Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 1/10
A West Wing Story by MAHC
POV: Abbey Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. I just like to play with them sometimes.
She sat in his cabin on the backup Air Force One, or whatever they called it when someone besides the President traveled in it, in his chair, looking out his window. Her nails had been bitten down almost to the quick, an old habit she thought she had long outgrown. C.J. sat across from her, trying not to stare, trying not to ask too often if she was all right, if she needed anything. Bless her, but right now she needed nothing except to get this bird on the ground.
"He's alive," Leo had told her. "He's alive." And at the moment that was good enough. But not now. Not anymore. She wanted more. She wanted him to be fine, to be great, to be.alive. Okay. If that was all she was getting, that was okay.better than the alternative.for the moment. And what a terrifying and horrible moment that was.
It had been broadcast live around the world and still no one was sure if it was planned specifically for him or just a matter of terrible timing. Her mind tried to block out the chaotic scenes of the camera bouncing back and forth between billowing dust and fire and torn bodies. Shutting her eyes did not help, but neither did opening them. She saw him over and over, a quick glimpse of the dark suited figure thrown back out of camera view, into the screaming crowds, pieces of steel and stone raining over them and among them. The camera fell, its lens capturing, at an odd angle, settling dust, running feet and legs, blaring sirens. Then it was righted, whether by its original operator or someone picking up the banner, so to speak, and carrying news of the tragedy to a stunned world.
The footage, broadcast instantly to satellites and back to earth, showed more carnage and devastation. In her career, she had seen gruesome things before, wreck victims, gunshot wounds, even one pitiful teenager beaten almost to death with a lead pipe, but never in all her medical experience had she seen so many body parts strewn across a supposedly civilized town, so much blood splattered on cars and walls and people.
When the first mind-numbing moments faded, she gained enough clarity to edge toward the screen, begging the camera to move, to find him, to show him to her. She had to see him, even if what she saw was unbearable. She had to know. But the scenes stayed frustratingly unfamiliar or unrecognizable. She thought for a moment she had spotted him bending over a prone figure, dragging a bloodied body from the rubble, but surely she had been mistaken, projecting what she desperately wanted to see. The secret service would have been all over him by then. Then the picture pivoted dizzily and focused on a mass of people, mostly wearing suits or shreds of suits. They hovered close together and she had no doubt as to whom they hovered over. As the camera drew closer, one of them pulled away from the group and placed his hand up, shaking his head and yelling for the camera to move back, move back! Reluctantly, it did, and she groaned audibly at the lack of information. This was wrong. She shouldn't be watching this on CNN. She should be there, with him.
Damn it! She had spoken with him only an hour before, had heard the triumph in his voice, the lilt in his tone as he described the understanding they had forged, the treaty that seemed imminent. And his joy was not just for himself, but truly for the world and the peace he felt they had brought to such a troubled place. One more stop, he said, one more stop. A personal stop, she knew. A special place, a holy place. One more stop, then he was on his way home, reminding her that he had a stopover in Paris to meet with representatives of the European Union. If she had gone with him, they could have had a special evening in the City of Lights. But she begged off, had genuinely been too busy to accompany him. And now.now.they might never have such an evening again.
Lily had been with her, had known immediately something was wrong, had watched in horror with her as the unbelievable scene unfolded. She wasn't sure when C.J. entered. Someone must have let her in, but she didn't know who. The normally composed Press Secretary was a bit disheveled, hair disarrayed, eyes wide and teary.
"Mrs. Bartlet?" she asked quietly, already seeing for herself that the television was on.
She did not answer, but kept her eyes fixed on the screen, scanning the sickening news flashes that ran across the bottom: "Bethlehem Bombing.Bartlet's Condition Uncertain.Will America Retaliate." Her brain noted absently that Lily motioned C.J. inside the East Wing office.
She tried again. "Abbey?"
This time she heard her name, heard the question in her friend's voice. She turned toward her, eyes stunned, mouth open. Still, she did not speak.
The taller woman moved closer. "It's Leo."
Her nod indicated the blinking light on the First Lady's desk phone. She wanted to pick it up, desperately had to know what was happening, but at the same time she couldn't, couldn't receive the news she dreaded hearing, couldn't face the fateful words.
"Abbey?"
She turned and nodded vaguely. Lily had to lift the receiver from the hook and hand it to her. Leo was yelling to someone in the background, sirens screamed behind him. "Leo?" she said, quietly, too quietly. He didn't hear her. "Leo?" Louder this time.
"Abbey! Abbey, thank God. Listen, he's alive."
Oh dear God. Dear God. Alive! At least that. Thank you for that. While her heart screamed in relief, she somehow remained outwardly calm.
"I coming," she announced.
"Abbey, you can't-"
"I'm coming, so you just make whatever arrangements you have to. I'm coming."
The momentary silence told her Leo knew better than to argue with a frightened and heartsick First Lady. "All right," he finally conceded. "I'll have them prepare 29000 for you."
"29000?"
"The other AF-One."
Oh. Okay. Whatever it takes. "How is he?" she forced, not really sure she wanted to know. Please let it be good. Please.
"He's.hell, Abbey, I'm not a doctor. I don't know. They say it's serious, but-"
Serious. Oh God. Her heart jumped into her throat and she pushed it back down into her chest. "Leo, what are his injuries?"
Static cut through his voice for a moment and when he came back, she feared she had missed vital information. ".but can't say now.line not secure.try to stabilize at Shaare Zedek Medical.then maybe move."
The line clicked dead and she simply sat, staring across her office, phone still in her hand. Lily eased it from her and replaced it onto the cradle. C.J. stared, eyes betraying the fear of news that might be too terrible to comprehend. With one fortifying breath, Abbey turned to the other two women, squared her shoulders and brought herself to her fullest height.
"I'm going to Israel. And don't bother to argue." Despite the danger, neither of her listeners attempted even a perfunctory protest. It wouldn't have done them a bit of good, anyway.
As the nauseating memories faded enough to allow her a tear-free breath, she let her eyes focus on the cotton cloud banks that hung outside the plane window, wondering why the hell she had ever agreed to let him to run for anything, much less President of the United States. Wondering if this was it, if this would be a completion of the fate that had been cheated at Rosslyn.
Wondering if he was conscious.wondering how much pain he was in.wondering if he was scared.
Wondering if she would ever see her husband alive again.
POV: Abbey Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. I just like to play with them sometimes.
She sat in his cabin on the backup Air Force One, or whatever they called it when someone besides the President traveled in it, in his chair, looking out his window. Her nails had been bitten down almost to the quick, an old habit she thought she had long outgrown. C.J. sat across from her, trying not to stare, trying not to ask too often if she was all right, if she needed anything. Bless her, but right now she needed nothing except to get this bird on the ground.
"He's alive," Leo had told her. "He's alive." And at the moment that was good enough. But not now. Not anymore. She wanted more. She wanted him to be fine, to be great, to be.alive. Okay. If that was all she was getting, that was okay.better than the alternative.for the moment. And what a terrifying and horrible moment that was.
It had been broadcast live around the world and still no one was sure if it was planned specifically for him or just a matter of terrible timing. Her mind tried to block out the chaotic scenes of the camera bouncing back and forth between billowing dust and fire and torn bodies. Shutting her eyes did not help, but neither did opening them. She saw him over and over, a quick glimpse of the dark suited figure thrown back out of camera view, into the screaming crowds, pieces of steel and stone raining over them and among them. The camera fell, its lens capturing, at an odd angle, settling dust, running feet and legs, blaring sirens. Then it was righted, whether by its original operator or someone picking up the banner, so to speak, and carrying news of the tragedy to a stunned world.
The footage, broadcast instantly to satellites and back to earth, showed more carnage and devastation. In her career, she had seen gruesome things before, wreck victims, gunshot wounds, even one pitiful teenager beaten almost to death with a lead pipe, but never in all her medical experience had she seen so many body parts strewn across a supposedly civilized town, so much blood splattered on cars and walls and people.
When the first mind-numbing moments faded, she gained enough clarity to edge toward the screen, begging the camera to move, to find him, to show him to her. She had to see him, even if what she saw was unbearable. She had to know. But the scenes stayed frustratingly unfamiliar or unrecognizable. She thought for a moment she had spotted him bending over a prone figure, dragging a bloodied body from the rubble, but surely she had been mistaken, projecting what she desperately wanted to see. The secret service would have been all over him by then. Then the picture pivoted dizzily and focused on a mass of people, mostly wearing suits or shreds of suits. They hovered close together and she had no doubt as to whom they hovered over. As the camera drew closer, one of them pulled away from the group and placed his hand up, shaking his head and yelling for the camera to move back, move back! Reluctantly, it did, and she groaned audibly at the lack of information. This was wrong. She shouldn't be watching this on CNN. She should be there, with him.
Damn it! She had spoken with him only an hour before, had heard the triumph in his voice, the lilt in his tone as he described the understanding they had forged, the treaty that seemed imminent. And his joy was not just for himself, but truly for the world and the peace he felt they had brought to such a troubled place. One more stop, he said, one more stop. A personal stop, she knew. A special place, a holy place. One more stop, then he was on his way home, reminding her that he had a stopover in Paris to meet with representatives of the European Union. If she had gone with him, they could have had a special evening in the City of Lights. But she begged off, had genuinely been too busy to accompany him. And now.now.they might never have such an evening again.
Lily had been with her, had known immediately something was wrong, had watched in horror with her as the unbelievable scene unfolded. She wasn't sure when C.J. entered. Someone must have let her in, but she didn't know who. The normally composed Press Secretary was a bit disheveled, hair disarrayed, eyes wide and teary.
"Mrs. Bartlet?" she asked quietly, already seeing for herself that the television was on.
She did not answer, but kept her eyes fixed on the screen, scanning the sickening news flashes that ran across the bottom: "Bethlehem Bombing.Bartlet's Condition Uncertain.Will America Retaliate." Her brain noted absently that Lily motioned C.J. inside the East Wing office.
She tried again. "Abbey?"
This time she heard her name, heard the question in her friend's voice. She turned toward her, eyes stunned, mouth open. Still, she did not speak.
The taller woman moved closer. "It's Leo."
Her nod indicated the blinking light on the First Lady's desk phone. She wanted to pick it up, desperately had to know what was happening, but at the same time she couldn't, couldn't receive the news she dreaded hearing, couldn't face the fateful words.
"Abbey?"
She turned and nodded vaguely. Lily had to lift the receiver from the hook and hand it to her. Leo was yelling to someone in the background, sirens screamed behind him. "Leo?" she said, quietly, too quietly. He didn't hear her. "Leo?" Louder this time.
"Abbey! Abbey, thank God. Listen, he's alive."
Oh dear God. Dear God. Alive! At least that. Thank you for that. While her heart screamed in relief, she somehow remained outwardly calm.
"I coming," she announced.
"Abbey, you can't-"
"I'm coming, so you just make whatever arrangements you have to. I'm coming."
The momentary silence told her Leo knew better than to argue with a frightened and heartsick First Lady. "All right," he finally conceded. "I'll have them prepare 29000 for you."
"29000?"
"The other AF-One."
Oh. Okay. Whatever it takes. "How is he?" she forced, not really sure she wanted to know. Please let it be good. Please.
"He's.hell, Abbey, I'm not a doctor. I don't know. They say it's serious, but-"
Serious. Oh God. Her heart jumped into her throat and she pushed it back down into her chest. "Leo, what are his injuries?"
Static cut through his voice for a moment and when he came back, she feared she had missed vital information. ".but can't say now.line not secure.try to stabilize at Shaare Zedek Medical.then maybe move."
The line clicked dead and she simply sat, staring across her office, phone still in her hand. Lily eased it from her and replaced it onto the cradle. C.J. stared, eyes betraying the fear of news that might be too terrible to comprehend. With one fortifying breath, Abbey turned to the other two women, squared her shoulders and brought herself to her fullest height.
"I'm going to Israel. And don't bother to argue." Despite the danger, neither of her listeners attempted even a perfunctory protest. It wouldn't have done them a bit of good, anyway.
As the nauseating memories faded enough to allow her a tear-free breath, she let her eyes focus on the cotton cloud banks that hung outside the plane window, wondering why the hell she had ever agreed to let him to run for anything, much less President of the United States. Wondering if this was it, if this would be a completion of the fate that had been cheated at Rosslyn.
Wondering if he was conscious.wondering how much pain he was in.wondering if he was scared.
Wondering if she would ever see her husband alive again.