Author's Note: Hey all! Depending on where you read my stories, you might not have seen yesterday's offering, which was the start of a Buffy/West Wing multi-chapter fic. But here I am today with another prompt fic. This one is from my mother, who asked for "Charlie talking to a much-subdued Jean-Paul after Zoey is found." It seemed like a moment we should've gotten a chance to see. Hope you enjoy!
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The very exalted personage of the Vicomte de Conde de Bourbon was currently in much less exalted circumstances than usual, tucked away in a hospital room that bore a striking resemblance to a cell, guarded by two Secret Service agents "for his safety." The detention at the hospital was for his safety as well, in case there were any lingering aftereffects from mixing Ecstasy and GHB with alcohol. It wouldn't do to let such an esteemed visitor to the country become sick when it could be prevented, after all.
Charlie nodded to both Secret Service agents as he approached the door, his steps brisk and purposeful. One agent gave him a warning look, but neither actually impeded his access to their diplomatic protectee. They both knew who he was, and had a good idea what he might be doing here. And all the agents knew Molly O'Connor, all the agents knew Zoey Bartlet.
Jean-Paul looked up as soon as the door opened, his hopeful glance turning immediately to disappointment, then a trace of fear. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Heard you're being deported," Charlie remarked laconically.
"I am returning home," Jean-Paul snapped. "The United States has lost what little appeal it had."
"I guess that's just as well, since you're never going to be allowed back in, no matter who your daddy is," Charlie pointed out. "Though you're still doing a lot better than you deserve. I mean sure, you're a public disgrace to your country and your family, and maybe you'll be prosecuted for drug crimes once you get home, and this will be the only reason anybody ever remembers you, but it beats going to federal prison."
"This is just a small bump in the road," Jean-Paul said dismissively. "Americans are laughably puritanical in their views about drugs. In my country it is much different."
"Somehow I think even in France the authorities are going to frown on you giving roofies to the American President's daughter," Charlie countered, a bite in his voice. "Your ambassador just about belly-crawled into the Oval Office this morning. If Zoey weren't back home with her family already, I think he actually would have."
Jean-Paul scoffed, but there wasn't much conviction behind it. "So why are you here then, instead of with Miss Zoey in her hour of need? Is this simply the jealous ex-boyfriend come to gloat and posture?"
"I'd be gloating if she'd just dumped your dumb ass," Charlie replied evenly. "You hurt her and you almost got her killed. I'm not going to gloat about that." He took a step towards Jean-Paul. "I'd rather beat you to a bloody pulp and send you home on a stretcher, the way she came home." Another step. "I'd rather you be the one to wake up with nightmares. I'd rather you be the one not knowing who to trust anymore, because you got hurt somewhere you were sure you'd be safe." Another step, so that now he loomed over the still-seated young man, who looked to be trying to decide if anybody would intervene if he called for help.
"I'm here as an emissary, you might say," Charlie continued, his voice still quiet and calm. "Not officially, you understand. Like a diplomatic envoy on behalf of all the people you don't want to be in a small room with right now. We want to impress on you what a really good idea it is for you to forget you ever knew Zoey Bartlet."
Jean-Paul got to his feet, even though it meant ducking away from Charlie and taking a few steps back. "I don't know what you mean."
"When you get home," Charlie told him inexorably, holding his place for the moment, "you don't sell your story to a sleazy tabloid. You don't talk to any reporters at all. You don't option a book or a movie. You don't even tell your friends so they'll buy you drinks. You keep your mouth shut and do whatever the hell rich, unemployed party boys do in your country. The sooner Zoey can forget about you, the sooner other people will forget about you too, and that is definitely good for you."
"You think you can threaten me?" Jean-Paul's bluster lost most of its effectiveness because his voice was shaking. "When my family hears of this-"
"Your family doesn't want to be looking down the barrel of this any more than your government does," Charlie explained patiently. "They're taking you back because they don't want to set a precedent of young French aristocrats going to American prisons, but they aren't much happier with you than we are. There is a delicate diplomatic sling keeping your ass out of the fire, and every word you say about Zoey Bartlet cuts one of the ropes. You don't exist to her now, JP; you've been excised from her life like you never existed. Be smart and do the same to her, and this all gets to go away for you."
For the first time Jean-Paul looked down, looked away. "I really did like her, you know. A beautiful girl, so full of life. She would've enjoyed coming to France with me."
"We'll never know now, will we," Charlie said harshly. "Your handlers will be here in an hour or so. You'll surrender your visa and be put on a plane at National. After that, you're on your own. Stay the hell away from Zoey."
"Riding to her rescue will not make her want you any more," Jean-Paul said as Charlie turned to leave. "You have nothing that she needs."
Charlie shrugged. "That's not why I'm doing it. I could've stopped her from going to that nightclub with you and I didn't. I let you hurt her once. I'm not going to do it again, I promise."
He knocked twice on the door and stepped out without looking back, nodding to the Secret Service agents once again. If he was lucky, he could get back to the White House before Zoey realized he was gone.