POV: C.J. Cregg
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not ours, infortunately.
They Can't Take That Away 10/16 A West Wing Story
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon
He had done it. Somehow, he had done it.
But for C.J. Cregg that extraordinary accomplishment suddenly lost some of its importance with the heart-stopping scene that played out before her. She clutched at her throat as she watched Jed Bartlet's legs buckle and his body slump toward the floor. But his companions were quick, quick enough to catch him and perceptive enough to know they couldn't stop right there in the middle of the hallway. Slinging one of the President's arms around his shoulders and letting Charlie do the same on the other side, Ron Butterfield hauled his boss up and almost raced toward the Residence.
C.J. twisted around to make sure no one else had witnessed the act, gathered herself and sprinted after them. This retreat took only one-fifth the time of the earlier procession, possibly because the President didn't seem to be contributing at all. With both arms across the strong shoulders of Ron and Charlie, he made the trip solely as a passenger.
Her heart pounded in her ears, panic wrestling with what little calm she had mustered in the pressroom. Finding him sprawled out on the Oval Office carpet had been bad enough, but actually seeing him collapse before her eyes was a sight she would not soon forget - would not ever forget.
The bedroom door burst open as they arrived, and C.J. was not at all surprised to see Abbey meet them, hands already extended, loosening his tie, opening his collar, speaking softly, reassuringly to him. Not for the first time, the press secretary felt like an intruder on the private moment. But one look at the President told her he probably wasn't even aware of his wife's ministrations.
As Ron and Charlie eased him into the closest chair, she tried to assess his condition. Not very good, her brain determined as she saw the shivers course through his body, watched the perspiration run down his face, heard the low groans in his throat.
She had no idea how he had done it. How he had stood before those reporters and calmly answered their questions, looking straight at the appropriate speaker, bantering with his usual wit to give the indication of total and complete control. It had obviously taken every ounce of strength and will he possessed, because she saw now that he was utterly spent.
Weakly, he tried to brush away his wife's hand. "I'm - okay," he mumbled.
"Sure you are," she returned gently, combing back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. The tenderness and pain in her eyes tore at C.J., and she could see the same reaction on each of the faces around her - even Ron Butterfield's, just a little.
Swallowing whatever fears she must have been feeling, Abbey turned briskly to whoever stood closest. "Get Admiral Hackett."
"Yes, m'am." It was Charlie who responded, moving before she had even completed her order.
Now she turned back to her husband, easing off his coat and tie, propping his feet on a low table and removing his shoes. She had unbuttoned his shirt most of the way down and C.J. figured she probably stopped herself from undressing him completely only because of their audience. Another intimate moment with way too many observers.
"Mom?"
The fearful question came from across the room, spoken by Liz Weston, but silently echoed by Ellie. C.J. didn't see Annie or Zoey and vaguely wondered where they were. Maybe her mother felt this was all too heavy for a fifteen year old. Or maybe Abbey Bartlet knew the President preferred that his granddaughter not see him in this condition and Zoey drew the chaperone straw.
The First Lady turned, so focused on him that she seemed to have forgotten they were there. "It's okay," she told them, then emphasized, "It is."
They didn't respond verbally, merely watched her with questioning eyes that looked all too much like their father's eyes.
She lifted her chin in a gesture of confidence. "Really."
"Mom?" Ellie asked and her tone demanded the truth. She would know; she had the medical training to recognize it.
Now Abbey smiled faintly. "Really." She glanced back at her husband, who had leaned against the chair, eyes closed, shaking finally subsiding. "Really," she mumbled, and C.J. was almost certain she heard a tenderly muttered, "Jackass," in there, too.
If they still had their doubts, they at least accepted their mother's answer for the moment. Liz sank onto the sofa; Ellie chose to remain standing by the window.
Charlie returned with Hackett, who didn't look so hot himself, even though Leo noted aloud that he seemed better. The Admiral kneeled by the President's chair - not too closely - and peered up at him. Abbey's hand automatically moved to the other doctor's forehead, prompting a smile that was part gratitude, part irritation.
"Ninety-eight point six," he assured her. "But I think I'll avoid running in any marathons any time soon."
She nodded and they turned their attention to their mutual patient - the leader of the free world. He remained still, too still, with his hands hanging limply over the chair arms and his head pressed against the back.
"I saw the press conference," Hackett remarked as Abbey eased the thermometer into the President's good ear. "I don't know how he did it. I absolutely do not know." The clear flavor of awe mingled with a lingering taste of disbelief in the doctor's tone.
The First Lady had no response, but C.J. saw - even through the worry and fear - a spark of pride in her eyes. It was very similar to the pride in her own expression.
After a few seconds, the instrument beeped, and C.J. held her breath until the First Lady announced the reading.
"One-hundred point seven. Up from a couple of hours ago."
Probably to be expected, though, wasn't it? He'd taxed his body pretty hard there for a good while.
"Jed?" She laid her hand on his cheek, turned his face toward her. "Honey?"
Even though she had heard Abbey call the President any number of nicknames, some of them not particularly endearing, C.J. always felt a little awkward at the underlying intimacy of those moments. To Abbey, he was not the President of the United States. He was Jed - her Jed. Her husband. Her lover. The father of her children. Her best friend.
But she couldn't bring herself to look away when his eyes opened and he looked up at this person who was the same for him. His wife. His lover. The mother of his children. His best friend. She didn't know how well he could see, but his expression clearly showed he knew who stood before him.
"Abbey," he whispered.
She bent to kiss him, a soft brush of their lips and again C.J. chided herself for being witness to this time that should be private. But she was one of seven intruders in the room, so she figured her presence didn't make much difference.
"You did it, Babe," Abbey told him, the pride giving her voice special warmth. "It's okay."
He laughed, more of a heavy exhalation, really, and closed his eyes again. "Yeah."
"Yeah," she agreed.
The room lingered in silence as all those who had experienced the surrealism of the past twenty hours finally had a chance to reflect on what had just happened. C.J. still wasn't quite sure it wouldn't turn out to be a dream - or a nightmare.
"How about we get you back into bed, now?" Abbey suggested to the President, running a hand down his arm in a soft caress.
Rallying for a brief spark of the familiar Jed Bartlet, he quipped, "Sure, Hot Pants, but get rid of all these voyeurs first, okay?"
C.J. smirked and was glad Annie hadn't heard that, judging from the reddened faces of the Bartlet daughters. The others seemed to take this as a good sign, if the President was up to jokes again.
"Where's my ride?" he asked, gathering strength either from the reaction of his audience or from the brief respite in the chair.
Charlie and Ron stepped closer to lend their support as he reached up and grabbed each man's shoulder, resuming his limping gait the few steps to the bed. Easing onto it with a sigh, he waved his hand dismissively around the room.
"All right. Everybody out. I need my beauty sleep if we're gonna get back on track tomorrow."
She saw Leo lift a brow at that comment, but no one chose to respond. They'd just see what tomorrow brought. For now, if the President was volunteering to rest, they'd count themselves lucky and be thankful for small favors. One by one, they trickled out, the girls, Charlie, Ron, Hackett, and Leo, but as she moved toward the door, he called to her.
"C.J.?"
Surprised, she turned. "Sir?"
"Stay."
"Yes, sir." Not that she would refuse him, but she wondered why he had picked her out. Also she wondered how he had picked her out. "Mister President?"
He sat on the edge of the bed, lifting his arms so Abbey could help him shrug out of his shirt. C.J. shifted her eyes away. There was something not quite decent about seeing your President half-dressed - even if he did look pretty darn good half-dressed - maybe BECAUSE he looked pretty darn good half-dressed.
"Yeah," he answered, breathing a little harder at the exertions.
By now, Abbey had slipped off his pants, leaving him only in his boxers, and helped him slide under the covers. Neither she nor the President seemed to regard that as anything of consequence, so C.J. tried to play it as nonchalantly as possible, but it wasn't everyday you got to see your President in his underwear. Again - not that she couldn't appreciate the opportunity.
He leaned back against the pillows and motioned her closer. She wished he could see her face, could read the awe and admiration in her eyes. She'd just have to let her voice do it for her.
"I just want to say, that was the most incredible - well, you were so unbelievably amazing - I just - I don't know how you - "
A genuine chuckle shook his chest. "Claudia Jean, are you trying to get a new job as one of my speechwriters?"
Grinning, she leaned forward and took the liberty of placing a fond kiss against his cheek, noting the warmth radiating from his skin. "You're really something, Mister President," she said, almost laughing at the astonishment on his face.
How could he not know that? How could he not be impressed even with himself after what he did tonight? But the surprise was genuine, part of what made him who he was. He truly did not feel he had done anything extraordinary - which made him all the more extraordinary.
She looked at Abbey and almost lost it when she saw the tears in her friend's eyes. Damn. Okay, swallow. Lips pressed tight, she allowed her own eyes to reflect the mutual pride and affection before stepping away and moving out of the intimacy of their presence.
"Mister President." Whatever the President might have said to her was lost in the return of Leo McGarry, who stopped several feet away, apparently aware himself of an invisible field around the First Couple.
"Leo," Bartlet greeted, voice noticeably stronger.
"I've just had an interesting conversation with Fitzwallace," the chief of staff reported.
C.J. saw the President flinch.
"Is he pissed?"
Leo lifted a brow. "Nah. He's deliriously happy with you right now."
"That bad?" Bartlet sighed. "What about Nancy?"
"Ah. Now Nancy, on the other hand, wants to run you for president - of Qumar."
C.J. wasn't completely following the conversation, but it was easy to tell her own alarm over the President's comments at the press conference was echoed by no less than the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the National Security Advisor. Not bad company.
"Really?" Genuine surprise lifted Bartlet's tone.
Now Leo smiled and shrugged. "No. She agrees with you. Put it out there for them. It's in their court now."
The President nodded as if he had anticipated that response. "What have we heard from the Saudi ambassador?"
C.J. shifted awkwardly, feeling a little like an interloper, but no one had asked her to leave and she figured this would end up in her pressroom eventually, anyway.
"Nothing yet," Leo told him. "But he hasn't had time to establish communications."
Brow raised, Bartlet asked, "How long has it been?"
"Almost fifteen hours."
The President's jaw dropped. "Fifteen hours and he can't get an email through? He could have sent it by carrier pigeon in that amount of time!"
"Maybe AOL's down," Leo suggested.
The President pursed his lips. "Cheeky," he observed.
"Yes, sir." Now Leo shifted and offered a little consolation of information. "Fitz thinks we'll know something within the next three hours."
"Any feel for it?"
Leo's expression didn't change, but his voice grew guarded, a clear message in it. "Let's just wait on that, sir."
Bartlet hesitated, obviously wanting to push it, but forcing himself to acquiesce to his chief of staff's advice. "Okay."
C.J. found herself grinning at the exchange, so typical of the two men that she could almost believe things were just the same as they always had been. She caught the same expression on Abbey's face for just a moment before the First Lady turned abruptly away.
"I'm going to check on Admiral Hackett, " she announced tightly, throwing the words over her shoulder. "Don't give C.J. and Leo a hard time."
The President raised his hands innocently. "Me?"
But Abbey was gone already, an air of anxiousness following her hasty exit.
"Excuse me, Mister President, Leo," C.J. said, receiving nods of dismissal from both. They were already deep into conversation by the time she reached the door.
With long strides she caught up with Abbey in the hallway. "Mrs. Bartlet?" She remained formal for the secret service listening. The First Lady paused, glancing back.
"Yeah?" Her upbeat tone sounded forced, strained.
The press secretary lowered her voice, tried to color it with the support and encouragement she hoped to convey. "Abbey?
The First Lady turned, and the sheer pain and fear in her eyes drew C.J. closer. Without a word, she pushed through the nearest door and pulled Abbey with her. Only the outside security lights provided any illumination. C.J. wasn't even sure what room it was, but it didn't matter.
"Abbey?" she said again, knowing she was asking many things with that one word.
Even in the dark, she saw the tears glistening in the older woman's eyes. After a moment, Abbey spoke, softly, haltingly.
"It's why I didn't want him to run again," she confessed, the emotion barely in check, agitating just beneath the surface. "It's why - I didn't want - I didn't want to have to share him for the last - " With a shuddering breath, she moved toward the window, unable to look at anyone, even in the dark. "I'm not ready to lose him yet, C.J."
Sick. She felt absolutely sick. What could she say to this woman who had never shown one hint of vulnerability, who had always seemed stronger than anyone she had ever met? She had not collapsed into tears, had not beaten her fists against the wall in frustration. But the quietly anguished whisper revealed so much pain that C.J. couldn't breathe for a moment.
She had always known the President and Abbey were very deeply in love, had seen their need to touch each other, to be physically close, had heard their playful, sexy banter, had even witnessed hard, emotional arguments that nevertheless conveyed the far-reaching feelings they shared. But until now she had not looked straight into Abbey Bartlet's soul. There it was, open to her, open and bleeding. And it was easy to see directly into the center, to see what precious treasure she cradled there.
Jed.
But as C.J. struggled to formulate some comforting words, some encouraging gesture, the First Lady straightened and turned to her, the cool mask back in place. "I'm sorry, C.J.," she offered with a rueful smile. "I guess I'm just - tired."
"Abbey, I - "
That talented hand went up, a surgeon's hand. "No. Don't. Although I appreciate the gesture." She laughed, a short, humorless sound. "But when all this is over - if it's ever over - we'll go get drunk together again, okay?"
C.J. knew when to stop. This was not the time to probe the First Lady's psyche. She nodded, offering her own sympathetic smile. "Okay."
She watched Abigail Bartlet square up and walk from the room, dignified even in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, and she took a moment to wonder what Jed Bartlet would have been without her. Smart? Definitely. Compassionate? Probably. Great? Hard to say. She was glad he never had to find out.
Running a weary hand across her eyes, she trudged down to her office. After the President's comments, there would certainly be something coming. Wasn't there always? She chuckled to herself, since no one else was with her anymore. Wasn't there always?
"Crews working throughout the day and into the night have gotten the Beltway reopened. Area business owners are gradually making their way back to work, but for all practical purposes, we'd have to say that the District is still shut down - "
C.J. leaned over her propped legs and clicked her remote from the local station to CNN, just catching the end of the President's press conference. She watched for a moment, shaking her head at the incredulity of the whole situation. The coverage had passed with little or no attention to any wild allegations of the President's activities at the Inaugural Ball. Apparently, the American public didn't believe for one minute that Jed Bartlet would be drunk. Or they didn't care if he took the liberty to celebrate such a glorious day. But more likely, the clear message he sent to Qumar had wiped any interest in his personal actions off the monitors. Grateful for the success of the conference, she still couldn't help wishing - just a little - that the reporters could know just how magnificent he had been. Ironically, their ignorance would have to remain silent proof of the achievement.
They had dodged a bullet tonight, but the posse would return with more ammunition and then what would they do?
"What the hell is going on?"
She looked up at the abrupt question. In her door, faces red, mouths open, eyes wide, clothes in disarray, stood Toby Ziegler and Josh Lyman.
"Hey, boys," she greeted easily. As if she hadn't already had enough entertainment for one night.
They Can't Take That Away 10/16 A West Wing Story
by MAHC and WWNeurosturgeon
He had done it. Somehow, he had done it.
But for C.J. Cregg that extraordinary accomplishment suddenly lost some of its importance with the heart-stopping scene that played out before her. She clutched at her throat as she watched Jed Bartlet's legs buckle and his body slump toward the floor. But his companions were quick, quick enough to catch him and perceptive enough to know they couldn't stop right there in the middle of the hallway. Slinging one of the President's arms around his shoulders and letting Charlie do the same on the other side, Ron Butterfield hauled his boss up and almost raced toward the Residence.
C.J. twisted around to make sure no one else had witnessed the act, gathered herself and sprinted after them. This retreat took only one-fifth the time of the earlier procession, possibly because the President didn't seem to be contributing at all. With both arms across the strong shoulders of Ron and Charlie, he made the trip solely as a passenger.
Her heart pounded in her ears, panic wrestling with what little calm she had mustered in the pressroom. Finding him sprawled out on the Oval Office carpet had been bad enough, but actually seeing him collapse before her eyes was a sight she would not soon forget - would not ever forget.
The bedroom door burst open as they arrived, and C.J. was not at all surprised to see Abbey meet them, hands already extended, loosening his tie, opening his collar, speaking softly, reassuringly to him. Not for the first time, the press secretary felt like an intruder on the private moment. But one look at the President told her he probably wasn't even aware of his wife's ministrations.
As Ron and Charlie eased him into the closest chair, she tried to assess his condition. Not very good, her brain determined as she saw the shivers course through his body, watched the perspiration run down his face, heard the low groans in his throat.
She had no idea how he had done it. How he had stood before those reporters and calmly answered their questions, looking straight at the appropriate speaker, bantering with his usual wit to give the indication of total and complete control. It had obviously taken every ounce of strength and will he possessed, because she saw now that he was utterly spent.
Weakly, he tried to brush away his wife's hand. "I'm - okay," he mumbled.
"Sure you are," she returned gently, combing back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. The tenderness and pain in her eyes tore at C.J., and she could see the same reaction on each of the faces around her - even Ron Butterfield's, just a little.
Swallowing whatever fears she must have been feeling, Abbey turned briskly to whoever stood closest. "Get Admiral Hackett."
"Yes, m'am." It was Charlie who responded, moving before she had even completed her order.
Now she turned back to her husband, easing off his coat and tie, propping his feet on a low table and removing his shoes. She had unbuttoned his shirt most of the way down and C.J. figured she probably stopped herself from undressing him completely only because of their audience. Another intimate moment with way too many observers.
"Mom?"
The fearful question came from across the room, spoken by Liz Weston, but silently echoed by Ellie. C.J. didn't see Annie or Zoey and vaguely wondered where they were. Maybe her mother felt this was all too heavy for a fifteen year old. Or maybe Abbey Bartlet knew the President preferred that his granddaughter not see him in this condition and Zoey drew the chaperone straw.
The First Lady turned, so focused on him that she seemed to have forgotten they were there. "It's okay," she told them, then emphasized, "It is."
They didn't respond verbally, merely watched her with questioning eyes that looked all too much like their father's eyes.
She lifted her chin in a gesture of confidence. "Really."
"Mom?" Ellie asked and her tone demanded the truth. She would know; she had the medical training to recognize it.
Now Abbey smiled faintly. "Really." She glanced back at her husband, who had leaned against the chair, eyes closed, shaking finally subsiding. "Really," she mumbled, and C.J. was almost certain she heard a tenderly muttered, "Jackass," in there, too.
If they still had their doubts, they at least accepted their mother's answer for the moment. Liz sank onto the sofa; Ellie chose to remain standing by the window.
Charlie returned with Hackett, who didn't look so hot himself, even though Leo noted aloud that he seemed better. The Admiral kneeled by the President's chair - not too closely - and peered up at him. Abbey's hand automatically moved to the other doctor's forehead, prompting a smile that was part gratitude, part irritation.
"Ninety-eight point six," he assured her. "But I think I'll avoid running in any marathons any time soon."
She nodded and they turned their attention to their mutual patient - the leader of the free world. He remained still, too still, with his hands hanging limply over the chair arms and his head pressed against the back.
"I saw the press conference," Hackett remarked as Abbey eased the thermometer into the President's good ear. "I don't know how he did it. I absolutely do not know." The clear flavor of awe mingled with a lingering taste of disbelief in the doctor's tone.
The First Lady had no response, but C.J. saw - even through the worry and fear - a spark of pride in her eyes. It was very similar to the pride in her own expression.
After a few seconds, the instrument beeped, and C.J. held her breath until the First Lady announced the reading.
"One-hundred point seven. Up from a couple of hours ago."
Probably to be expected, though, wasn't it? He'd taxed his body pretty hard there for a good while.
"Jed?" She laid her hand on his cheek, turned his face toward her. "Honey?"
Even though she had heard Abbey call the President any number of nicknames, some of them not particularly endearing, C.J. always felt a little awkward at the underlying intimacy of those moments. To Abbey, he was not the President of the United States. He was Jed - her Jed. Her husband. Her lover. The father of her children. Her best friend.
But she couldn't bring herself to look away when his eyes opened and he looked up at this person who was the same for him. His wife. His lover. The mother of his children. His best friend. She didn't know how well he could see, but his expression clearly showed he knew who stood before him.
"Abbey," he whispered.
She bent to kiss him, a soft brush of their lips and again C.J. chided herself for being witness to this time that should be private. But she was one of seven intruders in the room, so she figured her presence didn't make much difference.
"You did it, Babe," Abbey told him, the pride giving her voice special warmth. "It's okay."
He laughed, more of a heavy exhalation, really, and closed his eyes again. "Yeah."
"Yeah," she agreed.
The room lingered in silence as all those who had experienced the surrealism of the past twenty hours finally had a chance to reflect on what had just happened. C.J. still wasn't quite sure it wouldn't turn out to be a dream - or a nightmare.
"How about we get you back into bed, now?" Abbey suggested to the President, running a hand down his arm in a soft caress.
Rallying for a brief spark of the familiar Jed Bartlet, he quipped, "Sure, Hot Pants, but get rid of all these voyeurs first, okay?"
C.J. smirked and was glad Annie hadn't heard that, judging from the reddened faces of the Bartlet daughters. The others seemed to take this as a good sign, if the President was up to jokes again.
"Where's my ride?" he asked, gathering strength either from the reaction of his audience or from the brief respite in the chair.
Charlie and Ron stepped closer to lend their support as he reached up and grabbed each man's shoulder, resuming his limping gait the few steps to the bed. Easing onto it with a sigh, he waved his hand dismissively around the room.
"All right. Everybody out. I need my beauty sleep if we're gonna get back on track tomorrow."
She saw Leo lift a brow at that comment, but no one chose to respond. They'd just see what tomorrow brought. For now, if the President was volunteering to rest, they'd count themselves lucky and be thankful for small favors. One by one, they trickled out, the girls, Charlie, Ron, Hackett, and Leo, but as she moved toward the door, he called to her.
"C.J.?"
Surprised, she turned. "Sir?"
"Stay."
"Yes, sir." Not that she would refuse him, but she wondered why he had picked her out. Also she wondered how he had picked her out. "Mister President?"
He sat on the edge of the bed, lifting his arms so Abbey could help him shrug out of his shirt. C.J. shifted her eyes away. There was something not quite decent about seeing your President half-dressed - even if he did look pretty darn good half-dressed - maybe BECAUSE he looked pretty darn good half-dressed.
"Yeah," he answered, breathing a little harder at the exertions.
By now, Abbey had slipped off his pants, leaving him only in his boxers, and helped him slide under the covers. Neither she nor the President seemed to regard that as anything of consequence, so C.J. tried to play it as nonchalantly as possible, but it wasn't everyday you got to see your President in his underwear. Again - not that she couldn't appreciate the opportunity.
He leaned back against the pillows and motioned her closer. She wished he could see her face, could read the awe and admiration in her eyes. She'd just have to let her voice do it for her.
"I just want to say, that was the most incredible - well, you were so unbelievably amazing - I just - I don't know how you - "
A genuine chuckle shook his chest. "Claudia Jean, are you trying to get a new job as one of my speechwriters?"
Grinning, she leaned forward and took the liberty of placing a fond kiss against his cheek, noting the warmth radiating from his skin. "You're really something, Mister President," she said, almost laughing at the astonishment on his face.
How could he not know that? How could he not be impressed even with himself after what he did tonight? But the surprise was genuine, part of what made him who he was. He truly did not feel he had done anything extraordinary - which made him all the more extraordinary.
She looked at Abbey and almost lost it when she saw the tears in her friend's eyes. Damn. Okay, swallow. Lips pressed tight, she allowed her own eyes to reflect the mutual pride and affection before stepping away and moving out of the intimacy of their presence.
"Mister President." Whatever the President might have said to her was lost in the return of Leo McGarry, who stopped several feet away, apparently aware himself of an invisible field around the First Couple.
"Leo," Bartlet greeted, voice noticeably stronger.
"I've just had an interesting conversation with Fitzwallace," the chief of staff reported.
C.J. saw the President flinch.
"Is he pissed?"
Leo lifted a brow. "Nah. He's deliriously happy with you right now."
"That bad?" Bartlet sighed. "What about Nancy?"
"Ah. Now Nancy, on the other hand, wants to run you for president - of Qumar."
C.J. wasn't completely following the conversation, but it was easy to tell her own alarm over the President's comments at the press conference was echoed by no less than the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the National Security Advisor. Not bad company.
"Really?" Genuine surprise lifted Bartlet's tone.
Now Leo smiled and shrugged. "No. She agrees with you. Put it out there for them. It's in their court now."
The President nodded as if he had anticipated that response. "What have we heard from the Saudi ambassador?"
C.J. shifted awkwardly, feeling a little like an interloper, but no one had asked her to leave and she figured this would end up in her pressroom eventually, anyway.
"Nothing yet," Leo told him. "But he hasn't had time to establish communications."
Brow raised, Bartlet asked, "How long has it been?"
"Almost fifteen hours."
The President's jaw dropped. "Fifteen hours and he can't get an email through? He could have sent it by carrier pigeon in that amount of time!"
"Maybe AOL's down," Leo suggested.
The President pursed his lips. "Cheeky," he observed.
"Yes, sir." Now Leo shifted and offered a little consolation of information. "Fitz thinks we'll know something within the next three hours."
"Any feel for it?"
Leo's expression didn't change, but his voice grew guarded, a clear message in it. "Let's just wait on that, sir."
Bartlet hesitated, obviously wanting to push it, but forcing himself to acquiesce to his chief of staff's advice. "Okay."
C.J. found herself grinning at the exchange, so typical of the two men that she could almost believe things were just the same as they always had been. She caught the same expression on Abbey's face for just a moment before the First Lady turned abruptly away.
"I'm going to check on Admiral Hackett, " she announced tightly, throwing the words over her shoulder. "Don't give C.J. and Leo a hard time."
The President raised his hands innocently. "Me?"
But Abbey was gone already, an air of anxiousness following her hasty exit.
"Excuse me, Mister President, Leo," C.J. said, receiving nods of dismissal from both. They were already deep into conversation by the time she reached the door.
With long strides she caught up with Abbey in the hallway. "Mrs. Bartlet?" She remained formal for the secret service listening. The First Lady paused, glancing back.
"Yeah?" Her upbeat tone sounded forced, strained.
The press secretary lowered her voice, tried to color it with the support and encouragement she hoped to convey. "Abbey?
The First Lady turned, and the sheer pain and fear in her eyes drew C.J. closer. Without a word, she pushed through the nearest door and pulled Abbey with her. Only the outside security lights provided any illumination. C.J. wasn't even sure what room it was, but it didn't matter.
"Abbey?" she said again, knowing she was asking many things with that one word.
Even in the dark, she saw the tears glistening in the older woman's eyes. After a moment, Abbey spoke, softly, haltingly.
"It's why I didn't want him to run again," she confessed, the emotion barely in check, agitating just beneath the surface. "It's why - I didn't want - I didn't want to have to share him for the last - " With a shuddering breath, she moved toward the window, unable to look at anyone, even in the dark. "I'm not ready to lose him yet, C.J."
Sick. She felt absolutely sick. What could she say to this woman who had never shown one hint of vulnerability, who had always seemed stronger than anyone she had ever met? She had not collapsed into tears, had not beaten her fists against the wall in frustration. But the quietly anguished whisper revealed so much pain that C.J. couldn't breathe for a moment.
She had always known the President and Abbey were very deeply in love, had seen their need to touch each other, to be physically close, had heard their playful, sexy banter, had even witnessed hard, emotional arguments that nevertheless conveyed the far-reaching feelings they shared. But until now she had not looked straight into Abbey Bartlet's soul. There it was, open to her, open and bleeding. And it was easy to see directly into the center, to see what precious treasure she cradled there.
Jed.
But as C.J. struggled to formulate some comforting words, some encouraging gesture, the First Lady straightened and turned to her, the cool mask back in place. "I'm sorry, C.J.," she offered with a rueful smile. "I guess I'm just - tired."
"Abbey, I - "
That talented hand went up, a surgeon's hand. "No. Don't. Although I appreciate the gesture." She laughed, a short, humorless sound. "But when all this is over - if it's ever over - we'll go get drunk together again, okay?"
C.J. knew when to stop. This was not the time to probe the First Lady's psyche. She nodded, offering her own sympathetic smile. "Okay."
She watched Abigail Bartlet square up and walk from the room, dignified even in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, and she took a moment to wonder what Jed Bartlet would have been without her. Smart? Definitely. Compassionate? Probably. Great? Hard to say. She was glad he never had to find out.
Running a weary hand across her eyes, she trudged down to her office. After the President's comments, there would certainly be something coming. Wasn't there always? She chuckled to herself, since no one else was with her anymore. Wasn't there always?
"Crews working throughout the day and into the night have gotten the Beltway reopened. Area business owners are gradually making their way back to work, but for all practical purposes, we'd have to say that the District is still shut down - "
C.J. leaned over her propped legs and clicked her remote from the local station to CNN, just catching the end of the President's press conference. She watched for a moment, shaking her head at the incredulity of the whole situation. The coverage had passed with little or no attention to any wild allegations of the President's activities at the Inaugural Ball. Apparently, the American public didn't believe for one minute that Jed Bartlet would be drunk. Or they didn't care if he took the liberty to celebrate such a glorious day. But more likely, the clear message he sent to Qumar had wiped any interest in his personal actions off the monitors. Grateful for the success of the conference, she still couldn't help wishing - just a little - that the reporters could know just how magnificent he had been. Ironically, their ignorance would have to remain silent proof of the achievement.
They had dodged a bullet tonight, but the posse would return with more ammunition and then what would they do?
"What the hell is going on?"
She looked up at the abrupt question. In her door, faces red, mouths open, eyes wide, clothes in disarray, stood Toby Ziegler and Josh Lyman.
"Hey, boys," she greeted easily. As if she hadn't already had enough entertainment for one night.