Time and the Fates of Men I - "Written", a west wing fanfic

WRITTEN

Classification: Post-ep for ITSOTG.
Summary: Like taking an umbrella to make sure it doesn't rain, you write your
best friend's obituary to keep him from dying before you get home.

Note for non-US readers: The television interviewers in this story are real US
morning show hosts. No disrespect to the actual, living people is intended.
They're nice guys and gals. I just borrowed them for verisimilitude. g>

With loving thanks to Caz for her perspicacity.

***

C.J. once said that it's written somewhere - no one can look good on a morning
show. You remind yourself of that as you settle into the guest dressing room to
let a young woman drape you and dab you with foundation. It's amazing how one
bad night can take away a tan and replace it with flesh the color of overcooked
oatmeal. You wonder if you should have donated blood. It couldn't have made you
look any worse and might have made you feel better.

You wish you could donate a lung.

"I'll just be a minute, Mr. Seaborn," the makeup artist says, and her voice is
soft and apologetic. "I know you have a million other things you need to be
doing right now."

She doesn't have any idea how much you hated getting on the press helicopter to
New York in the middle of the night. She has no clue how much you want to be
back in D.C., in that grim waiting room where Donna, the First Lady, and Mrs.
Landingham abide like the three fates who decide when a man's life will be cut
off like a piece of string.

You hope no one has scissors.

You finger your pocket because your notebook is in there and you want to make
sure it stays with you. It's the stuff about Josh, the words that spilled out of
your unsteady pen on the press helicopter this morning, the words you wrote just
in case.

Like taking an umbrella to make sure it doesn't rain, you write your best
friend's obituary to keep him from dying before you get home.

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...

There's a brisk knock on the door and it's your Secret Service escort, Steve.
"Mr. Seaborn? There are people to see you."

"Yeah. I'm good," you say as you look up to check your visitors.

It's Katie, who you've worked with a dozen times before, and to your surprise
Matt is with her. "Hey," you say, getting up out of your chair with no little
difficulty and shaking their hands.

Katie presses a kiss to your cheek, then carefully wipes the lipstick off your
newly-made-up face. "Sam, thank you so much for doing this. Are you okay?"

That's the world's dumbest question and you're shocked that an interviewer of
her caliber would ask you such a thing. Then you remember that you're off the
clock, off the camera, and she's asking as one human being to another.

"I've been better," you say, because you know her well enough to tell the truth
and not have her think you're unprofessional. "How ya doin', Matt?"

He takes your hand a second time, clasping it a bit longer than a normal hello,
and he looks genuinely worried. "I'm fine. Just wanted to make sure you have
everything you need before we start. We're live but we're gonna show it all
morning so you can make the rounds and still get back on time. I know you're
worried about Josh."

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright scholar...

"We're on in ten," Katie adds, and she pats your arm as if you're a desolate
child in need of consoling. And who says you're not? "Anything you want to start
with? Anything you want to avoid?"

"I can't comment on Secret Service procedures, of course, and I can't give the
names of the shooters or the suspect who just got arrested. Other than that, I
guess I'm just supposed to tell you what I remember from last night."

"How's the President?" Matt asks.

"It looks good - the bullet exited and didn't hit anything important. He'll be
released on Wednesday."

"And Josh?" Katie tightens her grasp on your arm and you wish she'd stop because
she could easily squeeze tears out of you and you can't let that happen.

"He was still on heart-lung bypass when I left. We should know something in a
few more hours."

An assistant director hovers in the doorway. "We'd better go," Matt says. "It'd
probably be a good idea if you wait in the wings if that's okay. There are
chairs."

"Yeah, I can do that," you say, because it's easier than sitting here and
brooding and you know you won't crack as long as other people are there with
you. So you follow, noticing that you've managed to put on mismatched socks.
They're both black. Maybe no one will notice.

A stagehand clips a wireless mike to your lapel. "Sorry about last night," he
says in a gruff Brooklyn accent. "Hope they fry in hell. Bastards."

"Yeah, uh, yeah. Thanks."

You wait for the short segment in front of you to be over and take your seat
opposite Katie in the surprisingly uncomfortable chairs. "On in
five...four...three..." The director stops counting aloud and points a finger.

Katie welcomes you to the Today show. "Sam, we appreciate the time you're taking
to speak with us this morning. What can you tell us about the incident in
Rosslyn last night?"

What can you tell her? Can you tell her what it felt like to try to account for
the whole group, all the while not knowing what happened to the President? Can
you tell her what it felt like when, just as you thought everyone was safe, you
heard Toby's wrenching call for help?

"We left the building and headed for the motorcade. I was about ten feet behind
President Bartlet and his daughter and C.J. Cregg was near me. I don't know
where the others were, exactly."

You take a deep breath and fall into the routine. You were trained for this, for
giving a deposition, for not letting anything get in the way of the facts.

"What did you see or hear?"

"I didn't see anything except for a couple of Secret Service agents
looking...jumpier than normal. Then I heard someone yell 'Gun!' and I got down
out of the way. I think I pushed someone down...with me...when I fell."

In your other pocket is C.J.'s necklace. You hope she doesn't make the
connection right now. Maybe you'll just slip the necklace onto her desk when you
get in.

"While you were down, did you see or hear anything?"

"I heard...shots. And there was glass breaking right over my head. I've still
got some in my hair, I think," you say as you run your fingers nervously through
your hair. "We heard sirens and someone said they had the President and Zoe
Bartlet in their cars, so we got up. We couldn't find Leo McGarry or Josh Lyman,
and someone said they were both in a limo. But it was just Leo. Toby Ziegler
went looking for Josh and..."

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright scholar and
graduate of Harvard and Yale...

Oh, damn. You feel the hot stinging and you pray, please, God, don't let her
touch me, don't let her look at me with those compassionate eyes.

Katie keeps her hands on her notebook and her gaze on the lens of the camera
that's over your shoulder and to the left. You see Matt, standing carefully out
of the shot, mouthing, "Take your time, Sam."

You nod and you're ready when Katie continues. "When did you find out about Josh
Lyman being shot?"

"Toby found him. He said..." You have to swallow a couple of times. There's
water in a glass beside you but you know damn well your hand will shake if you
pick it up, and if it shakes then C.J. will kill you when you get home. "Toby
called for help. An ambulance came and they put Josh in a neck brace and got him
on a stretcher. We all went in the ambulance - Toby, C.J., and I did. And
Charlie Young, the President's aide."

"What was it like?"

"Scary." You finger the notebook again. "There was a lot of blood and Josh
wasn't able to talk. It was obvious that he couldn't breathe and that he was
terrified."

"Were you afraid?"

"I was...I was...yeah. Afraid."

"And what's the latest update?"

It's easy now. This is the part you've rehearsed, that you've seen C.J. do a
dozen times already. Deep breath. "The President's condition has been upgraded
from stable to good and they expect to release him on Wednesday. There was a
woman named Stephanie Abbott who was shot in the thigh. Her injury was not
life-threatening and she is listed in good condition. Secret Service Agent Ron
Butterfield was shot in the hand and should be undergoing surgery shortly."

"And how is Josh Lyman?"

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright scholar,
graduate of Harvard and Yale...political strategist whose brilliant work
catapulted Josiah Bartlet into the Presidency...

"The doctors have reinflated his lung and are working on repairing the damage to
his artery. He's on heart-lung bypass and the surgery has been going on all
night. We won't know anything more for several more hours." You come up for air.
"Two of the three shooters were taken down by the Secret Service on the scene.
The third was arrested early this morning. C.J. Cregg will give a briefing when
we are able to release more information. For now - that's really all I know."

"Our prayers and best wishes are with all of you. Sam Seaborn, White House
Deputy Chief of Communications. When we return, we'll hear from some of the
spectators who witnessed last night's assassination attempt."

"We're out," says the director, and you relax in your chair.

"You did great, Sam," Katie tells you, and you wish you could believe her but
you can't for the life of you remember what you said just now. "Why don't you go
back to your dressing room and relax for a few minutes?"

"I can't, Katie - I've got Bryant at CBS in half an hour." You pull your leaden
limbs out of the chair and let her hug you. She's a warm person, she means well.
She made you look clear-headed even though you've got cobwebs with their own zip
codes where your brains should be.

"Okay, then. But give us a call when you know something. I've interviewed Josh.
He's...he's gonna be just fine. Someone that tough, that bright..."

"I know." You squeeze her hands and give everyone a little wave as you find
Steve waiting for you. As you pass one of the assistant directors you hear
something that makes you want to vomit.

"Yeah, he's a good choice - he's got that sad face, he's all sober and dressed
in his wrinkled suit from last night. Bet their approval rating goes up fifteen
points."

You stiffen. Steve stiffens. You consider asking him to go back there and punch
the bastard's lights out, or better yet, let you do it yourself. "We're outta
here," you say to Steve and you let him guide you through the maze of corridors
and down to where your car is waiting.

You'd rather walk. You'd rather see the sun's rays hit the Prometheus fountain
and go for a leisurely stroll, stopping for a soft, salted pretzel. But there's
a job to do, and it sucks, because you're in pain and it's a beautiful spring
dawn in Midtown and you can't enjoy ten seconds of it because Josh's heart may
or may not be beating.

It's the same ordeal at CBS, and at ABC. You do a remote interview for CNN on
the phone in the car going back to LaGuardia. It happens with merciful speed and
you can be unconscious for it, not paying attention to Bryant or Diane or Bill,
just rattling off the facts. Only when Steve slips you onto the tarmac and into
your seat do you really have time to think again.

You finally get hold of Leo, who says he has no news on Josh. You sigh heavily,
and Leo adds that the President is awake and doing better. He's worried about
the letter that didn't get signed, and about Toby wanting to take the blame for
the canopy being down, but you tell him that you remember how much the President
wanted to be in the open air.

"I'll be in around eight this morning," you tell him, still dazed from the 4
a.m. flight and the subsequent two hours of interviewing. "I'll be in my
office."

"You did a good job," says Leo just before hanging up without a goodbye, and
it's the warmest you've felt since you left the Newseum.

The rotors give you a headache. You take the notebook out of your pocket but you
can't see the words through your hazy, exhausted eyes. Your glasses fog up
because your eyes are so wet. You lean back and try not to think, but the words
still well up like the tears you will not shed.

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright scholar,
graduate of Harvard and Yale...political strategist whose brilliant work
catapulted Josiah Bartlet into the Presidency...whose wit, energy, and
infectious charm moved political mountains...his life brought to an untimely end
in a meaningless act of hatred...

You're close to D.C. now. On the ground you can see the tiny flashing lights of
the police cars that will escort you back to the White House. It's almost eight.
You wonder if there had been a sunrise for Josh this morning. No, no, if
he'd...Leo would have told you. Your cell phone is on. You keep checking it,
half expecting to hear Josh's voice on the other end asking you to bring him
pizza and a beer.

When the helicopter lands your ears stop up and you relish the pain because it
brings you a micron closer to what Josh must have felt when the metal tore
through his chest. Steve guides you past the whirling blades and into a limo.
His job is to take a bullet for you. You would've gladly taken the one that hit
Josh. Anything but this.

When you pull up at the entrance, Leo is there waiting for you. You can't read
his face.

Joshua Jacob Lyman, age thirty-eight...Connecticut-born Fulbright scholar,
graduate of Harvard and Yale...political strategist whose brilliant work
catapulted Josiah Bartlet into the Presidency...whose wit, energy, and
infectious charm moved political mountains... his life brought to an untimely
end in a meaningless act of hatred...beloved son and treasured friend whose
heart will never truly stop as long as he is remembered by those who knew and
loved him...

Leo clasps you by the shoulders when you finally get your arms and legs out of
the car and stand up. "The First Lady just called. They're starting to take him
off bypass and it's looking good. He's looking good, Sam."

You try to smile at him before heading for your office. The spiral notebook cuts
into your palm as you walk with your hands in your pockets. You can't look at
Josh's office when you pass by. It's never dark like this, never empty, and you
can't imagine what it would be like to have to go through his things and watch
Donna wither from grief before your eyes.

But Leo said it was looking good. And Leo is an honorable man...and you can't
tell if you're laughing or crying as exhaustion takes over and leaves you
shaking. You sit in your chair with your feet up, leaning back to look out the
window and whisper a prayer out into the morning sunshine.

Carol walks in, a little stooped from lack of sleep. "Hey, Sam. C.J. wanted me
to tell you she's going over to the hospital in a few minutes, after her
briefing."

"Yeah, thanks." You take your feet off the desk and watch her as she leaves,
then you pull the notebook out and look at your notes.

It's written on paper, but not on destiny. Atropos and her abhorred shears will
have to wait.

Joshua Jacob Lyman...no. Not this time.

You start writing.

He's going to live. Not be survived, but survive. With a few strokes of your
pen, you perform surgery as delicate as the doctors at Georgetown are doing, and
fate is changed.

It's written.

***
End
***

Feedback, if you're so inclined, would be lovingly saved and answered at:
marguerite@swbell.net.
To the next story: "Percussion"
Return to West Wing.

First Place - "Outstanding Characterization of Sam"
First Place - "Outstanding Angst"
Third Place - "Outstanding General Story"
Third Place - "Outstanding Episode-Related Story."
I'm speechless. Thank you, everyone.