wished Fitz were going there with him.
The ache in his chest twisted as he pictured the imposing, gentle man who had held his hand through that first trying year as a novice President, before his naivety had hardened into perceptive decisiveness. Fitz, who had brought the Joint Chiefs to him. Fitz who had been his favorite, most- trusted Chairman. Fitz, who had talked him down to a proportional response after Dr. Tolliver had been killed and talked him up to a covert execution two and a half years later, then tried to take the fall for it. Fitz, whose quiet assurance had given solidity and comfort to a president who was struggling for secure footing on foreign policy.
He hadn't deserved such an end. Hadn't asked for that fate. He had served dutifully for thirty-nine years, had survived real combat, only to be blown to bits by a coward's device. And at whose request?
But that certainly wasn't unusual. Jed Bartlet had become accustomed to being responsible for the deaths of other human beings – those he loved – those he despised – those he didn't even know.
Nine men in Colombia. An entire tender ship. Delores Landingham. Abdul Shareef. Percy Fitzwallace.
His decision. His request. His order. His fault.
The sun's muted rays punched their way through the thick waving glass of the huge Oval Office windows as he stood, staring out into the dual creatures of terror and vengeance that panted in eagerness to rake their claws through his soul. If one didn't get him, the other most certainly would. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. But he was damned if he would act rashly, that was certain.
His fingers, his lips, his lungs ached for a cigarette. Just one. Just a puff or two to settle his thoughts. But he had promised Abbey he would quit. Or try to quit, anyway. And as minor as breaking such a promise seemed compared to the massive infractions of his past, he didn't know if that small additional weight on his guilt might not just be the ounce that broke him.
No. He would do without. He just hoped he could survive the effort.
"Mister President?"
Leo stood at the door, formal as always, deferential as usual. But his body leaned forward in expectation, almost as if he had trouble refraining from taking his friend and physically dragging him to the red button himself. He expected action. They all expected action.
"Yeah?" The President turned back to face the window, not wanting to see the disappointment in the weathered face.
"Here are some preliminary numbers. Kate Harper is arranging contact with the Chairman."
"Thanks." Jed didn't move to accept anything.
After a moment, Leo prompted, "Mister President, you know it's useless. We have no choice but to bomb."
No. Not now. Not yet. It had been a hell of a long day and he just needed a few more minutes to think. Ten minutes of not being told that the People of Jehovah were trying to obliterate the People of Allah or visa versa.
"I'll be in the Residence, Leo. I'll call you when -- when I come back down." It was a clear brush off, and one his oldest friend had seldom, if ever, heard.
After a tight pause, the response came. "Yes, sir."
The door closed with a soft click, but Jed thought it might be the most obvious symbol of a more significant closing. That of a relationship. Wearily, he trudged toward the Residence.
Just a few minutes, he decided. He would lie on the couch for just a few minutes, trying to push back the headache that had begun a slow but dedicated hammering against his temple. His loafers lay on the floor where he had kicked them off, one perpendicular to the other. He shook his head at the symbolism of that. But was he the one pointed in the right direction or was it the rest of the country? The report lay in his lap, stark black and white statements that proclaimed the strength of the combined military might of the United States of America. Might that waited for his mere nod to sweep across continents, to incinerate nations. It was terrifyingly intoxicating at times.
They were pushing hard. Democrats and Republicans alike. Pushing for a response. Pushing for a show of power. Pushing for vengeance.
Pushing.
Even Leo. "Sir, the country wants action."
It was not as if he had never disagreed with his chief of staff. But he had always seemed to bow to the veteran's experience in military matters. Leo knew. Leo had been there. He had not. At least not until he became President of the United States.
He always deferred to Leo. Until now. Because Leo was wrong. And last time Leo talked him in to something that was wrong, unthinkable disaster had struck. He would not let that happen again. No matter what. And now he was actually entertaining the possibility of talking with a lying, conniving, son of a bitch whose highly questionable cooperation he need to broker the peace deal he sought.
"That wasn't Toby's speech."
The curse left his mouth involuntarily. He hadn't heard her come in, but there she was, strolling toward him with that cocky smirk she wore when she was challenging him on something. Throughout their marriage, she had perfected it with use.
Recovering, he picked up the document and feigned interest in it. "Hmm?"
"That wasn't Toby's speech," she repeated simply, resting a hand on the back of the sofa.
He glanced at her over his glasses, the new ones he was still trying to get used to, then returned to the paper. "It was."
But she knew him too well. "Not unedited," she amended.
He shrugged, and allowed another glance. "No."
Although her tone remained casual, he heard the purpose behind it. "He didn't mind?"
Toby? Mind? What would make you think that? "Doesn't matter."
Now she propped on the couch arm and dropped her hand, rubbing gently over the foot he had braced there. "No, I suppose not. What's the latest?"
A dry chuckle brushed past his lips. "The Jews and Arabs hate each other. Have you heard?"
"Something about it," she returned with a slight smile, which sobered almost immediately. "It's bad?"
His lips pressed together hard as he nodded.
"And you're getting pressure to do something about it." Not a question.
He looked at her, his eyes clear enough for confirmation.
"Something you don't want to do," she surmised easily.
His eyes lowered again.
"Well, in the end, it's your call."
"Yeah," he agreed, his tone almost one of defeat.
With a knuckle, she pressed against his heel and inched up firmly toward the ball of his foot. It felt good. "Fitz was your friend," she said quietly, gazing past him toward the window. "It would be natural for you want to see justice done for his death."
His eyes narrowed. Was she throwing in with all the war hawks to annihilate Gaza? "Yeah?"
Meeting his gaze steadily, she asked, "Wouldn't it?"
"You tell me."
"What does Leo say?"
Leo. He blanched and saw that she noticed. He didn't want to think about what Leo said.
"Jed?"
Looking away, he muttered, "That doesn't matter either."
"It always has before."
He glanced back, wary of the accusation he might see, of the blame for letting Leo's voice guide him where he didn't want to go, where she didn't want him to go. But there was only a soft compassion and acknowledgement of the truth. It always had before. What had changed?
He couldn't reason with Leo. Couldn't make him see why bombing Gaza would be wrong, why he so desperately needed peace. But Abbey seemed perfectly willing to reason. In fact, she looked as if she was asking him to talk it out with her. The sudden appearance of someone who wasn't pushing him to act, to send out the planes, whipped a rush of relief through him, and he sat up, taking off the glasses and tossing them onto the coffee table.
"They all want me to – the leadership, the press, the staff. Abbey, what if – I can't – "Pressing his lips together momentarily, he was able to verbalize what he feared most. "I bomb Gaza and the whole world plunges in. This could be the beginning of a real life World War III, and I'm telling you – Fitz or no Fitz – Leo or no Leo – I'm not gonna be the one to – "
She slid from the couch arm to kneel by him, one hand covering his, the other brushing the hair back from his forehead. Suddenly, the anger, the fear, the pain found an enemy in the tenderness and understanding in her eyes.
"Leo doesn't know everything," she said, not unkindly.
"No?"
"No."
"He knows a lot," he offered, curious for her response.
She smiled. "But not everything."
"No," he agreed finally. "Not everything."
"You know a lot, too," she reminded, skimming his cheek with the backs of her fingers.
As she had probably intended, a smile tugged at his lips. "But not everything."
"No," she had to concede.
He wished to God he did, though. He wished he knew what to do. He wished Leo understood his point. He wished Fitz were alive to advise him. He wished –
"If wishes were horses," he muttered, not realizing he had said it aloud until her flat observation.
"You'd be up to your ass in horse shit."
He laughed, the first moment of levity in a decidedly un-amusing day, and nodded. "Like I'm not already."
Nudging him onto his side, she lay on the couch next to him, her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist, her mouth turned up in a satisfied smirk. It was only natural that he should lean down and kiss her, letting his lips move slowly and gently. Only for a few minutes, he decided. They would need him back in the Sit Room soon. Or the Oval.
They were pushing. Democrats. Republicans. Senators. Representatives. The Joint Chiefs. The Secretary of Defense.
Leo.
They were pushing.
But as his wife's body snuggled against his, he let her warm silence feed his strength. He would need it.
Because he was about to push back.