This just sort of came to me as I pondered how Jed would handle all the
stress and trauma of the days surrounding Zoey's kidnapping and rescue
(ignoring the time controversy of graduation/Fourth of July). Abbey had
gone to NH, and we assume the rest of the family has returned home, so he
is there alone to deal with his thoughts. Look for changes in POV in
subsequent chapters. Hope you enjoy the first part.
POV: Jed Spoilers: "7A"; "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not mine. Sorkin's. Or Wells', I guess.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter One A West Wing Story
by MAHC
He sat.
Even though she was safe. Even though he was back. Even though the country seemed content. Even though there was work to do, business to conduct.
Still, he sat, the ancient book with its yellowing pages balanced carefully on one knee.
They were gone. She was gone. Just gone. No real goodbye. No time frame of when they'd be back. He would go to them. To her. But there would be no difference in the reception he received.
He breathed in the stale scent of the paper, the odor of history.
She blamed him. He knew that. It certainly wasn't news to anyone near them. The staff knew. The whole family knew. They blamed him, too. Maybe even Ellie, despite the unexpected comfort she had given him. Even Ellie.
Of course, they were right. It was his fault.
Not Leo's, who had convinced him of the impossibility of any other choice. Not Fitz's, who promised a quick, easy execution of the plan. Not Nancy's, who knew the sacrifices of world power and politics and accepted them. Not Qumar's, which allowed such terrible people to operate as national officers in the first place. Not even Shareef's.
His fault. His decision. His burden.
Glancing down at the faded pages before him, he almost laughed at the consistent ignorance of man. It was the same today as then. Modern America. Ancient Rome. Would humans ever learn?
He knew it was wrong. "It's just wrong," he had told Leo. There were moral absolutes, and he had allowed himself for one fateful moment to ignore his own deeply held beliefs. "It's absolutely wrong."
But the world wasn't judging him - or if it was, he had met with some strangely ironic approval. They agreed with his decision. It was all right that he killed Shareef. He should have killed Shareef. All the Republicans thought so. And that certainly encouraged him.
Maybe she would have agreed too, if he had told her before. Maybe if she had known earlier -
But she hadn't. He had not been able to dredge up the courage to make the confession, to look into her eyes and see the disappointment, the sudden doubt about his character. She would wonder if he was the same man she had married 36 years before. He knew the answer to that. That was what scared him. She knew, too.
And now she knew it all, had heard not from his lips but along with the rest of the world. Again.
In the end, he had seen the disappointment anyway, but much worse. Disappointment boiling in the anger that placed the fate of their daughter squarely on his head. He had told her the Shareef assassination had nothing to do with the kidnapping, had actually said that. But how could he have expected her to believe him when he didn't even believe himself?
No. His fault. His fault. His fault.
But Zoey was all right. Or she would be. He had promised her they would help. And he meant it. And in time Abbey would come around. He couldn't let himself think otherwise. He could bear the weight of the world. He could shoulder the responsibility of being the most powerful man on earth. He could make decisions that changed the path of history.
He could do all that. But not without her. Without her he might as well have left Walken in that chair, might as well have turned everything over to the hulking former Speaker of the House and let him blow away every damned country on earth if he felt like it.
The dull headache that he had fought all morning grew, and he considered giving in to it and asking Charlie for some aspirin. But he knew that really wouldn't help. Drugs could only mask the symptoms of his disease. There was no cure for the burden he carried, a burden that had nothing to do with the MS. It was done. She could forgive him - and how he hoped she would - but he could never forgive himself.
"Sir?"
The forgotten book slipped from his lap, hit the floor with a soft thunk. Damn. He hoped it hadn't creased the pages. That book was over 200 years old, a rare printing of Greek and Roman poems. His fingers reached toward it, stretched out to rescue it from further damage, but somehow he couldn't quite make it.
"Mister President?"
Someone called him, but he couldn't see past the instant blinding pain behind his eyes, couldn't tell who it was or what they must want. He tried to answer, tried to tell them to go away and let him brood in solitude. But it suddenly took too much effort.
"Are you all right, Sir?"
Abbey. It occurred to him that he needed Abbey. But she wasn't there. She had left him to deal with the terrible responsibilities alone, to carry the burdens of an entire world by himself. To face the consequences of a morally wrong decision.
"Mister President!" That intruding voice rose in pitch.
He tried to stand - thought he had for a moment - until he realized the swirl of blue and gold was coming up fast. A quick flash of pain popped across his cheek and his last coherent thoughts returned to the poem he had been staring at only moments before.
"Anguish devours the mind, and furious rage, and hope than which the heart can bear no heavier burden, when it is long deferred."
POV: Jed Spoilers: "7A"; "Jefferson Lives" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not mine. Sorkin's. Or Wells', I guess.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter One A West Wing Story
by MAHC
He sat.
Even though she was safe. Even though he was back. Even though the country seemed content. Even though there was work to do, business to conduct.
Still, he sat, the ancient book with its yellowing pages balanced carefully on one knee.
They were gone. She was gone. Just gone. No real goodbye. No time frame of when they'd be back. He would go to them. To her. But there would be no difference in the reception he received.
He breathed in the stale scent of the paper, the odor of history.
She blamed him. He knew that. It certainly wasn't news to anyone near them. The staff knew. The whole family knew. They blamed him, too. Maybe even Ellie, despite the unexpected comfort she had given him. Even Ellie.
Of course, they were right. It was his fault.
Not Leo's, who had convinced him of the impossibility of any other choice. Not Fitz's, who promised a quick, easy execution of the plan. Not Nancy's, who knew the sacrifices of world power and politics and accepted them. Not Qumar's, which allowed such terrible people to operate as national officers in the first place. Not even Shareef's.
His fault. His decision. His burden.
Glancing down at the faded pages before him, he almost laughed at the consistent ignorance of man. It was the same today as then. Modern America. Ancient Rome. Would humans ever learn?
He knew it was wrong. "It's just wrong," he had told Leo. There were moral absolutes, and he had allowed himself for one fateful moment to ignore his own deeply held beliefs. "It's absolutely wrong."
But the world wasn't judging him - or if it was, he had met with some strangely ironic approval. They agreed with his decision. It was all right that he killed Shareef. He should have killed Shareef. All the Republicans thought so. And that certainly encouraged him.
Maybe she would have agreed too, if he had told her before. Maybe if she had known earlier -
But she hadn't. He had not been able to dredge up the courage to make the confession, to look into her eyes and see the disappointment, the sudden doubt about his character. She would wonder if he was the same man she had married 36 years before. He knew the answer to that. That was what scared him. She knew, too.
And now she knew it all, had heard not from his lips but along with the rest of the world. Again.
In the end, he had seen the disappointment anyway, but much worse. Disappointment boiling in the anger that placed the fate of their daughter squarely on his head. He had told her the Shareef assassination had nothing to do with the kidnapping, had actually said that. But how could he have expected her to believe him when he didn't even believe himself?
No. His fault. His fault. His fault.
But Zoey was all right. Or she would be. He had promised her they would help. And he meant it. And in time Abbey would come around. He couldn't let himself think otherwise. He could bear the weight of the world. He could shoulder the responsibility of being the most powerful man on earth. He could make decisions that changed the path of history.
He could do all that. But not without her. Without her he might as well have left Walken in that chair, might as well have turned everything over to the hulking former Speaker of the House and let him blow away every damned country on earth if he felt like it.
The dull headache that he had fought all morning grew, and he considered giving in to it and asking Charlie for some aspirin. But he knew that really wouldn't help. Drugs could only mask the symptoms of his disease. There was no cure for the burden he carried, a burden that had nothing to do with the MS. It was done. She could forgive him - and how he hoped she would - but he could never forgive himself.
"Sir?"
The forgotten book slipped from his lap, hit the floor with a soft thunk. Damn. He hoped it hadn't creased the pages. That book was over 200 years old, a rare printing of Greek and Roman poems. His fingers reached toward it, stretched out to rescue it from further damage, but somehow he couldn't quite make it.
"Mister President?"
Someone called him, but he couldn't see past the instant blinding pain behind his eyes, couldn't tell who it was or what they must want. He tried to answer, tried to tell them to go away and let him brood in solitude. But it suddenly took too much effort.
"Are you all right, Sir?"
Abbey. It occurred to him that he needed Abbey. But she wasn't there. She had left him to deal with the terrible responsibilities alone, to carry the burdens of an entire world by himself. To face the consequences of a morally wrong decision.
"Mister President!" That intruding voice rose in pitch.
He tried to stand - thought he had for a moment - until he realized the swirl of blue and gold was coming up fast. A quick flash of pain popped across his cheek and his last coherent thoughts returned to the poem he had been staring at only moments before.
"Anguish devours the mind, and furious rage, and hope than which the heart can bear no heavier burden, when it is long deferred."