Author: Amanda (MAHC)
Title: I Know
Character: Jed
Category: Drama/Post-ep
Pairing: Jed/Abbey
Rating: PG
Summary: After the assassination of Shareef, can Jed find solace for his
guilt?
I Know A West Wing Story
By MAHC
POV: Jed Spoilers: Posse Comitatus Rating: PG Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor did I create them.
"I recognize that there is evil in the world." Jed Bartlet looked over the balcony into the plush lobby of the New York theater. The sharp report of gunshots ricocheted through his brain – gunshots he had not actually heard, but that deafened him, nevertheless. Gunshots fired and gunshots yet to be fired. Simon Donovan. Abdul Shareef.
His Chief of Staff cocked his head, wondering possibly what was going through his Commander-in-Chief's mind. "What's your objection exactly, Sir?"
What's my objection? My God! How can you ask that? Now he looked directly at Leo McGarry. "Doesn't this mean we join the league of ordinary nations?" That wasn't really it, but it had just occurred to him during their conversation and it was easier to say than, "Because it's murder!"
Leo's face lengthened in disbelief. "That's your objection? I'm not gonna have trouble saying the Pledge of Allegiance tomorrow."
Bartlet shifted now, stepping around Leo so that his friend had to turn to face him. "That's not my objection."
"Sir..."
This was the reason. He knew it without doubt, without contemplation. It was one of those moral absolutes Leo had complained about earlier. "It's just wrong. It's absolutely wrong."
There was a long beat. It was wrong. Didn't Leo see? Finally, the soft voice agreed. "I know. But you have to do it anyway."
There it was, damn it. "Why?"
"'Cause you won." Now Leo looked away, down into the ornate lobby.
Hell. Was there a choice? No, not really. But it was wrong. Damn it! Damn it.
God forgive me.
"Take him."
The words were wrenched from his heart, knifing through him with sharp edges. He left a surprised Chief of Staff standing alone in the hallway and trudged downstairs. He needed a cigarette. He needed...what? Absolution.
Early the next morning, he climbed the stairs of the residence, heart heavy, conscience tormented, pondering what level of purgatory he had now descended into. The burden of the office pressed down harder than it ever had and he was at a loss where to go for solace. He couldn't go to God. He had just butchered the sixth commandment and played fast and loose with several others.
He had missed Abbey at the play, but thanked God she had not gone. He could not have faced her then. Trying to be quiet, he slipped into the darkened bedroom, past the lump in his bed and toward the bathroom. He had just stepped onto the threshold when the sound of stirring sheets broke the silence.
"Hey," she greeted sleepily, rising to sit, hair tossled and sexy.
God, she looked good to him. He wanted to slide in beside her, feel the warm smoothness of her skin on his, lose himself in her heated embrace, forget all that had happened, all that he had done. But he couldn't. He couldn't forget. It pushed down on his lungs, threatening to suffocate him.
"How was the play?"
"Fine."
"I'm sorry I couldn't go, but Lily was able to reschedule last week's speech at the Children's Charity—"
"It's okay." That was rude, cutting her off. She would probably be pissed, but he just couldn't talk about it now. He stepped into the bathroom, stripping off his shirt and tie, and stood at the sink, catching the haggard reflection in the mirror. Blue eyes stared back at him. A face that most people considered handsome now glared in ugly accusation. Murderer.
He flinched at the touch on his bare shoulder and his gaze jumped to the new reflection beside his, a beautiful reflection, a comforting reflection. Again, he fought the impulse to bury his head in her breast, to collapse into her arms.
"You okay?" Her voice was soft, concerned.
He tried to drag himself together, regain his game face, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew he didn't have to do it for her, anyway. The solace he so desperately sought was here in front of him, but he couldn't accept it.
"What have I done, Abbey?" The words fell apart with the break in his voice, and he barely caught himself from sobbing. Her face changed; he saw the shock cross it, knowing that she rarely saw him on the verge of emotional collapse.
"What happened?" she asked, almost inaudibly, her left hand closing on his shoulder and turning him toward her, her right hand reaching up to touch his cheek.
For a moment, he leaned into her warmth. Oh, how he wanted to stay there. But he couldn't allow himself that comfort. He didn't deserve it. He had done something terrible and he didn't deserve her comfort.
"Jed?" she prompted.
"My God," he breathed out raggedly. "I never thought—" Turning away from her, he staggered back into the bedroom, taking deep breaths to try to stem the hysteria that bubbled up and threatened to burst from him.
"What happened?" Her soft voice floated over his back.
You can't tell her. You can't tell her...tell her...tell her...
"I killed a man tonight."
Even without turning, he could picture her face: the furrowed brow trying to comprehend baffling words, the mouth pursed in puzzled contemplation, the eyes narrowed in bewilderment. Finally, she spoke and the confusion in her husky voice only verified his mental image.
"What?"
He sighed. "Simon Donovan was killed tonight."
"Simon Donovan?"
"Secret Service Agent. C.J.'s bodyguard."
"Oh. I'm sorry." She was obviously still trying to make sense of his strange confession. "Jed, are you telling me you killed Simon Donovan?" Her voice had lightened. She knew that wasn't it, but she couldn't grasp what he was trying to tell her.
He took another breath, his back still to her. "They caught the guy. The one threatening C.J."
"That's good, right?"
"Yeah."
"Is that how he was killed?"
He sighed again and turned to her, forced to pause and regain control, almost losing it after seeing the encouragement and love in her eyes. "No," he managed hoarsely. "Later, in a convenience store. He...walked in on a robbery. Shot dead."
"I'm sorry, Jed." Her hand rested on his chest, its sensual heat pushing the life back into his heart. "But it's not your fault. This has nothing to do with—"
"No. No. That's not it."
She waited and he was forever grateful that she didn't push him at that moment. After a full minute, he continued.
"I didn't shake his hand. I couldn't. How can you shake a man's hand and then kill him? In that office, too. I 't."
He could tell she wasn't following him, but she stayed silent, waiting. Suddenly unable to look in her eyes, he moved to the window, staring out of it, craving a cigarette. No, not with her there. He'd have to do without. He had been trying to quit, anyway. Had done well until today. Then he had caved in after Leo...
Slowly, he began to tell her about Shareef, vaguely outlining the evidence against him, the persuasion from Fitzwallace and Leo, the agony of a decision that flew in the face of everything he believed in. She didn't say a word, and he knew she had connected everything now, had figured out the source of his pain.
"It was wrong," he whispered, repeating his statement to Leo. "It was absolutely wrong. But...I said, 'Take him.' I told Leo to take him. I killed him." The guilt burned inside him. He dragged in a tortured breath. "Right there among the bishops and cardinals. Right there in the midst of the Church. Right there I said...take him. I said—"
"Stop it!"
Surprised, he spun around to find her angry eyes on him. Angry, but not at him. Angry for him, for what he had to do. "Stop it. You can't do this, Jed. You knew when you ran that a moment like this might come."
"No! Not like this. I knew I might have to send men and women into combat. I knew people would die as a result of my decisions, but this—this was cold-blooded, premeditated—"
Now she softened in the face of his agonized passion. "What had he done, Jed? How many people had he killed? It was justice—"
"Justice!" he exploded, slamming his fist into the wall behind her. She jumped in surprise and shock, but he continued with only a vague awareness of the pain. "Am I the world's deliverer? Do I deliver justice?"
"Yes! Yes. You are. You do. You are the President of the United States of America. You are the most powerful man in the world. You have responsibilities—"
"Responsibilities! Yes, I am responsible. Responsible for—"
"For stopping a monster from killing more people, from terrorizing an entire world, from doing things that are absolutely wrong."
He stared at her, feeling the throbbing in his hand, now, the emotion draining from him. Finally, one last time, he whispered, "It was wrong."
"I know," she agreed quietly. "But you had to do it."
He didn't respond. I know. I know.
Her fingers ran down his arm and started to entwine his own. The sharp pain shot through his hand and he jerked away, sucking in air.
"Let me see," she ordered, and her tone indicated no tolerance for disobedience. He held out his hand, bracing against both the pain and the brutal comment that was sure to follow. Brilliant move, Jackass.
But she merely clicked her tongue as she gently probed the inflamed flesh and bone. God, that hurt, even with her tender touch. He had never done such a thing before, never lost control so that he actually hurt himself. What a stupid move.
"Well," she breathed. "I'm pretty sure you've fractured a metacarpal."
He didn't answer, just stared past her.
Thinking he didn't understand, she explained, "You broke your hand."
"Yeah." He knew that already. Watching her stifle the impulse to berate him for his costly lapse, he smiled a little, grateful for her own control.
"I'll take care of—"
She stopped, and it twisted his heart to realize what she was thinking. "We'll get an orthopedist over here."
In other words, I can't do it. I can't be a doctor anymore. Not even to my husband. Especially not to my husband.
Tears touched his eyes, not at the physical pain, but at the emotional pain from that harsh reality. Oh, Abbey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. She busied herself calling for a bag of ice, talking as she prepared a towel from the bathroom to wrap the hand in.
"C.J.'s going to have fun spinning this. Not really a good idea to say the man who has the key to the largest arsenal of nuclear weapons in the world punched the wall because he was pissed. Maybe you could say it was a chess injury."
He chuckled. "Chess?"
"Sprained it by executing the Evan's Gambit too quickly."
Both eyebrows rose with his surprise that she had even heard of the move.
Her smile softened. "Or maybe you slugged Toby."
"Because?"
"Just because."
Charlie arrived with the requested ice, face curious but not asking any questions. Good man, Charlie. Abbey was back now, gently laying the bag against his hand. In her eyes he saw no accusation, no disappointment, no anger. Only love. Only love.
He stared out the window, across the lawn onto the city. A city of marble and brick, of pillars and cornices, of statues and monuments. A city of 570,000 people, a city that represented a country of 287,000,000 people, a country that was part of a world of six billion people. A city that was now a little safer. A country that was now a little safer. A world that was now a little safer. At least for today.
It wasn't right. They could never convince him of that. But he had to do it anyway.
"I know," he whispered.
"What?" Abbey glanced up from her ministrations to his hand.
He looked down at her and knew where his solace came from. Knew that God would forgive him. Knew that God had forgiven him last year after Mrs. Landingham's funeral. Knew that Abbey had already forgiven him for many, many things.
With his good hand, he cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb gently across her skin. She straightened and moved into his arms, drawing him against her, offering the strength he needed. He took it, closing his eyes and finally allowing himself to accept her comfort.
"I love you," she murmured.
"I know." But he needed to hear it. "I know."
I Know A West Wing Story
By MAHC
POV: Jed Spoilers: Posse Comitatus Rating: PG Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor did I create them.
"I recognize that there is evil in the world." Jed Bartlet looked over the balcony into the plush lobby of the New York theater. The sharp report of gunshots ricocheted through his brain – gunshots he had not actually heard, but that deafened him, nevertheless. Gunshots fired and gunshots yet to be fired. Simon Donovan. Abdul Shareef.
His Chief of Staff cocked his head, wondering possibly what was going through his Commander-in-Chief's mind. "What's your objection exactly, Sir?"
What's my objection? My God! How can you ask that? Now he looked directly at Leo McGarry. "Doesn't this mean we join the league of ordinary nations?" That wasn't really it, but it had just occurred to him during their conversation and it was easier to say than, "Because it's murder!"
Leo's face lengthened in disbelief. "That's your objection? I'm not gonna have trouble saying the Pledge of Allegiance tomorrow."
Bartlet shifted now, stepping around Leo so that his friend had to turn to face him. "That's not my objection."
"Sir..."
This was the reason. He knew it without doubt, without contemplation. It was one of those moral absolutes Leo had complained about earlier. "It's just wrong. It's absolutely wrong."
There was a long beat. It was wrong. Didn't Leo see? Finally, the soft voice agreed. "I know. But you have to do it anyway."
There it was, damn it. "Why?"
"'Cause you won." Now Leo looked away, down into the ornate lobby.
Hell. Was there a choice? No, not really. But it was wrong. Damn it! Damn it.
God forgive me.
"Take him."
The words were wrenched from his heart, knifing through him with sharp edges. He left a surprised Chief of Staff standing alone in the hallway and trudged downstairs. He needed a cigarette. He needed...what? Absolution.
Early the next morning, he climbed the stairs of the residence, heart heavy, conscience tormented, pondering what level of purgatory he had now descended into. The burden of the office pressed down harder than it ever had and he was at a loss where to go for solace. He couldn't go to God. He had just butchered the sixth commandment and played fast and loose with several others.
He had missed Abbey at the play, but thanked God she had not gone. He could not have faced her then. Trying to be quiet, he slipped into the darkened bedroom, past the lump in his bed and toward the bathroom. He had just stepped onto the threshold when the sound of stirring sheets broke the silence.
"Hey," she greeted sleepily, rising to sit, hair tossled and sexy.
God, she looked good to him. He wanted to slide in beside her, feel the warm smoothness of her skin on his, lose himself in her heated embrace, forget all that had happened, all that he had done. But he couldn't. He couldn't forget. It pushed down on his lungs, threatening to suffocate him.
"How was the play?"
"Fine."
"I'm sorry I couldn't go, but Lily was able to reschedule last week's speech at the Children's Charity—"
"It's okay." That was rude, cutting her off. She would probably be pissed, but he just couldn't talk about it now. He stepped into the bathroom, stripping off his shirt and tie, and stood at the sink, catching the haggard reflection in the mirror. Blue eyes stared back at him. A face that most people considered handsome now glared in ugly accusation. Murderer.
He flinched at the touch on his bare shoulder and his gaze jumped to the new reflection beside his, a beautiful reflection, a comforting reflection. Again, he fought the impulse to bury his head in her breast, to collapse into her arms.
"You okay?" Her voice was soft, concerned.
He tried to drag himself together, regain his game face, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew he didn't have to do it for her, anyway. The solace he so desperately sought was here in front of him, but he couldn't accept it.
"What have I done, Abbey?" The words fell apart with the break in his voice, and he barely caught himself from sobbing. Her face changed; he saw the shock cross it, knowing that she rarely saw him on the verge of emotional collapse.
"What happened?" she asked, almost inaudibly, her left hand closing on his shoulder and turning him toward her, her right hand reaching up to touch his cheek.
For a moment, he leaned into her warmth. Oh, how he wanted to stay there. But he couldn't allow himself that comfort. He didn't deserve it. He had done something terrible and he didn't deserve her comfort.
"Jed?" she prompted.
"My God," he breathed out raggedly. "I never thought—" Turning away from her, he staggered back into the bedroom, taking deep breaths to try to stem the hysteria that bubbled up and threatened to burst from him.
"What happened?" Her soft voice floated over his back.
You can't tell her. You can't tell her...tell her...tell her...
"I killed a man tonight."
Even without turning, he could picture her face: the furrowed brow trying to comprehend baffling words, the mouth pursed in puzzled contemplation, the eyes narrowed in bewilderment. Finally, she spoke and the confusion in her husky voice only verified his mental image.
"What?"
He sighed. "Simon Donovan was killed tonight."
"Simon Donovan?"
"Secret Service Agent. C.J.'s bodyguard."
"Oh. I'm sorry." She was obviously still trying to make sense of his strange confession. "Jed, are you telling me you killed Simon Donovan?" Her voice had lightened. She knew that wasn't it, but she couldn't grasp what he was trying to tell her.
He took another breath, his back still to her. "They caught the guy. The one threatening C.J."
"That's good, right?"
"Yeah."
"Is that how he was killed?"
He sighed again and turned to her, forced to pause and regain control, almost losing it after seeing the encouragement and love in her eyes. "No," he managed hoarsely. "Later, in a convenience store. He...walked in on a robbery. Shot dead."
"I'm sorry, Jed." Her hand rested on his chest, its sensual heat pushing the life back into his heart. "But it's not your fault. This has nothing to do with—"
"No. No. That's not it."
She waited and he was forever grateful that she didn't push him at that moment. After a full minute, he continued.
"I didn't shake his hand. I couldn't. How can you shake a man's hand and then kill him? In that office, too. I 't."
He could tell she wasn't following him, but she stayed silent, waiting. Suddenly unable to look in her eyes, he moved to the window, staring out of it, craving a cigarette. No, not with her there. He'd have to do without. He had been trying to quit, anyway. Had done well until today. Then he had caved in after Leo...
Slowly, he began to tell her about Shareef, vaguely outlining the evidence against him, the persuasion from Fitzwallace and Leo, the agony of a decision that flew in the face of everything he believed in. She didn't say a word, and he knew she had connected everything now, had figured out the source of his pain.
"It was wrong," he whispered, repeating his statement to Leo. "It was absolutely wrong. But...I said, 'Take him.' I told Leo to take him. I killed him." The guilt burned inside him. He dragged in a tortured breath. "Right there among the bishops and cardinals. Right there in the midst of the Church. Right there I said...take him. I said—"
"Stop it!"
Surprised, he spun around to find her angry eyes on him. Angry, but not at him. Angry for him, for what he had to do. "Stop it. You can't do this, Jed. You knew when you ran that a moment like this might come."
"No! Not like this. I knew I might have to send men and women into combat. I knew people would die as a result of my decisions, but this—this was cold-blooded, premeditated—"
Now she softened in the face of his agonized passion. "What had he done, Jed? How many people had he killed? It was justice—"
"Justice!" he exploded, slamming his fist into the wall behind her. She jumped in surprise and shock, but he continued with only a vague awareness of the pain. "Am I the world's deliverer? Do I deliver justice?"
"Yes! Yes. You are. You do. You are the President of the United States of America. You are the most powerful man in the world. You have responsibilities—"
"Responsibilities! Yes, I am responsible. Responsible for—"
"For stopping a monster from killing more people, from terrorizing an entire world, from doing things that are absolutely wrong."
He stared at her, feeling the throbbing in his hand, now, the emotion draining from him. Finally, one last time, he whispered, "It was wrong."
"I know," she agreed quietly. "But you had to do it."
He didn't respond. I know. I know.
Her fingers ran down his arm and started to entwine his own. The sharp pain shot through his hand and he jerked away, sucking in air.
"Let me see," she ordered, and her tone indicated no tolerance for disobedience. He held out his hand, bracing against both the pain and the brutal comment that was sure to follow. Brilliant move, Jackass.
But she merely clicked her tongue as she gently probed the inflamed flesh and bone. God, that hurt, even with her tender touch. He had never done such a thing before, never lost control so that he actually hurt himself. What a stupid move.
"Well," she breathed. "I'm pretty sure you've fractured a metacarpal."
He didn't answer, just stared past her.
Thinking he didn't understand, she explained, "You broke your hand."
"Yeah." He knew that already. Watching her stifle the impulse to berate him for his costly lapse, he smiled a little, grateful for her own control.
"I'll take care of—"
She stopped, and it twisted his heart to realize what she was thinking. "We'll get an orthopedist over here."
In other words, I can't do it. I can't be a doctor anymore. Not even to my husband. Especially not to my husband.
Tears touched his eyes, not at the physical pain, but at the emotional pain from that harsh reality. Oh, Abbey, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. She busied herself calling for a bag of ice, talking as she prepared a towel from the bathroom to wrap the hand in.
"C.J.'s going to have fun spinning this. Not really a good idea to say the man who has the key to the largest arsenal of nuclear weapons in the world punched the wall because he was pissed. Maybe you could say it was a chess injury."
He chuckled. "Chess?"
"Sprained it by executing the Evan's Gambit too quickly."
Both eyebrows rose with his surprise that she had even heard of the move.
Her smile softened. "Or maybe you slugged Toby."
"Because?"
"Just because."
Charlie arrived with the requested ice, face curious but not asking any questions. Good man, Charlie. Abbey was back now, gently laying the bag against his hand. In her eyes he saw no accusation, no disappointment, no anger. Only love. Only love.
He stared out the window, across the lawn onto the city. A city of marble and brick, of pillars and cornices, of statues and monuments. A city of 570,000 people, a city that represented a country of 287,000,000 people, a country that was part of a world of six billion people. A city that was now a little safer. A country that was now a little safer. A world that was now a little safer. At least for today.
It wasn't right. They could never convince him of that. But he had to do it anyway.
"I know," he whispered.
"What?" Abbey glanced up from her ministrations to his hand.
He looked down at her and knew where his solace came from. Knew that God would forgive him. Knew that God had forgiven him last year after Mrs. Landingham's funeral. Knew that Abbey had already forgiven him for many, many things.
With his good hand, he cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb gently across her skin. She straightened and moved into his arms, drawing him against her, offering the strength he needed. He took it, closing his eyes and finally allowing himself to accept her comfort.
"I love you," she murmured.
"I know." But he needed to hear it. "I know."