XI
Cambodia.
...The Royal Cambodian government was formed in September 1993 as a coalition of the Cambodian People's Party(CPP), Buddhist Liberal Democratic Party (BLDP) and the National United Front for an Independent, Neutral, Peaceful and Cooperative Cambodia (FUNCINPEC)...
His eyes were wandering. Jed tried to concentrate on his reading, but it remained a frustrating blur of entirely too many acronyms. This was supposed to be the stuff he was skimming over to get to the full, comprehensive details of the current political climate, but he just couldn't seem to get it to fix in his head; every time his eyes encountered one of those ever-present jumbles of letters, his brain just froze up on trying to remember who was who and what was what.
He was too tired for this. Too tired for this, but the political situation could explode at any moment, and he ought to know why he was doing what he was doing. Oh, Leo and Nancy would guide him through, he had no doubt of that, but he was the president. Every president should have the wisest advisors, but if he was just following them without the ability to comprehend and evaluate their choices, he might as well be Rob Ritchie.
Focus. He needed to focus.
...The Royal Cambodian government was formed...
He could really do with one of those rest periods he was supposed to take right now. But he knew it wouldn't help. Closing his eyes was torture, not respite, when all the darkness held was churning thoughts instead of sleep.
In the soft click of the Oval Office door, he realised that his eyes had somehow fallen shut anyway. He struggled upright in his seat, expecting it to be Charlie. It wasn't.
"Abbey!"
In his semi-dazed state, he was for a moment unable to process her appearance on any level other as some kind of unexpected gift from God. Hadn't he said she should stay in Minneapolis...?
She picked the words right out of his brain, one hand on her hip as she gave him a lopsided smile. "Since when do I ever do what you tell me to, Jed Bartlet?"
He smiled back, the expression feeling almost unfamiliar to his face as the furrowed lines of concentration lifted... but the words that came out of his mouth were "You didn't have to come home."
Abbey smirked and lifted her eyebrows at him. "You want me to go away?"
In no mood for games that would only betray his stumbling mental state, he wordlessly opened his arms to her. Her expression softened with compassion, and she crossed the room to sit half on the arm of the chair, half on his lap. "It's okay, babe," she murmured softly, stroking his hair. "I know it's tough, but it's gonna be okay."
Jed just pulled her tighter against him, taking a solace from her presence that no amount of comforting words could ever match up to. For a long, blissful moment, they were both silent, and that was enough. Abbey had always been able to bring him peace, the way she had all those years ago when she'd walked into his life as an overwhelmed young theology student, and he'd first learned that there were times when you could just stop thinking.
It brought him a better relaxation than his nights of tossing and turning, but it couldn't last forever. Abbey straightened up, as reluctant to pull away as he was to let her go. Her hand on the side of his face was cool, but it made him feel warm.
"You know you're gonna have to call your brother," she said, with a smile of sad affection.
Jed closed his eyes in brief dismay. "Yeah." That was one duty he couldn't fob off on anybody else, one conversation that only he could have.
A conversation about things that both had always known, and neither had ever spoken. He was breaking the code of the ages, and not by his own will. These things should never be spoken aloud; these things should never need to be.
When he opened his eyes, Abbey was still staring into them. "And Leo needs to know," she told him gently. "CJ can speak to the others, but... it can't be her who tells Leo."
He knew that was true. It should be him, but...
"I-" He couldn't articulate it, but that was okay, because she just smiled and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek.
"I'll talk to him," she promised. "You don't worry about it. I'll talk to him."
And he was grateful, desperately grateful, even as he felt crumpled up and tossed around by his own weaknesses. His control was fading. He was losing control of his own life, and that was what scared him, not some semi-mythical demons from his past. Just this feeling of helplessness, complete and utter helplessness, as he lost his ability to define himself and became what other people chose to see him as.
He wasn't a victim. But other people were taking from him his right to decide so.
Abbey shifted against him, and he knew that as much as he wanted to, he couldn't hold her there forever. "You need to go unpack?" he asked reluctantly.
"Not yet." She smiled up at him softly. "I think I'll stay here awhile."
"Okay."
She stayed, one arm resting on his shoulder, the other twirling absent little patterns in his hair. Jed picked up the briefing notes, and began to read again, and somehow this time the knots of frustration untangled themselves easier. He was still exhausted - but he knew that tonight, he would sleep.
Sam leaned back as far as his chair would allow him without tipping over - although he kept one foot hooked around the leg of the desk, just in case. Ostensibly, he was composing and assessing possible answers to the questions CJ would be facing. In truth, he was actually watching Toby.
You wouldn't automatically think of the Ziegler mood as being particularly challenging to read. Usually, even Josh could be counted on to comprehend its subtleties. You just started with a base level of 'pissed at everybody and everything' and adjusted upwards in accordance with the volume of the shouting.
However, while Toby never hesitated to inflict his negative emotions - often forcibly - upon other people, there were other things he made more of an effort to hide. Anything that might leave you with the impression that interior was less prickly than exterior, for a start. But Sam doubted, given current circumstances, that this was one of those moments.
Which left the other, even deeper buried end of the spectrum. The one where Toby concealed any slight suggestion that he might, conceivably, have ever at any point in his existence made any kind of decision that could possibly have had an element of inadvisability to it.
Toby was feeling guilty about something. Sam could tell because... well, there were no external clues. But he could tell.
"Toby-" he began.
"Would the White House care to comment on the fact that previous presidential biographies have been censored of all information relating to the president's relationship with his father?" Toby rattled off sharply. Sam momentarily forgot his line of thought to rock upright in his seat.
"They won't ask that!"
Toby eyed him sideways. "Yes, because if there's one thing we've come to rely on in the history of this administration, it's the press's reluctance to ask inappropriate questions."
"Then CJ will refuse to answer it," he shrugged sensibly.
"The White House refused to comment on allegations that President Bartlet used his position to force the non-disclosure of his relationship with his father in previous examinations of his background," Toby said, with a casual obnoxiousness that could belong to the imaginary reporter he was echoing, or equally well just be his own.
Sam frowned. "That's ludicrous."
Toby, still in reporter-mode, countered "There have been more than twenty books published in the last four years that address Josiah Bartlet's childhood years; if there was no cover-up, why was this information never brought to light before?"
The speechwriter's instinct in him reached out for CJ's voice, seeking the turn of phrase that would make his words sound natural in her mouth.
Although it wasn't as good as his Bartlet impression, even if he said so himself.
"Well, Bob, what's ludicrous is the suggestion that the president would bring the powers of his office to bear in covering up a period of his history which utterly fails to shed any bad light on his character and is, frankly, completely irrelevant to the job at hand."
Toby raised a cool eyebrow at him. "Bob?" he asked pointedly.
"You were being a reporter," Sam said defensively.
"There isn't a Bob."
"There's a Bobby," he argued.
"Bobby Morrisey's a woman, Sam."
"Yes, well, let's move on from there," he said hurriedly.
"Scratch 'fails to shed any bad light on his character'," Toby opined. "It calls attention to the reflection on his father's character."
Sam stared at him. "It does reflect badly on his father's character, Toby!" He shook his head. "Jesus, Toby-"
"He won't like it," Toby said flatly.
"He wants to protect his father?" Sam demanded incredulously. "The world's about to get hit with 'Shock details of president's traumatic childhood revealed' and he wants us defending his father?"
"He doesn't want him reduced to a pantomime villain."
Sam rubbed his forehead. "Well, no, obviously, but-"
"He..." Toby sighed heavily. "He wants acknowledgement that the relationship was more complicated than they're painting it."
Sam regarded him solemnly. "The man used to beat his son up for showing signs of talent and imagination, Toby," he said quietly. "Exactly how much more complicated does he expect it to be?"
Toby didn't answer. Sam hesitated, and then sat down.
"Toby?" he asked tentatively. "Why are you so concerned about the president's feelings in this?"
"You don't think we should be?"
"Of course I think we should be! But I'd like to know why you do." It wasn't at all like Toby to show any tolerance for the bruised feelings of parties involved when it came to ruthlessly exposing injustices, large and small.
Toby looked up at him. "It's his father, Sam," he said simply.
"Yeah."
And Sam knew what that was like. Oh, he knew what that was like all right.
He shifted in his seat. "It's his father," he agreed. "But if he's expecting to hear anything out of this other than 'President's father was child-beating monster'? It's not gonna happen, Toby."
Toby nodded slowly. "I know," he agreed heavily.