This story has three parts and an epilogue dealing with the issue of Jed's need and ability to continue to contribute his best versus Abbey's need to protect him from letting the disease destroy him before he leaves office. I was trying to see how they got to the painful point at the end of "The Wake-Up Call."
The first story is a post-ep for "Impact Winter;" the second is a post-ep for "Faith Based Initiative;" and the third story and epilogue are post-eps for "The Wake-Up Call." I have posted on other sites over time, but decided to post all parts at once here.
"Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and pep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."
William Shakespeare
Julius Caesar
Act I
Scene 2
Masters of Their Fates
A West Wing Story Triology
By MAHC
Part One: Force of Nature
Post-Ep for "Impact Winter"
POV: Abbey
Spoilers: "18th and Potomac;" "Election Night;" "Abu el Banat;" "Impact Winter"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These are not my characters, but I love to take them out for a spin.
"This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy."
George Bernard Shaw
Man and Superman
1903
Exacerbation.
Abigail Bartlet had heard that term probably five times in the past ten years – and twice that many in the past ten hours.
Exacerbation. Attack. Relapse. Flare. She decided she didn't like it.
She sat, still in the clothes she had worn that morning in Beijing, having neither the time nor the inclination to change into more comfort, even though they were halfway home by now. Millie had taken a break. The flight surgeon had excused himself with no other reason than to give the First Couple some privacy. Not that one half of the couple noticed.
That half lay on the bunk, feverish body covered by a blanket whose seal proclaimed that it belonged to the President of the United States. Fat lotta good that did. No power, not even presidential power, could override the penance he was paying for refusing to heed his own body's warnings.
They had stripped him to his boxers, peeling off the sweat-soaked clothes as quickly as they could, and not bothered with pajamas. Modesty was the least of his worries now – and he had never been particularly bashful about his body, anyway. Never had to be.
Even now, even in the midst of an exacerbation – God, she hated that word – he fooled them with the appearance of fitness: shoulders and chest broad, biceps tight, even his leg muscles were firm and defined. How the hell could he be lying there, unable to walk, or even sit for more than thirty minutes without collapsing?
But he was lying there, out cold. His face, which usually eased into almost boyish lines when he slept, remained haggard, furrowed. She wanted to crawl onto the bunk next to him, to hold him close to her body, to sooth the pain, the fatigue, the frustration. But there wasn't room, and he needed the healing that uninterrupted rest could bring. So she sat and waited. Waited for him to wake. Waited for the plane to land. Waited for the world to panic. She wondered if it would happen in that order, considered that the world might already be panicking.
It was too late for retrospection, but wasn't it always? Still, she couldn't help but ponder the what-ifs. What if she had been with him on the flight over? What if he had let them turn the plane around? What if she had gotten him out of that room sooner? Too many what-ifs. Exhaustion plunged her thoughts back to those final, critical moments of the summit – moments that were critical both politically and personally.
They had given him thirty minutes tops before the strain of simply sitting upright would begin to do serious, irreparable damage. He had already passed the 100 minute mark.
Panic edging her voice, Millie had insisted they pull him out. C.J. had shaken her head. "If he's having trouble, he'll let us know." But doubt clouded her face, echoed in her voice.
Abbey gritted her teeth, not wanting to say what she was about to say, but knowing it was the only thing she could do. "The President's made his choice, Millie. He'll come out when he wants to come out."
Those had been the hardest words she had ever spoken. What she had really wanted to say was, "Hell yes! Pull him out of there before the damn fool kills himself!" But she knew he had to do it. She had sat with him on the tile floor of that hotel bathroom, had watched a strong man come apart, had shuddered at the despair and frustration that drove him to a rare display of self-pity.
But she had also seen that stubborn streak enough times to know that, if he had secured a private negotiation with the Chinese president, he was not going to stop until he had gotten something out of it, regardless of what it took out of him. He had won something back that morning, had pushed the demons of self-doubt away and regained control. And she could not destroy it by going into that room and effectively ending the Bartlet presidency. She would take him – or what was left of him when he was finished – on his own terms. At least for now.
When they emerged, she immediately saw the toll his stubbornness – his courage – had claimed. He was slumped in that damned chair, pale, sweating, but no longer defeated. After he handed the results of his meeting to Kate Harper – something significant, she had no doubt – she took his hand, forcing herself not to react at the feel of the clammy flesh.
"Finally," she breathed, both with relief and chastisement.
"He's a talker," he joked weakly.
She had learned long ago that the dark humor was a mask for an even darker mood. She almost cracked back that he was certainly the pot calling the kettle black, but another glance at him stopped her. He was barely hanging on, she saw then, and her heart pumped hard with the realization.
On the short trip back to Air Force One, the beauty of Beijing had rushed past without anyone to admire it. Their entourage chatted enthusiastically, Kate and C.J. quizzing the President on how he had convinced the Chinese to agree on the North Korean talks. He waved them off with apparent modesty, but Abbey saw through the façade, into the real motive behind his silence: exhaustion. At least the lift was working now, so that poor Curtis didn't have to haul him up the steps to the plane. Not that Jed would have cared. He never had stood much on ceremony.
The jubilant mood bubbled from the limo and onto the plane. C.J. fairly bounded through the door. Even Toby almost smiled. The President had orchestrated an unprecedented agreement with the Peoples Republic of China, forging the way for economic and political cooperation – and possibly even peace in North Korea. They were leaving triumphant.
But in that joyous moment, Abbey clung to her husband's trembling hand, took in his sweat-beaded face, and wondered at what price?
The jokes continued down the narrow hallways. "I could kiss you on your married mouth," C.J. gushed to him, almost giddy with the unexpected victory.
"Watch it," Abbey returned, only half-kidding.
Undeterred, the press secretary went on, "You got potential, sir. You ought to think about running for office."
He smiled tiredly and accepted the hands and congratulations of the people lined up for that very purpose.
As they pushed toward the Presidential Suite, she heard C.J. continuing the praise. "I want to tell Leo McGarry that this son of a gun just blasted us a North Korea summit. The man is a force of nature." Toby agreed, lamenting only that Curtis was the sole witness to the feat.
Force of nature, indeed, Abbey reflected. But sometimes the aftermath of those forces revealed devastation. She prayed it would not this time.
When they arrived at the cabin, his smile had disappeared. Slipping in behind them, Millie picked up C.J.'s thread, perhaps to keep things light, perhaps because she, too, had been impressed with his accomplishment.
"They're planning a ticker-tape parade out there," she teased, the pride evident in her voice.
But Abbey had looked into his eyes, read the alarming signals that he was in trouble.
She placed a hand on his chest and found the shirt wringing wet. "You've sweated right through your clothes," she chided gently, trying to mask her growing fear. He needed out of the chair. He needed to lie down. She asked Curtis to help, but Jed's labored, terrifying response changed the focus instantly.
"I need – I need a minute," he gasped.
She looked at him and barely recognized the man in front of her. This was a Jed Bartlet she had never seen before – a Jed Bartlet out of control of his own body, a Jed Bartlet in distress. Even in the midst of earlier attacks, he was in control – by the time she arrived, anyway. Even after Rosslyn, even as he lay on the stretcher in the trauma room, he was in control, giving instructions to Leo, reassuring Zoey, making bad jokes. But now – no, she had never seen him like this. It scared the hell out of her.
Sweat ran down his face; the air dragged through his lungs in labored, painful gasps. He struggled, without much success, to keep his head up.
"Millie!" she called, fighting to keep the panic from her voice.
The surgeon general jumped at the call and added her assistance as they stripped the tie from his neck and began opening his shirt and vest. He managed to look up at her, eyes glazed, and murmur her name before his body slumped farther. Abbey realized with a jolt that he was passing out.
"Curtis!" she yelled, no longer worried about alarming anyone. She wanted to alarm them.
The big bodyman caught his boss just as he keeled over to one side, just before he would have slid to the floor. In one move, he thrust his hands under the President's arms and dragged the dead weight to the bunk.
"I'll get the doctor," Millie said. Not as if they weren't all doctors.
Not worried about dignity, Abbey and Curtis removed Jed's clothing and pulled the covers up to his waist before the other two physicians returned. The President's entire body glistened with sweat. His hair looked as if he had stuck his head under the shower. Tremors ran through him – either from the fever he most definitely had or from the tremendous strain on his traitorous muscles; they couldn't tell which. Possibly both.
The flight surgeon set up the IV, feeding it into the shunt already attached to the back of his right hand. "Dehydration, more than likely," he muttered. "He was in there way too long."
She felt a stab of guilt. She had let him stay that long. Abbey remembered his frustrated complaint that the Chinese had pushed ginseng tea on him, and the inconvenient effect that had produced. He had probably made sure he didn't drink anything at all to avoid having to leave the talks. Stubborn jackass. Well, it had worked. But now what?
"He should come around when we get some fluids into him," the flight surgeon decided with a stab at reassurance. But they all could hear the uncertainty in his tone.
That had been ten hours ago. And he hadn't come around. Not yet. He had groaned. He had muttered incoherently. He had sweated so much that the sheets were soaked. But he hadn't come around. Not yet.
"Abbey?"
She turned at the soft, questioning voice. C.J. stuck her head into the cabin, careful to keep her body outside in case she wasn't welcome just yet.
"Come in," Abbey offered, watching as the novice chief of staff entered tentatively, the flinch unavoidable as she took in the prone figure on the bunk.
"How is he?" The question came in an official form and a personal form. The chief of staff needed to know. C.J. wanted to know.
"Same." No need to make anything up. No need to speculate at this point.
"How are you?" She perched stiffly on one of the chairs nearby, hands in her lap, long legs bent and tucked slightly under her.
How was she? Abbey couldn't really answer that, not completely. She was tired. She was anxious. But more than that, she was angry. She was heartsick. She was devastated. And she was at liberty to share none of those feelings with C.J. Not now. For Jed's sake and her own.
"I'm okay." They both heard the lie.
The press secretary took a breath and peered at her, a sheepish grimace on her lips. "Look, you know that crack about kissing him – you know I was just – "
"Please, C.J.," Abbey sighed, holding up a hand. "Give me some credit."
"Right." She waited for a beat, then couldn't stop herself. "I mean, I love him. I love both of you, but not – "
"C.J., I understand."
"I wouldn't dream of – not that I wouldn't want to – I mean he is very handsome – "
The chuckle was just what she needed. "C.J., have you gotten any sleep in the past 24 hours?"
"Define 'sleep'."
Abbey smiled gently.
"Need me to spell you for a while?" C.J. offered after a moment.
"No. I'll just – "
A hand touched her forearm firmly. "Abbey. You haven't taken a break since you arrived in China. He wouldn't want you to wear yourself out." She smirked. "Not that way." C.J. knew him too well, knew them too well.
She sighed in resignation. "Thanks anyway, C.J. I think I'll stay."
The younger woman nodded and threw a soft glance toward the bunk. "I understand. He really is a force of nature, Abbey. I'm sure you know that."
She did, but it was always a little surprising – and satisfying – to hear that others recognized the fact.
"There's nothing any of us wouldn't do for him. Nothing. And if – well, if he needs – whatever he needs in the next few weeks or months, you know we're there."
"I know he'll appreciate that, C.J.," she said, as the press secretary closed the door behind her.
She had told him on the night of his re-election, at that first sign that things might be changing, that smart people who loved him would have his back. But she realized, too, that no matter how much they might want to, they couldn't do what Jed Bartlet could do. He had brought the victory. He had rescued the failing summit. He had wrangled the agreement, just as he had done between Israel and Palestine, bucking almost everyone else in the process. As much as she believed in him, she couldn't deny the surprise at these almost incomprehensible feats. C.J. was right. He was a force of nature. But even forces of nature lost momentum eventually.
The low groan brought her to his side. He had finally stopped sweating, and she placed a hand on his forehead. Cooler, thank God. She pulled the blanket up higher over his shoulders and looked up to see him watching her, blue eyes tired, but clear.
"Hey," she whispered, brushing the still-damp hair from his face.
"Hey," he returned, just the hint of a smile curving his lips.
"Welcome back."
He blinked a couple of times and turned his head to check around the small cabin. She knew what was coming, waited him out. Finally, he took a breath and asked, "How bad?"
Good question. But she didn't really have an answer for him. "Not sure yet," she told him.
"You mad?"
A small pang of regret twisted inside her, guilt that his first thoughts would be if she were mad at him. "Why would you think that?" she asked.
He snorted weakly. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe thirty-seven years of experience?" But before she could respond, he admitted, "I think I might have – overdone it a bit."
"You think?"
"You are mad." He closed his eyes again.
"I'm not," she assured him, in as sincere a tone as she could convey. "I'm not. How do you feel?"
"Like I just climbed Mount Everest – twice."
"Well, that's not a bad analogy."
"I didn't dream it?" he asked, and she heard the deep hope in his voice.
"No dream," she confirmed, smiling, her pain at seeing him so incapacitated warring with the pride of knowing what he had done. "The whole world is talking about it. C.J. called you a 'force of nature.'"
He tried to laugh, but managed only a short huff. "More like a disaster waiting to happen."
"Toby thinks you just did it so you'd have matching Nobel Prizes."
Another huff. "I did." He waited a beat, then looked at her again, eyes direct. "Abbey?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"For knowing I had to stay. For not pulling me out before we were finished. I know you wanted to."
More than he could imagine. "We would have had to drag you out, and I don't think Curtis' back could make it through another weight lifting session."
"Yeah. But thanks anyway."
"No problem." That was a lie.
"Abbey – "
She wasn't sure what he was going to say. Wasn't sure she could stand to hear it right now, so she interrupted quickly. "You did good, Jethro. Real good. I'm proud of you."
He stared at her, the astonishment plain on his face. Certainly, in his lifetime he had received accolades from all over the world. Certainly, he had gotten affirmation of his abilities, of his successes. Certainly, he had some inkling of his impact. But she also knew that the little boy who could never quite please his jealous, critical father still lived deep inside the body of grown man who held the most powerful position on earth. He still searched for that final achievement that would free him from his quest.
It would never happen. Because for that to happen, he wouldn't have to satisfy others, he would have to satisfy himself.
"We did good today," he admitted, "or yesterday – whenever. But that only lasts a few days. What then? What's next? Abbey?"
She took his hand, already bracing for the hard question. "Yes?"
"I need you – I need you to keep letting me do the job."
"What – "
"I know you. You'll want to protect me. And you'll probably be right. But I don't have that much longer – "
Her sob broke through the stoic defenses. He caught her hand. "No. I didn't mean – I meant as President."
And they both had to take a moment at the implication of her misunderstanding. When he could, he continued. "I have to be able to do the job, Abbey. I can't let this – disease – take control of what I have to do."
She knew that, but she also knew it was too late for that. And she certainly knew she would fight him, or the disease, or both, every step of the way. She really didn't give a damn anymore about the presidency. She only gave a damn about him. Her back stiffened as she prepared her rebuttal, for the obvious reminder that he his health came first, but the sudden plea in his eyes stole her words.
"I don't want – I don't want to be useless," he confessed, not able to keep the break out of his voice.
Dear God.
She stared at him, tears spilling over her cheeks. In all their years together they had shared so much: love, anger, passion, laughter, tragedy, joy. But this was the first time he had ever truly admitted fear, that kind of fear, anyway. It was against his grain to reveal vulnerability. Only rarely did he let her see that small spot deep within him. The last time was the Christmas before, when they had skirted the assisted suicide issue. He had restated his stand on it – no syringe in the nightstand – and had asked softly if she was going to be there. The question had broken her heart.
And now it was broken again. Struggling not to lose it completely, she waited out the swell of agony, looking away so she couldn't see the begging in his eyes.
"Jackass," she muttered, when she had control of her voice, brushing the hair off his forehead and kissing him as she had done that night. "You think I would let you be useless? I've got many uses in mind for you when we get back to New Hampshire, Babe." Her leer cut through the thick emotions. "Uses I think you're gonna like."
Despite the tears streaming down his face, he smiled at her and ran his fingers over her lips, his expression wistful. "I hope I can – "
"You can. You will. Remember I told you once that you've got lots of nights?"
He nodded.
"They're not over. Just give it a few days." Or weeks. "You'll see."
She leaned over and kissed him then, her mouth soft against his rough, chapped lips. She trailed along the bristle of his jaw and cradled his cheek in her palm.
"Force of nature, huh?" he said when she drew back, the mischief returning to his expression.
She smiled, desperately grateful for the change of mood. "Yeah."
"Hurricane, you think? Earthquake, maybe?"
"Based on previous experience, I'm going with volcano," she offered coyly.
"Damn straight," he agreed. "Give me a couple of weeks and I'll show you a force of nature."
"Yes, Mister President."
"Damn straight."
As she leaned in to kiss him again, she didn't know if she could promise to leave the job to him, really didn't believe, herself, that she could sit back and just watch as the stresses tore him apart. But they would deal with that later, when they had landed, when he had returned to The White House, when they had some idea of what they were facing. There would be time.
Until then, she had him back.
And she would be damned if she was going to let him go so easily again.