VII

"Good afternoon, Charlie."

"Mr. Vice President." The young aide seemed vaguely confused for a moment, then remembered what he was doing and gestured towards the Oval. "He's expecting you."

"Thanks, Charlie." John spared a smile for the obviously edgy young man. His own wedding day had been quite some years back now, and a good deal less of a public affair - even so, he couldn't quite imagine what it would have been like spending the entire run-up to it in the company of the father of the bride.

On the other hand, the father of this particular bride wasn't someone whose company he found spectacularly enjoyable in the first place.

"Mr. President."

"John." The president smiled warmly enough at him, and he wondered, as he always did, whether it was politeness or goodwill. He and Jed Bartlet had gradually straightened out many of the differences they'd engendered over the years... but they would never be friends.

"You wanted to see me?"

He nodded slowly, seemingly lost in thought. "Just for the... propriety of the thing," he said mildly.

John smiled thinly. "You'll be gone barely more than a day," he pointed out.

"But it's for personal reasons." He didn't say 'and everybody in the whole damn world knows exactly where I'm gonna be and too many of them have a beef with it', but John heard it in the silence anyway. "I just wanted to..." he shrugged.

It was John's turn to nod slowly. "The country's in safe hands," he said. He wanted to be sarcastic, but he couldn't, not quite. Because... because once there had been a night of confusion and grim-faced Secret Service men, and the incessant howl of sirens on the news.

Because sometimes exaggerated precautions and empty gestures weren't.

The president gave a satisfied, sober smile in reply, and then - with that enviable spark of easy charm that had put him ahead in a few too many polls five years ago - flipped it up a notch into a bright grin. "Don't get too comfortable," he warned.

"I'll try not to wear out my welcome," he said, knowing he came off stiffer than he wanted to. The president was sincere in the playful nature of his barbs, but they still stung. It wasn't easy, facing the man who'd beaten you in a race he by all rights should have lost.

It was even less easy when that man was too damn easy and comfortable and right in that position to despise him for his victory.

Oh, it would have been so much simpler if he'd been able to resent a man he didn't respect.

John knew, deep down, that in any other position than his Vice President, his admiration for Josiah Bartlet would have been unhesitant. And that made him feel petty, and he didn't like that at all.

"I know I can trust you," the president said. Compliment? Condescension? Just making conversation? He hated the fact that he analysed, and he hated the fact that he cared.

But he was a good man.

John hesitated in the doorway, and turned back. "Mr. President?"

He looked up from the papers he'd already returned to perusing, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I just wanted to say..." He took a breath. "I admire what you're doing for Leo McGarry, sir. I admire that very much."

The president met his eyes, face abruptly totally serious. "He's my friend," he said, quietly but with an air of finality. "Anything I can do is not enough."

And from the naked honesty in that gaze, he had to look away. "I'll take care of things this end, Mr. President. Have a good flight."

"Goodnight, John."

On the way out, he stopped to smile at the president's aide and future son-in-law. "Best wishes for tomorrow, Charlie."

"Thank you, sir."

He shook the young man by the hand and left.

"Hey, mom." Elizabeth Bartlet-Weston turned around to smile at her mother. She studiously managed not to see the figures in dark suits who slid in beside her. She was used to her own protection detail - glad of it, when she worried about all the terrible things that could happen to Annie in the course of a day - but the numbers increased exponentially around her mother, and now around her baby sister too. It would be even worse when her father arrived. She wondered how he coped with the constant, stifling presence.

Her mother came to join her leaning out over the balcony. "It's beautiful out here," she observed softly, although it was really too dark to see more than smudges of light in the darkness.

"Is that why you and dad got married here?"

Her mother smiled slightly. "Your father and I got married here because this was his church, and because we didn't have any money to go anywhere else."

Liz smiled at that. She knew her father's family certainly hadn't been within shouting distance of poor, and her mother's side hadn't been exactly scraping either, but her parents would never have been prepared to get married on anybody's charity. Just as she hadn't, preferring the simplicity of the ceremony where she and Rick had tied the knot when they were still very, very young. Her father had sworn blind that he wouldn't stand for it, and been there for her every step of the way.

She swirled the contents of her wine glass. "It is beautiful, though. And it's good that Zoey and Charlie are getting married here... it really makes him part of the family." He seemed like a perfectly nice young man from what she'd seen of him... still, it felt strange to think of baby Zoey getting married. She'd only been a child when Annie was born; Liz could still remember the night of her sister's own birth with crystal clarity.

"It does," her mother smiled. She didn't seem quite as celebratory as Liz would have expected; happy, but muted, as if she was caught up in deeper thoughts than those of this brief oasis of calm and happiness.

"I think he's good for her," she said.

"He is." The smile grew warmer as her mother turned to face her. "And Rick is good for you." There it was, the playful quirk of the mouth that she remembered so well, and that still gave her a strange kind of a shock when she saw it in Annie.

"I'll drink to that," she grinned, and drained the last of her wine to prove it. She hesitated, turning back to look out over the landscape. "Ellie's boyfriend's gonna make dad flip out," she observed quietly.

"Oh, boy," her mother agreed dryly.

"What was she thinking?" They exchanged a wry look. "I know exactly what she was thinking," Liz admitted. What was it with her middle sister and her dad? The friction between them had been building even way back before she'd left home, when Ellie hadn't even made it into her teens. Liz had never understood it. Sure, she'd argued, even fought with her father - many, many times, when she'd announced her intention to marry Rick - but it had never ended in anything other than sighs and warmth and cuddles.

But then, Ellie had never been much of a one for cuddles - or for shouting. She kept everything on the inside. And her dad, God bless him, needed somebody to bounce off of. He was too large a personality to share a room with a shrinking violet, he could smother a person just by trying not to.

Where had Ellie got the 'quiet' gene from? It was hardly a Bartlet family trait.

As for her father... well, he could be overbearing as hell at times, no denying that, but you killed that by flaring up at it, not curling up in a ball and waiting for him to stop.

Although, come to think of it, he hadn't seemed that way recently. Liz picked her next words carefully. "Mom, is...? Dad's been kind of, I don't know... weird, lately."

"Your father's always weird, honey, you should know that by now." But her mother's eyes seemed sad behind the automatic quip.

"I know, he just, he seems... Quiet, I guess. Kind of sad." Not quite the word she was shooting for, but somehow she felt strange stretching the limits of her vocabulary in front of the woman who'd known her when she could barely say 'mama'. "Mom, is something wrong?"

Her mother sighed, and mustered a smile for her. "If you're worried about the MS... it's not that. He's been better, these past few months, although he won't admit it."

"Salads?" Liz said, not quite able to suppress the grin. Her dad, chowing down on rabbit food every mealtime? Somehow, she couldn't quite see that happening with good grace.

"And the naps and the giving up smoking." Her mother briefly grasped her shoulder comfortingly. "He's fine, sweet pea, he's just taken to... dwelling on the past... lately."

"The wedding, huh?" she guessed, and her mother nodded.

But somehow, Liz couldn't help fearing that there was more to it than that.

Sam stretched out his legs and sunk into the aeroplane seat with a happy little sigh. Toby glared at him over the top of his laptop as he kicked against the chair opposite, and Sam reluctantly withdrew his feet to a more reasonable position.

"Hey. Oh, hi, Toby." Steve bounced up the corridor to join them and squeezed in next to Sam. "Budge up, sunshine."

"You've got a whole seat there, how much room do you need?"

"I have wide hips."

Sam snorted, but obligingly scooted up a little way. Steve sat down and squirmed, getting comfortable.

"Hey, how come you get the window seat?" he demanded.

"'Cause I got here first?"

"I think I should get the window seat."

"By what reasoning?"

"You get to fly a lot more than I do."

"And since I'm so heartily sick of it, I should get all the perks that are going," Sam countered.

"Which include being nice and safe in the aisle seat where you won't have to look at all those scary clouds."

"Clouds are scary now?"

"They are when you're above them."

Sam smirked. "Well, if I get frightened, you'll just have to hold my hand."

Steve tugged at his arm. "C'mon, Sam, let me sit by the window!" he urged.

"I have to sit by the window. I get motion sickness," he lied.

"No you don't."

"I will if you keep jiggling my shoulder like that."

"Oh, okay, you can have the window seat." Steve slumped back into his own chair and pouted. "But I warn you now, I'm going to go to sleep on your shoulder."

"What, now?" Sam glanced at his watch and grinned. "Are we out past your bedtime?"

"No, but I just think if I'm gonna be spending the whole flight listening to you, I should have a contingency plan."

Toby mumbled something into his beard about having to listen to the both of them. Sam smiled guilelessly. "What was that Toby?"

"Hell. I'm in hell," he muttered to himself.

Steve turned to look at Sam. "What's wrong with Toby, Sam?"

"He's being Mr. Grumpy-Pants," Sam explained. "And now he's doing that thing where he rolls his eyes up," he added. "And fairly soon he's going to snap something at me."

"Like travelling with a pair of twelve-year-olds," Toby growled.

"See?"

Steve looked from one of them to the other. "You two are very sweet, you know that?"

"Hmph." Toby abruptly closed his laptop and stomped off.

"I think we scared him off," Steve noted.

"Maybe he just saw some clouds." With Toby gone, Sam stretched out his feet and sighed contentedly. Steve gave him a look.

"You're a lot more devious than people give you credit for."

"I have an innocent face."

"I'm not fooled."

Sam shrugged, and nodded to the opposite seat. "You can have that window seat now, if you like."

"I don't want that one," he frowned.

"What's the difference between that one and this one?"

"I can't go to sleep on your shoulder in that one."

Sam smiled at him, and obligingly raised his arm and allowed Steve to lay his head against him. They were silent for a few moments.

"You know, you have surprisingly uncomfortable shoulders."

"Shut up." He kissed Steve's hair affectionately.