Blood and State

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 5/22

Somewhat nervously, the Press Secretary sank gracefully into the bedside chair that had been vacated by the First Lady.  "Sir?"

"I just wanted to say thank you." Sinking back against the pillows, Bartlet regarded his companion anxiously. "For your caring. The concern all of you have shown to me. I appreciate it, and I know Abbey was touched as well. It means a lot to me, to us."

C.J. blushed slightly. "Sir, you mean a lot to us. I just wish there was more we could do to help." She smiled at him and was heartened to see that same warmth reflected back. 

"Trust me, C.J. You guys always help." His mood darkened slightly then. "Anyway, there will be plenty for everyone to do tomorrow." He regarded her almost apologetically. "That press conference is gonna be tough."

"I can handle it, sir." 

"I know you can. There is none better at what you do. But it may not be pleasant."   Bartlet's expression had shifted to outright concern. "I know your job has demanded that you do and say things you didn't agree with before now. I want you to know that everything you will say at that briefing tomorrow actually has a purpose  - a strategy that I personally agreed to, whatever you may think of it."

C.J. felt herself stiffen in renewed apprehension. "Sir, this is the second time you've reassured me about whatever Leo is going to brief me on. May I ask, what exactly is the nature of this strategy that you so clearly expect me to dislike?"

It is physically impossible for a nearly supine man to shuffle his feet guiltily, but Bartlet managed to convey just that impression. "Never mind, C.J. Leo will be going over it with you." Feeling rather ashamed of his own cowardice, he added, "Just don't kill him, okay?"

"If you say so, sir," C.J replied blankly, not one whit reassured.

"Fine." Clearly eager to move on, Bartlet cleared his throat as he came to the real reason he had asked her to remain. "So... how are you doing?"

"Me, sir?" The surprised tones declared that, whatever C.J. had been expecting next, it hadn't been an enquiry about her own well-being. Unable to help the slight lilt of amusement, she cocked an eyebrow at her disheveled companion. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

"Seriously." Bartlet for once refused to be drawn. "This has to be especially hard on you, in light of recent events. And don't tell me they're not dwelling on your mind. Because that little bit of insight into my own problem earlier would indicate otherwise."

"Sir, really, I'm fine." C.J. could not repress the warmth she felt, nor did she really try. That, after all that had happened, he could still think of how it might affect her... "I certainly came out of that better than you have out of this."

"Maybe, but it was frightening at the time." Bartlet was not asking, but stating a fact; as if he were quite certain what emotions such circumstances would invoke.

C.J. supposed that if anyone would know, it was he. 

"And it was responsible for you meeting Simon."

The Press Secretary continued to hold his gaze, even as she felt the treacherous film forming over her vision. "No!" she told herself fiercely. "None of that. Not here and not now. I don't care how horrendous a day it's been." A couple of blinks and a swallow, and she was back in control. "I don't actually regret having met him, sir."

"No, I don't suppose you do." The President was silent for a moment. "C.J.", he continued gently. "I was so sorry about what happened."

"It was a tragedy, a stupid mischance." C.J. swallowed again. "Simon was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens so often. It doesn't make it any better, of course. And I felt so sorry for his family and their loss."

"What about yourself?" Bartlet was still gentle, but insistent. "You lost..."

"A friend." C.J. interrupted, not quite sure why he was taking this depressing path. "Thank you for your thoughts, and concern, Mr. President. But I don't want to over-dramatize anything. I lost someone I had known a short time and had come to like and admire. Simon's family lost a son and a brother. Their grief comes from years of companionship and knowledge." She studied her hands, struggling to find the right words. "I honestly don't consider I have the right to feel my grief outweighs theirs. Simon and I, we liked each other enough to consider the possibility of spending time together in the future, but we hadn't even gone on one date yet. What I lost was..."

"A future possibility." The President's voice was soft. "That is a real loss in itself, C.J.  To never have the opportunity to explore what might have been."

C.J. ducked her head suddenly, feeling the emotion well. How did he do that, read her so well? He wasn't quite old enough, of course, and she'd only known him, what, five years now? But at times it was almost like being with her father, before the Alzheimer's had caused him to drift away from her. Her father would have offered exactly the same kind of gentle comfort, coupled with an insight born of both love and truly knowing her, that could sweep aside all barriers and protestations, forcing her to face her true feelings. 

For a moment she sat there, both drowning in the memories of Simon and of that awful, awkward interview with Ron Butterfield, and soaking up a sensation of deep consolation and understanding that she had never thought to feel outside her parents' presence.

Looking at the man lying before her, she felt a sudden surge of affection. He could never replace her father, had never tried to, but she knew in that moment that the blind terror of that day at Rosslyn had not come merely from the breaching of their defenses, or the attack on the very personification of their national identity.

It had been far more personal than that, a bone-weakening sense of an almost insupportable loss barely averted. She had felt it and knew all her colleagues had too. To lose this man would be almost as devastating as losing her own father, never mind that she had only known him a few years. Those few years were crammed with enough joys, triumphs, rages, griefs and tragedies to fill a lifetime of experience. 

And that was his very point, she realized suddenly. You didn't have to be family, didn't have to have years of shared experience behind you in order to feel the right to grieve.

"It's just that... he really was prepared to risk his life to protect me. Before he even knew me." She swallowed painfully. "I'm so glad that wasn't why he died though. Because of me. I couldn't have borne that."

"Yes, that can be very hard to bear." The President's voice was carefully neutral.

~ooOoo~

Drawing back, Abbey took a deep breath and smiled. "So how'd you escape?" she asked, brushing one of the last tears from Ellie's reddened face with a hand that trembled only slightly. Her own face, she knew, looked no better.

Ellie laughed, surprised she could find the strength to do so. "I just... ran. You'd think they'd be faster. You know, running alongside limos like they do."

"You had the element of surprise."

"Yeah," Ellie sniffed, the last of her grief and anger disappearing as she remembered. "Nobody expected that from me. So quiet, so mousy..."

"Ellie," Abbey warned her sternly. That was a subject they really didn't need to get into right now.

"I made it to my car, and then..." She broke off, her face clouding.

"And what?" Abbey's eyes narrowed with concerned suspicion. Ellie looked like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"One of them caught me; he was quicker than the others, I guess. I don't know who, I wasn't really thinking..." Ellie paused, rubbing her right elbow and wincing. "I just... reacted."

Abbey sat back and added up the clues. Her daughter was here, having run the gauntlet and accomplished an escape of truly epic proportions. She was looking guilty as charged and rubbing an obviously still painful elbow. Was that a trace of blood on her sleeve? Either of her other daughters and she wouldn't have had to ask.

Ellie she had to ask. "What did you do?"

Looking away from her mother's gentle though insistent gaze, an unwelcome blush crept into Ellie's tear-stained cheeks. She wasn't sure - a diagnosis from the act and not the result wasn't all that easy - but still... "I think I broke someone's nose."

Abbey's confusion was only momentary. Then she sighed. Fighting back a laugh she knew bordered on the hysterical, this was after all Eleanor admitting to the act, she called out, "Henry!"

Agent Vaughn poked a cautious head into the room. "Ma'am?"

"Could you come in for a moment, please?"

Please? Not good. Stopping himself just short of asking, "Really? Must I?" Vaughn stepped in and shut the door.

Not really knowing how to ask this, the First Lady regarded the obviously uncomfortable agent for a moment, then stated calmly, "My daughter informs me that when she... escaped," - really, there was no other word for it when dealing with the Secret Service - "there may have been an... altercation." Nice word that, suited what may have happened perfectly. Abbey rather liked it.

Vaughn liked it, too, but for different reasons. Giving the fidgeting First Daughter an apologetic look, he replied matter-of-factly, "There was."

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ellie lowered her head, hair falling across her face.

Rubbing her eyes, Abbey asked, "Anything broken? A nose perhaps?" She patted her daughter on the shoulder. "Lift your head up, dear, and face the music."

"You sound like Dad, Mom." Still, she lifted her head with a small smile.

Abbey thought about that for a moment. "I'm not at all sure that's a compliment."

"It is," Ellie told her softly.

Now Vaughn was fidgeting and - Damn! But he was really going to have to work on that - shuffling his feet again.

"The nose, Henry?" Abbey prompted patiently. "Broken?"

"No, ma'am." Vaughn answered with obvious relief. He'd already got the reports, along with the frantic hollering of the agents Ellie had left behind. "Agent Haefy just somehow managed to get in the way of her elbow. Nothing broken. Just... squished." He smiled reassuringly at Ellie Bartlet and earned one in return. "Luckily Miss Bartlet doesn't know a thing about follow-through."

Abbey's brows rose. "Follow-through?"

Vaughn shuffled. "Yes, ma'am."

For the first time, Ellie gave out with a genuine laugh.

Quelling that bit of youthful enthusiasm with a stern look, Abbey said, "Give him our apologies, Henry. Ellie..." she took her daughter's hand and squeezed gently, "... will offer her own in due time."

Vaughn shook his head. "It's not necessary, ma'am." When the First Lady chuckled softly at that and momentarily looked away, he broke with procedure a bit and gave Ellie Bartlet a quick wink, earning a grateful smile in return.

Hoping his job here, for the moment, was done, Vaughn asked, "Will that be all, ma'am?" He could hope, couldn't he?

"Stay for a moment, will you, Henry?"

No such luck. Nodding, Vaughn stepped back against the far wall. Still here and not, he turned off the presence of the two women and faded into the background.

Abbey turned her attention back to her daughter, pleased to see some composure back in her features. A bit of normal color had returned to her cheeks, although her eyes were still red.

No less red than her own. That wasn't going to change anytime soon. Abbey knew that, even if her daughter didn't. As the image of her husband focused in her mind, the deliberate blankness in his eyes and the aura of resignation that had covered him, a realization struck her. She couldn't fix the broader picture.

But she could fix this.

"Go in and see him," she told Ellie.

Ellie blinked, looked over at the silent agent. Was she allowed? "Mom?"

"Go." Abbey stood, lifting her daughter's hands and forcing her to stand. "Wake him up."

"He'll bark."

"He's always barking. You should know by now he doesn't bite."

A soft, gentle huff was Ellie's only response.

"Much," Abbey amended. "Just bark back. He needs it, especially from you."

"You sure?" Still skeptical, Ellie couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. The question she'd wanted to ask, been afraid to ask, burst from her lips. "I mean, he's gonna be okay, right?"

Vaughn was only human. His head turned imperceptibly, gaze focused on the First Lady.

Abbey felt his eyes on her. There was more than concern for his charge in that hardly noticeable tilt of his head and look. It was mirrored in the regard of her daughter, only amplified. She simply didn't have the answers, so she could only reply tiredly, "Baby, I don't know. Too much has happened...."

"It's okay, Mom." Ellie didn't really need to hear the words. She and her sisters had lived with so much, starting long before her father had taken charge of the Oval Office. She was a med student. She also knew how very few answers multiple sclerosis provided its victims.

Assassins and bombs sure as hell didn't help. Ellie looked at the closed bedroom door, then back at her mother. A shy smile lit her face. "Bark, huh."

"Bark."

"Woof," Ellie muttered. Straightening her shoulders, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks, she opened the door and stepped in.

For a brief moment, the voices inside could be heard. As the door closed, they abruptly cut off. No familiar, rich voice raised in protest. Not yet anyway, if ever. Abbey didn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

Vaughn took the opportunity to point out, "Miss Cregg is still in there."

"Not for long," Abbey smiled sweetly, glancing at her watch. Knowing C.J. as she did, she gave the woman only a minute or two to endure the strained beginnings of the father/daughter dispute before making her hasty exodus.

Now to take care of some of the minor details.

~ooOoo~

C.J. glanced at the President in surprise at that quietly issued statement, and then had a wave of sudden revelation so sharp that she felt herself flush in mortification. "Oh! I'm sorry sir. I never thought..."

"What? You believed I never think about that?" Bartlet's tone was joshing, but there was just a hint of hurt in the eyes.

"No. Well..." C.J. struggled to give form to the just conceived thought. "I suppose that we just never really thought about it at all, sir. The guards are so much a part of your existence, wherever you go, we just take them for granted. I suppose we thought you did too." She looked at him with regret. "I am sorry."

"I don't think I ever did that." Bartlet spoke slowly, gently rolling his injured limb on the pillow. The motion seemed to ease the ever-present throbbing. "It was always there, at the back of my mind. Then Rosslyn pretty much pushed it right up front and center. I've always admired Ron, but what he did that day..." 

Regarding his own hand again, he looked up. "If that bullet had done any more damage to his hand, he might never have gotten back full use of it, might have been forced to retire. And I've always wondered where that bullet might have ended up, if he hadn't been all over me so fast." He couldn't repress a low chuckle. "And after all that, he still felt guilty, can you believe it?" 

C.J. smiled, feeling herself get a little teary. "I think I can, sir."

"I mean, he was bleeding all over the seat, had to be in a hell of a lot of pain. Had me jabbering on at him and he still wasn't thinking of anything but his job. I scared him, though." Bartlet's grin dimmed a little. "Scared myself a bit, too."

"Yes, sir." Between the President and Josh, the senior staff had been considerably more than a bit scared that night. The Secret Service too, for all its professionalism, C.J. reflected. She wondered what Simon had been doing that night... after the shots had died away.

Looking back up, she noted she wasn't the only one lost in thought. Examining the very tips of his fingers, where they peeked from the wrapping, the President gingerly brushed against the nails with his thumb. Despite his doctors' best efforts, blood remained encrusted beneath them. 

Unaware of her regard, Bartlet's expression darkened still further, caught up in memories.  The feeling of blood drying under his nails, of horribly wet and sticky hair beneath his fingers, of being pinned down, closed in and unable to help; himself or anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, he broke from his introspection and rejoined his companion, who was regarding him with quiet empathy. "You just never really think about it until the reality is shoved in your face. I'd never truly forgotten, but Rosslyn brought it home.  Since then, I've prayed every day that Ron would be as bad as it got." 

The President laughed bitterly. "Guess I was kidding myself."

C.J. felt desperately sorry for him at that moment. "Marine One?" she inquired gently.

"Yeah." The grimace she received in reply could not even charitably be declared a smile.  "Five people died there because of me, C.J. Five. One so close to me I could touch him, did touch him, and I couldn't do a damn thing to help, couldn't even help myself." He looked up at her seriously. "I'm so sorry that we lost Simon. But I'm selfishly glad that it wasn't in a way that risked you as well, or that left you feeling a burden of personal responsibility."

Okay, those tears were definitely threatening now. "Thank you, sir. I just wish..."

"Yeah." The President gave her that warm smile that reminded her again of family. "Me, too."

C.J. smiled back tremulously, but with increasing warmth, trying to project the caring, the affection that protocol would not permit to be expressed aloud.

The soft sound of the door latch caused her to begin to turn, expecting that Abbey had finally returned to possibly sedate her intractable patient. The frozen expression on the President's face stalled her.  Slowly she completed the turn, and felt her eyes widen in recognition and apprehension.

Lost and looking terribly frightened, Eleanor Bartlet stood silently with her back to the door, staring with wide-eyed horror at her father. She looked like she would jump at a shadow, let alone her father's voice.

Her father, the President, stared back, the warmth and understanding of earlier shuttered by something C.J. couldn't quite put a name to. Shock? Confusion? Anger? A combination of all the above, maybe. One thing for certain, C.J. wasn't about to stick around to find out.

Well, this was going to be interesting. The atmosphere of the room became charged. Pursing her lips, avoiding eye contact with either of them, C.J. stood up, trying desperately to disappear. Discretion was the better part of valor and right now, discretion was her only choice. Even the rules of protocol were forgotten, she didn't even dare ask for permission to leave as she quietly, and hopefully invisible, slid towards the door.

Neither father nor daughter paid any attention to her, which suited C.J. just fine.

To be continued…