Falls the Shadow
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 12/14
Now the only remaining members of the original audience, McGarry and Ziegler fidgeted uncomfortably beside each other, a subtle tension still charging the air around them. Still shocked by events and unable to settle, McGarry drifted around the foot of the bed, finally coming up behind Hackett and leaning in to observe the treatment of the President's hand.
Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. Leo McGarry had a pretty strong stomach but not, he was discovering, where injury to those he cared about was concerned. Still able to taste the metallic bile of the fear he had felt for his friend's condition in the instant aftermath of the explosion, he felt his insides twist anew at the sight of the damage the explosive had wrought. Hackett had been kind when he described the flesh as pulped. To McGarry it looked rather as if someone had taken a meat hammer to a side of uncooked beef. Somehow, watching the contrasting gleam of silver as the needle wove its way amongst the damage only made it worse.
One thing was for sure; he was never going to be able to order his steak rare again.
No sooner had that evil little image popped into his brain, than he found himself desperately trying to banish it again. Too late. Swallowing with difficulty against an ominously tightening throat, the Chief of Staff uttered a muffled, "Excuse me," before withdrawing with as much dignity as haste would permit to the adjoining bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
The absorbed Hackett didn't even look up from his delicate work. Ziegler regarded the closed door with rueful sympathy, then caught the appraising eye of his Chief Executive. Warily, he approached the bed in his turn. "How are you doing, Mr. President?"
"Slightly better than Leo right at this moment, it would appear." Frankly, Bartlet was feeling strangely detached from events right now. Everything seemed both remote and oddly attenuated.
Fascinated, he watched the dip and rise of the needle as it penetrated his flesh. The lack of sensation made the experience even more surreal. However, it wasn't exactly an attractive sight. As the needle made its passage through a particularly ragged section of flesh he suddenly envied Leo his mobility. Well, that particular option was closed to him right now, so time to take alternative measures. "Admiral, mind if I have a cigarette?"
His concentration finally broken, Hackett looked up and cocked an incredulous eyebrow. "Are you serious, Mr. President?"
"Never more so. Come on," the President wheedled in his best 'see how pitiful I am' tone of voice. It never worked on Abbey, but he had high hopes Hackett was a bit more susceptible. "I just want something to relax my nerves... and my stomach," he added as his physician began to shake his head. "Look, I'll lay it out for you. Either let me have a cigarette to keep my mind off what you're doing or risk me messing up your nice uniform."
That gave Hackett serious pause. No military man liked the idea of his Class A's sustaining that kind of damage. Besides, with a local already administered it wasn't as if he could actually give the man anything for nausea. And if it helped relax him... "Very well, Mr. President. But just the one, mind you. So you'd better make it last until I'm finished here."
Bartlet visibly perked up at this first success over his medical advisors. "Top drawer," he waved to Ziegler, who recovered the packet from the bed stand and shook one out for him.
With a slightly shaky hand, the Communications Director presented his lighter, embarrassed that the President had to reach up with his good hand to assist in the last ritual of lighting up.
Bartlet drew on the cigarette gratefully. It wasn't at all good for him, he wasn't about to argue with that, but it did help. And right now, he didn't really care.
"Have one yourself, Toby," he offered graciously. The man looked like he could use some relief as well.
"Yeah, I think I will." Ziegler was very aware of the therapeutic properties of nicotine for the addict. He drew out his cigar case. "Would you mind if I smoked my own?"
"Not at all." Bartlet blithely ignored Hackett's pointed eye rolling. He grinned, taking another drag off his cigarette. "Even better actually. Your cigar should more than drown out the smell of my cigarette for Abbey's return. Oh, for Heaven's sake, Toby!" he exclaimed with some exasperation as Ziegler paused in terrified mid-puff. "I'm kidding!"
Ziegler stroked his beard dubiously, but settled gingerly on the right side of the bed, looking across his President's chest to where the man's hand still lay propped on the pillow. "Are you in a lot of pain right now, sir?"
"Not too bad right now, thanks, Toby." Bartlet cautiously wiggled a finger and grimaced slightly. "Mind you, I'm not looking forward to the anesthetic wearing off."
"Done!" Hackett snipped the last thread and laid the hand down gingerly. "About a dozen stitches, Mr. President. Not bad for a relatively small area, but the wound was quite deep. Now hold still because we still need to wrap it." He rose, gathering his paraphernalia. "I'm just going to wash up... and check on Mr. McGarry," he added as a muttered afterthought before vanishing into the bathroom.
Left alone, the President and his Communications Director puffed away peacefully for a couple of minutes. Then Bartlet glanced at his companion. "Want to tell me what's going on?"
"Sir?"
"You and Leo." Bartlet noticed the sudden interest Ziegler exhibited in the tip of his cigar. Yep, he'd definitely called that one right. "Something's happened between you two, and it had to have been last night because there was no sign of it yesterday. Now, everyone knows that you and I blow up at each other on a regular basis. They can tell time by it. You and Leo? Not so much. So what happened? Something come up at the staff briefing?"
"Not at the briefing, but afterwards." Ziegler shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, really..."
"Anything I should know about?" Toby's inability to meet his gaze was a dead giveaway. Bartlet grimaced. "It was about me, wasn't it? Toby, if you're still concerned about my ability to carry out my duties properly in the wake of recent revelations..."
"I'm not!" Ziegler's response was passionate in its sincerity. "Please, sir, no matter what I may have said in the past, don't ever think I have anything but the greatest confidence in you. No, Leo... simply wanted an answer that wasn't mine to give."
"Then who's...?" Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "Mine? Toby, what did Leo want to know?"
"Sir, he wasn't attempting to pry. You know Leo; he's incapable of taking advantage of a friendship." He paused briefly as Bartlet nodded glumly. "But he was worried about you. And," a deep drag on his cigar for confidence, "angry with me."
"Was this about our... talk?" It was the first time either had referred to that night since their peacemaking chess match.
"Yes, sir. In a roundabout sort of way. He was concerned that it might be still affecting you." Ziegler looked down guiltily. "He felt you already had more than enough to cope with right now."
"And of course, you didn't tell him." Bartlet glanced at the closed bathroom door; a short, bitter laugh escaping his bruised and cut lips. "Poor Leo. He's not used to the word no."
"A common affliction in this building," Ziegler muttered, not too unkindly.
"It's more than that though, isn't it? Leo wouldn't expect you to break a confidence. He's upset about something else."
"I... may have crossed a line." Ziegler was still refusing to meet his President's eye. His head snapped up though when Bartlet gave a low, heartily amused chuckle. He hadn't expected that.
"You, Toby? Crossing lines? You amaze me." Bartlet grinned at his discomfited advisor. "Nice to know that even Leo isn't immune."
"Yes, sir." Ziegler sheepishly took another drag on his cigar. Deciding to seize the moment, and scarcely able to fathom why this issue was so important to him, he asked, "Was he right to worry, sir?"
Bartlet's amused expression abruptly shuttered. Lowering his voice and glancing at the bathroom door to make sure they weren't interrupted, he said, "I'm fine, Toby. Really. And I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind. God damn it!" The exclamation was part angry exasperation, part curiosity. "Why is it so important to you anyway? I've told you already, it wasn't exactly a Dickens novel. Many people would even say it was just the way things were back then. What do you want from me?"
Ziegler regarded his companion sadly. "To maybe acknowledge that it wasn't all right, that it wasn't fine," he said quietly. "To realize, as I do, that you deserved better. All children do."
Bartlet met his gaze, startled and visibly at a loss for words. Toby was doing it again, and damned if he could figure out how.
The opening of the bedroom doors broke the silence. Abigail Bartlet swept through, a medical tray loaded with fresh bandages in one hand. Halting abruptly, she glared through a cloud of smoke at the two men seated on the bed before advancing purposely, dropping the tray on the end of the bed as she passed.
"Hi, Abbey." Bartlet was grateful for the interruption. "Did you get…" He broke off abruptly as his wife angrily snatched the cigarette from his fingers.
Leaning across her husband, Abbey plucked the cigar from the bewildered Ziegler's mouth with an audible pop, then wheeled about to march purposely into the bathroom, passing a surprised Hackett and McGarry - who had been leaning on the countertop inside - engaged in intense discussion.
Bartlet and Ziegler gazed after her blankly, then turned slowly comprehending gazes on each other as the fanfare of flushing water clearly sounded through the open door. The Communications Director's mouth was the first to twitch, and then the President threw back his head in a full-throated laugh as his companion in crime joined in.
"Toby my boy, we are in deep trouble," Bartlet gasped, wiping his eyes with his good hand and grimacing slightly at the stinging sensation the incautious gesture induced.
Ziegler struggled to contain his chuckles - he did after all have a reputation to maintain - almost giddy with pleasure at being able to share this moment with a man he regarded as a friend. "Hey, I'm not the patient here. You can fight this battle yourself, old man."
Watching from his vantage point just inside the bathroom door, McGarry was prey to a strange mix of emotions. He was glad to see Jed being able to snatch such moments of camaraderie with his staff; he hadn't had very many moments just to be with a friend since taking office. But Toby's words of the previous evening continued to resound in his head.
He was Jed's oldest friend. He truly loved the man. Had he failed in that friendship, if not in work and duty? When had the job become all they talked about, all he talked about? When had he made Jed come to feel that he could more easily confide in Toby instead? Seeing the two men laughing on the bed, he suddenly felt cut off from the man who meant so much to him.
McGarry wasn't given much time to dwell on such depressing thoughts though as Abbey, a gleam in her eye and clearly on the warpath, brushed by him. He exchanged an equitable roll of the eyes with Hackett as he and the medic followed the First Lady back into the main bedroom to watch the show.
Hands on her hips, Abbey Bartlet glared down at the two culprits, who were sobering rapidly and eyeing her with apprehension. Good! "Toby," she said quietly. "I'll need you to stand back, please."
Hardly able to believe his good fortune at escaping so easily, Ziegler hastened to get clear of the danger zone.
Bartlet shot a betrayed glance at his retreating back. "Chicken!" he hissed.
"Pumpkin?" Abbey said sweetly. Sure that she had his full nervous attention, she gave him a warning glance. "We'll discuss it all later. Right now, we need to finish with your hand."
Bartlet sighed resignedly as Hackett once again seated himself on the edge of the bed and delicately lifted his hand from its resting place, allowing the First Lady to spread yet another fresh towel beneath. The laundry bills after this little incident were going to be murder. At least the stitching of the main wound had slowed the bleeding to a trickle.
Glancing around, he suddenly demanded, "Where's Charlie?"
"I sent him to lie down." Abbey was handing Hackett the Hibitane and a roll of surgical gauze. "The cut wasn't serious, but he was suffering from mild shock. A few hours rest and he'll be fine."
"Good." Bartlet shifted slightly on the bed and winced. "Ow!"
"Sorry, Mr. President." Hackett had thickly layered his palm and fingers with the cream and gaze and was beginning to wrap the first of what looked to be several excessively long bandages around the hand and wrist.
"No, it's not you." Bartlet grimaced as he tugged gently at his blood-stiffened shirtfront. "Now it's drying, my shirt is starting to stick to my chest. Can I change?" On Abbey's nod, he gestured towards the bureau. "Leo, toss me a shirt out of the second drawer, will you?"
"Not a shirt, Leo, and not the sweats either," his wife interrupted briskly. "Get his pajamas from the drawer above." Glaring at her patient, she asked, "A shirt? Where do you think you're going, mister? You're donning pajamas and getting into bed right now."
"I am in bed," Bartlet groused. Who cared if he sounded petulant? He was feeling petulant and felt like reveling in it.
"And staying there. Do I make myself clear?"
Glowering slightly, but admitting to himself that he really didn't feel up to doing anything else anyway, Bartlet began to carefully and awkwardly unbutton his shirt. McGarry hurried to his assistance, pajamas clutched in one hand.
"Here, Jed. Let me help." The words were impulsively spoken, and McGarry didn't even notice Ziegler's glance of surprised approval.
Abbey noticed as well, giving McGarry an astonished look of her own, quickly masked. When was the last time she'd heard Leo call Jed by name, to his face? A quiet evening, the last for many years to come, before the Illinois primary was the vague memory. She wasn't sure, but she could have sworn there was a flash of smug satisfaction on Toby's face before his features once again settled into his usual bellicose facade. Interesting.
Fighting the last of his shirt buttons with an irritated grunt, Bartlet didn't seem to notice.
Grasping the cuff of his friend's sleeve, McGarry eased the bloodied shirt off the man's right arm and shoulders as the President leaned forward to assist him. The left sleeve had been partly shredded by the blast, and Hackett paused in his wrapping of the hand long enough to slide the shirt down and off. McGarry turned back to the President again, holding the opened pajama top and bending over his friend.
"Just lean forward again and I can drape this over your shoulders until the Admiral's done..." McGarry's voice trailed off as Bartlet compliantly stretched forward, exposing the expanse of his back to his friend's eyes.
There, on the right side, just below the ribcage. A puckered, slightly jagged scar; a tear. An exit wound. McGarry clutched the cloth in his hands, unable for a second to move or even breathe. He'd seen it before, knew what it looked like. But right here and now, in these circumstances, it was a reminder he could have well done without.
The memories returned, images crashing against his consciousness like an oncoming wave. Sensory overload. He tried, God how he tried, but he couldn't stop them. Blood and tears. Too much blood. A cynical inner voice echoed the words Bartlett had spoken only the night before. The teasing words of a beloved friend and colleague, but now colored the bright crimson of violence.
'Thank you for that, Leo,' the President had said, a slight smile taking the sting from his words. 'This job was your idea.'
His idea. Lift houses, take on the world. McGarry had convinced him to fight for and accept this job: to willingly sacrifice so much and maybe, just maybe, make a difference and put a lasting mark on history. It was only a job, difficult, maddening and frustrating to the extreme, but still just a job.
It wasn't supposed to kill him.
To be continued…