POV: Abbey
Spoilers: "Dead Irish Writers," "Election Night," and "Arctic Radar" (only
a little) and generally up through the present U.S. episodes.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters are not ours, but they have given us much
pleasure.
They Can't Take That Away 2/10 A West Wing Story
By MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon
Abbey Bartlet smiled pleasantly at the well wishes thrown her way as she crossed the ballroom. She nodded to staff members and public officials. She spoke quickly to servers. She lifted a hand in greeting to supporters she barely knew.
But what she really wanted to do was scream.
Not tonight. Not this day. Let him have this day.
Somehow she held her tongue, continued the charade that all was fine, managed not to jerk the glass of water impatiently from the bartender's hand.
It had been such a good day, too. And she knew Jed was looking forward to their evening together. He had been very clear about his plans for later. Truth be told, she was, too, despite her earlier delays. She could imagine nothing better tonight than lying in his arms, his solid body against hers, his gorgeous voice murmuring beautiful words in her ear. It would be the perfect end to such a momentous day. Now -
Now she was fighting the strong urge to scream, or hit something - or someone - or both. Preferably Jed. She knew that wasn't fair, but she had found, through the years, that drawing on anger enabled her to keep from collapsing into tears. It didn't develop from him, but she allowed it to be directed at him, since there was no one else to field it. It kept her from despair.
"It's nothing," he had told her. "I would know." And she had almost been convinced. Wanted to be convinced. Desperately wanted to be convinced.
A hard day, an emotional speech, a long walk in street shoes in the biting cold. Ten damn balls with an obligatory dance at each. It was only natural - maybe even expected - that he would be tired. Hell, she was tired, her legs aching from the day's exertions.
But she should have known. Could kick herself for letting him sway her so easily. She supposed it was because she wanted to be swayed, wanted to believe it was nothing. And he had been persuasive with his words and with his body. Their banter about sexy First Ladies and their verbal foreplay, along with his obvious arousal, had distracted her enough to let it ride.
That had not sustained him quite long enough, though. Maybe if they had only gone to nine balls. Maybe - Still, if she could get him out now, let him sit for a while, it would be okay. Even though her instincts told her differently, she still held on to the possibility that it was normal fatigue - until she got a clear view of him and saw Leo standing close. Very close. Too close. Suddenly, she realized the Chief of Staff wasn't just standing next to Jed; he was supporting him, one hand under an elbow, one leg braced against another.
Oh God! Please don't let him collapse in front of everyone. He couldn't bear that.
Fighting the instinct to rush to him, a move that would no doubt draw the very attention they sought to avoid, she steadied her pace. Don't run. Stay calm.
A quick glance told her no one had noticed that the President was in distress. Leo obviously fought to keep the panic from his face, but it still brightened his eyes.
She forgot about water, setting it down somewhere along the way. He couldn't hold it now, anyway. Standing in front of him, hoping to shield him from the crowd, she looked in his eyes, not liking the fact that they wouldn't focus on her. That they couldn't focus on her.
"Jed?"
Slowly, he looked down. "Hey."
"Listen, we're going to turn around and go out that door right there." It was only a few steps away. Surely he could make it that far. She would cross her fingers if that helped.
He nodded, eyes still unfocused. "Okay."
Jerking her head to the side, she indicated that Leo should take one arm and she would take the other. But chief of staff hesitated.
"Abbey, we can't."
"What?" Then she realized what he was worried about. More hiding. More dishonesty. Well, that didn't really apply anymore, did it? The whole world knew he had MS. His country had re-elected him by a landslide with full knowledge that he suffered from Multiple Sclerosis. They didn't need to hide it. Still, the revelation that the President was having an attack on the very evening of his inauguration probably would do neither foreign nor domestic affairs any good. Best just to retreat quietly.
"He's got to say something," Leo whispered, the panic now more evident on his face.
She stared at him. Surely he had not just suggested that Jed actually address the room. Surely not.
"It's expected," Leo explained. "If he doesn't speak, there will be questions, suspicions."
Fighting back a strong urge to shake the shoulders of her husband's best friend, she hissed, "Leo, look at him. He's in no condition - "
But the chief of staff ignored her, turning instead to address his boss. "Jed?"
"Damn it, Leo!" she snapped, a little too loudly. Several heads turned their way. Lowering her voice, she still managed to keep the fury obvious. "Look at him!"
He looked. And she looked, too. And to her surprise, behind the flush and the sweat, his eyes had re-focused on her. She read the determination in them, felt him straighten under Leo's grip. Dear God. He wasn't really going to -
"Jed? Jed, you can't - "
With effort, he swallowed and said softly, "I - Leo's - right, Abbey. I'm - okay."
Yeah. Sure. I can see that. "Josiah Bartlet." He knew that inflection, she could tell and despite the gravity of the situation, she almost smiled when he winced.
"Abbey," he said simply, and the tone settled somewhere between a plea and a command. She wasn't sure how he did that.
Well, damn it. They were right. If they disappeared without a comment, without appropriate remarks, it would arouse suspicions. Maybe he could manage just a word or two of thanks, just a comment for the expectant crowd. She placed a hand on his shoulder, looked hard into his eyes to verify that he could do it - and almost recoiled at the flame in them. He was angry. Angry at what? Her? Himself? His body?
"Jed?"
The anger had given him strength, she saw, just as it gave her distraction. Perhaps he had conjured it for that very reason. Now he took a deep breath and smiled, not his usual heart-stopping grin, but a smile, nevertheless. "I'm ready."
"Mister President?" The voice, low, but full of authority, drew the attention of all three. Ron Butterfield stood directly behind Leo, his gaze on Jed, his hands straight by his side. "May I be of assistance?"
So the President's condition had not gone totally unnoticed. And it would be Ron, of course, who saw, who could tell things weren't exactly right.
Leo glanced at her, not sure about what he should say, so she stepped forward, her hand still on Jed's shoulder. Might as well level with the agent. He wouldn't be fooled now, anyway. "Okay. Here's the thing. The President needs to make a few remarks before we leave."
Ron waited, clearly understanding there was more to it.
"The problem is, he's probably not going to be able to walk out of here on his own."
No change of expression. The President's protector remained silent, accepting everything she said without comment.
"We'll need to make it look as casual as possible, but he'll need help." She caught the grimace on Jed's face, the pain that came from having to face the fact that he couldn't do something on his own. But she couldn't think about that. It would destroy her own mask and they couldn't afford that right now.
Ron nodded. Bless him. "Yes, m'am."
"He can speak from here," Leo decided, then turned to Jed. "Okay?"
He raised a shaking hand and wiped at his face. "Yeah."
"You ready?"
One more deep breath. "Yeah."
Leo stepped away, carefully letting Jed's weight fall back against the pillar. When he reached the band, he whispered something in the conductor's ear and the music stopped abruptly. With an enthusiasm she knew he didn't feel, he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the President of the United States."
As one the entire room rotated to look their way, following Leo's gesture. Wild applause, cheers and whistles. It was a rowdy group, already well into their cups. Maybe he could pull it off, after all, if they were all drunk enough.
Anxiously, she turned with them - and caught her breath. The transformation was almost unbelievable. Somehow he had managed to pull away from the marble, had locked his legs in place through sheer determination, and gifted his audience with an appreciative, genuine grin. He almost had her fooled, too. Almost. But she saw the tension in his jaw, watched the tightness around his eyes. And then she saw the very subtle motion behind him. Ron had moved so that his leg replaced Leo's, so that his body actually served as a brace, even though the appearance was one of mere proximity, not aid.
Okay, she told herself - and her husband. Hang on.
"My fellow Americans," he began, and there was only slightly less power than usual in his voice. "My - friends. Abbey and I would like to thank you for your support, and your encouragement - and your love. We feel blessed that you have 'fought the good fight' with us. That you have seen fit 'to run the race.'" Without shifting his gaze from the crowd, he reached a hand toward her. She took it and squeezed, hoping to push some of her strength through the connection.
"And now, if you'll pardon us, we've had quite a day. I hope you'll continue to celebrate."
He waved, and she prayed no one saw the effort it took for that gesture. But they cheered wildly again, throwing good wishes toward them. As Jed turned, she instinctively slipped her arm around his waist. His hand fell on her shoulder and they each took slow steps away from their admirers. To the rest of the room it looked as if the affectionate couple had had enough public partying and were retiring to their own private celebration. Knowing smiles followed them out.
She could almost believe they had gotten away with it. Just a few more steps to the door. Almost there.
"Excuse me, Mister President."
What the hell -
They all turned, Jed's arm still draped over her, her arm still firmly around his waist, doing more supporting than hugging. A fresh-faced young woman, reporter's notepad in hand, waited eagerly, and more than a little nervously. Her first big story, Abbey figured. Her first chance to get a quote from the President and she had to pick now. The First Lady toyed with the idea of just moving on. But Jed paused.
"Yes?" he asked and she could have killed him. They had almost pulled it off, almost escaped with no one the wiser. Now, they had been stopped, by a reporter, no less. Now, the chances of being discovered increased tenfold. Once she got a good look at him they might as well make a public announcement.
The woman smiled in surprised victory and pushed on with new-found courage. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mister President?"
Go ahead. Get it over with.
But the expected realization didn't come. Did she not see the flush of his cheeks, the trail of sweat down his face? Could she not tell he was staying on his feet by only the shadow of strength?
"I wanted to know if you could give us one more dance, sir? You and the First Lady? Since it's your last inaugural ball. Just one more?"
Oh, thank God. Thank God this girl had just stepped off the newspaper delivery truck. She was too green and too nervous to notice the obvious. "Your big chance and this is what you ask?" Abbey thought, nevertheless incredibly grateful that it wasn't "Are you having an attack, Mister President, because you look like crap."
A couple of nearby eavesdroppers leaned closer and Abbey tensed in anticipation of Jed's reaction, but he squeezed her shoulder gently in reassurance.
"What's your name?" he asked his impromptu interviewer.
"Jacqueline," she answered a little breathlessly. "Jacqueline Handlin. From the Tallahassee Democrat."
"I like the name of that paper," he noted, and she smiled back.
Despite the weakness, despite the fear, his eyes shone suddenly with a glint of mischief. Uh oh. "Well, Miss Handlin," he said, seriously. "I do plan to have one more dance with my wife tonight."
Okay, Jed. Clear that brilliant brain of yours.
The reporter beamed.
"But for this particular dance," he stressed, allowing a small smile to break through, his eyes holding hers with a power that didn't come from the office he held, "we don't need an audience."
Oh God. Abbey heard Ron clear his throat. Leo looked down, attempting to suppress the grin that tugged at his mouth. She was trying, herself, to fight back the heat pushing into her cheeks.
For a moment, Jacqueline Handlin looked at them curiously, brows drawn together in confusion. Geez, this girl was slow.
Then it hit her. Abbey watched with satisfaction as her pale skin burned to a bright red, as her mouth opened and closed with the attempt to speak, as the notebook dropped from fumbling fingers, and pages scattered on the polished floor.
"Oh - I - I - " she stammered, helplessly, unable to manage a coherent sentence, until for some reason her mouth blurted out, "Have a good time." Then she lost it altogether and simply stared.
But Jed laughed out loud, deep and true, and Abbey was suddenly grateful to the hapless young lady who had inadvertently given her husband at least a moment's relief from the depressing development of the evening. As they moved away, she turned for one more glance at the reporter, who still stood, unmoving, almost in shock. Well, she would certainly remember her first interview with the President. If she recovered, Abbey felt certain that particular conversation would one day make its way into print.
And it wouldn't bother her a bit. Maybe she could find a copy of the Tallahassee Democrat tomorrow.
Coop had pulled the limo right to the door, as he would have anyway, and they made their way to it, Ron and Leo following closely. The snow, which had begun falling again that afternoon, now swirled menacingly around them, whipping their hair, stinging their skin. She tried to urge Jed into the car, to get him out of the storm, but he stubbornly insisted she enter first, and maybe that was best, to keep up appearances. But as soon as he slid in beside her, she let the façade drop. The door had barely closed when they pulled forward and Abbey's hands were at his throat, loosening the tie, slipping the coat from his shoulders.
"Abbey," he protested weakly, any energy he had summoned vanishing as his head fell back onto the seat.
"Shh. It's okay. Just lie back."
"I'm really okay." But there was no strength in his assurance.
"Yeah."
"I wanted tonight - I wanted us to - "
"Shh. We'll have our night."
"I don't think - "
"We'll have our night," she insisted, unbuttoning the vest and opening the shirt. "Maybe not this night, but we'll have it."
"Okay," he agreed, eyes closing.
With a suppressed sob, she smoothed his hair back, touched his forehead. Warm. Warmer than it should be.
"Abbey?"
With a start, she turned, having forgotten Leo was there. The pain on his rough features hurt her almost as much as the fatigue on Jed's.
"Will he be - is he okay?"
"Yes," she said, deciding that at that very moment. She couldn't contemplate anything else. "Yes." Once more to convince herself, as well.
Outside, the air was almost totally white with the increase in precipitation. For the first time she noticed they seemed to be the only vehicle in sight and that the car moved more slowly than usual, almost crept along the Washington streets.
"This looks bad," she noted to Leo, pressing a hand to Jed's forehead again. He didn't stir. That was not a good sign.
"Ron told me the last weather report had a front coming in, but it wasn't supposed to be this heavy." He looked away from Jed and out the window. "Look's like we're in for a rough night. If this keeps up, we'll have a disaster tomorrow."
Suddenly, the implications of such a storm knifed their way into her stomach. "Leo!" she gasped, not waiting for him to acknowledge her before she continued. "Where's Hackett? Is he at the White House?"
Now the chief of staff looked decidedly alarmed. "No. He was - he was at - or was he? I don't know. I'm not sure." He turned immediately toward the front of the car. "Coop, get Ron Butterfield on the phone and have him locate Admiral Hackett. That's a priority."
The driver acknowledged and they heard him making the call. After a long three minutes, he announced, "The Admiral is caught in the storm, Mister McGarry. Agent Butterfield said they were trying to get him to the White House to meet you."
Damn it. Of all nights. Abbey worked again to stifle the scream that pushed at her throat. It might make her feel better, but it sure wouldn't have the same effect on Leo - or Jed, for that matter.
Jed. She turned back to her husband, assessing his condition once again. Face still flushed, maybe more now. His right hand shook slightly as it rested on his thigh. With his eyes closed, she couldn't check, them, and decided it wasn't necessary at the moment. He needed to rest more than he needed her telling him something he already knew. But she couldn't stop the hand that made its way to his cheek.
He leaned into the touch, just instinctively.
"We're almost home," she whispered to him - and to herself, as well.
But they were not almost home, even though normally they should have been. Instead, the limo inched its way over frozen streets, occasionally sliding on the slick surface. Please, she prayed earnestly. Please get us home. Get him home. She almost yelled for Coop to head to GW, but that was even farther away, even more dangerous in this weather. So home it was. Better than spending the night in a snowdrift. And that didn't seem to be totally out of the realm of possibility.
Then suddenly they were moving again.
"What happened?" Abbey asked, hand still on Jed's cheek.
Leo shook his head just as Coop replied, "Snow plows, m'am. They'll clear the way for us to 1600. It'll still be tricky, but I'll get us back."
She smiled at his confidence. "I know you will, Coop. The President and I appreciate it."
And Jed would, if he were actually conscious at the time. Slipping her hand from his cheek, she ran a professional gaze over him, trying to determine the symptoms, working on a definite diagnosis, and knowing she might not ever have one. It was an attack, all right, but was it solely the MS, or had it been triggered by something else? A fever - which she knew he had - well over 100 from her best judgment. Dizziness. Pain or at least discomfort in his thigh. And probably other things he wasn't admitting to.
"I wish I had my bag," she thought, wondering for a brief moment why she didn't. Then her stomach filled with that same sick sensation she got every time she remembered. She had forfeited the right to carry that bag, hadn't she? And for this very illness.
Jed stirred, mumbling, and she brushed the hair from his forehead, a combination of sweat and melted snow wetting the blond-brown strands, now touched occasionally with gray.
"Abbey?" Leo asked, and the fear on his face was only a harsh reminder of her own worries.
"He needs a doctor, Leo." She admitted it now. It was more than just fatigue.
"You're a doctor," he accused.
"Not anymore." The words tasted bitter on her tongue.
"We're almost there, Doctor Bartlet."
Nothing in the tone of their driver's voice indicated he had heard the exchange, but his simple use of her title told her he had. The gesture touched her.
"Thank you." And it was an acknowledgement for more than just the information. "What about Admiral Hackett?"
"No word, yet, m'am." He sounded apologetic, almost as if he had let her down - let the President down.
"Abbey?" It was soft, weak, but clear. She turned to him immediately. His eyes clouded with pain and fever, but he managed to lift his mouth in a tiny smile. "Hey, Babe. Sorry about this."
Leo looked away, trying to give them at least a nod toward privacy.
"Yeah," she whispered, combing the hair back at his temple. "Hell of a way to end the day."
He tried to laugh, but didn't have enough energy to make it believable. "Not at all what I had planned."
"How do you feel?" Of course she could take a pretty fair guess at that, but she wanted him to say, wanted to hear the list from his lips. How quickly he admitted to anything revealed almost as much as her visual exams.
"I'm okay."
"Really?"
Now she caught his eyes and he at least had the decency to look sheepish. "I've felt better."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Jed, how do you feel?"
Finally, he sighed and gave her a fading smile of concession. "Like crap."
"Okay. Well, that's about how you look." The kindness in her voice took away any insult.
"You're just a sweet-talker," he returned, his words slurring just a bit.
God, she hated seeing him like this, knew he hated being seen like this. She wondered who would meet them at the White House, who he would rather have to help him upstairs. She didn't know if she and Leo could do it alone. Maybe with Coop's strength they could manage.
"Really, Jed. I need to know." She tried to convey the seriousness of her question without completely breaking down.
It must have worked, because he looked at her and she saw understanding in his face. Drawing a breath, he listed the symptoms. "Cold and shaky. My leg feels sort of numb. My neck aches and my throat hurts."
Oh. Is that all? "Show me where your neck hurts."
He ran a hand along the broad muscle that stretched from the back of his ear to his shoulder.
"Vision?"
"A little blurry," he admitted. An understatement, she was sure.
"Are you nauseated?"
He swallowed. "Some. If I move too much."
The bright lights of the most famous house in America flashed into the windows and across their faces as Coop drove through the gates at the East Wing entrance. Abandoned by the plow on the street, the car crunched its way over the building ice and snow until it pulled to a stop before the South Portico.
Thank God. Now if only Hackett would meet them. Before she could relate her plan for the next few moves to Leo, the door opened and the grim face of Ron Butterfield greeted them. She had not even noticed the Suburban following them. The agent stepped back to let her emerge, slipping only once on the snow before he gained command of it.
The blast of air froze their breath, creating clouds of white vapor. The light little wisps of snow that dotted the sky earlier had been overpowered by battering, stinging sheets. Holy Mary, it was cold. Mentally, she damned her husband for his insistence on going without an overcoat. But maybe it wouldn't hurt too much. In fact, maybe the cold would fortify him enough to get to their room.
"Can you walk, sir?" Ron asked.
Jed nodded impatiently and Abbey closed her eyes against the pain of seeing him fight to stand on his own. But the moment he planted his right foot, the leg betrayed him. He would have fallen if Ron had not been there instantly.
"I'll help you, Mister President," he said, and even though it wasn't a request, the respect in his voice remained steadfast.
Abbey sighed, knowing it was bad when Jed merely raised his arm to place it around Ron's shoulder. The agent's arm moved behind Jed's back to catch him snugly at the waist, and the two headed toward the entrance, one good step followed by one bad step.
To her relief, Charlie greeted them at the door. Even with all his concentration on simply walking, Jed glared at him. "What are you doing here at this time of night, Charlie?"
As usual, the young man seemed unperturbed by his commander-in-chief's ire. Maybe he knew it was mostly an act, anyway. Still, she could see the concern in those dark eyes, noticed the hesitation as he apparently contemplated offering his assistance.
But his answer was smooth. "You know. Just hangin' around. Didn't know what to do with myself leaving this early."
She smirked. It had to be past midnight now.
"Besides, you just fired your entire cabinet. I didn't want to take a chance."
Jed's head shot up. "I did not - " When he saw the smile on his aid's face, he managed a chuckle. "Good idea. You never know - "
But his fading strength deserted him completely and he stumbled. Charlie's façade dropped. He lurched forward, taking up a position on the other side of the ill man. Ron nodded in agreement and gratitude and they picked up the pace, practically dragging the President of the United States between them.
Just as they reached the elevator, Jed moaned. "Wait."
"We're almost there, sir. We need to get you - "
"Abbey!"
She knew that tone, knew it was urgent. Disregarding heels and dragging hem, she sprinted around them to face her husband.
"I'm here, Jed. What is it?"
But as soon as she saw his face she knew. Under the flush he had gone pale green. Without another thought, she grabbed the nearest receptacle she could find - a vase, once owned by Louisa Adams, she seemed to recall, filled with a beautiful arrangement of hot house blooms. Dumping the flowers unceremoniously on the floor, she shoved the porcelain in front of him just in time. Ron and Charlie each held an arm as he threw up in the White House treasure.
"Sorry," he groaned, swaying between them.
"It's okay," Abbey soothed. "It's okay."
Charlie had paled some now, himself, obviously realizing the President was quite sick. "Stomach virus?" he wondered, sounding rather hopeful.
Abbey looked him in the eye. "No."
But she saw he had already deduced as much, just wanted to believe it was something as simple as a stomach bug.
"Can you make it to the Residence?" she asked Jed, who gave one curt nod and returned his attention to putting one foot in front of the other.
And somehow he did, with only one other stop to make use of Louisa Adam's prized vase. As soon as they entered the bedroom, Abbey launched into action, ordering the men to deposit the patient on the bed, sending Charlie to retrieve a thermometer and bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol, pushing Leo out to run interference, and directing Ron to find out where the hell Admiral Hackett was. She may not be a doctor, but she figured being the only one in the building who had ever performed a heart-lung transplant qualified her best at the moment.
Plus, she wanted to give Jed the dignity of not being undressed by his staff. Instead, she pulled back the covers for him as he dragged himself up to lean against the pillows. Untying his shoes, she slipped them off, along with his socks. Then she worked at the fastening to his tuxedo trousers.
"I was hoping you'd get me out of these pants, Sweet Knees," he said. "But I don't think I can - "
"Hush," she scolded, stripping him to his boxers from the waist down and pulling the covers over him. "Sit up."
With a grimace, he did, and she finished unbuttoning his shirt. Shivering, he fell back on the bed until she rummaged in the chest of drawers for a sweatshirt. With her help, he struggled into it just as Charlie returned.
"Go away," Jed ordered. "My wife is busy seducing me."
"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, but continued into the room, holding out a dark case for her.
When she saw it, she paused, uncertain. Her medical bag. She had put it away, unable to look at it and know it was useless to her. But Charlie didn't flinch at her scowl. Instead, he set it on the nightstand and opened it.
"I thought you might need more than just the thermometer," he explained simply.
Fighting back unexpected tears, she nodded. "Okay." When she turned, Jed was watching her, and the pain on his face almost tore her apart. It was pain for her, for what she had done for him, not for his own condition.
Desperate to find some manageable emotional ground, she asked, "Any word from Hackett?"
"Agent Butterfield has located him and they're trying to get him here. It's really bad out there. I heard D.C. doesn't have enough plows to keep up with the accumulation." He handed her the stethoscope, which she took after only a slight hesitation.
But before she used it, something occurred to her. "Charlie? Where's Deena?" Surely he had not left his sister alone in this weather.
"She's with C.J. They left one of the parties a while back. She called to say they had made to C.J.'s apartment, so C.J.'s stuck with her for a while, I guess."
Good. That meant C.J. was okay, as well. "I'm glad she's all right."
It was second nature to slip the scope into her ears, to place the end over Jed's heart, his lungs. She breathed a little easier when everything sounded normal at least. But when the ear meter beeped, she frowned at the readout. 102.1. Way too high for her liking. "Hand me the Tylenol, please," she said, throwing her hand out as if she were receiving a scalpel.
The bottle hit her palm in almost the same way and she popped the top to shake out three, handing them to her husband, who now lay almost asleep. He took them without comment, having learned years ago not to question, just to obey. It was much easier that way.
"If you can rustle me up some Advil," she told Charlie, "we'll alternate every few hours."
"Yes, m'am," he answered, already out the door.
Well, she was giving the AMA more ammunition if they wanted it: practicing without a license. But really, anyone could give out Tylenol, right? Or take someone's temperature? Anyway, Hackett would be there soon.
"Still nauseated?" she asked Jed, her voice making him open his eyes again.
"Nah."
"Jed?"
"Well, not as much. Really." His earnest expression drew a laugh from her.
"Okay, Jethro, I'll wash out the vase just in case."
He winced at the reminder. "Uh, isn't that some - special vase. I don't know - Martha Washington's or something?"
"Louisa Adams', I think. But it's okay."
"I just hurled in Louisa Adams' vase?"
Abbey smirked. "Maybe it's the same one John Quincy used when he hurled."
Eyes closed again, Jed smiled. "Maybe. Seems to work well in that function, anyway."
She watched him for a while, studied the features that had changed, yet stayed the same for 35 years of marriage. He had been a handsome thing when she first saw him. Of course, he was still handsome, but back then there was a wild quality to him, even as a prospective priest. Thirty-five years. Where on earth had it gone? With the immortality of youth, they had envisioned themselves far into the future, had laughingly pictured their ancient selves content with their lives, having done everything they wanted, having accomplished all they needed to accomplish.
Well, she wasn't finished, yet. And he had better not be. She still loved that wild young man who had forsaken the priesthood, but not the Church, for her. And often in their rare private moments together, he still appeared, still awakened in her the intense desires of youth, still drew her back to a time when it was just the two of them, and they survived on a little money, a little food, and a lot of sex. Things change, she mused. They had more than a little money, now. And way too much food. But the sex had not changed. If anything, it was gotten even better. It was so much a part of their relationship that she could not envision a time that it would, no matter how old they grew.
But Jed did. It was what he feared most and she knew it weighed heavily on him tonight. Especially since he had planned to -
Damn it! Why hadn't she given in earlier? Why hadn't she followed her body's urges and let him coax her into bed before the parties began? What would it have mattered if they were a little late? But she hadn't. And now -
No! She refused to consider that this was anything but a temporary attack. He would recover. She would make sure he did. Hackett would be there any minute, and by tomorrow, or maybe the next day, Jed would be back to normal. She believed it. She had to believe it.
"Mrs. Bartlet?" Ron Butterfield's voice interrupted her self- determination.
"Yes?" She turned, taking a deep breath.
The tall frame of Admiral Hackett stood with him, thank God. Now they could get things going.
"I've taken his pulse," she began, plunging in without even a polite hello. They could be courteous later. "Normal. Lungs sound fine. It's the fever that worries me most, an infection somewhere - " The fact that neither man had moved drew her to a stop in mid-sentence. Something was wrong. "What is it?"
"Doctor Bartlet," Hackett greeted, and she felt her heart plunge. His voice was like gravel.
Stepping closer, she took a good look. Oh hell. He was only a few steps out the grave, himself.
"I came as soon as I could," he continued, the strain evident in his tone. "It really is a blizzard out there." He paused to cough roughly and Abbey gritted her teeth. "I'm afraid, though, I won't be of much help."
She waited for the bombshell that must be coming.
"I'm relatively certain I have the flu."
Great. Not only was she practicing without a license; now she had two patients.
They Can't Take That Away 2/10 A West Wing Story
By MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon
Abbey Bartlet smiled pleasantly at the well wishes thrown her way as she crossed the ballroom. She nodded to staff members and public officials. She spoke quickly to servers. She lifted a hand in greeting to supporters she barely knew.
But what she really wanted to do was scream.
Not tonight. Not this day. Let him have this day.
Somehow she held her tongue, continued the charade that all was fine, managed not to jerk the glass of water impatiently from the bartender's hand.
It had been such a good day, too. And she knew Jed was looking forward to their evening together. He had been very clear about his plans for later. Truth be told, she was, too, despite her earlier delays. She could imagine nothing better tonight than lying in his arms, his solid body against hers, his gorgeous voice murmuring beautiful words in her ear. It would be the perfect end to such a momentous day. Now -
Now she was fighting the strong urge to scream, or hit something - or someone - or both. Preferably Jed. She knew that wasn't fair, but she had found, through the years, that drawing on anger enabled her to keep from collapsing into tears. It didn't develop from him, but she allowed it to be directed at him, since there was no one else to field it. It kept her from despair.
"It's nothing," he had told her. "I would know." And she had almost been convinced. Wanted to be convinced. Desperately wanted to be convinced.
A hard day, an emotional speech, a long walk in street shoes in the biting cold. Ten damn balls with an obligatory dance at each. It was only natural - maybe even expected - that he would be tired. Hell, she was tired, her legs aching from the day's exertions.
But she should have known. Could kick herself for letting him sway her so easily. She supposed it was because she wanted to be swayed, wanted to believe it was nothing. And he had been persuasive with his words and with his body. Their banter about sexy First Ladies and their verbal foreplay, along with his obvious arousal, had distracted her enough to let it ride.
That had not sustained him quite long enough, though. Maybe if they had only gone to nine balls. Maybe - Still, if she could get him out now, let him sit for a while, it would be okay. Even though her instincts told her differently, she still held on to the possibility that it was normal fatigue - until she got a clear view of him and saw Leo standing close. Very close. Too close. Suddenly, she realized the Chief of Staff wasn't just standing next to Jed; he was supporting him, one hand under an elbow, one leg braced against another.
Oh God! Please don't let him collapse in front of everyone. He couldn't bear that.
Fighting the instinct to rush to him, a move that would no doubt draw the very attention they sought to avoid, she steadied her pace. Don't run. Stay calm.
A quick glance told her no one had noticed that the President was in distress. Leo obviously fought to keep the panic from his face, but it still brightened his eyes.
She forgot about water, setting it down somewhere along the way. He couldn't hold it now, anyway. Standing in front of him, hoping to shield him from the crowd, she looked in his eyes, not liking the fact that they wouldn't focus on her. That they couldn't focus on her.
"Jed?"
Slowly, he looked down. "Hey."
"Listen, we're going to turn around and go out that door right there." It was only a few steps away. Surely he could make it that far. She would cross her fingers if that helped.
He nodded, eyes still unfocused. "Okay."
Jerking her head to the side, she indicated that Leo should take one arm and she would take the other. But chief of staff hesitated.
"Abbey, we can't."
"What?" Then she realized what he was worried about. More hiding. More dishonesty. Well, that didn't really apply anymore, did it? The whole world knew he had MS. His country had re-elected him by a landslide with full knowledge that he suffered from Multiple Sclerosis. They didn't need to hide it. Still, the revelation that the President was having an attack on the very evening of his inauguration probably would do neither foreign nor domestic affairs any good. Best just to retreat quietly.
"He's got to say something," Leo whispered, the panic now more evident on his face.
She stared at him. Surely he had not just suggested that Jed actually address the room. Surely not.
"It's expected," Leo explained. "If he doesn't speak, there will be questions, suspicions."
Fighting back a strong urge to shake the shoulders of her husband's best friend, she hissed, "Leo, look at him. He's in no condition - "
But the chief of staff ignored her, turning instead to address his boss. "Jed?"
"Damn it, Leo!" she snapped, a little too loudly. Several heads turned their way. Lowering her voice, she still managed to keep the fury obvious. "Look at him!"
He looked. And she looked, too. And to her surprise, behind the flush and the sweat, his eyes had re-focused on her. She read the determination in them, felt him straighten under Leo's grip. Dear God. He wasn't really going to -
"Jed? Jed, you can't - "
With effort, he swallowed and said softly, "I - Leo's - right, Abbey. I'm - okay."
Yeah. Sure. I can see that. "Josiah Bartlet." He knew that inflection, she could tell and despite the gravity of the situation, she almost smiled when he winced.
"Abbey," he said simply, and the tone settled somewhere between a plea and a command. She wasn't sure how he did that.
Well, damn it. They were right. If they disappeared without a comment, without appropriate remarks, it would arouse suspicions. Maybe he could manage just a word or two of thanks, just a comment for the expectant crowd. She placed a hand on his shoulder, looked hard into his eyes to verify that he could do it - and almost recoiled at the flame in them. He was angry. Angry at what? Her? Himself? His body?
"Jed?"
The anger had given him strength, she saw, just as it gave her distraction. Perhaps he had conjured it for that very reason. Now he took a deep breath and smiled, not his usual heart-stopping grin, but a smile, nevertheless. "I'm ready."
"Mister President?" The voice, low, but full of authority, drew the attention of all three. Ron Butterfield stood directly behind Leo, his gaze on Jed, his hands straight by his side. "May I be of assistance?"
So the President's condition had not gone totally unnoticed. And it would be Ron, of course, who saw, who could tell things weren't exactly right.
Leo glanced at her, not sure about what he should say, so she stepped forward, her hand still on Jed's shoulder. Might as well level with the agent. He wouldn't be fooled now, anyway. "Okay. Here's the thing. The President needs to make a few remarks before we leave."
Ron waited, clearly understanding there was more to it.
"The problem is, he's probably not going to be able to walk out of here on his own."
No change of expression. The President's protector remained silent, accepting everything she said without comment.
"We'll need to make it look as casual as possible, but he'll need help." She caught the grimace on Jed's face, the pain that came from having to face the fact that he couldn't do something on his own. But she couldn't think about that. It would destroy her own mask and they couldn't afford that right now.
Ron nodded. Bless him. "Yes, m'am."
"He can speak from here," Leo decided, then turned to Jed. "Okay?"
He raised a shaking hand and wiped at his face. "Yeah."
"You ready?"
One more deep breath. "Yeah."
Leo stepped away, carefully letting Jed's weight fall back against the pillar. When he reached the band, he whispered something in the conductor's ear and the music stopped abruptly. With an enthusiasm she knew he didn't feel, he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the President of the United States."
As one the entire room rotated to look their way, following Leo's gesture. Wild applause, cheers and whistles. It was a rowdy group, already well into their cups. Maybe he could pull it off, after all, if they were all drunk enough.
Anxiously, she turned with them - and caught her breath. The transformation was almost unbelievable. Somehow he had managed to pull away from the marble, had locked his legs in place through sheer determination, and gifted his audience with an appreciative, genuine grin. He almost had her fooled, too. Almost. But she saw the tension in his jaw, watched the tightness around his eyes. And then she saw the very subtle motion behind him. Ron had moved so that his leg replaced Leo's, so that his body actually served as a brace, even though the appearance was one of mere proximity, not aid.
Okay, she told herself - and her husband. Hang on.
"My fellow Americans," he began, and there was only slightly less power than usual in his voice. "My - friends. Abbey and I would like to thank you for your support, and your encouragement - and your love. We feel blessed that you have 'fought the good fight' with us. That you have seen fit 'to run the race.'" Without shifting his gaze from the crowd, he reached a hand toward her. She took it and squeezed, hoping to push some of her strength through the connection.
"And now, if you'll pardon us, we've had quite a day. I hope you'll continue to celebrate."
He waved, and she prayed no one saw the effort it took for that gesture. But they cheered wildly again, throwing good wishes toward them. As Jed turned, she instinctively slipped her arm around his waist. His hand fell on her shoulder and they each took slow steps away from their admirers. To the rest of the room it looked as if the affectionate couple had had enough public partying and were retiring to their own private celebration. Knowing smiles followed them out.
She could almost believe they had gotten away with it. Just a few more steps to the door. Almost there.
"Excuse me, Mister President."
What the hell -
They all turned, Jed's arm still draped over her, her arm still firmly around his waist, doing more supporting than hugging. A fresh-faced young woman, reporter's notepad in hand, waited eagerly, and more than a little nervously. Her first big story, Abbey figured. Her first chance to get a quote from the President and she had to pick now. The First Lady toyed with the idea of just moving on. But Jed paused.
"Yes?" he asked and she could have killed him. They had almost pulled it off, almost escaped with no one the wiser. Now, they had been stopped, by a reporter, no less. Now, the chances of being discovered increased tenfold. Once she got a good look at him they might as well make a public announcement.
The woman smiled in surprised victory and pushed on with new-found courage. "Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mister President?"
Go ahead. Get it over with.
But the expected realization didn't come. Did she not see the flush of his cheeks, the trail of sweat down his face? Could she not tell he was staying on his feet by only the shadow of strength?
"I wanted to know if you could give us one more dance, sir? You and the First Lady? Since it's your last inaugural ball. Just one more?"
Oh, thank God. Thank God this girl had just stepped off the newspaper delivery truck. She was too green and too nervous to notice the obvious. "Your big chance and this is what you ask?" Abbey thought, nevertheless incredibly grateful that it wasn't "Are you having an attack, Mister President, because you look like crap."
A couple of nearby eavesdroppers leaned closer and Abbey tensed in anticipation of Jed's reaction, but he squeezed her shoulder gently in reassurance.
"What's your name?" he asked his impromptu interviewer.
"Jacqueline," she answered a little breathlessly. "Jacqueline Handlin. From the Tallahassee Democrat."
"I like the name of that paper," he noted, and she smiled back.
Despite the weakness, despite the fear, his eyes shone suddenly with a glint of mischief. Uh oh. "Well, Miss Handlin," he said, seriously. "I do plan to have one more dance with my wife tonight."
Okay, Jed. Clear that brilliant brain of yours.
The reporter beamed.
"But for this particular dance," he stressed, allowing a small smile to break through, his eyes holding hers with a power that didn't come from the office he held, "we don't need an audience."
Oh God. Abbey heard Ron clear his throat. Leo looked down, attempting to suppress the grin that tugged at his mouth. She was trying, herself, to fight back the heat pushing into her cheeks.
For a moment, Jacqueline Handlin looked at them curiously, brows drawn together in confusion. Geez, this girl was slow.
Then it hit her. Abbey watched with satisfaction as her pale skin burned to a bright red, as her mouth opened and closed with the attempt to speak, as the notebook dropped from fumbling fingers, and pages scattered on the polished floor.
"Oh - I - I - " she stammered, helplessly, unable to manage a coherent sentence, until for some reason her mouth blurted out, "Have a good time." Then she lost it altogether and simply stared.
But Jed laughed out loud, deep and true, and Abbey was suddenly grateful to the hapless young lady who had inadvertently given her husband at least a moment's relief from the depressing development of the evening. As they moved away, she turned for one more glance at the reporter, who still stood, unmoving, almost in shock. Well, she would certainly remember her first interview with the President. If she recovered, Abbey felt certain that particular conversation would one day make its way into print.
And it wouldn't bother her a bit. Maybe she could find a copy of the Tallahassee Democrat tomorrow.
Coop had pulled the limo right to the door, as he would have anyway, and they made their way to it, Ron and Leo following closely. The snow, which had begun falling again that afternoon, now swirled menacingly around them, whipping their hair, stinging their skin. She tried to urge Jed into the car, to get him out of the storm, but he stubbornly insisted she enter first, and maybe that was best, to keep up appearances. But as soon as he slid in beside her, she let the façade drop. The door had barely closed when they pulled forward and Abbey's hands were at his throat, loosening the tie, slipping the coat from his shoulders.
"Abbey," he protested weakly, any energy he had summoned vanishing as his head fell back onto the seat.
"Shh. It's okay. Just lie back."
"I'm really okay." But there was no strength in his assurance.
"Yeah."
"I wanted tonight - I wanted us to - "
"Shh. We'll have our night."
"I don't think - "
"We'll have our night," she insisted, unbuttoning the vest and opening the shirt. "Maybe not this night, but we'll have it."
"Okay," he agreed, eyes closing.
With a suppressed sob, she smoothed his hair back, touched his forehead. Warm. Warmer than it should be.
"Abbey?"
With a start, she turned, having forgotten Leo was there. The pain on his rough features hurt her almost as much as the fatigue on Jed's.
"Will he be - is he okay?"
"Yes," she said, deciding that at that very moment. She couldn't contemplate anything else. "Yes." Once more to convince herself, as well.
Outside, the air was almost totally white with the increase in precipitation. For the first time she noticed they seemed to be the only vehicle in sight and that the car moved more slowly than usual, almost crept along the Washington streets.
"This looks bad," she noted to Leo, pressing a hand to Jed's forehead again. He didn't stir. That was not a good sign.
"Ron told me the last weather report had a front coming in, but it wasn't supposed to be this heavy." He looked away from Jed and out the window. "Look's like we're in for a rough night. If this keeps up, we'll have a disaster tomorrow."
Suddenly, the implications of such a storm knifed their way into her stomach. "Leo!" she gasped, not waiting for him to acknowledge her before she continued. "Where's Hackett? Is he at the White House?"
Now the chief of staff looked decidedly alarmed. "No. He was - he was at - or was he? I don't know. I'm not sure." He turned immediately toward the front of the car. "Coop, get Ron Butterfield on the phone and have him locate Admiral Hackett. That's a priority."
The driver acknowledged and they heard him making the call. After a long three minutes, he announced, "The Admiral is caught in the storm, Mister McGarry. Agent Butterfield said they were trying to get him to the White House to meet you."
Damn it. Of all nights. Abbey worked again to stifle the scream that pushed at her throat. It might make her feel better, but it sure wouldn't have the same effect on Leo - or Jed, for that matter.
Jed. She turned back to her husband, assessing his condition once again. Face still flushed, maybe more now. His right hand shook slightly as it rested on his thigh. With his eyes closed, she couldn't check, them, and decided it wasn't necessary at the moment. He needed to rest more than he needed her telling him something he already knew. But she couldn't stop the hand that made its way to his cheek.
He leaned into the touch, just instinctively.
"We're almost home," she whispered to him - and to herself, as well.
But they were not almost home, even though normally they should have been. Instead, the limo inched its way over frozen streets, occasionally sliding on the slick surface. Please, she prayed earnestly. Please get us home. Get him home. She almost yelled for Coop to head to GW, but that was even farther away, even more dangerous in this weather. So home it was. Better than spending the night in a snowdrift. And that didn't seem to be totally out of the realm of possibility.
Then suddenly they were moving again.
"What happened?" Abbey asked, hand still on Jed's cheek.
Leo shook his head just as Coop replied, "Snow plows, m'am. They'll clear the way for us to 1600. It'll still be tricky, but I'll get us back."
She smiled at his confidence. "I know you will, Coop. The President and I appreciate it."
And Jed would, if he were actually conscious at the time. Slipping her hand from his cheek, she ran a professional gaze over him, trying to determine the symptoms, working on a definite diagnosis, and knowing she might not ever have one. It was an attack, all right, but was it solely the MS, or had it been triggered by something else? A fever - which she knew he had - well over 100 from her best judgment. Dizziness. Pain or at least discomfort in his thigh. And probably other things he wasn't admitting to.
"I wish I had my bag," she thought, wondering for a brief moment why she didn't. Then her stomach filled with that same sick sensation she got every time she remembered. She had forfeited the right to carry that bag, hadn't she? And for this very illness.
Jed stirred, mumbling, and she brushed the hair from his forehead, a combination of sweat and melted snow wetting the blond-brown strands, now touched occasionally with gray.
"Abbey?" Leo asked, and the fear on his face was only a harsh reminder of her own worries.
"He needs a doctor, Leo." She admitted it now. It was more than just fatigue.
"You're a doctor," he accused.
"Not anymore." The words tasted bitter on her tongue.
"We're almost there, Doctor Bartlet."
Nothing in the tone of their driver's voice indicated he had heard the exchange, but his simple use of her title told her he had. The gesture touched her.
"Thank you." And it was an acknowledgement for more than just the information. "What about Admiral Hackett?"
"No word, yet, m'am." He sounded apologetic, almost as if he had let her down - let the President down.
"Abbey?" It was soft, weak, but clear. She turned to him immediately. His eyes clouded with pain and fever, but he managed to lift his mouth in a tiny smile. "Hey, Babe. Sorry about this."
Leo looked away, trying to give them at least a nod toward privacy.
"Yeah," she whispered, combing the hair back at his temple. "Hell of a way to end the day."
He tried to laugh, but didn't have enough energy to make it believable. "Not at all what I had planned."
"How do you feel?" Of course she could take a pretty fair guess at that, but she wanted him to say, wanted to hear the list from his lips. How quickly he admitted to anything revealed almost as much as her visual exams.
"I'm okay."
"Really?"
Now she caught his eyes and he at least had the decency to look sheepish. "I've felt better."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Jed, how do you feel?"
Finally, he sighed and gave her a fading smile of concession. "Like crap."
"Okay. Well, that's about how you look." The kindness in her voice took away any insult.
"You're just a sweet-talker," he returned, his words slurring just a bit.
God, she hated seeing him like this, knew he hated being seen like this. She wondered who would meet them at the White House, who he would rather have to help him upstairs. She didn't know if she and Leo could do it alone. Maybe with Coop's strength they could manage.
"Really, Jed. I need to know." She tried to convey the seriousness of her question without completely breaking down.
It must have worked, because he looked at her and she saw understanding in his face. Drawing a breath, he listed the symptoms. "Cold and shaky. My leg feels sort of numb. My neck aches and my throat hurts."
Oh. Is that all? "Show me where your neck hurts."
He ran a hand along the broad muscle that stretched from the back of his ear to his shoulder.
"Vision?"
"A little blurry," he admitted. An understatement, she was sure.
"Are you nauseated?"
He swallowed. "Some. If I move too much."
The bright lights of the most famous house in America flashed into the windows and across their faces as Coop drove through the gates at the East Wing entrance. Abandoned by the plow on the street, the car crunched its way over the building ice and snow until it pulled to a stop before the South Portico.
Thank God. Now if only Hackett would meet them. Before she could relate her plan for the next few moves to Leo, the door opened and the grim face of Ron Butterfield greeted them. She had not even noticed the Suburban following them. The agent stepped back to let her emerge, slipping only once on the snow before he gained command of it.
The blast of air froze their breath, creating clouds of white vapor. The light little wisps of snow that dotted the sky earlier had been overpowered by battering, stinging sheets. Holy Mary, it was cold. Mentally, she damned her husband for his insistence on going without an overcoat. But maybe it wouldn't hurt too much. In fact, maybe the cold would fortify him enough to get to their room.
"Can you walk, sir?" Ron asked.
Jed nodded impatiently and Abbey closed her eyes against the pain of seeing him fight to stand on his own. But the moment he planted his right foot, the leg betrayed him. He would have fallen if Ron had not been there instantly.
"I'll help you, Mister President," he said, and even though it wasn't a request, the respect in his voice remained steadfast.
Abbey sighed, knowing it was bad when Jed merely raised his arm to place it around Ron's shoulder. The agent's arm moved behind Jed's back to catch him snugly at the waist, and the two headed toward the entrance, one good step followed by one bad step.
To her relief, Charlie greeted them at the door. Even with all his concentration on simply walking, Jed glared at him. "What are you doing here at this time of night, Charlie?"
As usual, the young man seemed unperturbed by his commander-in-chief's ire. Maybe he knew it was mostly an act, anyway. Still, she could see the concern in those dark eyes, noticed the hesitation as he apparently contemplated offering his assistance.
But his answer was smooth. "You know. Just hangin' around. Didn't know what to do with myself leaving this early."
She smirked. It had to be past midnight now.
"Besides, you just fired your entire cabinet. I didn't want to take a chance."
Jed's head shot up. "I did not - " When he saw the smile on his aid's face, he managed a chuckle. "Good idea. You never know - "
But his fading strength deserted him completely and he stumbled. Charlie's façade dropped. He lurched forward, taking up a position on the other side of the ill man. Ron nodded in agreement and gratitude and they picked up the pace, practically dragging the President of the United States between them.
Just as they reached the elevator, Jed moaned. "Wait."
"We're almost there, sir. We need to get you - "
"Abbey!"
She knew that tone, knew it was urgent. Disregarding heels and dragging hem, she sprinted around them to face her husband.
"I'm here, Jed. What is it?"
But as soon as she saw his face she knew. Under the flush he had gone pale green. Without another thought, she grabbed the nearest receptacle she could find - a vase, once owned by Louisa Adams, she seemed to recall, filled with a beautiful arrangement of hot house blooms. Dumping the flowers unceremoniously on the floor, she shoved the porcelain in front of him just in time. Ron and Charlie each held an arm as he threw up in the White House treasure.
"Sorry," he groaned, swaying between them.
"It's okay," Abbey soothed. "It's okay."
Charlie had paled some now, himself, obviously realizing the President was quite sick. "Stomach virus?" he wondered, sounding rather hopeful.
Abbey looked him in the eye. "No."
But she saw he had already deduced as much, just wanted to believe it was something as simple as a stomach bug.
"Can you make it to the Residence?" she asked Jed, who gave one curt nod and returned his attention to putting one foot in front of the other.
And somehow he did, with only one other stop to make use of Louisa Adam's prized vase. As soon as they entered the bedroom, Abbey launched into action, ordering the men to deposit the patient on the bed, sending Charlie to retrieve a thermometer and bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol, pushing Leo out to run interference, and directing Ron to find out where the hell Admiral Hackett was. She may not be a doctor, but she figured being the only one in the building who had ever performed a heart-lung transplant qualified her best at the moment.
Plus, she wanted to give Jed the dignity of not being undressed by his staff. Instead, she pulled back the covers for him as he dragged himself up to lean against the pillows. Untying his shoes, she slipped them off, along with his socks. Then she worked at the fastening to his tuxedo trousers.
"I was hoping you'd get me out of these pants, Sweet Knees," he said. "But I don't think I can - "
"Hush," she scolded, stripping him to his boxers from the waist down and pulling the covers over him. "Sit up."
With a grimace, he did, and she finished unbuttoning his shirt. Shivering, he fell back on the bed until she rummaged in the chest of drawers for a sweatshirt. With her help, he struggled into it just as Charlie returned.
"Go away," Jed ordered. "My wife is busy seducing me."
"Yes, sir," he acknowledged, but continued into the room, holding out a dark case for her.
When she saw it, she paused, uncertain. Her medical bag. She had put it away, unable to look at it and know it was useless to her. But Charlie didn't flinch at her scowl. Instead, he set it on the nightstand and opened it.
"I thought you might need more than just the thermometer," he explained simply.
Fighting back unexpected tears, she nodded. "Okay." When she turned, Jed was watching her, and the pain on his face almost tore her apart. It was pain for her, for what she had done for him, not for his own condition.
Desperate to find some manageable emotional ground, she asked, "Any word from Hackett?"
"Agent Butterfield has located him and they're trying to get him here. It's really bad out there. I heard D.C. doesn't have enough plows to keep up with the accumulation." He handed her the stethoscope, which she took after only a slight hesitation.
But before she used it, something occurred to her. "Charlie? Where's Deena?" Surely he had not left his sister alone in this weather.
"She's with C.J. They left one of the parties a while back. She called to say they had made to C.J.'s apartment, so C.J.'s stuck with her for a while, I guess."
Good. That meant C.J. was okay, as well. "I'm glad she's all right."
It was second nature to slip the scope into her ears, to place the end over Jed's heart, his lungs. She breathed a little easier when everything sounded normal at least. But when the ear meter beeped, she frowned at the readout. 102.1. Way too high for her liking. "Hand me the Tylenol, please," she said, throwing her hand out as if she were receiving a scalpel.
The bottle hit her palm in almost the same way and she popped the top to shake out three, handing them to her husband, who now lay almost asleep. He took them without comment, having learned years ago not to question, just to obey. It was much easier that way.
"If you can rustle me up some Advil," she told Charlie, "we'll alternate every few hours."
"Yes, m'am," he answered, already out the door.
Well, she was giving the AMA more ammunition if they wanted it: practicing without a license. But really, anyone could give out Tylenol, right? Or take someone's temperature? Anyway, Hackett would be there soon.
"Still nauseated?" she asked Jed, her voice making him open his eyes again.
"Nah."
"Jed?"
"Well, not as much. Really." His earnest expression drew a laugh from her.
"Okay, Jethro, I'll wash out the vase just in case."
He winced at the reminder. "Uh, isn't that some - special vase. I don't know - Martha Washington's or something?"
"Louisa Adams', I think. But it's okay."
"I just hurled in Louisa Adams' vase?"
Abbey smirked. "Maybe it's the same one John Quincy used when he hurled."
Eyes closed again, Jed smiled. "Maybe. Seems to work well in that function, anyway."
She watched him for a while, studied the features that had changed, yet stayed the same for 35 years of marriage. He had been a handsome thing when she first saw him. Of course, he was still handsome, but back then there was a wild quality to him, even as a prospective priest. Thirty-five years. Where on earth had it gone? With the immortality of youth, they had envisioned themselves far into the future, had laughingly pictured their ancient selves content with their lives, having done everything they wanted, having accomplished all they needed to accomplish.
Well, she wasn't finished, yet. And he had better not be. She still loved that wild young man who had forsaken the priesthood, but not the Church, for her. And often in their rare private moments together, he still appeared, still awakened in her the intense desires of youth, still drew her back to a time when it was just the two of them, and they survived on a little money, a little food, and a lot of sex. Things change, she mused. They had more than a little money, now. And way too much food. But the sex had not changed. If anything, it was gotten even better. It was so much a part of their relationship that she could not envision a time that it would, no matter how old they grew.
But Jed did. It was what he feared most and she knew it weighed heavily on him tonight. Especially since he had planned to -
Damn it! Why hadn't she given in earlier? Why hadn't she followed her body's urges and let him coax her into bed before the parties began? What would it have mattered if they were a little late? But she hadn't. And now -
No! She refused to consider that this was anything but a temporary attack. He would recover. She would make sure he did. Hackett would be there any minute, and by tomorrow, or maybe the next day, Jed would be back to normal. She believed it. She had to believe it.
"Mrs. Bartlet?" Ron Butterfield's voice interrupted her self- determination.
"Yes?" She turned, taking a deep breath.
The tall frame of Admiral Hackett stood with him, thank God. Now they could get things going.
"I've taken his pulse," she began, plunging in without even a polite hello. They could be courteous later. "Normal. Lungs sound fine. It's the fever that worries me most, an infection somewhere - " The fact that neither man had moved drew her to a stop in mid-sentence. Something was wrong. "What is it?"
"Doctor Bartlet," Hackett greeted, and she felt her heart plunge. His voice was like gravel.
Stepping closer, she took a good look. Oh hell. He was only a few steps out the grave, himself.
"I came as soon as I could," he continued, the strain evident in his tone. "It really is a blizzard out there." He paused to cough roughly and Abbey gritted her teeth. "I'm afraid, though, I won't be of much help."
She waited for the bombshell that must be coming.
"I'm relatively certain I have the flu."
Great. Not only was she practicing without a license; now she had two patients.