Farther off from Heaven

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 6/7

"What's next?" The question was asked in a sweetly courteous yet somehow patronizing tone. There was a familiar challenge in it as well. "That all depends, Jethro. What's my prize?"

"Abbey!" Startled, Bartlet jerked round in his seat. Both feet slipped off the back of the chair in front of him. One foot safely hit the floor with a loud thump. Not quite so lucky, his right ankle slipped into the gap between the chair backs. Twisted by his incautious action, half-healed muscles set about protesting violently.

Lurching forward and grabbing at his trapped leg, Bartlet sucked in his breath and couldn't quite stifle a grunt of pain. Hell, at this point he felt more than entitled to a bit of vocal drama. He couldn't help but sourly regard the whole farce as the perfect accompaniment to the truly lousy luck he'd had all evening.

"For Heaven's sake, Jed!" Abbey hurried to his aid and firmly pushed him back into the chair before he could do any more damage. And she knew he would, too. Some things in life were a predetermined certainty. "Hold still!"

"Yes, ma'am," Bartlet acquiesced meekly through clenched teeth. Meek seemed a good attitude choice at this point. There was an odd glint in her eye and he couldn't quite figure if his wife was in 'doctor' mode or 'slap my husband around and knock him silly' mode.

Carefully lifting his leg and ankle from between the gap, Abbey gently lowered it to the floor. Crouching down, she looked up into his face. His eyes were tightly closed and a muscle was twitching in his rigid jaw. One hand was convulsively clenching and unclenching as it lay on the affected limb. Concern and aggravation fought with the surge of overwhelming affection that engulfed her. The klutz had managed to do another number on his leg.

She laid her hand on his, trying to calm him. "Jed?"

He shook his head, unable to answer.

"Talk to me."

"Cramp," Bartlet barely managed to get it out.

Abbey couldn't help the sigh of affectionate exasperation that escaped her lips. With sure hands, she began to massage his upper thigh, felt his muscles tense expectantly under her touch. What else could she have expected? He'd done it again, innocently finding his way out of the doghouse.

"I swear to God, you do this on purpose," she muttered fondly, more than a bit of accusation in her tone.

"Oh, yeah. Sure, why not? All part of my Machiavellian plan. Break a few bones, lose some blood, cripple myself," Bartlet responded, voice heavy with sarcasm. The cramp was receding, giving him some respite. Opening his eyes, a perverse twinge of guilt made him ask, "What do I get if I jump off a cliff?"

"You go splat." Abbey glared up at him. "And that's not funny."

"It's not?"

"Not even close."

"And I try so hard."

"Try harder." Given the surly mood he was clearly in, she knew that if given half a chance, he would. She could hear his uneven breathing beginning to settle and the powerful muscle under her hands relax. Finishing her ministrations, she accused a bit hotly, "I told you to stay off it as much as possible tonight, not play tag with your detail."

It didn't take three decades of marriage to recognize the flicker of adolescent guilt she saw as he averted his eyes. Glancing up at the two men of her own detail hovering uneasily in the background, she shook her head and murmured softly, "Your timing sucks, Jed." So much for their quiet, stolen moment. No doubt, they'd already tattled to Butterfield, he in turn to McGarry, and when the irate Chief of Staff came running...

The resulting mental picture was not a pretty one.

Abbey scowled fiercely when her husband had the audacity to laugh. "It's not funny!" She slapped at his arm. "Why am I not surprised you didn't listen to me?"

"Do I ever listen?" A wry smile twisted his lips at her protest and the halfhearted wallop. It hadn't been up to her usual standards, but it was a start. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and tentatively asked, "Why do you even bother?"

"An over developed sense of responsibility, I suppose." The question troubled her deeply. This despondency was so unlike him. She studied his face, the exhaustion clearly painted in tense lines across his features. The accident, the India trip, and then China; he was only human. And as much as he would deny it, he had his limits. "When was the last time you sat down and relaxed?"

Bartlet snorted derisively. "Super Tuesday."

"Funny."

"Really?"

"No." Abbey shook her head at the childish disappointment in his voice. And he was trying so hard. Gesturing to her two chaperons, she told him gently, "We need to get you to bed."

"We?" Bartlet opened his eyes and tilted his head back. Seeing her shadows approaching, albeit somewhat cautiously, he scowled darkly. "Oh, yeah. We." A stubborn look set on his face and he muttered petulantly, "I'm not going to bed."

"Yes, you are."

"Are we gonna make me?"

"Are you up for a fight?"

"Ahhh. And there it is. The sound byte and magic word. Fight." Leaning forward, he turned in his chair and stopped both men in their tracks with a cold, hard eyed stare. Satisfied they had got the first part of his message, he gave them the second part and commanded softly, "Get out."

Unsure and brought to a totally unexpected crossroads, the two men exchanged uneasy glances. Bartlet could see them mentally reviewing their operations manual. Shuffling his feet, one man began to lift his hand, clearly intent on getting a higher ruling.

"No, no. Don't do that," Bartlet stopped him, smiling benignly like he was dealing with a temperamental child. Two of them, in fact. "Don't check with Butterfield, don't look at each other. Look at me. I'm making the rather broad assumption here that you know who I am?"

In stunned unison, both men nodded.

"Very good, boys. I had begun to wonder. Now, I will repeat this only once, so listen carefully and take whatever notes you feel necessary." His velvet tones, edged with steel, rose in volume and he roared, "Get out!"

Watching them trip over themselves in their haste to escape, the President of the United States couldn't help but feel a touch of vindictive satisfaction. They may have only been doing their jobs, but he'd just got a bit of his own back and it felt good.

"There," he said, turning to his wife and giving her a supremely smug look. "We are gone. Fight's over before it's even begun."

"You're a bully, Jed."

"I'm the President."

"Do you think I actually need to be reminded?" There was acid in her voice for a moment. Then Abbey looked at him again, seeing the exhaustion both mental and physical. Now was not the time. She softened her voice. "You need to rest."

"Practicing medicine without a license?" It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Wincing, he muttered, "Shit."

"Nice one, jackass."

One corner of his mouth twisted upwards, hinting at a bit of self-mockery. "At least I'm a jackass again."

Abbey smiled sadly in return, alarmed though by the weary melancholy she heard in his voice. It was so wrong. He was slipping away from her again. Reaching up, she brushed her hand across his cheek.  "Did you ever stop?" she asked lightly, trying to bring him back.

"I honestly can't remember anymore." Capturing her hand, he pulled her to her feet. "Sit down, Abbey."

"Jed, this is not the time or the place," she protested, resisting his pull. She wanted so much to talk to him, but was suddenly afraid. For the first time, she couldn't place his mood, where he was coming from. She knew what she wanted from him, what she wanted to hear. It was the cost that now worried her.

And he looked so very tired. "Your timing, as always, leaves a great deal to be desired."

"So what else is new?" He pulled her roughly into the chair next to him, remotely satisfied at the shocked look on her face his uncharacteristic action caused. "I've been waiting for the right time. We've been waiting. Hell, the entire White House has been waiting for the right time." He smiled sadly at the irony and continued with heavy sarcasm, "The White House. That should have been our first clue. It'll never come. There'll never be a right time and we haven't exactly been subtle choosing what few battlegrounds we've been allowed."

"You can't have a good fight with an audience." It was an ugly truth, but a grim truth nevertheless. The price paid for public service and, as much as she hated to admit it, nobody's fault. Thinking about what happened upstairs with the girls, Abbey further acknowledged a bit guiltily,  "And some of us have been less subtle than others."

"They noticed."

"You think?"

"Not lately."

"Now there's a sound byte," Abbey snapped, finding that a small spark of her anger remained. He had brought them to this state. Thinking and listening were two things he hadn't been doing well of late. She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn't let her. "When exactly did that epiphany occur to you?"

"Abbey, don't. My words this time, please?" Bartlet tightened his hold on her hand. She was about to go over the edge and he didn't want that. Not that he didn't deserve a good tongue lashing, but he needed her listening, not ranting. "I don't want to fight. God knows I don't deserve it, but right now, here at this moment, I would very much like to be a little closer to Heaven. Is that too much to ask?"

"Heaven?" Abbey whispered, realizing that his last plea had not been to her, but to the one person who always listened. He never begged the Divine. This had gone too far. "Jed..."

"Are you still mad at me?"

Only the truth now. Abbey nodded. "Yes."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Proof of my consistency. I'm nothing if not reliably myopic."

Abbey rolled her eyes. "Little words, Jed."

"I like big words." He laughed at her reaction. An exasperated Abbey was a far more delightful prospect than an angry one. On safer ground, he paused for a moment, then continued slowly, searching for the one thing that had eluded him for so long. "That's my problem. I keep looking for the big words when little ones would so easily serve. One little word in particular." Bartlet lowered his voice, almost afraid to ask, "Why, Abbey? Why did you do it?"

"It was my choice." She wasn't expecting this, had come prepared to drag him kicking and screaming into the verbal arena. It left her feeling vulnerable and she didn't like it. Abbey saw his face crumple at that answer and was forced to admit she was doing what she'd been so long accusing him of. Taking the easy way out.

It wasn't fair to either of them, not now when they had come so far. "No, that was too easy. You deserve better."

Bartlet laughed ruefully. "I do?"

"Sometimes." Abbey realized then that a line had been crossed, both for her and for him. Comfortable now, she teased, "A reward for your dogged consistency."

He laughed outright at that. It was a wonderful sound, rich and free; too long missing from her world. His arm slipped around the back of her chair, coming down lightly to pull her closer. Released from anger and recrimination, Abbey leaned into his embrace. Feeling him relax, she repeated his question, "Why, Jed?"

"It's a little word."

"Because I was proud of you," she said hesitantly, dropping her chin to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The strong beat gave her the courage to continue. "Because when all is said and done, it was my choice. It always has been. Nothing I do or say is going to change that, and I wouldn't want it to."

Bartlet brought his other arm around to encircle her, drawing her closer. "No?" he whispered into her hair. He'd been afraid to ask that question. Now he found himself dreading the answer.

This time Abbey's wallop had a bit more force behind it. Pounding his chest, she berated him, "You're a complete idiot if you thought I would."

"Hmmm." Relaxing further, conscious of a sense of place and satisfaction he'd long been missing, Bartlet observed dryly, "My polls are improving. I've been downgraded from jackass to idiot."

"My idiot."

Blinking, surprised at the fierceness of her tone, he asked somewhat incredulously, "That's something to be proud of?"

"Don't you ever doubt it." But he did. She could hear it in his voice. Her husband was still waiting, still wanting more. "Why isn't such a little word, Jed. There's a lifetime of answers."

"Or a lifetime of excuses."

"Excuses?" Abbey smiled at that. She couldn't help it. Marbury had been right. She was as human as the next person. He'd left himself wide open. Slyly and without rancor she said, "I love you very much."

Abbey felt him stiffen, attempt to pull away and for a moment she felt she'd gone too far. Words could be weapons and she hadn't meant those particular words to leave him cut and bleeding. She wrapped her arms around him tighter, holding him close. He wasn't going to get away, not this time.

Bartlet was silent for a long while, then asked quietly, fearfully, "Is that enough?"

"It was enough..." She reached up and framed his face with gentle, loving hands. "...that thirty-four years ago I said yes."

"For better or for worse?" He said the words tentatively, as if testing the very idea that he could have been worth the effort.

"Never for worse."

His searching gaze met hers and his heart turned over. His breath caught in his throat. It was there, in her eyes. Small words, Jed. Small and simple. With that realization went the burden, and the guilt.

Hand behind her head, Bartlet pulled her closer. She didn't resist. Unsure, he pressed his lips to hers, caressing rather than demanding. The moment was brief, but telling. Drawing back, he brushed his thumb across her cheek, capturing the single, precious tear that had fallen. It wasn't the first, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Of that, he knew his consistency was assured.

There was only one last thing left to do.

"Abbey?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Abbey didn't know how long she'd been waiting for those simple words. Months? Years? It no longer mattered. He'd said them, and she hadn't had to pry them out of him with a surgeon's skill. Not only had he said them, but he'd meant them. Heart and soul, she could see it in his eyes.

Her husband was watching her intently, waiting. Abbey almost laughed. There he was again; the rumpled black tux, bow tie askew, blue eyes troubled and unsure. The little boy lost was back again. How could she resist him?

Why bother even trying? Besides, he deserved a suitable reward for improving his communication skills.

As though his words had released her, which in truth they had, Abbey buried herself deeper into his embrace. She could feel his breath; felt the warmth of it on her cheek as he held her closer. Slipping her arms beneath his jacket and around his back, she turned her face to his.

Capturing his mouth, she kissed him; long and slow, challenging him with every movement. The man didn't disappoint her. He never did, at least not for long.

Dimly, somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurred to Abbey that they might have an audience. The thought was a brief one, driven out by the feel of his hands moving gently down her back, eagerly accepting her invitation.

Let them watch.

She and her husband had earned this.

~ooOoo~

"Agent Butterfield!"

The agent in question nearly groaned aloud as the elegantly tipsy voice boomed exuberantly across the crowded ballroom. Spying the British ambassador weaving his way across the floor, Butterfield braced himself. Of all the people he wanted to see or find tonight, Lord John Marbury was not one of them.

A few nearby guests turned to give the agent openly curious stares. He made the half-hearted effort to smile reassuringly in return. From their startled reactions and the scurrying as they hastily retreated to a much safer distance, Butterfield concluded that baring your teeth in an angry grimace bore little resemblance to the non-threatening social variety.

"Agent Butterfield!" Marbury neglected to reduce his volume as he drew to a halt, full glass in hand and beaming with happy inquiry at the stoic agent. "Just the man I wanted to see. May I call you Ron?"

"No, you may not."

"Indeed." One eyebrow rose gracefully at the flatly delivered denial, but Marbury refused to be daunted. "How disappointing. Then perhaps you can help me. I seem to have misplaced Abbey."

His carefully constructed facade cracked and Butterfield's only response was to wince at the word misplaced. Listening to the disappointing chatter coming over his earpiece, he decided the next meeting of the team leaders was going to include a very precise lecture on how to keep your eyes open.

The other eyebrow rose to join its twin at the agent's telling reaction and Marbury murmured, "Interesting." Glancing around the ballroom, carefully noting what so many had clearly missed and taking a healthy swallow of the truly superior scotch, he declared casually, "He seems to be keeping you busy tonight."

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Butterfield inquired coolly, "He, Mr. Ambassador?"

"Generally speaking of course. I can well imagine you're always busy, as it were."

Raising his hand to adjust his earpiece, Butterfield solemnly inclined his head and quietly acknowledged the vacuously given point. With no encouraging reports coming in, busy was an understatement. The man had absolutely no idea.

"And?" Marbury insisted.

Drawing a deep breath, Butterfield began to recite, "The Secret Service does not..."

"Yes, yes," Marbury interrupted with an effortless smile, airily waving his hand at the standard response. Truthfully, he'd expected no less. Still, even the agent's ambiguous reply provided some little satisfaction. "About Mrs. Bartlet..."

"No," Butterfield stated firmly, baring his teeth again and surreptitiously glancing around for an escape route. "The Secret Service is also not a paging service. Our protectees deserve their privacy."

"My assurances that I have no intention of invading the First Lady's privacy," Marbury pledged with easy grace, completely oblivious to the curiously predatory grimace fixed on Butterfield's face. "I had been having a rather lovely conversation with her earlier and merely wanted to conclude it on a somewhat more... encouraging note. Can you help?"

Encouraging this man in any endeavor was not very high on Butterfield's priority list. "No," he repeated, injecting a hint of warning into his voice.

Marbury's face fell. "No?"

"No."

"Pity."

"My apologies, sir," Butterfield replied blandly. It never hurt to at least try and be polite.

"Really?" Marbury asked dubiously. He'd finally noticed the somewhat constricted expression on the agent's face, the focused gleam in his eyes as he listened to his transceiver. Honesty forced him to admit the man looked like he wanted to bite somebody.

For safety's sake, Marbury took a cautious half-step backwards.

Butterfield didn't miss the action and his answering smile contained just a hint of vindictive pleasure. "Of course."

Heroically downing the rest of the scotch, Marbury bravely, admittedly somewhat foolishly, pressed onward, "Should I be lucky enough to locate the First Lady in this crush..." He let the rest of the sentence trail off, watching the agent expectantly.

"Give her my regards," Butterfield muttered absently, listening to a report coming in. The lines of concentration deepened along his brow. One corner of his mouth twisted upwards with satisfaction. Finally!

Marbury noted the slight change in the agent's demeanor. "And should you locate her first?" he asked, satisfied that his conclusions were accurate. A lifetime of diplomatic service did provide one with certain observational skills.

"I'll pass on your message," Butterfield replied, forcing his features into what he hoped was a sincere expression of impatient yet polite dismissal. According the latest chatter, one team had found the President. This whole ridiculous mess was about to be put to rest. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Ambassador?"

"My apologies." Marbury bowed gracefully, mouth curving into a knowing smile. "I've kept you from your duties."

"Not at all." He was surprised at how easily that came out through clenched teeth.

"Diplomacy?"

Butterfield shuddered. "God, I hope not."

"Good luck with tonight's endeavors, Agent Butterfield," Marbury offered gravely, all trace of humor and absentminded frivolity gone from his voice. "All of them."

About to leave, Butterfield stopped in midstride and abruptly turned back to face the ambassador. There was yet a faint glint of mischievous humor in the man's eyes, but now combined with a shrewd gleam no amount of alcohol or ingenuous play-acting could disguise.

For the first time, Ron Butterfield realized what a formidable opponent this man could be. "And you with yours, Mr. Ambassador."

"Me?" Marbury waved him off with a giddy laugh. "Off with you! What possible plans could I have other than to enjoy this...amusingly entertaining assemblage of ne'er-do-wells and vain hangers-on?"

Butterfield couldn't have put it better himself. "No doubt you'll let me know, should the occasion arise."

Marbury inclined his head. "No doubt."

The British Ambassador watched Butterfield leave, grabbing one of the wandering floor agents by the startled man's elbow on his way out. Letting his gaze drift aimlessly around the ballroom, noting the gaiety and joy still ringing through the milling crowds, Marbury's expressive face stilled and grew somber. The happy fools had absolutely no idea of the events taking place around them. Why should they? Their lives weren't affected in any way, so why worry?

Eat, drink and be merry. The world will find its own way.

It wasn't a very gracious thought, hardly diplomatic, but then he wasn't feeling very diplomatic at the moment. Were this his house, they'd all be out on their asses right now.

"Good luck, Josiah," he muttered, staring sadly into his glass.

It was empty again.

"Mr. President," Marbury sighed heavily, making his determined way back towards the bar. "Your timing does indeed suck."

To be concluded…