Part Nine
AN: Jessica told me to put this warning on Part 8, but I sort of forgot and sort of just decided it would be more appropriate here as you'd have a taste of where this might be going. If you're sensitive to material in relation/similar to the events that occurred on September 11th and suicide bombers/hijackers, this might bother you a little bit. There are a few mentions of violence and things like that in this part and the ones that follow, so, you know, you've been warned.
Now let's all say, "thank you, Jessica" ;-) Thank you, Jessica!
~If you see dark skies in my sad eyes,
it just means that I can't find no cover;
These ghosts that haunt me
They take me when they want me –
And some days are better than… others~
It had been four years, she thought; four years and things like this still happened – innocent bloodshed, misunderstandings, hatemongers, and obsessions – things that covered her hands and face with fresh blood that still felt warm – things she still felt responsible for.
It fell into a pool beneath his sternum - which was fairly suspended above the ground as he'd fallen unceremoniously against the chair closest to his post - the blood, and it ran out in sticky rivers reaching toward her, beckoning her forward, slave to master. She was fixated, imagining the expression on his face as he was shot without warning – stripped of weapon and honor – and the life continued to drain from him.
Four years ago, that had been Josh, been them, and the red had fallen on stone steps and filtered through her fingers, glass had shattered above her head as she lay in the snow, behind where her heart had been, and she was too frightened to be thankful to be alive. And she was standing there again, not in Rosslyn, unfamiliar territory where men were shooting because of racial beliefs and a tradition of hate, but in her Press Room, where ghosts weren't allowed and she was revered as their friend if nothing else. And she was too frightened to be thankful to be alive, even as she pulled herself together and put on a face they all knew well.
Josh wasn't the only one with PTSD.
CJ glanced with one eye toward her captor and the other fixated at the back of the room, white knuckles no longer clutching the lectern as she eased to the side, preparing to descend from the 'stage'.
"Don't move!" The roar came from feet away, but the warmth and the sourness still reached her, even though she did not turn but halted in her tracks.
One hand lay against her back, the other her belly, and she, once again becoming the Press Secretary, argued, "This is kidnapping, holding people hostage, a few counts of assault, attempted murder. Add in the charges that were never filed years ago because of…" her voice trailed off slowly before picking up again, "and you've got a problem. But you haven't killed anyone yet, that's a life sentence," she added, then repeated to herself, "You haven't killed anyone yet." Then she moved forward, toward the beckoning blood, and lowered herself to her knees, hands searching out the wound that had punctured his chest, just above and left of his sternum, and she levered the young man's head into what was left of her lap, pressing her hands into the wound. She could see the rising and falling that signified his breath, which seemed slightly labored but strong, and couldn't help but sigh in relief.
Behind her, the intruder she'd known as Bowman – who had interfered in, hated, destroyed, and nearly ended her life – grunted with anger, tightening his grip on the muzzle of the gun. He couldn't tell her no, he couldn't stop her, that's what his Claudia always did – what she wanted. But he'd have her soon, and he'd rein her in and teach her to be the things she didn't understand she had to be. He could feel the tension drain from his body as he watched the reporters and the lone camera, some frightened and all angry, turn from where CJ sat with the young Marine to where he stood, plastique prepared at his side and machine gun at the ready against his chest.
Yes, he would make her his and he would make her right, and then they'd take their daughter far from him – the man who'd taken both away – and live like they always do in the Fairy Tales, only this one would be so much better, because it would be real and it would be of his own making. Neil Bowman smiled even as he thought of how this child would replace Tommy, be all that Tommy wasn't – strong and confident and good – and then he thought of all the children they would have after this one, and things would be the way they should've been long before. Happily Ever After.
It would end soon, CJ resolved, and he would live, because she wasn't sure if she could live with herself if someone else's blood was on her hands, if another died because she'd failed. Fleetingly, CJ thought of the times when she'd been strong and capable, and she couldn't help but wonder where that woman had gone, and if there was any strength left for her to use as his blood seeped through her fingers and onto her blazer. He had to live, because she wasn't sure she could live with herself if he didn't.
---
Toby fingered the papers at the edge of her desk, briefing books, notes, phone messages, things she'd thrown haphazardly to the side to be viewed or taken care of 'later', but not yet discarded even though most were out of date. Sometimes, he knew, she took a little long in the bathroom, but it had been nearly twenty minutes and he was getting slightly antsy. But, the rational part of his brain that understood CJ's mood swings and didn't like the prospect of bunking with CJ's brother on the pull-out- sofa rationalized, she'd kill him if he went after her in the bathroom and subsequently embarrassing her in front of whatever staff was actually on duty the day after Christmas. After all, Josh was due in approximately ten more minutes, then if she wasn't back and he actually arrived on time, Toby decided to send Josh instead, let him get yelled at, and he could still sleep in his own bed.
Still worried but valiantly putting up an effort not to let it show, he let his fingers drum against the edge of the desk, staring at the wall before him and wishing he knew where his rubber balls had gone. CJ'd taken them at some point, having gotten unbearably frustrated with the bouncing and thumping that seemed to keep her permanently annoyed and equally pained by headaches. Of course, it might've also had something to do with the fact that one had strayed from its intended target and hit her arm rather sharply. She'd been pretty pissed, and Toby grimaced even thinking about it. "Pretty pissed" was an understatement.
Still staring at the wall, his pager went off and CJ's phone rang in unison and he opted to answer the phone as there was no one else to do it. Carol had taken an extended holiday leave, and CJ had called for someone from the temp pool, but apparently they hadn't arrived yet… or something.
"Toby Ziegler," he grunted into the phone, lifting his pager up and shutting off the offending noise. Days like these he wished he had a normal job, with normal hours, and could take a week off to spend with his expectant wife, probably the last vacation they'd ever take alone. Not that he was complaining.
"Jesus, Toby, turn on CNN. Why the hell did you let CJ go in there?!" Josh barked into the phone, "I'm on my way in, I just got out of the goddamn car, but there're reports all over the radio and television."
"What?" Toby growled, but quickly turned on the television which was invariably tuned to CNN.
On the screen was a female anchor, and beside her was a full screen view of CJ, his CJ, sitting on the floor with an injured man at her side, her hands pressing against his wound to staunch the flow of blood. Around her, reporters sat unmoving and obviously frightened, as the anchor narrated, "Apparently the assailant, assumed to be Thomas Bowman – who suffers from schizophrenia and a related obsessive psychological disease - was hired to work as a temporary secretary for Claudia Jean "CJ" Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, under an assumed name. He had called a Press Conference and was preparing to page Miss Cregg when she apparently noticed a commotion in the West Wing's Press Room and entered of her own volition, only to be strong-armed into remaining there against her will along with the other reporters. The assailant is armed with some sort of unidentified plastique, and a military issue rifle he took from a guard he injured with an older model revolver. Ms. Cregg is apparently attempting to keep the unnamed Marine in good condition, though she herself isn't looking particularly well. Approximately three years ago, Thomas Bowman – then living under his father's name, Neil Bowman – kidnapped CJ Cregg after stalking her for a short period of time, and attempted to drown both her and himself by driving the car off an incline near the Potomac River bridge. He was assumed dead although a body was never found an extensive recovery mission. Claudia Jean Cregg is engaged to White House Communications Director Toby Ziegler, with whom she is expecting a child, rumored to be a girl, in February…" The voice drifted off as the Press Room came into full view, the anchor no longer on the screen, and the phone had slid down against Toby's lapel as he gaped openmouthed at the television.
"Oh God," he gulped back air, "Oh God, this is my fault, oh God, oh God, oh God," he whispered, his voice gradually growing in volume, "I should've gone with her, oh God," he barely registered Josh's presence at the doorway.
"Call Leo, we need him and Sam here, the President's on his way down, so's Abbey," Josh informed him softly, concern painted across his features. He dared not think of the things that could happen, or where blame should lay, as Toby did. His mind had already headed toward the worst.
"I've got to get in there," he whispered, but Josh's hand clamped down on his shoulder as he attempted to rise, and he shook his head and held down the flash button on the phone.
"No, Toby, you've got to stay out here and help us get her and the rest of them out. When CJ's satisfied that the guard's okay, she'll start negotiating, you know how she is, she's getting her thoughts and her plans together. We need you to be on the other end, helping her get them and herself out of there safely. Make those calls, Toby. We'll be here to get her out. She'll be okay, she's CJ."
"She's pregnant, Josh," his voice was an anguished whisper, even as he watched Josh dial Leo's number, learned by heart since Day One of the administration. "I've got to get in there."
"No, Toby. You've got to make those calls. You're not thinking clearly. Sit," he pushed Toby back into the seat, "Just sit. CJ doesn't need to be worrying about you too, dammit. Just sit and call, and I'm going to go check the entrance to the Room, see if it's barred or blocked off. Then I'm going to come back here and tell you, and Leo and Sam and the President will meet us here, and then, and only then, will we decide whether or not anyone goes barrelling in there. We have military and guards and armed… people, Agents and the like, that are trained to assassinate this guy and people like him, they can shoot him through the ceiling or… something, but you gotta sit right now, and talk to the man," he added, then walked to the door, shutting it behind him, watching as Toby finally came back to himself and began to speak to Leo as he answered the phone.
A few moments later, the call was finished and Leo had vowed to call Sam and arrive shortly, told him not to panic and to stay calm. And all the Communications Director could do was put down his head and sob, "Oh God, oh God. I'm gonna get you out of there, CJ, I'm gonna get you out of there. Oh God."
The story is now complete, I just have to post it… if you want it, that is ( Hint, hint. There are three more parts… long parts. (
AN: Jessica told me to put this warning on Part 8, but I sort of forgot and sort of just decided it would be more appropriate here as you'd have a taste of where this might be going. If you're sensitive to material in relation/similar to the events that occurred on September 11th and suicide bombers/hijackers, this might bother you a little bit. There are a few mentions of violence and things like that in this part and the ones that follow, so, you know, you've been warned.
Now let's all say, "thank you, Jessica" ;-) Thank you, Jessica!
~If you see dark skies in my sad eyes,
it just means that I can't find no cover;
These ghosts that haunt me
They take me when they want me –
And some days are better than… others~
It had been four years, she thought; four years and things like this still happened – innocent bloodshed, misunderstandings, hatemongers, and obsessions – things that covered her hands and face with fresh blood that still felt warm – things she still felt responsible for.
It fell into a pool beneath his sternum - which was fairly suspended above the ground as he'd fallen unceremoniously against the chair closest to his post - the blood, and it ran out in sticky rivers reaching toward her, beckoning her forward, slave to master. She was fixated, imagining the expression on his face as he was shot without warning – stripped of weapon and honor – and the life continued to drain from him.
Four years ago, that had been Josh, been them, and the red had fallen on stone steps and filtered through her fingers, glass had shattered above her head as she lay in the snow, behind where her heart had been, and she was too frightened to be thankful to be alive. And she was standing there again, not in Rosslyn, unfamiliar territory where men were shooting because of racial beliefs and a tradition of hate, but in her Press Room, where ghosts weren't allowed and she was revered as their friend if nothing else. And she was too frightened to be thankful to be alive, even as she pulled herself together and put on a face they all knew well.
Josh wasn't the only one with PTSD.
CJ glanced with one eye toward her captor and the other fixated at the back of the room, white knuckles no longer clutching the lectern as she eased to the side, preparing to descend from the 'stage'.
"Don't move!" The roar came from feet away, but the warmth and the sourness still reached her, even though she did not turn but halted in her tracks.
One hand lay against her back, the other her belly, and she, once again becoming the Press Secretary, argued, "This is kidnapping, holding people hostage, a few counts of assault, attempted murder. Add in the charges that were never filed years ago because of…" her voice trailed off slowly before picking up again, "and you've got a problem. But you haven't killed anyone yet, that's a life sentence," she added, then repeated to herself, "You haven't killed anyone yet." Then she moved forward, toward the beckoning blood, and lowered herself to her knees, hands searching out the wound that had punctured his chest, just above and left of his sternum, and she levered the young man's head into what was left of her lap, pressing her hands into the wound. She could see the rising and falling that signified his breath, which seemed slightly labored but strong, and couldn't help but sigh in relief.
Behind her, the intruder she'd known as Bowman – who had interfered in, hated, destroyed, and nearly ended her life – grunted with anger, tightening his grip on the muzzle of the gun. He couldn't tell her no, he couldn't stop her, that's what his Claudia always did – what she wanted. But he'd have her soon, and he'd rein her in and teach her to be the things she didn't understand she had to be. He could feel the tension drain from his body as he watched the reporters and the lone camera, some frightened and all angry, turn from where CJ sat with the young Marine to where he stood, plastique prepared at his side and machine gun at the ready against his chest.
Yes, he would make her his and he would make her right, and then they'd take their daughter far from him – the man who'd taken both away – and live like they always do in the Fairy Tales, only this one would be so much better, because it would be real and it would be of his own making. Neil Bowman smiled even as he thought of how this child would replace Tommy, be all that Tommy wasn't – strong and confident and good – and then he thought of all the children they would have after this one, and things would be the way they should've been long before. Happily Ever After.
It would end soon, CJ resolved, and he would live, because she wasn't sure if she could live with herself if someone else's blood was on her hands, if another died because she'd failed. Fleetingly, CJ thought of the times when she'd been strong and capable, and she couldn't help but wonder where that woman had gone, and if there was any strength left for her to use as his blood seeped through her fingers and onto her blazer. He had to live, because she wasn't sure she could live with herself if he didn't.
---
Toby fingered the papers at the edge of her desk, briefing books, notes, phone messages, things she'd thrown haphazardly to the side to be viewed or taken care of 'later', but not yet discarded even though most were out of date. Sometimes, he knew, she took a little long in the bathroom, but it had been nearly twenty minutes and he was getting slightly antsy. But, the rational part of his brain that understood CJ's mood swings and didn't like the prospect of bunking with CJ's brother on the pull-out- sofa rationalized, she'd kill him if he went after her in the bathroom and subsequently embarrassing her in front of whatever staff was actually on duty the day after Christmas. After all, Josh was due in approximately ten more minutes, then if she wasn't back and he actually arrived on time, Toby decided to send Josh instead, let him get yelled at, and he could still sleep in his own bed.
Still worried but valiantly putting up an effort not to let it show, he let his fingers drum against the edge of the desk, staring at the wall before him and wishing he knew where his rubber balls had gone. CJ'd taken them at some point, having gotten unbearably frustrated with the bouncing and thumping that seemed to keep her permanently annoyed and equally pained by headaches. Of course, it might've also had something to do with the fact that one had strayed from its intended target and hit her arm rather sharply. She'd been pretty pissed, and Toby grimaced even thinking about it. "Pretty pissed" was an understatement.
Still staring at the wall, his pager went off and CJ's phone rang in unison and he opted to answer the phone as there was no one else to do it. Carol had taken an extended holiday leave, and CJ had called for someone from the temp pool, but apparently they hadn't arrived yet… or something.
"Toby Ziegler," he grunted into the phone, lifting his pager up and shutting off the offending noise. Days like these he wished he had a normal job, with normal hours, and could take a week off to spend with his expectant wife, probably the last vacation they'd ever take alone. Not that he was complaining.
"Jesus, Toby, turn on CNN. Why the hell did you let CJ go in there?!" Josh barked into the phone, "I'm on my way in, I just got out of the goddamn car, but there're reports all over the radio and television."
"What?" Toby growled, but quickly turned on the television which was invariably tuned to CNN.
On the screen was a female anchor, and beside her was a full screen view of CJ, his CJ, sitting on the floor with an injured man at her side, her hands pressing against his wound to staunch the flow of blood. Around her, reporters sat unmoving and obviously frightened, as the anchor narrated, "Apparently the assailant, assumed to be Thomas Bowman – who suffers from schizophrenia and a related obsessive psychological disease - was hired to work as a temporary secretary for Claudia Jean "CJ" Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, under an assumed name. He had called a Press Conference and was preparing to page Miss Cregg when she apparently noticed a commotion in the West Wing's Press Room and entered of her own volition, only to be strong-armed into remaining there against her will along with the other reporters. The assailant is armed with some sort of unidentified plastique, and a military issue rifle he took from a guard he injured with an older model revolver. Ms. Cregg is apparently attempting to keep the unnamed Marine in good condition, though she herself isn't looking particularly well. Approximately three years ago, Thomas Bowman – then living under his father's name, Neil Bowman – kidnapped CJ Cregg after stalking her for a short period of time, and attempted to drown both her and himself by driving the car off an incline near the Potomac River bridge. He was assumed dead although a body was never found an extensive recovery mission. Claudia Jean Cregg is engaged to White House Communications Director Toby Ziegler, with whom she is expecting a child, rumored to be a girl, in February…" The voice drifted off as the Press Room came into full view, the anchor no longer on the screen, and the phone had slid down against Toby's lapel as he gaped openmouthed at the television.
"Oh God," he gulped back air, "Oh God, this is my fault, oh God, oh God, oh God," he whispered, his voice gradually growing in volume, "I should've gone with her, oh God," he barely registered Josh's presence at the doorway.
"Call Leo, we need him and Sam here, the President's on his way down, so's Abbey," Josh informed him softly, concern painted across his features. He dared not think of the things that could happen, or where blame should lay, as Toby did. His mind had already headed toward the worst.
"I've got to get in there," he whispered, but Josh's hand clamped down on his shoulder as he attempted to rise, and he shook his head and held down the flash button on the phone.
"No, Toby, you've got to stay out here and help us get her and the rest of them out. When CJ's satisfied that the guard's okay, she'll start negotiating, you know how she is, she's getting her thoughts and her plans together. We need you to be on the other end, helping her get them and herself out of there safely. Make those calls, Toby. We'll be here to get her out. She'll be okay, she's CJ."
"She's pregnant, Josh," his voice was an anguished whisper, even as he watched Josh dial Leo's number, learned by heart since Day One of the administration. "I've got to get in there."
"No, Toby. You've got to make those calls. You're not thinking clearly. Sit," he pushed Toby back into the seat, "Just sit. CJ doesn't need to be worrying about you too, dammit. Just sit and call, and I'm going to go check the entrance to the Room, see if it's barred or blocked off. Then I'm going to come back here and tell you, and Leo and Sam and the President will meet us here, and then, and only then, will we decide whether or not anyone goes barrelling in there. We have military and guards and armed… people, Agents and the like, that are trained to assassinate this guy and people like him, they can shoot him through the ceiling or… something, but you gotta sit right now, and talk to the man," he added, then walked to the door, shutting it behind him, watching as Toby finally came back to himself and began to speak to Leo as he answered the phone.
A few moments later, the call was finished and Leo had vowed to call Sam and arrive shortly, told him not to panic and to stay calm. And all the Communications Director could do was put down his head and sob, "Oh God, oh God. I'm gonna get you out of there, CJ, I'm gonna get you out of there. Oh God."
The story is now complete, I just have to post it… if you want it, that is ( Hint, hint. There are three more parts… long parts. (