A Frightened Peace

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 10/12

'Jackass.'

Abigail Bartlet didn't know what to feel, couldn't pick one emotion from the muddled confusion that twisted through her mind. It was the only coherent thought she could manage. She wasn't even sure she hadn't said it out loud. A quick glance at the blank face of the agent sitting next to her was reassurance enough that she hadn't.

Small relief there, especially now.

But then, would there be a reaction? The secret service were used to that particular word. Used to her using it at any rate. As much as they might want to, nobody else would dare. She almost smiled at that thought. Nobody commented, nobody reacted; at least not after the first time. By now, they'd probably lost count of the times that word had echoed down the halls of the White House.

Watching the buildings flash by, the faces of the curious as the heavily guarded motorcade sped down the street, Abigail Bartlet wondered, not for the first time and certainly not the last, what the hell she was doing here.

'Jackass.'

It was all his fault. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to rail and spit against his stubborn pride, his refusal to face the obvious. It had been so easy to hold on to the rage these last months, seemingly the only thing that had kept her going. The whole thing was starting to get ugly. Injured pride, betrayal; in the end it all amounted to the same thing.

It was all his fault.

She found the anger, held on to it. For a moment, it felt good and solid; the warm glow of a weakened ember. Not much, but it was enough.

'Mrs. Bartlet, your husband has been shot.'

Abbey closed her eyes, refusing the memory. It came anyway. She never could stop it. Was that when it had begun? The doubts? The hidden fears? She'd thought the MS enough of an enemy, had never counted on the vicious, hate filled human variety. Oddly, at the time she'd been ridiculously grateful and touched the grim agent had said, 'Your husband.'

Not the President.

Your husband.

Jed.

She lost the anger. And in its place? She wasn't quite sure.

'Mrs. Bartlet, there's been an accident. Marine One is down.'

Abbey swallowed hard and tried to bite back the tears. Like most things she'd done lately, she failed miserably. She felt the tracks as the tears slowly found their way down her cheeks. Wiping them away, she found a bit of the spark again, the anger.

And whose fault was that? That she was crying again? He knew she was pissed, and who she was pissed at. She had every reason to be. He deserved it. The fact that he had absolutely no idea why had little bearing on her targeting. Yes, it had been her choice. He hadn't asked, he never did. He didn't have to. All she'd had to do was look in his eyes and the decision was made. It was that simple.

She loved him. She was pissed at him. He deserved it.

It was all his fault and he still hadn't figured out why. It always came back to that. He didn't even have the decency to ask. One small, insignificant seeming question and he failed to appreciate its importance. Where was his head? Up his ass? What was it about him that he refused to acknowledge the inevitable? He wasn't immortal. She knew that, he knew that. It wasn't the deal; it wasn't his careful distortion of the truth. Just one little word was all she asked.

'Why, Abbey?' It was so simple a question, yet so far away. 'Why are you angry?'

And what does he do in return? Like a little boy with a skinned knee, he finds his way out of the doghouse. How could she fight that? In so many infuriating ways, he was a little boy and he was all hers.

A lost little boy.

Jed.

'Jackass.'

"Ma'am?"

A hesitant voice wakened her from the memories. Blinking slowly to erase the tears, she allowed herself to be dragged back to the present. The armored limo had pulled into the turnaround of the hospital emergency entrance.

"We're here, ma'am."

Reporters were already swarming, camera lights flashing like so many agitated fireflies. It hadn't taken them long to gather. Like sharks around a thrashing carcass, they'd been drawn to the scent of blood in the water. Abbey recalled a moment when CJ Cregg had explained the phenomenon to her, the seeming paranormal ability of the creatures to latch on to a story and collect like scavengers.

At the time Abbey had preferred her own analogy. Like locusts they were; insects. They didn't care, how could they? What did any of them know about sacrifice? All they cared about was the moment. Her breath burned hot in her throat, a protective fury choking away her doubts and fears. For the moment her anger found another target, multiple targets. Insects.

And right now she was more than ready to stomp on a few of them.

The secret service detail must have sensed some of what was going through her mind. Avoiding bloodshed being one of the prime tenets of their job, they put themselves --more so than usual-- between her and the reporters as she got out of the limo. A few pointed and ferocious glares, the casual flip of a jacket to reveal fully loaded firearms, and the reporters got the message.

Not today. Leave her alone.

Even scavengers have a strong sense of self-preservation. They weren't entirely stupid. The cameras still flashed, the questions were still shouted. But from a safe distance.

As the limo door was opened for her, Abbey saw an agent making his way through the cordon. She recognized one of Butterfield's senior men, couldn't remember his name. There were so many of them. He was assigned to the President's personal detail.

Jed's detail.

She remembered his name now. Carlyle. Not bothering with preamble, ignoring the crowds being held back with as much dignity as she could muster, she demanded curtly, "How is he?"

Carlyle didn't even blink at her tone. After three years, he and the others knew her moods, the pressure points that could set the First Lady off. While they may have presented the image of emotionless practicality, the secret service knew and understood her reasons. Josiah Bartlet may have been the President of the United States and their charge to protect, but he was first and foremost her husband.

They respected her for that, gave her room to maneuver.

Taking her arm and leading her towards the entrance, Carlyle responded with unruffled alacrity, "He's in recovery, ma'am."

Abbey's hurried steps faltered for a moment as the words registered. "Recovery? Already?" How many hours had it been? Since the horrible news was delivered, the insane flight. There'd been no further word, good or otherwise. Hope, something she hadn't dared allow herself to feel, flickered and began to grow. "Then his injuries…"

She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Were relatively minor," the agent finished the sentence, nodding curtly to his two compatriots as they opened the hospital doors for them. Allowing her to precede him inside, he added with uncharacteristic sentiment, "A miracle."

"A miracle," Abbey muttered. But not the miracle she wanted or prayed for. And she knew he hadn't prayed for it either. It wasn't his way.

But it was hers. She couldn't change that. Wouldn't change that.

The hospital corridors had been cleared. Only a few doctors and nurses remained to watch the grim progress of one worried, terrified wife and her forbidding entourage. Some offered a smile of reassurance as she passed, support and understanding. Others looked away, eyes laden with accusation and veiled contempt.

Abbey's lips tightened. And so it begins. Or rather, it continued. She'd broken the rules. Hell, she'd stomped all over them. Her choice and they knew it. The reasons didn't matter, nor that any of them would have made the same decision in her place. Hypocrisy. Some condemned. Some forgave.

She didn't want their condemnation or their forgiveness.

She wanted her husband.

At the end of the corridor she spotted them. Two more dark clad secret service agents waiting outside a closed door, guarding the life of the man within. He was their charge, their job. Her husband. Abbey's heartbeat sped up, as did her pace.

The door opened and a short, white clad man with a clipboard in hand stepped out. Closing the door behind him, he started to say something to one of the agents, then turned and saw the First Lady's approach. His expression changed, sliding into a smug disapproval that bordered on the self-righteous.

One of the attending agents curled his lip at the man's back, exchanging a slight roll of the eyes with Carlyle. With a quick jerk of his head, the man indicated the Doctor with nearly open scorn.

Eyes narrowing slightly, Carlyle took up position beside the First Lady. Instinct told him this was not going to be pretty.

On familiar ground, Abbey reached out her hand, gesturing for the records. "Doctor…?"

Flipping the clipboard under his arm, the man countered icily, "Mrs. Bartlet."

The insult was painfully obvious. Blinking slowly, she drew her hand back. There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice. Truthfully, Abbey was getting used to it. She wasn't allowed to make a mistake, to be human. The medical board meetings, people she had thought friends as well as colleagues, in most cases it was all the same. Even the hypocrisy didn't surprise her anymore. It may no longer have surprised her, but it still hurt, still angered.

Assuming the appearance of indifference, she tried again. "Doctor…?"

"Kipper." Drawing himself up, posturing, he added with no little pride, "I'm the President's attending physician."

"And I'm his wife," she nearly snapped. Smoked fish. Abbey didn't have the strength to laugh. "Doctor Kipper, I would like to see my husband."

Not the President, her husband, the father of her children. The man, not the position. Why couldn't anyone see that? She didn't want to play this game. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to fight the headache, find some sense of peace. How long had it been?

How much longer would it go on?

"He is in recovery, Mrs. Bartlet." Cold eyes sniped at her, enjoying the game, the sense of perceived moral and professional superiority. "There are rules. For the moment, I don't want him disturbed. When he is transferred to a room, you can see him."

"Doctor Kipper…"

"You do remember rules, don't you, Mrs. Bartlet?" He was obviously taking great pleasure in this, himself, and the momentary sense of power. That it was two-faced never occurred to him.

She was so furious at his tone she could hardly speak.

The agents shifted uncomfortably, trading uncertain looks. This was not part of the training manual. Within the rules of engagement, the attending physician had call. Still, this was the First Lady, Abigail Bartlet. The Terror of the White House and, truth be told, the most entertainment any of them had had in years. Her victim count was a point of pride for most of them. In many ways, she made their jobs easier.

Josiah Bartlet might have had the most efficient bodyguards in the world to look to his safety, but not one of them had reckoned with the formidable force that was a wife bent on protecting her husband against all comers, be they abstract or tangible enemies.

They liked her.

Watching carefully, eagerly, they waited for the explosion.

It never came.

There was no mistaking the condescension in the Doctor's attitude. Abbey stiffened, momentarily disconcerted and for the first time in years unsure of her place or power. Where before embarrassment would have turned to raw, righteous fury, now all she could find was indecision. Another wall had been placed in front of her.

She was tired of climbing them alone.

"…given the general rundown condition of the President's health," Kipper was saying, his tone scornful and self satisfied, "I wouldn't hesitate to say someone had dropped the ball. His blood pressure is high, more than likely brought on by long-term exhaustion and general neglect…"

Abbey flinched.

Three pairs of eyes narrowed dangerously. This had gone on long enough. Rules or no rules, the secret service did have options. Besides, the First Lady had taught them a few tricks over recent years. They had all been quick learners, survival of the fittest.

Intent on his lecture and posturing, Kipper didn't notice one of the agents behind him lift his hand to his mouth. He didn't hear him speak quietly and hotly into the transceiver strapped to his wrist and palm. Nor did he even see or register the cool glance and the nod of approval Carlyle exchanged with him.

He also completely missed the anticipation, the sly and predatory gleams that appeared in their eyes.

Smirking, he was too busy playing the self-righteous fool.

Abbey listened to him drone on and on. There was no end in sight. Another time, another place and she would have enjoyed surgically removing the arrogant smirk that spread like oil across his face. Right now, she only wanted one thing.

"I want to see my husband."

Another arrogant smirk. "You can see the President…"

"Now."

Abbey's relief was nearly unbearable. There was no mistaking the voice of Jed's oldest friend. There had been times when she hated it, blamed him as much as her husband. What it lacked in sheer volume, it more than made up for in low, grating and supremely perilous hidden nuances. She didn't have to look; closed her eyes when she felt a gentle hand touch her elbow and squeeze it reassuringly.

Carlyle stepped back as two others joined him and flanked the First Lady on either side. McGarry and Butterfield, bruised, battered and bandaged, leveled the pompous little man with glares of cool contempt.

The cavalry had arrived.

Awkwardly, Kipper cleared his throat. Attempting to regain some of his momentum, he tried, "Mr. McGarry..."

He broke off as two other dark clad figures joined the group. Nodding to Butterfield, they stepped around Abbey and took up position on either side of the rapidly deflating Doctor. Hard eyed, uncompromising, they began to stare at their now visibly fidgeting victim.

Victim. The First Lady had taught them the true, wonderful meaning of that word.

It was a show of support Abbey had not expected. Something cautioned her not to ask why, but to accept it as the gift it was meant to be. Hypocrisy, doubts and fears had no place here, they wouldn't allow it.

For the first time today, Abigail Bartlet smiled and meant it. Abandoning all pretence, defiance in her tone as well as challenge, she said sweetly, "Doctor Kipper?"

Only those who knew no better would have said the surrounding agents smiled at that familiar, melodically cutting tone. Their lips did twitch and satisfaction gleamed briefly in their eyes, then shuttered, hidden by hard, cold expressions.

The Terror was back. Life was good.

Kipper missed the whole thing completely. "Mrs. Bartlet, my patient…"

"My husband." Abbey smiled at that.

So did McGarry. "Let her in."

Literally jumping at the sound of his voice, Kipper sputtered, "Mr. McGarry, there are rules…"

"So break 'em. My call."

"My call." Butterfield's dangerously impersonal tone broke in.

McGarry blinked up at Butterfield, then grinned even wider. Pointing with open, childish glee at the glowering senior agent, he said, "His call."

Drawing himself up, puffing further if that were at all possible. "My patient."

McGarry shrugged and said casually, "Sue me."

"Really…"

"Yeah, really."

There was nothing else Kipper could do. It had finally dawned on him that he was outnumbered. "I will take this up with the administrator. You can count on that!"

As parting shots go, it was pretty weak. McGarry had heard far better in his time. Hell, the man wouldn't last more than a few seconds with Toby, let alone a group of irritable, well armed bodyguards. Not to mention two men who'd had the whole nine yards tossed at them that day and really weren't in the mood to play.

Shrugging, he said, "Knock yourself out."

"Yeah, knock yourself out." Pushed to his limits and perhaps, just this once, giving into a touch of personal exasperation, Butterfield's lip curled under his moustache. His voice hardened and while very quiet had an ominous quality to it that even the least intelligent of creatures couldn't miss. "I would really like you to try."

Almost visibly swelling with outraged pride, and perhaps just a touch of trepidation, the Doctor wheeled to stalk away. As he brushed past her, Abbey neatly whipped the medical chart bearing her husband's notes from under his arm.

Already enraged, this further affront to his claim to supreme authority incensed Kipper beyond caution. Whirling, he extended his arm as if to seize back the chart from the First Lady's grasp.

A low, rumbling, yet unmistakably menacing sound caused him to freeze in mid-motion, arm outstretched. Almost visibly paling, his eyes darted to gaze at the tall security chief with open alarm. Had the man actually growled? Swallowing convulsively, he was not at all reassured by the faces of the others. The agents seemed to be regarding their boss with as much surprise as their professionalism would permit them to show.

Leo McGarry and Abigail Bartlet, denied the benefit of such training, were not so discrete.  Their expressions were almost comically dumfounded.

Butterfield ignored them all, his gimlet like eyes threatening to drill holes clean through the offending party, who was practically twitching under the force of that glare.

Cleanly routed, Kipper let out a long, audible breath, then marched off.

As the still sputtering little man stomped down the corridor, Abbey turned and gave both McGarry and Butterfield a long look, a speculative gleam in her eye. Something had happened here, changing the rules. She didn't know exactly what, or even why.

Butterfield shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, reaching up to absently scratch at the ridiculous looking bandage covering the bridge of his nose. Looking at him closely for the first time, it occurred to Abbey that the man had probably just barely escaped from some doctor's care. A hospital smock was hastily tucked into a pair of dirty trousers and he was barefoot. She half expected to see a brigade of outraged nurses charging around the corner any moment now in hot pursuit.

Not for the first time, she wondered exactly how far this man would go to protect her husband. Obviously, his own care and comfort wasn't part of the equation.

It was a very humbling thought.

And Leo McGarry wasn't much better. Clearing his throat, he was looking down at the tops of his once immaculate but now muddy and scuffed shoes, shuffling his feet. Obviously he hadn't been cornered by any doctors yet, but she was sure he was on somebody's list.

Abbey nearly laughed at the sight. It was so very obvious and touching. They were all little boys. And somewhere along the line, she had become the den mother. She was amazed at the unexpected warmth that thought gave her.

"Thank you," she said simply. No other words were needed.

Smiling, McGarry inclined his head. "Abbey."

Butterfield, once again the image of emotionless practicality, replied, "Ma'am."

Hand on the door, she paused and said with obvious relish, "You two make a good team. You should take it on the road."

With that parting shot, she went inside.

Both men stared at the door as it closed behind her.

"A good team?" McGarry gave Butterfield a sidelong glance of utter shock and disbelief. "Us?"

Butterfield's mouth was hanging open, and then snapped shut with an audible click. "Is she serious?"

"Could be."

"A team?"

Both men stared at each other wordlessly, contemplating the loaded possibilities. Then, together they shook their heads and muttered in chorus, "Nah."

Carlyle and the others didn't quite snicker, but they came close.

Studiously ignoring the knowing looks his men were giving him, and McGarry's grin, Butterfield snapped, "Carlyle."

"Sir."

"Go with him," he inclined his head in the direction Kipper had taken. "Inform the hospital administrator I want Doctor Snotty taken off the President's case. No arguments. My call."

Carlyle's lips twitched. "Reason, sir?"

One corner of his mouth twisted upwards and Butterfield replied blandly, "I don't like him."

McGarry snorted, swallowing and nearly choking on a laugh.

Butterfield glared at him.

Face brightening at the order, Carlyle dashed off down the corridor, in search of another victim. Not for the first time, he realized this job came with some major perks.

Watching him leave, Butterfield turned and regarded the closed recovery room door. His expression, still not quite back under steely control, stilled and grew almost somber.

Following his gaze, McGarry was uncannily aware of what was going through the agent's mind. "She'll be okay," he said. "They both will."

"You sure?"

For an instant, a strange wistfulness stole into McGarry's expression. He'd missed the boat on this one, but Jed and Abbey Bartlet hadn't. The answer was easy. "Thirty odd years of marriage and you don't think they've had fights before?"

"Ever gone on this long?"

McGarry weighed the agent with a critical gaze. Something was off here. "You usually don't ask these questions."

Butterfield shrugged, a momentary look of discomfort crossing his face. With the Chief of Staff in tow, he turned and began making his way down the corridor. "They usually don't have much bearing."

"It wouldn't, would it?" Sadly, McGarry thought he understood. "You've got a job to do, no matter what."

"Most of the time."

Hearing something in his voice, recognizing it, McGarry smiled. He understood now. "You like them."

Uncomfortable, but still managing to keep his expression under stern control, Butterfield growled, "Don't let it get around."

"I can keep a secret."

"Yeah, right."

McGarry dropped back for a moment, and then picked up his pace. Grinning, he needled, "Doctor Snotty?"

"Yeah." This time, Butterfield did smile. It was a genuine, face splitting, muscle-cracking grin of pure, evil amusement. "Wanna make something of it?"

"Do I look crazy?"

"Yep."

"Okay."

To be continued…