Authors: Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
E-mail addresses: Anne - annemcal@gofree.indigo.ie
Kathleen – nitehowl@livingston.net
Summary: This is the follow-up to our story 'A Frightened Peace', and what we think really went on behind the scenes immediately following the events depicted in 'Dead Irish Writers'.
Spoilers: 'Dead Irish Writers' and our story 'A Frightened Peace'. Alas, it is sort of necessary you be a little familiar with both. For those who want to check out/refresh their memories of 'A Frightened Peace', you can find it on www.fanfiction.net, or here, www.therealthing.8k.com.
Characters/Pairing: Jed and Abbey of course, but take notes. Everyone gets his or her moment in the limelight here. Seriously. We'd have even resurrected Mrs. Landingham if we'd dared.
Category: Drama, humor - we hope! -, a tiny bit of action, several emotional upheavals - for everyone - and a dash of intrigue. Again, nobody told us to stop, so we didn't G.
Rating: Just to be safe, PG-13. Some language - after all we are dealing with Jed here - and a few minor adult issues.
Feedback: PLEASE!! For those of you keeping track of this sort of thing, it was the wonderful feedback - read 'begging' G - by a few of you that encouraged us to tackle our word processors once more. We're weak. We ignored the threats.
Major thanks to Sheila for doing an amazing job of beta'ing this. Sorry for keeping you from your own writing, Sheila. We can't wait for you to get back to it either. Any mistakes remaining are ones Sheila simply couldn't persuade us out of. We're stubborn that way. We even had the cheek to use phrases like 'stylistic choice'. G
Authors' notes: To any lawyer reading this, we do not own these characters in any way, shape or form. Somebody else does. In lieu of some seriously expensive therapy, we're just having fun.
As noted above, this is the sequel to our story 'A Frightened Peace'. While that tale was a torturous exercise in mechanical mayhem, this one is an equally tortured exercise in marital mayhem. That, and while we loved 'Dead Irish Writers', the resolution of nearly one whole season's worth of emotional battles left us just a little... disappointed. So, we tried our hand at a bit of a follow-up, adding a few things of our own along the way just to make life a little more interesting for our favorite couple.
We hope you enjoy it.
This story is dedicated to Kelly, and the memory of her beloved Grandfather. There is more than a hope for Heaven, and perhaps a few smiles along the way.
Farther off from Heaven
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 1/7
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
--Thomas Hood: 1798 – 1845
"A moment of your time, Admiral."
It wasn't phrased as a question, but rather a cold demand.
Admiral Percy Fitzwallace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, wasn't used to being accosted in hallways, let alone being cornered in the hallway right outside the Situation Room. It simply wasn't done and he wasn't in the mood. Most people wouldn't even consider it an option. A disapproving frown at the ready, he turned abruptly on his heel -only to have his response and his mood sent completely out the window.
The woman who had waylaid him, Nancy McNally, the National Security Advisor, did not look happy. Never what you'd call an overly cheerful person, her face was a study in both anger and a grim resolution he'd seen only a few times before. Simply saying she was unhappy didn't begin to cover it.
And Fitzwallace already had a pretty good idea as to why. The manila folder clutched in her hand, clearly stamped 'National Transportation and Safety Board', was all the confirmation he needed that the rest of his day was shot to hell.
"Damn", he growled. Cautiously glancing up and down the corridor, he took her arm and led her into the SIT Room. Glaring at the two officers on watch, he ordered them curtly, "Outside! No interruptions unless it's the President himself!"
The men scrambled hastily to obey.
Watching the door close behind them, Fitzwallace turned to Nancy and asked, "They've confirmed the investigator's suspicions?"
Nancy nodded, her eyes hard and glittering in the subdued light of the active wall monitors. "Yes."
"When?"
"I received the preliminary report an hour ago. The final is still pending, but even without all the nasty details, it's enough. What happened to Marine One was not an accident."
Fitzwallace straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath and asked softly, dangerously, "Explosives?"
"Trace amounts of plastic, peppering the main rotor housing. Very trace amounts. The initial findings indicate just enough was used to weaken the securing bolt. Whoever set it knew what they were doing. The NTSB investigators wouldn't have found it unless…"
"…unless one pushy, obnoxious and disliked junior kept shoving it in their faces," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs finished with a barely controlled sneer. "Why is it nobody else wanted to even look?"
"When you're this high on the ladder of the powers that be, you don't want to be the bearer of bad tidings, not unless you're absolutely sure."
"Don't go political on me, Nancy. That's not your job. It's not my job. This…" he snatched the folder with its devastating contents out of her hand and slapped it down onto the table, "…is our job! And we failed."
Rolling her eyes, Nancy replied with pure acidic sarcasm, "Christ, Fitz! Don't you think I know that? I'm not playing games here. I can only work with what I've been told. It's not my fault certain people are afraid to stand up and be counted. However much you may detest it, this is politics. At this level it's nothing but!"
Fitzwallace winced at the barbed point, not really needing to be reminded. "Don't get snippy with me, Nancy. I didn't start this."
"Neither did I, Fitz."
"God damn it!" Fitzwallace swore, wandering to his spot at one end of the long table occupying the center of the room. Leaning his hands against the polished wood, he stared bleakly down its length to the empty seat at the head. "Does the President know?"
"He will as soon as I can corner Leo."
"Good luck," Fitzwallace snorted derisively. "It's a birthday party, Nancy. His wife's birthday party. "
"This can't wait."
"I'm not saying it should," Fitzwallace sighed, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his burning eyes. "He's going to want to know why he wasn't told sooner. Even a hint would have been enough. The NTSB knew…"
"Suspected," Nancy corrected him irritably.
"…three weeks ago," Fitzwallace finished with a warning glare. While his mood had taken a rapid nose-dive into the depths of expedient accountability, or whatever the pencil pushers were calling it these days, he could still summon up more than a little righteous indignation. "We should have been told then. This is the President's life we're talking about here."
"Suspicions without any grounds aren't enough, Fitz."
"So they buried it?"
Nancy sighed. "Not exactly…"
"You use the words ' plausible deniability' in his presence and he'll bite your head off."
Nancy couldn't help but laugh shortly as she pulled out a chair and sat down. She'd watched the President take his shots at all the Joint Chiefs' heads at one time or another, as well as her own. The man's verbal aim was remarkable. "And he'd have every right to."
"I rather like my head where it is."
"We had every chance to stop this, Fitz. But we didn't. We're just as guilty…"
"Guilty?" Fitzwallace echoed incredulously, chopping off her statement with a curt hand gesture. "Two days, Nancy. I was told about the suspicion two days ago! How the hell does the NTSB justify that?"
"They were frightened." She picked up the file, waving it like a banner. "You know as well as I do what this means. Access alone indicates this was an inside job."
"No excuses. The President should have been told."
"He wasn't."
"No kidding," Fitzwallace drawled with exquisite irony. "We should have been told the minute any suspicion reared its ugly head. Not now, after the fact and too late to do anything about it. The NTSB dropped the ball on this one."
"Dropped it?" Nancy's brows rose in pure disbelief at the naiveté of that statement. "It was thrown so far into the dirt we may never find it or the idiots who threw it in the first place. You want heads over this? Stand in line."
"Plausible deniability my ass," Fitzwallace muttered.
"May I quote you?"
"It's a free country."
"And God bless it," Nancy said in a soft, fervent whisper. Taking a calming breath, she looked up at Fitzwallace and repeated what had begun this conversation. "A moment of your time was all I needed, Admiral. I've picked up the ball."
"Your and the NTSB's timing sucks, Nancy." Fitzwallace sighed heavily and scratched the back of his head. "This is going to go over like a lead balloon."
"A flying metaphor? From a navy man?" Nancy smiled tiredly, although little of the implied humor reached her eyes. "I'd have thought sunk would be your exit of choice."
"I work with what I've got. I'm already sunk. First India, then China, now this. I'm running out of safe harbors."
"Whining does not become you, Percival," Nancy teased.
Ignoring her with as much dignity as he could muster, Fitzwallace asked, "How much of this has got around?"
"That's about the only good news we've got. It hasn't, not yet. The NTSB played this one real close. They're running scared. We have time."
"It won't last." Fitzwallace said with cold certainty, rubbing his eyes again. "This is the White House, Nancy. No matter how deep, or how careful, someone will dig it up."
"Maybe not. We're due for a bit of luck."
"I'm not gonna count on it. Keep it locked down, as long as you can. We need the breathing space."
Nancy didn't have to ask why. Eyes narrowing, she picked up the file and stood up. "So it begins."
"Till we end it."
~ooOoo~
'I am not drunk.'
Abigail Bartlet was quite firm on that point. A touch inebriated perhaps and if asked, she might even admit to being slightly tipsy, but she was definitely doing better than CJ Cregg. She was holding one hand delicately to her head while trying to argue with Toby Ziegler. In fact, the Communications Director himself seemed to be in an uncharacteristically expansive mood, and was slightly flushed.
He wasn't the only one. Admittedly, a rosy hue was definitely more becoming to Donna's pale complexion. Abbey smiled slightly as she watched the young woman engage in an animated conversation with the clearly amused Carol at the far end of the buffet table.
Donna had proved absolutely correct in her assessment of her own lack of verbal control when under the influence of alcohol. But Abbey was grateful to her. Somehow, with that one unguarded statement, Donna had seemed to sum up the basis of the dilemma that had been obsessing her in recent weeks. Abbey had been angry at having been used as a political pawn in the wake of the MS revelation, at having her abilities as a doctor questioned and held up to scrutiny and judgment.
However, the simple fact remained that she had prescribed for her husband in contravention of just about every medical regulation and basic common sense. The fact that it had been a very personal, emotional decision in no way excused that. She wasn't ashamed of what she had done, felt no dishonor at doing her best to help her husband handle a very difficult time in his life as he wished. And for the first time in weeks, she felt that she had managed to seize back a measure of control over her future. The decision was hers now, not an imposed judgment.
So why did she still feel angry?
Instinctively, she sought out the main focus of that particular emotion in recent times. The thought depressed her somewhat. Oh, he was no stranger to her wrath. Somehow, not even thirty-four years of marriage had taught him to fully understand her trigger points, and he usually managed to trip them with faithful regularity.
But this was different, and so very wrong. Normally their fights burned high and fierce, and then out, quickly and without rancor. This lingering, sullen coldness was alien to both their natures. Particularly to his. Abbey could acknowledge freely that while his explosions were legendary and impressive, it was her wrath that tended to leave people scurrying for cover. Jed might have the fire, but it tended to burn out almost as quickly as it flared. She knew that she was seen as the one capable of nursing a grudge to quiet effect. She was not malicious, but she never took anything lying down, as her husband's staff had quickly realized, and she never forgot.
Unlike Jed it seemed. Things had been better between them recently, especially since the Marine One accident, but as the medical board hearing approached she found herself withdrawing once again, becoming tense and snappish - just as he had during the congressional hearings, she suddenly realized. Damn it, why could they never seem to be on the same page recently? They still hadn't talked, not properly. Both had been cherishing the fragile peace too much to be willing to jeopardize it, and then the coldness had started to set in again.
The truth was, she wanted something to rail against, and Jed was going out of his way to avoid offering her a target. Frustrating didn't even begin to describe it.
Abbey sighed heavily as she watched her husband drift down the length of the buffet table, dispiritedly poking at the dishes on offer. Chances were good that the empty plate he dangled from one hand would remain unfilled. The White House catering staff were well aware of what the First Lady considered to be healthy fare, and had the tact to ensure that the menu for her own birthday party reflected those views. They were even more aware of her views on what constituted a suitable diet for the President.
Jed was extremely unlikely to find himself offered anything that might meet with his ideas of good food rather than his wife's. And something about the dejected lines of his back suggested that he was feeling the need for such cholesterol-laden comfort quite strongly right now.
Watching the bent head and slumped shoulders, Abbey felt an upsurge of the affection he always managed to inspire warring with and momentarily beating down the anger. 'I love you very much'. She had never doubted it, but the sheer sincerity of his words, and the expression he had worn, had almost cracked her carefully constructed façade. It was the quality she cherished most in her husband, his preparedness to drop all barriers and openly express his devotion to those he cared for. He was a very loving man; also a remarkably stubborn one and, for such a formidable intellect, amazingly dense at times.
Apparently realizing that he was going to find no palliative here, Bartlet laid down his plate and swung abruptly away from the table. Somewhat too abruptly it would seem. It was a very subtle reaction, but his alert wife caught the suppressed grimace and the quick rub to his right thigh.
Abbey winced in sympathy. It had been nearly a month, and the leg was practically mended. There wasn't even a limp to show for the ordeal, and she doubted the staffers had noticed any appreciable reduction in the speed of the President's progress. But healing muscles still protested at times, and the newly restored skin often pulled and itched.
The leg scar itself was a beauty, of course. Fortunately, his hair hid the smaller one high on his temple, although he had developed a habit of rubbing at that spot when deep in thought or troubled. But the other remained a reddened, angry blemish of puckered flesh on the whiteness of his upper leg. Fortunately, for the sake of Jed's self-consciousness and everyone else's peace of mind, Abbey and the doctors were the only ones who had seen that so far.
No, that wasn't quite true. Abbey remembered Leo coming in to talk to Jed as he hurriedly changed clothes after the India trip. It was a familiar scene, and one none of them thought anything of until Leo suddenly trailed off in mid sentence, transfixed by his first sight of the repaired wound. He had recovered quickly of course, but Abbey had been puzzled to note what seemed to be an air almost of guilt about him, and regret.
Following her thoughts, her eyes left her husband, who now seemed to have cornered Donna at one end of the buffet table, and tracked around the crowded reception room until they alighted on the Chief of Staff, who was quietly conferring with the President's Security Chief in a corner.
Abbey was unable to suppress a slight grin at the sight. One of the more remarkable by-products of the crash was the way McGarry and Ron Butterfield seemed to have bonded together in a silent conspiracy over their Chief Executive. The President had been heard to complain bitterly on several occasions since that he was in danger of being mother-henned to death by his two protectors and his wife. Given the shock that he had caused them all, so far he hadn't received a very sympathetic hearing. The general unspoken consensus among the staff seemed to be that the more people the President had looking out for his welfare, the better.
The temporary lightening of Abbey's mood was once again soured by the sight of the NSA, Nancy McNally, bearing down on Leo, a business like folder in one hand. To say nothing of the woman's grim expression, very much at odds with the party atmosphere surrounding her. The First Lady sighed heavily. No doubt yet another security crisis would shortly result in McGarry coming to drag the President away from the party, and his wife. She was slightly nonplussed instead to see the two vanish into an adjoining room, with Butterfield in tow. What the NSA, the White House Chief of Staff, and the President's head of security could possibly have to discuss in common was beyond her.
Well, maybe what, but not who. Fuelled by a new, indefinable unease, she glanced back at her husband, who was still talking to an increasingly agitated looking Donna Moss. Abbey could only hope he wasn't subjecting the poor girl to one of his interminable lectures.
Jed had been a good teacher before he took to politics, with a real love of knowledge for its own sake and of imparting information. The trouble was he usually brought enough enthusiasm to such conversations for himself and his companion, and was not above impishly using his rank to command their often-wavering attention.
Still, Abbey had a suspicion that he might for once have found a match in Donna, if Josh Lyman's tales were to be believed. Mind you, Jed seemed to be winning this round, if the increasing consternation on Donna's features was to be believed. Abbey might have been amused if it were not for the air of despondency her husband still subtly projected, and the way he continued to unconsciously stroke his hand down along the side of his leg.
Twenty-seven stitches. She was truly grateful that the damage had been no worse. In the context, it was practically insignificant. But every time she saw Jed absently attempt to smooth away an ache or irritation the sour taste of remembered panic rose in her throat. For so long she had fought against the possibility of losing him piece by piece. The prospect of his being torn from her suddenly had had an almost physical impact. The shock had cooled her anger for a while.
But only for a while.
Why did she feel so dissatisfied now? His reaction to her news left her in no doubt that he fully understood its implications, what his actions - their actions - had cost her. The guilt had surged into those expressive eyes even as the rest of his features had frozen in shock. She had been deeply affected by his quiet declaration, so why did she feel as if his response had somehow lacked something?
What more did she want from him? What more could he give?
To be continued…