Summary: Nobody, least of all Jed, is having a very good day. As it always happens, things go from bad to worse in very short order.

Spoilers: Everything. Seriously. We think we've managed to drop a hint about all and sundry from seasons one through three, with special emphasis on 'The Two Bartlets' and 'Night Five'. Consider yourself warned.

Rating: PG-13, probably. Some language (but we think you'll agree the characters were entitled at that point G), a touch of violence and lots of emotional angst. Sorry, we couldn't help ourselves.

Characters:  Jed, Leo, Abbey - towards the end, and Ron Butterfield.  (We like Ron, and if we thought writing this fic, and a possible follow-up had anything to do with AS suddenly resurrecting both him and Fitz for the end of season three, we'd have done it months ago!)

Archive: Sure, just let us know where and drop us a line first. We've a very good two part MS WORD file we can send to make things easier on you.

Disclaimer: Of course they're not ours. We wish! This is just a bit of an exercise in creative mayhem. We promise to put them back when we're done with them. Really. IF we're ever done with them G.

Feedback: If you must G. Any and all comments are not only welcome, but strongly encouraged. Send to:

nithehowl@livingston.net

or

annemcal@gofree.indigo.ie

Authors' Note: Apologies all around, but we just couldn't resist VBEG.  This may be an unlikely scenario but it was a blast to write and, if you're willing to suspend any disbelief, we hope you'll have a lot of fun in the reading too.  Hey, if Hollywood can do it, why can't we?

Dedication:  To Sheila, who writes such wonderful WW crisis fics, and to Sam, who broke the ice and gave us the courage to try this sort of fic with her amazing 'Not Everything's Black and White' story.

A Frightened Peace

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 1/12

"Mr. President, it's time."  Face professionally bland, the secret service agent stood by respectfully.

President Josiah Bartlet's previously relaxed smile faded slightly and he gave the waiting helicopter a sour look. His step faltered a bit as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and nodded a curt and unenthusiastic acknowledgement to the agent.

The President's Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry, shot a knowing glance at his Commander in Chief and friend. His lips twitched and he was unable to entirely suppress a grin of amusement that was tinged with just a hint of sympathy. He was well aware that the high spirits the President usually exhibited while flying were noticeably subdued during trips on Marine One, or any craft significantly smaller than the majestic 747, Air Force One.

McGarry suspected that a great deal of that exuberance stemmed from the fact that traveling aboard the huge executive aircraft was one of the few times in his life when the President was actually able to relax sufficiently to enjoy the experience of flight. There --apart from the fact that he usually traveled with more than sufficient work to keep his mind fully occupied-- the greater size and the freedom to move around was much more comfortable for him. It enabled him to conquer the latent claustrophobia that the more cramped and confining restrictions of commercial flight had always triggered.

Bartlet had struggled with that fear for as long as McGarry had known him. He'd never been able to find out its origins --but he had his suspicions-- and at times had seen the phobia border on the crippling. It was at such times he was more than impressed with Bartlet's sheer stubborn strength of mind.

Well aware of what was going through his Chief of Staff's mind, Bartlet ignored McGarry's look with studied dignity and faced the patiently waiting agent. "Thanks, Donny." He recovered enough of his composure to grace the young man with a quick smile. "You along for the ride this time?"

"Yes, sir!" Agent Donny Sandler nodded smartly, more than a little pleased that the President had remembered his name correctly.

Bartlet smirked and nudged McGarry with his elbow. "Ron wants him along to hold our hands, eh Leo?"

McGarry rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation. "Well, thank you for the thought, Mr. President, but I was under the impression we already had that covered ourselves."

He chalked up a mental 'score!' as he saw the President's head jerk back slightly and the narrow-eyed glare scorch him. An expression of mildly guilty amusement was the only satisfaction that Bartlet received in return. Only McGarry, with the confidence of a forty-year friendship of mutual trust and affection, could have gotten away with reminding the leader of the free world of that particular moment of personal embarrassment.

Over a year before, another flight on Marine One had been hit by a considerable amount of turbulence. As always, Bartlet had remained outwardly calm, but his hands had instinctively grasped at the armrests of his seat. He was mortified afterwards to realize that what his left hand had clutched in a convulsive grip was not the chair seat but his Chief of Staff's arm, which had been lying along the common armrest of their adjoining seats. Fortunately, there had been no bruising, but the sleeve of McGarry's normally pristine suit had been irreparably creased for the remainder of the trip.

McGarry had been frankly amused by the incident and never passed up the opportunity to remind his friend whenever he got the chance. Emphasizing the end result seemed to distract his friend from the initial causes, exactly what he needed. The phobia McGarry understood, but not the reasons. He had crammed himself into far smaller cockpits than the passenger area of a Sea King helicopter and had certainly encountered far worse turbulence as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. It had been intriguing and more than a little entertaining to see his normally self-confident and mischievous friend's composure momentarily fractured.

Sandler had been waiting patiently, apparently oblivious to this by-play. Now he stepped forward again. "Mr. President, Agent Butterfield would like me to inform you that our departure is scheduled for five minutes time. He requests that both you and Mr. McGarry take your seats."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered the President, giving the helicopter and the agent a dark look. "C'mon, Leo. You know how upset Ron gets when I throw out his schedule."

"I can't think why," McGarry commented dryly, following his President's rather unenthusiastic progress towards the idling helicopter. "Anyone would think you made a habit of running late. And as for lecturing him on the history of past assassinations, both attempted and actual…" skirting the protocol line, he fought back a grin and finished with perfect deadpan aplomb, "I really don't understand why he isn't more relaxed in your presence."

Bartlet glowered at his friend. "You're very uppity today," he complained, although a glint of reluctant amusement flickered in his eyes. "Isn't it enough that you're forcing me to take the weekend off, to say nothing of traveling aboard that…" He waved his hand in the direction of their transport as words failed him.

McGarry's amusement faded and he regarded the President with genuine concern. "Sir, I am truly sorry about the helicopter, but you know that a motorcade would take too long. And using Air Force One would involve too much manpower for what is supposed to be a quiet and discrete break. And you know that right now you really need this time away. If only to get some rest."

Bartlet muttered something under his breath that was lost in the swish of the rotor blades.

"What?"

Catching yet another glare, McGarry reflected that the recent sleepless nights he had been suffering from had seriously damaged Bartlet's normally sunny disposition.

"I said," the President enunciated with elaborate distinctness, "That I'm sleeping again now."

"Yeah, but only for a couple of hours at a stretch, and never for more than five hours a night" McGarry pointed out reasonably. Weighing his words carefully, he added, "Not only is that barely enough to keep going on your schedule, it's nowhere near enough to make up for all those nights that you missed entirely. And, if you'll excuse my saying so, Mr. President, I'd really rather not have you dropping off in the middle of another security briefing. For some reason, it tends to disconcert your advisors, not to mention what'll happen if you do it next week with that Russian missile specialist."

The President growled something unintelligible, although McGarry had a strong suspicion it was neither complementary to his Chief of Staff nor the Russians. Yet another reason to give the man a much needed break. Sleeplessness was one thing, but he didn't think the Russians or their ambassador would quietly put up with another dressing down like the one he'd given them over their shoddy missile program the previous year.

And with Bartlet in the mood he was in now, McGarry strongly suspected that civilities were going to be strained to the limit. Sighing, he pointed out, "With all due respect, sir, you did start this. You made the offer. The specialist is only…"

"Malinoff."

"What?"

"The specialist's name is Malinoff. Gregori Malinoff." The tight smile Bartlet gave McGarry offered neither humor nor apology, merely frustrated annoyance at the badgering. "See? I was awake. Where were you?"

"Getting the coffee."

To be continued…