II

"So, anyway, Jeremy and are gonna take the Sturberger case, and- I'm boring you, aren't I?" broke off Michael with a soft smile.

"What? Oh, no, no. Really." Jenny pushed at her meal awkwardly, trying not to blush. Dammit, just because you're a redhead doesn't mean you have to blush. Truth to tell, she had been drifting a little, but it wasn't really Michael's work stories that were boring her. She was just... distracted.

It was strange, dating. It felt a lot like she was cheating on her husband, even though she was more than aware they weren't married anymore. She hadn't dated since she was in her early twenties. And somehow it had been easier to do then.

Take Michael. Michael Aaron Walker, hotshot lawyer. If she'd met him in her twenties, she'd have been squealing incoherently to her friends for hours, giggling about him over coffee in a corner café somewhere. Now she just felt... sort of melancholy.

Michael was handsome, smart, and witty. He was nearly ten years younger than her, and not at all bothered by the fact. He was sparkling conversation and great company... and she was all too aware that she really wasn't appreciating him enough. She had the nagging feeling she ought to cut this excellent catch loose for somebody who'd be more impressed by him.

Which wasn't to say that she wasn't impressed and delighted with Michael; it was just... muted. He was handsome, charming and considerate, and she found herself irrationally wishing he was more craggy-faced, irascible, and curmudgeonly. She even, perversely, wished he wouldn't keep apologising and stopping himself when he was talking too much about his work.

Because yes, Jenny, a guy who's in love with his work is exactly what you want. Get a hold of yourself, woman.

She sipped the glass of wine that she really shouldn't have ordered this early in the day, and wondered exactly when entertaining handsome, witty men who were interested in her had become a chore.

Her cellphone bleeped, and she tried to avoid diving for it too enthusiastically. The last thing she wanted to do was to try and explain to a potential suitor that what was wrong with him was that he didn't have the faults she was used to.

"Hello?" she asked, smiling apologetically at Michael. He shrugged and smiled back. Dammit, wouldya stop being so considerate a minute?

"Hey, mom," Mallory's voice echoed tinnily over the phone. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, no." She covered the mouthpiece momentarily and explained "It's my daughter."

Yet another goodguy point to Michael for not freaking out at the reminder she had a grown-up daughter in her late twenties. He just nodded, and motioned to the waiter. "You go on and talk to her. I'll settle up here - I've got to get back to the office, anyway."

"Thanks. Hold on, Mallory," she said into the phone, and she leaned across to give him a slight kiss on the cheek. He smiled brightly at her, and she hated herself a little bit more for being so down on him.

She wandered out of the restaurant with the phone, and the voice at the other end said teasingly "So, was that Michael?"

"Maybe," Jenny teased back, feeling a smile spread across her features that was more genuine than any she'd given in the restaurant. "Are you back? I thought you were away 'til Friday?"

"Ah, things with me and Roger didn't work out." Mallory didn't sound incredibly depressed though; she'd never expected Roger to be The One in any case.

"So you're back in DC with the rest of the week off? What are you going to do?"

She could picture her daughter shrugging over the phone. "I'll think of something. Meanwhile, I was thinking I could come over tonight... that is, if you don't have plans with Michael."

"Less of that cheek, young lady," she mocked gently. "A girls' night, is it?"

"Girls' night," Mallory confirmed. "Just the two of us. We can rent a movie and eat burnt popcorn and diss men."

"I look forward to it," said Jenny with a smile. Maybe this was what she needed to get out of this mopey mood; a chance to recharge her batteries with some good old mother-daughter bonding.

"I'm glad you're here," said Margaret gratefully. She'd been babbling away at him for quite some time now; he knew it was a nervous thing, and tried to nod and smile and be reassuring.

Probably that was why he'd been the one to end up here; good old smilin' Sam, the one who always put a brave face on things.

Certainly it wasn't for his experience with police investigations. All the uniforms around him were making him nervous; somehow beat officers were just more... obvious than the Secret Service. And anyway, the Service were there to protect you in case something went wrong; the police only arrived when it already had.

There were a couple of people in suits around as well; Sam wasn't sure if they were detectives, Secret Service, or the FBI, and wasn't comfortable enough to ask. He felt very out of place here. These were serious-faced, gravelly-voiced people, who dealt in matters of life and death, not word order and punctuation. He felt like a little boy dressed up in his father's suit; there were few people in the world of politics who could make him feel like that anymore.

Leo had always been one of them. Getting called up on the carpet by Leo was like being dressed down by your father, or your kindly old school principal. The scolding could be harsh, but it never cut so deeply as the edge of disappointment.

The thought of something happening to Leo was, well... unthinkable. Things didn't happen to Leo. Leo was where you went when it all hit the fan. Leo was where the buck stopped.

Margaret had fallen silent, watching one of the men in suits dust for fingerprints with a pensive expression. Sam opened his mouth to give her another reassuring platitude, and found he'd run out.

"I think he's been kidnapped," said Margaret quietly. And Sam wanted to laugh, or explode, or shout about how crazy that was.

Instead, he quietly admitted "I can't see any other explanation." The state of Leo's apartment had scared him, and badly. It wasn't like it had been turned over for a robbery; more like some crazy person had let loose, smashing everything within reach for no good reason.

But there was no blood, and Leo wasn't here. So he wasn't hurt. He couldn't be. He'd been kidnapped; there was no other explanation.

"I can think of one," said Margaret, even quieter. "But I'm not sure it's not worse."

"What?" asked Sam, heart in his mouth.

Margaret's eyes were pools of worry, and she leaned in closer as if afraid the police might overhear them. "I know, I know he wouldn't," she said emphatically. "But... what if he's been drinking?"

Sam looked around the trashed apartment and shook his head in complete denial. "You think Leo could have done this to his own apartment?" There was no way.

But somehow when Margaret just kept that half-sad, half-frightened gaze on him, he couldn't stay so certain.

CJ slowly lowered the phone into the cradle, feeling slightly sick. The thought of going and reporting this news, or lack of it, to her friends and colleagues was a thousand times more frightening than going out to face a press corps with the scent of blood.

They'd kept Leo's absence quiet, as much as possible - at least until they could get some clue as to the reason for it - but with a man as omnipresent as Leo McGarry, that wasn't easy. Josh had felt the need to confide in Donna, of course, and the communications assistants had all had to find out when Sam left to join Margaret. CJ would have dearly loved to go herself, but an AWOL Press Secretary was just too much to risk.

Josh, too, had been tearing up the place like a caged puppy. They'd almost had to physically restrain him from rushing out to Leo's apartment, but despite the ashy taste it left in her mouth, she could only repeat her words from earlier. Whilst Leo was missing, Josh couldn't go. She realised she hadn't really thought about the true weight of Joshua Lyman's position until it had come crashing down around his shoulders.

But even compounding Josh's agony paled in comparison to the other job she'd had to do that morning. Breaking the news to the President. Why did I volunteer for this? Why the hell did I ever agree to be the voice of this administration? Why did I agree to be the bearer of bad news?

The President had been bright-eyed and breezy, as he always was when he'd had the chance to sleep in a little. He'd greeted her with that usual avuncular twinkle and a snippet of trivia - she couldn't even remember what - and it had physically hurt to fix that press-conference-face in place and tell him what little they knew.

And now she had to go and do it again.

Carol's eyes were worried as CJ crossed the room with leaden feet, and she knew her expression wouldn't ease her assistant's anxiety. Josh dashed out into the corridor ahead of her, and then froze.

"Nothing?" he said, almost cringing at the answer he knew he would get. CJ could only shake her head.

"I have to go tell him," she said, and Josh quickly fell back out of her way. She didn't have to explain who 'him' referred to.

Charlie took one look at the expression on her face, and scooted quickly over to the Oval Office door. He knocked and held it open for her without waiting for a response from the President.

The President's eyes were hopeful as they trained on her... and she felt a knife twist in her guts as that flicker of optimism died. "What did they find?" he said quietly.

"Nothing, Mr. President. No prints except for Leo's. No traces of blood or anything-" the Press Secretary demeanour nearly slipped for a minute- "-anything untoward. They, um, they said it was hard to tell if there had been a struggle..."

"The whole apartment was smashed to pieces, I'd hazard a guess there was a goddamn struggle!" the President shouted. CJ winced.

"They, um, they don't think the damage was caused by a fight," she continued relentlessly. Just like talking to the press; don't think about the reactions, don't think about the interruptions, just get the information out. Just like talking to the press. If talking to the press were soul-destroyingly painful. "At least, not all of it. They seem to think it's more likely the place was smashed up after he was... abducted."

"So we're looking at a kidnapping here," observed the President quietly. His voice had smoothed out again, but his blue eyes were stormy and she couldn't read them.

"They said it's the most likely scenario," she agreed solemnly. That or he's had his throat cut and been left lying in a gutter somewhere.

President Bartlet quietly folded his head into his hands, and sat motionless for a moment. Then he straightened up and looked CJ in the eye. "Why kidnap Leo?" he asked, and she could hear a note of plaintive innocence in the inquiry; for a moment the voice of a small boy asking why bad things should happen. "For ransom, for, for political gain? To make things happen? Don't they know he's the only one who gets things done around here?"

CJ could only point out the obvious. "Sir... the two things everyone knows about Leo McGarry are that he's important... and he's your friend."

President Bartlet closed his eyes, and she could almost feel the wave of guilt washing over him. Don't, sir, don't do that! It's got nothing to do with who you are or anything you've done. It's not your fault! But the silence was too oppressive to try and say it aloud.

Suddenly the door opened, forcing a sudden gasp from her before she had even truly registered it. The President snapped. "Dammit, Charlie, can't you-" he trailed off at the look on his personal aide's face.

CJ felt the blood draining from her own. Don't let that look be Leo. Let it be World War Three if it has to... just don't let it be Leo.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but it's urgent. They need you in the Situation Room."