POV: Jed
Spoilers: "The State Dinner;" "ITSOTG;" "Shutdown;" "Talking Points;" "Posse Comitatus;" "25;" "No Exit"
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Jed or Abbey.
Many thanks to Linda M. for her constant inspiration and specifically for her astute observations that made this story much better than it started out to be.
Given the Force: 1/2 A West Wing Story
by MAHC
"Archimedes had stated, that given the force, any given weight might be moved; and even boasted that if there were another earth, by going into it he could remove this."
Plutarch (AD 46? – AD 120) Life of Marcellus.
Tularemia wouldn't get through again.
At least that's what Ron told him, but who the hell knew. Even if it wasn't imminent that night, the threat was real. The FBI was closing in. At least that's what Ron told him. Maybe ignorance was bliss when it came to things like that.
He wondered if he should tell Abbey, then thought about her reaction to the last crash of the building. Her fear for him – for all of them – had manifested itself in a sharp tongue and abrupt exit. He didn't really blame her. This was at least the third time in two months that he had spent a significant portion of his evening underground. It wasn't exactly the glory part of being President. And it wasn't exactly the most reassuring part, either.
But while he was dealing with the crisis, "in the know" about what was happening, she paced alone in the Residence or in the East Wing, straining against the frustration of ignorance. It was just one more thing that weighed down his shoulders, one more burden added to the tons already pressing against his back.
Wearily, he dragged himself up the stairs to the Residence, fumbling around in his brain for the right attitude, for the correct approach. She would be pissed, probably, that they had been inconvenienced again by a "false alarm." Maybe he would tell her the truth. Maybe he could get a sympathy – No, not even for that. She didn't need the extra worry.
Running a hand through hair still damp from the shower, he eased open the bedroom door, half-expecting her to meet him with a teasing, "What took you so long, Jackass." But no one greeted him – either with irritation or affection. The room was dark except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and he suddenly remembered what day it was. Clinic night. She would be gone. All night.
Damn.
He pushed back the twinge of guilt his disappointment caused. At least that was something he could do for her: choke back up some morsel of her own life that his presidency had swallowed. If working at the clinic one day a week – even on the graveyard shift – made her feel useful again, he was more than willing. Of course, Ron had nearly gone into orbit when they suggested it. But Abbey was hard to deny, and eventually the unbendable secret service agent bent.
At least her absence made the decision for him: no temptation to tell her. He and Ron would remain the only ones who really knew what had happened.
Tularemia. He'd never heard of it. Plague. That, he'd heard of.
Maybe it was good Abbey was not there. Hell, she worried enough about the cold virus. If she thought he'd been exposed to the plague, he'd never see sunlight again, even if he could convince her it was a drill – this time. With a half-laugh, half-sigh, he jerked at the zipper on the blue and white warm up jacket the quarantine guys had been so thoughtful to provide and tossed the garment onto the bed. The T-shirt followed, missing the target and landing on the floor. He didn't bother following up on his shot. Within a few more seconds, the pants lay pooled by the shirt.
The coolness of the bathroom floor tile seeped through his socks as he stood before the sink mirror and stared at the growing collection of lines on a face that had always served him well by its youthfulness. When they were younger, and Abbey had tolerated his exuberance, his energy, she had voice her opinion that he would never grow up – never get old.
He felt old now.
Someone was trying to kill him – again. Someone was trying to get into the White House and release the plague among them. It sounded like the plot to a bad TV movie, and here he was, the hapless protagonist. Except in a movie he could manipulate the script. Now, the man in the mirror was helpless, impotent. Why the hell couldn't he DO something?
The reflex happened before he could stop it, but he supposed that was, of course, the nature of reflexes. It wasn't until the glass had shattered and the pain flashed in his hand that his brain comprehended his action. In replay, it was too clear. He saw again his fist slamming against the mirror, splintering the glass with a painful, but satisfying crash. He glanced down at his throbbing knuckles and was not at all surprised to see the well of blood that grew into a respectable flow, splattering against the white sink.
Son of a bitch. Of all the stupid –
Shoving his hand under the faucet, he ran water over the wound, staring as the blood pinked it and swirled around the drain. He would have to clean the porcelain well. If Abbey found out –
But she was in her own world these days, so he felt relatively safe. His consistent assurances that he was "fine" seemed to be accepted without question. His attempt at playful banter in a vain effort to lighten the mood, to recapture the spark, went unreturned. And finally, he had accepted her polite distance with the resignation of one who found himself too weary to fight the inevitable.
It wasn't as if they didn't talk. It just wasn't very interesting. And it wasn't as if they didn't have sex. The earth just didn't move anymore.
But he yearned for the passionate, sophisticated dialogue that had characterized their conversations for 36 years. He ached for the electricity that used to jump between them even over the phone lines.
He wanted the earth to move again.
Even though he had taken one shower already that evening, he stripped off his boxers and socks and stepped in, letting the hot streams wash away any lingering residue of the phantom bacteria – just in case. At least this time seven people weren't waiting to monitor his blood pressure and take a very un-Presidential swipe from his nostrils.
No one, in fact, would be waiting.
With a paradoxical mixture of disappointment and relief, he bowed his head beneath the water, his body sagging under the physical and emotional flow. It surprised him when he felt the tears run down his cheeks. He hadn't even realized they were so close to the surface, hadn't anticipated the release. But he let them go, allowed his body to use its natural ability to cleanse at least some of the burden that tightened his chest and ate away at his heart.
She had told him once that he couldn't fix everything. God, wasn't that the truth? He couldn't fix the constant threat of terrorism. He couldn't fix the centuries-old hostilities in the Middle East. He couldn't restore a sagging economy. And he couldn't fix what was wrong with Abbey.
He needed her. He ached to see that teasing smile, to hear that sharp, but loving retort, to writhe under those skilled hands. He needed her so much.
But the Abbey Bartlet he needed, he loved, wasn't there. At least not really. Not anymore.
Damn it! Shaking himself from the morose thoughts, he forced his face into the spray, spluttering in an attempt to break the malaise that threatened to shut him down. It helped a little. He twisted a washcloth around his knuckles to stop the small, but steady stream of blood and pondered scenarios to lie about how it happened. Wrapping a towel around his waist, on the off chance that Charlie or someone had come to check on him, he stepped back into the bedroom.
"Expecting me, I see."
Son of a bitch! He briefly considered a heart attack, then decided against it as too dramatic, but, jeez, Abbey had scared the hell out of him. For a moment, he stared at her, clutching at the towel and dripping on the area rug.
"Hey." It was the best he could do at the moment until his heart stopped pounding.
"Hey yourself." She had apparently just walked in, standing inside the doorway, her black bag still clutched in her hand.
"What – what are you doing here?" he asked, partly because he really wanted to know, and partly because he needed a few more seconds to assess the situation. "I thought tonight was – "
"Tonight was a crash of the West Wing," she said simply.
Okay. "But it's over now. Didn't they tell you?"
She ignored the question and slid her bag into a chair. "You okay?"
An innocent question? Or a not-so-couched concern? Self-consciously, he slipped his bound hand behind him. "Yeah."
"Really?"
With as convincing a smile as he could manage, he assured her, "Really."
"False alarm?" The voice remained casual, but he heard the true inquiry behind it.
"Yeah." They had not yet made true eye contact.
"A long one."
"Yeah." Don't ask. Please don't ask.
After an uncomfortable silence, she sucked in a deep breath and nodded, dropping her coat over the back of the sofa. "I figured maybe I'd stay here tonight."
"Abbey," he repeated, comprehending the reason for her presence, "I'm fine. Really."
"Nice suit," she offered.
He looked down at the blue and white material crumpled at his feet. "Yeah, well, I was overdressed for a crash."
"What'd they find?"
Shifting the towel to catch the occasional trickles of water down his body, he shrugged. "It was just a drill." Had he really said that so casually? When had it become easy to lie to Abbey?
"Okay." She said it with the same tone she would have used to say, "Liar."
"Won't they miss you at the clinic?"
Her head came up with a snap, but by the time her eyes found his, she had squelched any give-away emotions. "They'll be all right," she said, tossing her hand casually to dismiss any concern. "Eric's working a double shift so he can take Saturday off with his kids."
So she was staying with him – once again giving up her own interests for his benefit. More guilt. More burden.
"Well, I'm glad to have you here." That was true. He wanted to talk with her, wanted to try reconnecting the power they once had.
She had passed him, going into the bathroom, but now she stuck her head out the door and narrowed her eyes. "Yeah?"
Okay. Be sincere. No sarcasm. It would only backfire. "Yeah."
She seemed to evaluate his genuineness, then pursed her lips and said, "Okay." Then, a long-abandoned twinkle shone in her eyes as she let her gaze run up and down his unclothed body. "Since I seem to have some free time, maybe you'd be interested in a little – recreation?"
Well – yeah. He nodded.
"I'll just be a minute," she promised. "Don't go away."
Not a problem.
Heart pounding in time with the instant pulse at his groin, he forced himself to take a breath. She was offering sex. They had barely spoken and she was offering sex. It wouldn't solve their problems; it didn't dig deep enough to open their hearts again. But it WAS sex. And he would be a fool to let the opportunity pass.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, body covered only in theory by a short, sheer gown, he had wrapped his hand in gauze he found in her bureau and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. As casually as he could manage, he lounged on the couch, feet propped on the edge, one arm flung over the back. But nonchalance disappeared when he saw her.
It took his best effort to stay where he was and not leap to his feet and drag her onto the bed that instant. God, she was beautiful.
"What the hell happened to the mirror?"
He shrugged, not very convincingly, and she didn't buy it. "Jed?"
No use hiding it now. If their plans developed further, she'd have to see the bandage sometime. Sheepishly, he lifted his hand from behind the couch.
Any mask of seduction vanished from her body when she saw the tell-tale white wrapping. "Jed!"
"It's nothing."
She slid onto the couch, bumping him over with her hip. It didn't help his concentration. Not only was she in doctor mode, she was in doctor mode wearing a negligee. "Let me see."
Her touch drew a groan from him, but he wasn't sure it was all from the pain in his hand.
Frowning as she unwound his make-shift bandage, she demanded, "What happened?"
Lie. I slipped and fell against it. I was trying to catch the toothbrush. The glass just spontaneously – fell – "I hit it."
She stopped for a moment and looked at him, finally letting their eyes meet. He returned the sharp gaze; then, with a tight nod, she laid his hand against his chest and walked to the chair where she had left her bag, returning quickly with several unpleasant looking instruments.
"Abbey?"
"It's not too bad, but you need a couple of stitches."
Stitches? "I don't think – "
"I'm going to give you a quick local just around the cut. I'll need to make sure all the glass is out." She seemed oblivious to the fact that her breasts teased the see-though material mercilessly.
"Abbey – "
But the sharp bite of the needle in his flesh was more than sufficient to distract him. "Ow!"
"You'll be glad in a minute. I need to pick around in there." And she did. Waiting only a few minutes, she explored the wound with the skill of the practiced surgeon he knew she was.
He grimaced, more at the distant sensation of the probe than from any pain.
"Is this your way of making me feel like I went to the clinic anyway?"
A smirk tightened his mouth, but he didn't respond, partly because he really didn't know what to say, and partly because she had gotten a little rough with the wound. After that, she worked in silence, and he let her, not feeling like the old heated banter about jumping her in doctor mode. There was too much between them.
Before long she had him cleaned, stitched, and more professionally bandaged. "I think three should do it. You need something for the pain?"
He knew she meant Tylenol. There was no way she would prescribe to him anymore. "No. I'm fine."
"Stubborn," she accused, but the tone was gentle.
He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.
They looked at each other for a moment, and he couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking, what she might say, what she might do. Finally, she repeated her question from earlier. "Are you okay?"
With bravado, he waved the injured hand, trying to not show that it really did throb. "Fine."
"I didn't mean the pain. I meant – why the mirror?"
But he didn't want to go there – couldn't go there. Not now. Probably not ever. So he shrugged and tried a meek smile. She didn't buy it, he could tell, but she didn't question him.
Pulling the heated smile back to her face, she reached out to run a hand down his chest and twist her fingers around the hair that trailed down his abdomen and under the waistband of his pajamas. "Okay. Maybe I can help you – some other way."
God, he was tempted just to let her go, to flop back onto the cushions and bare himself completely to her for whatever she wanted to do. But a deeper question pestered him. Before he was too lost to find his way back, he caught her wandering hand with his good one.
"What do you want, Abbey?"
She smiled and leaned forward so that her lips brushed against his. "I want to have sex."
Okay. That was simple. But he fought to keep the strength long enough for the answers he needed. "What do you want from me?"
A frown crossed her brow, then lightened when she smiled again. "At the risk of feeding your already gorged ego, Josiah Bartlet, I want to feel you inside me. I want you to make love to me so hard and so deep that I won't be able to walk straight tomorrow.
It took more than a little concentration on his part just to swallow. God, this was hard. He was hard – achingly hard. And her hands were heading south, intent, he knew, on distracting him. It would be very easy to let that happen. In fact, he wasn't completely sure he could stop her. But with some superhuman strength – or insanity – he did.
She raised her head, confusion in her eyes. He almost laughed. She'd had little experience with her husband refusing sex.
"Abbey, I need to know. I don't know what you want anymore."
Giving it another try, she licked her lips so that they glistened seductively. She was definitely not playing fair. "I told you what I want – "
With one final surge of willpower, he grasped her shoulders gently and pulled her away from his yearning body. "You know what I mean, Abbey. I don't know what you want. I can't – read you anymore. You're distant. Sometimes things seem fine. Then again, sometimes they – Sometimes I can't tell whether you're mad at me or whether you want to jump me."
"I thought I was pretty obvious tonight," she snapped, turning away.
He ignored her anger. "I know you're not – you're not happy." He hadn't planned for his voice to falter, but it did on the last word. It was hard to admit that he wasn't making his wife happy, hard to admit he had failed her – again.
After a long moment of silence, he heard the strange sound of a chuckle, but it was harsh, strained. "Boy, can you bash a mood, Jackass," she decided and sat back against the edge of the couch, dragging a couple of pillows over her body.
But he realized this might be his only chance, his moment to break through the wall she had carefully erected between them after Zoey's rescue.
Taking her hands in his, he kneeled beside her. "Abigail." Not Abbey. It drew her attention. "What can I do?"
She shifted her gaze away from his eyes.
He tried again. "What can I do to make you happy?" He halfway expected her to say, "Resign," but knew it wouldn't happen, even if she thought it. "Is working at the clinic helping?"
He thought so, but that was only his speculation, perhaps his wishful thinking.
"It helps," she conceded quietly, still not looking at him.
Good. Really, he was glad of that. Nodding, he stood and ran a hand through his hair, scattering it even more than it already was.
She didn't say anything, but her eyes followed his pacing.
"You can say 'I told you so' any time."
"What?"
A humorless chuckle shook his chest briefly. "I told you so. You can say it."
"What the hell are you – "
"I shouldn't have run again." It was the first time he had voice the speculation that had been torturing him for a year.
Her shoulders stiffened. "Why?"
Incredulous, he turned to her, grasping her shoulders hard before he saw the grimace and released her. "Why? Do you want me to list my failures? How long do you have?"
She stared at him, shocked, he knew, at this abrupt and uncharacteristic flogging.
It came to him suddenly. The losses, the disappointments, the betrayal of his own ideals, of the noble dreams they had all brought with them five years before. What the hell had a second term bought them, except tragedy?
"What good have I done this time? What successes? I've denied an artist the chance for freedom. I've shut down the government over a power struggle. I've given away 17,000 jobs to foreigners. I've almost gotten people close to me killed." And the hardest blows fell last, the ones he would never forgive himself for. He could barely even hear his own voice as he whispered, "I've committed murder and I nearly lost Zo – "
He choked on that last, turning toward the window so she wouldn't see the tears that burned his eyes. Despair battered him in a moment of self- realization. What had happened to their dreams – to his dreams?
And what had happened to his family – his marriage? Was it worth it just to go down in the history books, just to have his picture in the encyclopedia with the title "President" in front of his name? Unable to keep the shaking from his shoulders, he pressed his hands against the window panes, needing her just to leave, not able to face her, not willing to meet accusing eyes again.
What an idiot. He could be having sex right now, but he had to choose this moment to bare his soul.
After a long pause, he heard her rise, too, but she didn't touch him. He braced himself for the "I-told-you-so" that was coming. She had certainly earned the right.
"Look at me."
Cruel of her, to make him face it so blatantly. But he turned, unable to refuse her the privilege. To his shock, there was no accusation in those eyes, no disappointment, no anger. "Do you know what you've done, Jed?"
God, yes, he knew. He didn't need to hear it all over again.
"You have done the best you can."
He wasn't sure that was a compliment, but her eyes were gentle.
"You have done your best to keep a volatile world at peace. You have, through expertise and personality, presented a budget to the country. You have made the hard choices to move ahead on the economy. You have creatively and brilliantly brought two exceptional jurists to the Court and raised the level of debate in this country. You have brought integrity, and intelligence, and humanity to the highest office in the land."
He stared at her, nonplussed.
"You have done what you thought was best. And even I don't really know what that has taken out of you." Her eyes blazed like he hadn't seen them blaze in months. "You have gone through hell to do the right thing. Yes, I have to tell you I would rather be in New Hampshire now, and have you all to myself, without the unbelievable stresses that I see tearing you apart – "
"Abbey – "
"I told you once you have a big brain and a big heart and an ego the size of Montana."
He smiled, remembering that evening near the beginning of his administration. She always did know how to ground him.
"Do you remember what else I told you?"
Nodding, he let her cup his cheek in her slender hand. "You said I needed to learn that I can't fix everything."
She returned the nod. "But I do like watching you try."
Now the tears fell again, streaming down his cheek, and he didn't try to catch the sobs as he opened his arms to her. She stepped inside his embrace, pulled him close, pressed her face into his chest. After a moment, he mumbled into her hair. "I can't lose you, Abbey."
"Shh." He found his head cradled against her shoulder, his body pressed to hers. "I've already told you, jackass, that I'll be here. You're not going to lose me." She lifted her lips to him, the message plain, inviting. He accepted, drinking in her warmth again, her love.
Her fingers ran over his chest and stomach, then swept lower to trace the bulge that pushed the front of his pajama bottoms. His body leaped at her touch.
Smiling, he whispered, "I think maybe I do need something for the pain now."
She pulled back and peered down between them. "I see what you mean," she said, shaking her head. "That looks excruciating."
The teasing words, absent from their discussions for so long, made her even sexier. He leaned his head back and groaned as her lips slid over him, and took him into her mouth. Only through willpower he didn't know he still had did he manage not to lose it right then.
He gasped and gritted his teeth to hang on a little longer. The earth was budging. He felt it. Catching her hand he pulled her up his body, grunting as her slick flesh slid along his aching arousal. She smiled up at him before she pushed him back onto the bed and straddled his hips.
"God, Abbey," he moaned, shaking with the attempt not to force himself deep inside her.
"What do you want?" she whispered, voice husky with desire, chest flushed with excitement.
"I want to stay like this forever." On the brink of ecstasy. In her arms.
She laughed and ground her hips. "From the feel of things, Jethro, that's not gonna happen."
Of course she was right. Even then, he felt the uncontrollable tightness, the roll toward that burst of glory. And he wasn't even inside her yet. His fought to distract his eager body, pulled up images to dampen his excitement. Bob Russell's self-congratulatory and arrogant speech at the correspondents' dinner helped. Actually, Bob Russell worked pretty well just by himself.
But then Abbey twisted her hips and rocked slowly back and forth, taking him in inch by inch. Bob Russell's irritating face shattered into oblivion. He wasn't sure he was still breathing when she smiled devilishly and squeezed her muscles around him, then lurched forward so that he was suddenly shoved deep inside her.
"Holy Mother of God!" he groaned as the incredible sensation shot through him.
"Jed!" she scolded. "That's sacrilegious." But he felt her trembling above him.
"No," he managed, rotating his own hips to hit a particularly sensitive spot, satisfied with her surprised grunt. "It's a religious experience."
"Oh God!" she cried out as he flicked a hard nipple with his tongue.
"See?"
But it wasn't long before neither of them could respond verbally anymore. All the energy in his body had gathered at the pit of his belly, focused entirely on one spot, pushing to burst from him in floods of intensity. Forcing his eyes to stay on her face, he clutched at her hips, bucking up hard against her until she threw her head back, her back arching, her breasts thrusting out.
This was not just sex anymore. And the earth was not just moving. He heard and felt tectonic plates shifting.
This was it, what he had ached for, what he had missed. This connection. This emotion. This passion. And even though it manifested itself in an extremely physical act, it carried a deeper significance, a stronger bond than just sexual release. He was with Abbey again.
"Jed!" she screamed, as the hot spasms of her release gripped him over and over. She clawed at his shoulders and jammed her hips against his in helpless convulsions of pleasure.
Gritting his teeth, he rode her out as long as he could, but when she finally started to relax, he let his body go and drove up hard inside her, his hands pulling her down so that he was as deep as she could take him. Some unintelligible sound tore from his throat when the pulses began, shooting through him with a force that jerked his body so hard he thought for a moment he might be having some sort of seizure. When the frenzy released him, he collapsed onto the bed, arms and legs trembling with the violence of his orgasm. Abbey moaned and fell against him, her head on his chest.
Heart pounding, breath heaving, he relished the slickness that spread between them as he softened inside her. It was warm and intimate, as if their bodies had melted together. After a moment, his wife eased up enough to separate them and slid to his side, her own breath labored.
He stared at the ceiling and smiled. They had gone way past earth movement. It was quite possible that California had just crashed into the Pacific.
They lay, legs entwined, his arm under her shoulders, her head against his chest. Their lungs still sucked in the oxygen. Their bodies glistened in the light provided by the bathroom.
The events of the evening seemed far away, cast into the shadows by the intensity of their passion. But as they drifted in that hazy post-coital fog, he mumbled impulsively, "What do you know about Tularemia?"
"Hmm?" she murmured. He wasn't sure she was still awake.
"Tularemia," he repeated. "What do you know about it?" Was that calm, subtle?
"Umm, it's a bacteria that – "The sudden jerk was proof that he hadn't been subtle enough. Not that there was a way to be subtle about telling your wife you might have the plague.
She pulled away from him, sitting and turning to face him. It was difficult not to gaze at her breasts presented so beautifully. "Jed?" The single-word question carried significant meaning.
"I was just wondering – "
"Bull. What happened? Who identified Tularemia?"
No need to deny it now. He would just make a mess of it. With a sigh, he capitulated. "Ron."
"He's sure?"
"Yeah."
"You've started the cocktail?"
"We did that, but it was just a drill."
"Jed – "
"I promise."
"Then why – "
"There's been a – specific threat. FBI had tracked down an attempt to obtain bacteria from the CDC."
"Dear God."
"It's all right. That's what tonight was for. So we'll be ready."
"Do the others know?'
"Debbie and Charlie were with me. They know it was a drill, but – "
"But they don't know about the threat."
"No."
"Jed – "
"It was a drill," he repeated firmly, as much for himself as for her. "Only a drill."
With eyes that were still wary, she nevertheless let her body fall back against his, and it warmed him to note that she didn't seem bothered at all about being so close, even if she did suspect he wasn't being totally truthful.
"Abbey?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not mad at about tonight – about the crash?" he asked.
A quick sniff preceded her answer. "Did I just act mad?"
"Well, you rode me pretty hard."
"You were the hard one, I believe."
"Always for you, Hot Pants."
She smiled and kissed him before sliding away. He watched in appreciation as she sauntered into the bathroom. After a moment, he heard the shower going. Previously masked by his body's focus on their passion, the throbbing in his hand returned with a vengeance, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Swearing, he gritted his teeth and reluctantly admitted to the room in general that a couple of Tylenol wouldn't hurt.
Abbey's bag lay on the chair where she had left it. Fumbling around with his good hand, he pulled out a clear plastic bottle and held it up in a vain attempt to read the label. Not Tylenol. It was a prescription of some kind. Curious, he extended his arm to see it better, wishing he knew where his glasses were at the moment. The words bounced roughly into focus long enough for him to read the generic name of Alprazolam that stretched across the bottom.
Alprazolam? It sounded vaguely familiar. Abbey's? His heart thumped with the sudden acceleration of fear. What was wrong? What kind of drug was this? Was she ill? She had certainly given every indication of health a few minutes before.
Lost in his speculation, he had not heard the shower stop – had no idea that Abbey had returned until he heard her gasp.
"Jed?"
Turning, he frowned, puzzled, to find her staring at him, hand to her mouth. He held the bottle out toward her, his voice tight with dread. "Abbey? What the hell is this?"
But her only response was continued silence. He began to realize he wasn't the only one holding out on the truth that night.
Spoilers: "The State Dinner;" "ITSOTG;" "Shutdown;" "Talking Points;" "Posse Comitatus;" "25;" "No Exit"
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Jed or Abbey.
Many thanks to Linda M. for her constant inspiration and specifically for her astute observations that made this story much better than it started out to be.
Given the Force: 1/2 A West Wing Story
by MAHC
"Archimedes had stated, that given the force, any given weight might be moved; and even boasted that if there were another earth, by going into it he could remove this."
Plutarch (AD 46? – AD 120) Life of Marcellus.
Tularemia wouldn't get through again.
At least that's what Ron told him, but who the hell knew. Even if it wasn't imminent that night, the threat was real. The FBI was closing in. At least that's what Ron told him. Maybe ignorance was bliss when it came to things like that.
He wondered if he should tell Abbey, then thought about her reaction to the last crash of the building. Her fear for him – for all of them – had manifested itself in a sharp tongue and abrupt exit. He didn't really blame her. This was at least the third time in two months that he had spent a significant portion of his evening underground. It wasn't exactly the glory part of being President. And it wasn't exactly the most reassuring part, either.
But while he was dealing with the crisis, "in the know" about what was happening, she paced alone in the Residence or in the East Wing, straining against the frustration of ignorance. It was just one more thing that weighed down his shoulders, one more burden added to the tons already pressing against his back.
Wearily, he dragged himself up the stairs to the Residence, fumbling around in his brain for the right attitude, for the correct approach. She would be pissed, probably, that they had been inconvenienced again by a "false alarm." Maybe he would tell her the truth. Maybe he could get a sympathy – No, not even for that. She didn't need the extra worry.
Running a hand through hair still damp from the shower, he eased open the bedroom door, half-expecting her to meet him with a teasing, "What took you so long, Jackass." But no one greeted him – either with irritation or affection. The room was dark except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and he suddenly remembered what day it was. Clinic night. She would be gone. All night.
Damn.
He pushed back the twinge of guilt his disappointment caused. At least that was something he could do for her: choke back up some morsel of her own life that his presidency had swallowed. If working at the clinic one day a week – even on the graveyard shift – made her feel useful again, he was more than willing. Of course, Ron had nearly gone into orbit when they suggested it. But Abbey was hard to deny, and eventually the unbendable secret service agent bent.
At least her absence made the decision for him: no temptation to tell her. He and Ron would remain the only ones who really knew what had happened.
Tularemia. He'd never heard of it. Plague. That, he'd heard of.
Maybe it was good Abbey was not there. Hell, she worried enough about the cold virus. If she thought he'd been exposed to the plague, he'd never see sunlight again, even if he could convince her it was a drill – this time. With a half-laugh, half-sigh, he jerked at the zipper on the blue and white warm up jacket the quarantine guys had been so thoughtful to provide and tossed the garment onto the bed. The T-shirt followed, missing the target and landing on the floor. He didn't bother following up on his shot. Within a few more seconds, the pants lay pooled by the shirt.
The coolness of the bathroom floor tile seeped through his socks as he stood before the sink mirror and stared at the growing collection of lines on a face that had always served him well by its youthfulness. When they were younger, and Abbey had tolerated his exuberance, his energy, she had voice her opinion that he would never grow up – never get old.
He felt old now.
Someone was trying to kill him – again. Someone was trying to get into the White House and release the plague among them. It sounded like the plot to a bad TV movie, and here he was, the hapless protagonist. Except in a movie he could manipulate the script. Now, the man in the mirror was helpless, impotent. Why the hell couldn't he DO something?
The reflex happened before he could stop it, but he supposed that was, of course, the nature of reflexes. It wasn't until the glass had shattered and the pain flashed in his hand that his brain comprehended his action. In replay, it was too clear. He saw again his fist slamming against the mirror, splintering the glass with a painful, but satisfying crash. He glanced down at his throbbing knuckles and was not at all surprised to see the well of blood that grew into a respectable flow, splattering against the white sink.
Son of a bitch. Of all the stupid –
Shoving his hand under the faucet, he ran water over the wound, staring as the blood pinked it and swirled around the drain. He would have to clean the porcelain well. If Abbey found out –
But she was in her own world these days, so he felt relatively safe. His consistent assurances that he was "fine" seemed to be accepted without question. His attempt at playful banter in a vain effort to lighten the mood, to recapture the spark, went unreturned. And finally, he had accepted her polite distance with the resignation of one who found himself too weary to fight the inevitable.
It wasn't as if they didn't talk. It just wasn't very interesting. And it wasn't as if they didn't have sex. The earth just didn't move anymore.
But he yearned for the passionate, sophisticated dialogue that had characterized their conversations for 36 years. He ached for the electricity that used to jump between them even over the phone lines.
He wanted the earth to move again.
Even though he had taken one shower already that evening, he stripped off his boxers and socks and stepped in, letting the hot streams wash away any lingering residue of the phantom bacteria – just in case. At least this time seven people weren't waiting to monitor his blood pressure and take a very un-Presidential swipe from his nostrils.
No one, in fact, would be waiting.
With a paradoxical mixture of disappointment and relief, he bowed his head beneath the water, his body sagging under the physical and emotional flow. It surprised him when he felt the tears run down his cheeks. He hadn't even realized they were so close to the surface, hadn't anticipated the release. But he let them go, allowed his body to use its natural ability to cleanse at least some of the burden that tightened his chest and ate away at his heart.
She had told him once that he couldn't fix everything. God, wasn't that the truth? He couldn't fix the constant threat of terrorism. He couldn't fix the centuries-old hostilities in the Middle East. He couldn't restore a sagging economy. And he couldn't fix what was wrong with Abbey.
He needed her. He ached to see that teasing smile, to hear that sharp, but loving retort, to writhe under those skilled hands. He needed her so much.
But the Abbey Bartlet he needed, he loved, wasn't there. At least not really. Not anymore.
Damn it! Shaking himself from the morose thoughts, he forced his face into the spray, spluttering in an attempt to break the malaise that threatened to shut him down. It helped a little. He twisted a washcloth around his knuckles to stop the small, but steady stream of blood and pondered scenarios to lie about how it happened. Wrapping a towel around his waist, on the off chance that Charlie or someone had come to check on him, he stepped back into the bedroom.
"Expecting me, I see."
Son of a bitch! He briefly considered a heart attack, then decided against it as too dramatic, but, jeez, Abbey had scared the hell out of him. For a moment, he stared at her, clutching at the towel and dripping on the area rug.
"Hey." It was the best he could do at the moment until his heart stopped pounding.
"Hey yourself." She had apparently just walked in, standing inside the doorway, her black bag still clutched in her hand.
"What – what are you doing here?" he asked, partly because he really wanted to know, and partly because he needed a few more seconds to assess the situation. "I thought tonight was – "
"Tonight was a crash of the West Wing," she said simply.
Okay. "But it's over now. Didn't they tell you?"
She ignored the question and slid her bag into a chair. "You okay?"
An innocent question? Or a not-so-couched concern? Self-consciously, he slipped his bound hand behind him. "Yeah."
"Really?"
With as convincing a smile as he could manage, he assured her, "Really."
"False alarm?" The voice remained casual, but he heard the true inquiry behind it.
"Yeah." They had not yet made true eye contact.
"A long one."
"Yeah." Don't ask. Please don't ask.
After an uncomfortable silence, she sucked in a deep breath and nodded, dropping her coat over the back of the sofa. "I figured maybe I'd stay here tonight."
"Abbey," he repeated, comprehending the reason for her presence, "I'm fine. Really."
"Nice suit," she offered.
He looked down at the blue and white material crumpled at his feet. "Yeah, well, I was overdressed for a crash."
"What'd they find?"
Shifting the towel to catch the occasional trickles of water down his body, he shrugged. "It was just a drill." Had he really said that so casually? When had it become easy to lie to Abbey?
"Okay." She said it with the same tone she would have used to say, "Liar."
"Won't they miss you at the clinic?"
Her head came up with a snap, but by the time her eyes found his, she had squelched any give-away emotions. "They'll be all right," she said, tossing her hand casually to dismiss any concern. "Eric's working a double shift so he can take Saturday off with his kids."
So she was staying with him – once again giving up her own interests for his benefit. More guilt. More burden.
"Well, I'm glad to have you here." That was true. He wanted to talk with her, wanted to try reconnecting the power they once had.
She had passed him, going into the bathroom, but now she stuck her head out the door and narrowed her eyes. "Yeah?"
Okay. Be sincere. No sarcasm. It would only backfire. "Yeah."
She seemed to evaluate his genuineness, then pursed her lips and said, "Okay." Then, a long-abandoned twinkle shone in her eyes as she let her gaze run up and down his unclothed body. "Since I seem to have some free time, maybe you'd be interested in a little – recreation?"
Well – yeah. He nodded.
"I'll just be a minute," she promised. "Don't go away."
Not a problem.
Heart pounding in time with the instant pulse at his groin, he forced himself to take a breath. She was offering sex. They had barely spoken and she was offering sex. It wouldn't solve their problems; it didn't dig deep enough to open their hearts again. But it WAS sex. And he would be a fool to let the opportunity pass.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, body covered only in theory by a short, sheer gown, he had wrapped his hand in gauze he found in her bureau and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. As casually as he could manage, he lounged on the couch, feet propped on the edge, one arm flung over the back. But nonchalance disappeared when he saw her.
It took his best effort to stay where he was and not leap to his feet and drag her onto the bed that instant. God, she was beautiful.
"What the hell happened to the mirror?"
He shrugged, not very convincingly, and she didn't buy it. "Jed?"
No use hiding it now. If their plans developed further, she'd have to see the bandage sometime. Sheepishly, he lifted his hand from behind the couch.
Any mask of seduction vanished from her body when she saw the tell-tale white wrapping. "Jed!"
"It's nothing."
She slid onto the couch, bumping him over with her hip. It didn't help his concentration. Not only was she in doctor mode, she was in doctor mode wearing a negligee. "Let me see."
Her touch drew a groan from him, but he wasn't sure it was all from the pain in his hand.
Frowning as she unwound his make-shift bandage, she demanded, "What happened?"
Lie. I slipped and fell against it. I was trying to catch the toothbrush. The glass just spontaneously – fell – "I hit it."
She stopped for a moment and looked at him, finally letting their eyes meet. He returned the sharp gaze; then, with a tight nod, she laid his hand against his chest and walked to the chair where she had left her bag, returning quickly with several unpleasant looking instruments.
"Abbey?"
"It's not too bad, but you need a couple of stitches."
Stitches? "I don't think – "
"I'm going to give you a quick local just around the cut. I'll need to make sure all the glass is out." She seemed oblivious to the fact that her breasts teased the see-though material mercilessly.
"Abbey – "
But the sharp bite of the needle in his flesh was more than sufficient to distract him. "Ow!"
"You'll be glad in a minute. I need to pick around in there." And she did. Waiting only a few minutes, she explored the wound with the skill of the practiced surgeon he knew she was.
He grimaced, more at the distant sensation of the probe than from any pain.
"Is this your way of making me feel like I went to the clinic anyway?"
A smirk tightened his mouth, but he didn't respond, partly because he really didn't know what to say, and partly because she had gotten a little rough with the wound. After that, she worked in silence, and he let her, not feeling like the old heated banter about jumping her in doctor mode. There was too much between them.
Before long she had him cleaned, stitched, and more professionally bandaged. "I think three should do it. You need something for the pain?"
He knew she meant Tylenol. There was no way she would prescribe to him anymore. "No. I'm fine."
"Stubborn," she accused, but the tone was gentle.
He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.
They looked at each other for a moment, and he couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking, what she might say, what she might do. Finally, she repeated her question from earlier. "Are you okay?"
With bravado, he waved the injured hand, trying to not show that it really did throb. "Fine."
"I didn't mean the pain. I meant – why the mirror?"
But he didn't want to go there – couldn't go there. Not now. Probably not ever. So he shrugged and tried a meek smile. She didn't buy it, he could tell, but she didn't question him.
Pulling the heated smile back to her face, she reached out to run a hand down his chest and twist her fingers around the hair that trailed down his abdomen and under the waistband of his pajamas. "Okay. Maybe I can help you – some other way."
God, he was tempted just to let her go, to flop back onto the cushions and bare himself completely to her for whatever she wanted to do. But a deeper question pestered him. Before he was too lost to find his way back, he caught her wandering hand with his good one.
"What do you want, Abbey?"
She smiled and leaned forward so that her lips brushed against his. "I want to have sex."
Okay. That was simple. But he fought to keep the strength long enough for the answers he needed. "What do you want from me?"
A frown crossed her brow, then lightened when she smiled again. "At the risk of feeding your already gorged ego, Josiah Bartlet, I want to feel you inside me. I want you to make love to me so hard and so deep that I won't be able to walk straight tomorrow.
It took more than a little concentration on his part just to swallow. God, this was hard. He was hard – achingly hard. And her hands were heading south, intent, he knew, on distracting him. It would be very easy to let that happen. In fact, he wasn't completely sure he could stop her. But with some superhuman strength – or insanity – he did.
She raised her head, confusion in her eyes. He almost laughed. She'd had little experience with her husband refusing sex.
"Abbey, I need to know. I don't know what you want anymore."
Giving it another try, she licked her lips so that they glistened seductively. She was definitely not playing fair. "I told you what I want – "
With one final surge of willpower, he grasped her shoulders gently and pulled her away from his yearning body. "You know what I mean, Abbey. I don't know what you want. I can't – read you anymore. You're distant. Sometimes things seem fine. Then again, sometimes they – Sometimes I can't tell whether you're mad at me or whether you want to jump me."
"I thought I was pretty obvious tonight," she snapped, turning away.
He ignored her anger. "I know you're not – you're not happy." He hadn't planned for his voice to falter, but it did on the last word. It was hard to admit that he wasn't making his wife happy, hard to admit he had failed her – again.
After a long moment of silence, he heard the strange sound of a chuckle, but it was harsh, strained. "Boy, can you bash a mood, Jackass," she decided and sat back against the edge of the couch, dragging a couple of pillows over her body.
But he realized this might be his only chance, his moment to break through the wall she had carefully erected between them after Zoey's rescue.
Taking her hands in his, he kneeled beside her. "Abigail." Not Abbey. It drew her attention. "What can I do?"
She shifted her gaze away from his eyes.
He tried again. "What can I do to make you happy?" He halfway expected her to say, "Resign," but knew it wouldn't happen, even if she thought it. "Is working at the clinic helping?"
He thought so, but that was only his speculation, perhaps his wishful thinking.
"It helps," she conceded quietly, still not looking at him.
Good. Really, he was glad of that. Nodding, he stood and ran a hand through his hair, scattering it even more than it already was.
She didn't say anything, but her eyes followed his pacing.
"You can say 'I told you so' any time."
"What?"
A humorless chuckle shook his chest briefly. "I told you so. You can say it."
"What the hell are you – "
"I shouldn't have run again." It was the first time he had voice the speculation that had been torturing him for a year.
Her shoulders stiffened. "Why?"
Incredulous, he turned to her, grasping her shoulders hard before he saw the grimace and released her. "Why? Do you want me to list my failures? How long do you have?"
She stared at him, shocked, he knew, at this abrupt and uncharacteristic flogging.
It came to him suddenly. The losses, the disappointments, the betrayal of his own ideals, of the noble dreams they had all brought with them five years before. What the hell had a second term bought them, except tragedy?
"What good have I done this time? What successes? I've denied an artist the chance for freedom. I've shut down the government over a power struggle. I've given away 17,000 jobs to foreigners. I've almost gotten people close to me killed." And the hardest blows fell last, the ones he would never forgive himself for. He could barely even hear his own voice as he whispered, "I've committed murder and I nearly lost Zo – "
He choked on that last, turning toward the window so she wouldn't see the tears that burned his eyes. Despair battered him in a moment of self- realization. What had happened to their dreams – to his dreams?
And what had happened to his family – his marriage? Was it worth it just to go down in the history books, just to have his picture in the encyclopedia with the title "President" in front of his name? Unable to keep the shaking from his shoulders, he pressed his hands against the window panes, needing her just to leave, not able to face her, not willing to meet accusing eyes again.
What an idiot. He could be having sex right now, but he had to choose this moment to bare his soul.
After a long pause, he heard her rise, too, but she didn't touch him. He braced himself for the "I-told-you-so" that was coming. She had certainly earned the right.
"Look at me."
Cruel of her, to make him face it so blatantly. But he turned, unable to refuse her the privilege. To his shock, there was no accusation in those eyes, no disappointment, no anger. "Do you know what you've done, Jed?"
God, yes, he knew. He didn't need to hear it all over again.
"You have done the best you can."
He wasn't sure that was a compliment, but her eyes were gentle.
"You have done your best to keep a volatile world at peace. You have, through expertise and personality, presented a budget to the country. You have made the hard choices to move ahead on the economy. You have creatively and brilliantly brought two exceptional jurists to the Court and raised the level of debate in this country. You have brought integrity, and intelligence, and humanity to the highest office in the land."
He stared at her, nonplussed.
"You have done what you thought was best. And even I don't really know what that has taken out of you." Her eyes blazed like he hadn't seen them blaze in months. "You have gone through hell to do the right thing. Yes, I have to tell you I would rather be in New Hampshire now, and have you all to myself, without the unbelievable stresses that I see tearing you apart – "
"Abbey – "
"I told you once you have a big brain and a big heart and an ego the size of Montana."
He smiled, remembering that evening near the beginning of his administration. She always did know how to ground him.
"Do you remember what else I told you?"
Nodding, he let her cup his cheek in her slender hand. "You said I needed to learn that I can't fix everything."
She returned the nod. "But I do like watching you try."
Now the tears fell again, streaming down his cheek, and he didn't try to catch the sobs as he opened his arms to her. She stepped inside his embrace, pulled him close, pressed her face into his chest. After a moment, he mumbled into her hair. "I can't lose you, Abbey."
"Shh." He found his head cradled against her shoulder, his body pressed to hers. "I've already told you, jackass, that I'll be here. You're not going to lose me." She lifted her lips to him, the message plain, inviting. He accepted, drinking in her warmth again, her love.
Her fingers ran over his chest and stomach, then swept lower to trace the bulge that pushed the front of his pajama bottoms. His body leaped at her touch.
Smiling, he whispered, "I think maybe I do need something for the pain now."
She pulled back and peered down between them. "I see what you mean," she said, shaking her head. "That looks excruciating."
The teasing words, absent from their discussions for so long, made her even sexier. He leaned his head back and groaned as her lips slid over him, and took him into her mouth. Only through willpower he didn't know he still had did he manage not to lose it right then.
He gasped and gritted his teeth to hang on a little longer. The earth was budging. He felt it. Catching her hand he pulled her up his body, grunting as her slick flesh slid along his aching arousal. She smiled up at him before she pushed him back onto the bed and straddled his hips.
"God, Abbey," he moaned, shaking with the attempt not to force himself deep inside her.
"What do you want?" she whispered, voice husky with desire, chest flushed with excitement.
"I want to stay like this forever." On the brink of ecstasy. In her arms.
She laughed and ground her hips. "From the feel of things, Jethro, that's not gonna happen."
Of course she was right. Even then, he felt the uncontrollable tightness, the roll toward that burst of glory. And he wasn't even inside her yet. His fought to distract his eager body, pulled up images to dampen his excitement. Bob Russell's self-congratulatory and arrogant speech at the correspondents' dinner helped. Actually, Bob Russell worked pretty well just by himself.
But then Abbey twisted her hips and rocked slowly back and forth, taking him in inch by inch. Bob Russell's irritating face shattered into oblivion. He wasn't sure he was still breathing when she smiled devilishly and squeezed her muscles around him, then lurched forward so that he was suddenly shoved deep inside her.
"Holy Mother of God!" he groaned as the incredible sensation shot through him.
"Jed!" she scolded. "That's sacrilegious." But he felt her trembling above him.
"No," he managed, rotating his own hips to hit a particularly sensitive spot, satisfied with her surprised grunt. "It's a religious experience."
"Oh God!" she cried out as he flicked a hard nipple with his tongue.
"See?"
But it wasn't long before neither of them could respond verbally anymore. All the energy in his body had gathered at the pit of his belly, focused entirely on one spot, pushing to burst from him in floods of intensity. Forcing his eyes to stay on her face, he clutched at her hips, bucking up hard against her until she threw her head back, her back arching, her breasts thrusting out.
This was not just sex anymore. And the earth was not just moving. He heard and felt tectonic plates shifting.
This was it, what he had ached for, what he had missed. This connection. This emotion. This passion. And even though it manifested itself in an extremely physical act, it carried a deeper significance, a stronger bond than just sexual release. He was with Abbey again.
"Jed!" she screamed, as the hot spasms of her release gripped him over and over. She clawed at his shoulders and jammed her hips against his in helpless convulsions of pleasure.
Gritting his teeth, he rode her out as long as he could, but when she finally started to relax, he let his body go and drove up hard inside her, his hands pulling her down so that he was as deep as she could take him. Some unintelligible sound tore from his throat when the pulses began, shooting through him with a force that jerked his body so hard he thought for a moment he might be having some sort of seizure. When the frenzy released him, he collapsed onto the bed, arms and legs trembling with the violence of his orgasm. Abbey moaned and fell against him, her head on his chest.
Heart pounding, breath heaving, he relished the slickness that spread between them as he softened inside her. It was warm and intimate, as if their bodies had melted together. After a moment, his wife eased up enough to separate them and slid to his side, her own breath labored.
He stared at the ceiling and smiled. They had gone way past earth movement. It was quite possible that California had just crashed into the Pacific.
They lay, legs entwined, his arm under her shoulders, her head against his chest. Their lungs still sucked in the oxygen. Their bodies glistened in the light provided by the bathroom.
The events of the evening seemed far away, cast into the shadows by the intensity of their passion. But as they drifted in that hazy post-coital fog, he mumbled impulsively, "What do you know about Tularemia?"
"Hmm?" she murmured. He wasn't sure she was still awake.
"Tularemia," he repeated. "What do you know about it?" Was that calm, subtle?
"Umm, it's a bacteria that – "The sudden jerk was proof that he hadn't been subtle enough. Not that there was a way to be subtle about telling your wife you might have the plague.
She pulled away from him, sitting and turning to face him. It was difficult not to gaze at her breasts presented so beautifully. "Jed?" The single-word question carried significant meaning.
"I was just wondering – "
"Bull. What happened? Who identified Tularemia?"
No need to deny it now. He would just make a mess of it. With a sigh, he capitulated. "Ron."
"He's sure?"
"Yeah."
"You've started the cocktail?"
"We did that, but it was just a drill."
"Jed – "
"I promise."
"Then why – "
"There's been a – specific threat. FBI had tracked down an attempt to obtain bacteria from the CDC."
"Dear God."
"It's all right. That's what tonight was for. So we'll be ready."
"Do the others know?'
"Debbie and Charlie were with me. They know it was a drill, but – "
"But they don't know about the threat."
"No."
"Jed – "
"It was a drill," he repeated firmly, as much for himself as for her. "Only a drill."
With eyes that were still wary, she nevertheless let her body fall back against his, and it warmed him to note that she didn't seem bothered at all about being so close, even if she did suspect he wasn't being totally truthful.
"Abbey?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not mad at about tonight – about the crash?" he asked.
A quick sniff preceded her answer. "Did I just act mad?"
"Well, you rode me pretty hard."
"You were the hard one, I believe."
"Always for you, Hot Pants."
She smiled and kissed him before sliding away. He watched in appreciation as she sauntered into the bathroom. After a moment, he heard the shower going. Previously masked by his body's focus on their passion, the throbbing in his hand returned with a vengeance, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Swearing, he gritted his teeth and reluctantly admitted to the room in general that a couple of Tylenol wouldn't hurt.
Abbey's bag lay on the chair where she had left it. Fumbling around with his good hand, he pulled out a clear plastic bottle and held it up in a vain attempt to read the label. Not Tylenol. It was a prescription of some kind. Curious, he extended his arm to see it better, wishing he knew where his glasses were at the moment. The words bounced roughly into focus long enough for him to read the generic name of Alprazolam that stretched across the bottom.
Alprazolam? It sounded vaguely familiar. Abbey's? His heart thumped with the sudden acceleration of fear. What was wrong? What kind of drug was this? Was she ill? She had certainly given every indication of health a few minutes before.
Lost in his speculation, he had not heard the shower stop – had no idea that Abbey had returned until he heard her gasp.
"Jed?"
Turning, he frowned, puzzled, to find her staring at him, hand to her mouth. He held the bottle out toward her, his voice tight with dread. "Abbey? What the hell is this?"
But her only response was continued silence. He began to realize he wasn't the only one holding out on the truth that night.