Blood and State
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 15/22
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds,
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
James Shirley: 1596 - 1666
The Bartlet Farm: Manchester, New Hampshire
Saturday afternoon
Flipping absently through the channels, Abbey found herself heartily wishing that she hadn't ignored the televised newscasts so thoroughly during the preceding days. But Jed had been so worn out by the time they arrived at the farm that her only concern had been to get him comfortably settled and relaxed. He had slept fitfully on the journey, but at least part of that had been sheer nervous exhaustion, reaction from forcing himself to travel on Marine One for the first time since the accident.
It had cost him something. She had felt the tension in the stiffened arm under her hand, seen the strain on his face as they approached the waiting aircraft, as if he would actually refuse and bolt. Then, as he had finally boarded... No, she hadn't been surprised that he had managed to find oblivion during the flight, although their companions clearly had been. The looks Leo McGarry and Ron Butterfield exchanged had been filled with equal parts concern and something Abbey hadn't quite been able to put her finger on.
Watching him doze next to her on the sofa, looking as un-presidential as he could possibly get in jeans and sweats, she only knew this...
Jed had been pushed about as far as he could go by the rapid chain of recent events, and Nature had finally stepped in to offer its own shelter from the buffeting of an unfeeling fate. Nearly a day and a half of uninterrupted sleep had done him a world of good. To Abbey's relief, he'd woken this morning alert and renewed. He was home, and she had no regrets about the tongue-lashing she'd given his Chief of Staff to get him there.
The only sour note this morning had been his discomfort, the obvious pain that still emanated from his hand and tightened the too-deep lines across his brow. The battle over the painkillers had been brief, but easily won by his insistent wife. The Tylenol-Codeine combo, whatever his complaints about them making him 'goofy' or the other side-effects, would and did provide him with some much needed relief from the constant throbbing. For all his protests he knew that as well as she did, and with a wry grin had taken them.
They'd managed to make it downstairs to the living room before the medication started to kick in.
And then, gamely watching the television and trying to catch up on the events missed by travel and oblivion, he'd fallen asleep, again. Letting him drift off, Abbey had smiled fondly at that. Jed's reactions to opiates and their affects were as varied as his bottomless knowledge of seemingly inane trivia. He wasn't one of the lucky ones, his system highly sensitive to both the masking affects, the nausea and the dampening qualities inherent in even a mild dose of those drugs. Control was something he never liked losing. That was why he fought and resisted.
Sleepy or goofy, given those choices Abbey really couldn't blame him for his reluctance. Unfortunately, his sensitivity also made opiate based painkillers the best choice, not only for the trauma-induced damage to his hand, but his back problems as well. And he had already missed far too many doses. Aside from the lessening of pain, the anti-inflammatory properties of the acetaminophen were part and parcel of the combo.
No less than any one else, though, she hadn't wanted to wake him during the trip or when they'd arrived just to make him take his medicine. She wasn't that cruel and as a healer she knew sleep was what her husband had needed most. Those few moments of wakefulness between Marine One and the limo, then the drive to the farm, had been fleeting. Sleep and rest had been what his body craved, and Abbey had let him have it.
When they arrived, she had practically bundled him into bed and sat with him until she was sure he was resting easily. No fights or protests, Jed had been out the moment his head hit the pillow. Then she'd fallen into oblivion herself, stretched out next to him on the bed. Hence she had missed C.J.'s original briefing, although with no particular feeling of regret. How the White House was spinning the security disaster was of little concern to her.
TV remote in hand and sound lowered, she was making the attempt to catch up on the endless news cycles now, sitting quietly on the sofa next to her husband. The news was everywhere, on all channels. A security alarm actually within the White House pretty much guaranteed detailed coverage. An alarm that resulted in physical damage to the Chief Executive resulted in reporting that bordered on saturation levels. All the media groups seemed to be filled with excited talking heads, eagerly speculating with varying degrees of plausibility on the motive and implications of what had occurred.
Abbey watched the television absently, fingers playing with the fringe of hair that lay across her husband's forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut. Only the hair. She was careful not to touch his skin, to awaken him to a new pain, a pain that threatened to tear her apart. She didn't dare touch him. Drug induced or not, he was as deeply asleep as she had ever known him to be, but one inadvertent touch and she knew the dysesthesia would bring him back to a reality she didn't want to contemplate.
Dear God, she wanted to touch him, to hold him, but she couldn't. Not now.
Abbey withdrew her hand as her husband stirred, eyelids flickering for a moment, and then he sighed. Even after two days, sleep wasn't about to release its hold on him quite yet.
She continued to flip through the channels, all the time waiting for the graceful figure of the White House Press Secretary to flash onto the screen. Her drifting attention was tugged back to the screen by the murmured phrases from the news anchors. Turning up the sound slightly, she was just in time to catch...
"…has expressed concern at the news that the President, in addition to sustaining injuries, has also suffered a relapse of the MS that he revealed himself to be suffering from a year ago. The congressman spoke to reporters shortly after the White House briefing..."
Abbey almost groaned aloud as the pugnacious, perpetually scowling features of Congressman Peter Lillianfield flashed onto the screen. With the morbid, can't-help-looking curiosity of an accident witness, she focused on the television.
"It is a disgrace, after the revelations of the lies and deceptions of the past, that this White House has the effrontery to suggest that the role and office of President can still be fulfilled by Josiah Bartlet. To be President of the United States is to lead the free world. Our leader has a responsibility to demonstrate to this country and to the world that America is strong, both economically and in terms of defense." Lillianfield's somewhat jowly face shook in self-righteous outrage. "To show that America is strong, we need a strong leader. And what has happened? In this time of international turmoil, when our seat of power has come under attack, when we need to show the world that we are still a power to be reckoned with, where is the leader who should symbolize this national strength? Nowhere to be seen. And why? Because he has collapsed - again. What kind of message does that send?"
Abbey snapped off the television with an audible snarl. How dare he! Did he have any concept of the strength it took to live with this condition? It mattered little to her that Lillianfield knew nothing of the background to the attacks, or of the exact nature of Jed's recent injuries. Cynically, she couldn't help wondering if it would make much difference even if he had. Lillianfield was the worst kind of partisan that politics had to offer.
Tossing the remote from her, and resolving for the sake of her blood pressure not to use it again that day, she turned back to her sleeping husband, almost gently brushing her fingers against his stubbled cheek, but pulling herself up just short of actually touching him. So close, but so far. He didn't stir and she sighed in regret. It wasn't going to end any time soon, the battle he was forced to wage every day. There were always enemies, whether snapping jackals like Lillianfield or this new, nameless, deadly adversary. Her only desire was that he be safe. And here, with her.
And too, please God, that she could touch him again, feel his strength as well as see it. Was that too much to ask? Tears welled within her eyes, but she mercilessly fought them back. The renewed anger when she thought of Congressman Lillianfield's callous remarks made it easier. She began to seethe with a mounting rage.
"What'd I do this time?"
He was awake, watching her intently. All Abbey's insecurities came rushing back to grip her. "I'm not angry with you."
"Really?" A mischievous quirk twisted the corners of his mouth.
Abbey rolled her eyes. "There are other things in this world besides you to be angry at."
"I must be slipping." Giving the now mute television a pointed glance, Bartlet picked up the discarded remote and turned it back on. That his wife obviously didn't want him to do so made the conclusion obvious. "Who's the culprit this time?"
"Lillianfield," she admitted with a sigh. Jed would find out sooner or later. The man's partisan ranting was the kind of fodder the news media loved to keep repeating over and over, improving their ratings if not their questionable information coverage.
"That doesn't surprise me."
"It shouldn't surprise me either."
"But it does?"
Abbey laughed shortly. "Thin skinned, I suppose."
Joining her with a slight chuckle of his own, Bartlet tried to blink away the fuzziness that still clouded his mind as he changed the channels. Damn, but he hated the drugs. At least the throbbing in his hand was now tolerable. He wasn't sure it was a fair trade off. "Did I miss C.J.?"
"Many, many times. We both did."
With little else to do with them, Abbey draped her hands in her lap, watching the faces flit across the screen as Jed searched the myriad reports for his Press Secretary. She prayed he didn't come upon the self-righteous ranting of Lillianfield. That he didn't need this morning. Later perhaps, but not now.
Settling on CNN, the President of the United States scowled, his attention riveted on C.J. Cregg's lively and heated performance. He'd no idea how often it had been repeated, could make a pretty good guess, but this was his first time. A quick, searching glance at his wife and he leaned back, closing his eyes. He didn't really need to see. Listening was enough. He already knew what C.J. was going to say.
Abbey didn't, or rather had no idea what was going to be told to the world. She knew some small part of the assassin's reasoning; Jed had been clear enough on that months ago after the NTSB report had revealed the sabotage that had brought down Marine One. She doubted C.J. would go so far as to reveal all that, but still...
"That's my name, people. Glad to see some of you are on your toes." The Press Secretary's smile was positively feral. "And taking your medication. And here I thought I might have to use a tranquilizer on some of you."
What followed, the intensity of C.J.'s voice, and the barely contained outrage, left the First Lady breathless. The depth of the woman's regard for her husband was so clearly apparent. Abbey found herself responding to that, listening gratefully to the simple gesture of understanding and human caring that was so much a part of the Press Secretary's character. Her feelings were given free reign as she tore into an obviously unprepared press corps.
Cheering her on, Abbey almost forgot to focus on the facts...
Then she began to truly listen, her confusion growing. Glancing over at Jed, she saw his eyes closed, a troubled pucker between his brows. What the hell?
All too soon, it was over...
"Okay, people. That's all for now. I'm calling a full lid..."
Still no reaction from Jed, just a mild grunt of possible satisfaction as he opened his eyes. For a moment, Abbey thought he might say something. He didn't, just changed the channel. Disappointed and not sure why, she could only watch along with him.
The living room television continued to drone with the meaningless monotone of one generic news commentator, then another. He or she was no different or any less colorful than a myriad of clones on other shows endlessly recapping the White House press briefing presented by C.J. Cregg the day before. It was the news cycle that wouldn't quit. But then, considering the subject matter, who could blame them? Explosions in the Oval Office were slightly higher on the news scale than a kitten trapped in a tree.
Still, neither of the two viewers seated on the sofa were paying them or their stations any great attention. They were home and safe, for the moment. The empty rhetoric being offered wasn't in their interest. They already knew the details.
Except, one knew far less than the other.
"Jed?" For a moment, Abbey was afraid he'd fallen asleep again.
"Hmmm?" The sound of his voice was sleepy, relaxed, but Bartlet's mind wasn't.
The President was only partially aware of Abbey's questioning voice, still watching the television, distracted, mind racing. C.J. had done all she'd been told to do, and more. Far more. Unlike his wife, he was more than aware of the implications of the challenge that had just been issued.
And the possible cost, not only to him, personally, but his immediate family as well.
To his wife, whom he hoped had no idea of the lie that had just been perpetrated.
Sitting somewhat stiffly next to him, afraid for the first time in thirty-five years of marriage to even touch him, to get too close, Abbey tried again. "You really need to give that poor woman a raise," she said, deliberately keeping her tone light, waiting for him to offer some sort of comment or explanation of what she had just seen and heard C.J. Cregg deliver to the world.
Something wasn't quite right, didn't fit with what her husband had told her about the assassin's motivations so many, long months ago. What had changed?
What were they up to? And she knew all too well they were led by Leo McGarry. She was sure of that much. This time though, she was going to leave it to Jed to explain. If he would. If he didn't, it still made painfully clear why he'd seemed so resigned of late.
Abbey didn't know whether that should be fuel for her anger, or the fear that had become so much a part of her life.
"A raise? That's Leo's job. He's the details man. I sent him a memo about danger pay... what, years ago." Chuckling softly, content for the moment to let the future take care of itself, Bartlet leaned back and slipped his good arm around her. Making sure his still heavily-bandaged hand was out of the way, he drew her closer.
Sadly, he felt her cautious resistance to his pull. There could be any number of reasons for that. Suspicion? She had just cause. Or was it fear? "I think the paperwork's been pending since her second press conference."
"That long?" The touch of his hand, the strength of the arm encircling her, was almost unbearable in its tenderness. She didn't dare respond in kind. If he pulled away in pain and shock, she wasn't sure she could take it. Answers or no, just being here with him, warm, alive and home, was enough.
"Bureaucracy," he said with a decided smirk.
"You just don't like to spend money."
"Oh, I love to spend money. It's getting the pencil pushers to release the purse strings that's a bitch." Ignoring her obvious reluctance, her fear, his hand slipped gently up her arm, bringing her closer.
"Technically, you're a pencil pusher, Jed."
"Bite your tongue," he responded indignantly. "I'm the bane of bureaucratic pencil pushers everywhere."
"You wish." Abbey hesitated, feeling his insistent fingers playing along the back of her neck. Touch. Afraid to hope, afraid of what might happen, she tried again to pull away. "Jed..."
"It's okay," he whispered softly, drawing her head into the hollow of his shoulder. "Apparently a good night's sleep does wonders. It," - and there was little doubt what he meant by it- "went away this morning."
Abbey lifted her head, searching his face. No pain; even the ever-present fatigue seemed gone, for now. Only a sad admission was there. "You knew?"
"I suspected." Bartlet shrugged self-consciously, reluctant, even with her, to discuss the demon that haunted him. Oh, he'd known. He just wished she hadn't. "I'm not quite so blind to my... condition as you think, Abigail. I can read books, sweetheart."
Dropping a kiss on to the top of her head, breathing in her scent and finding strength in a closeness he had feared lost as much as she had, he said softly, "Dysesthesia. Coulda been Lhermitte's, but then I get that ever pleasant and truly exquisite sensation from my back all the time, which we both know predates the... thing by a few decades or so."
Abbey's relief was nearly overwhelming. The thing. He wouldn't say it. But still, one shadow at least was lifted from her heart. Freed from the fear, she desperately held him tighter, touching him, earning a surprised but not displeased grunt from her husband.
"I'm impressed," she said, glorying in the shared moment that she knew both of them had thought lost, possibly forever. This monster, at least for now, was beaten.
"That I knew the words?" He didn't miss the suspicious quaver in her voice.
"That you could pronounce them."
Bartlet laughed. "You're not going to leave my poor ego alone, are you?"
"It's such an easy target." Afraid that she wouldn't be allowed to, or couldn't, do it again and that it was a horrible dream, she touched his face once more. Careful of the cuts and stitches, she cupped those familiar and beloved features in her hand. "I thought you'd given in to this hastily planned retreat a little too easily," she accused.
"Did I? A retreat, to my own home?" Retreat. Her choice of words was painfully apt and far too accurate. He reached up and took her hand, turning it over and softly fanning it with his lips. "I must have had an ulterior motive."
She had been prepared to settle back and enjoy the simple feel of his arm around her, but his feather touch sent a surprised, warming shiver through her. Bringing him home had not, in her wildest expectations, included this. This man holding her was a marked contrast to the weary, resigned patient of the night before. The shock and trauma of the explosion was one thing, relatively minor in consideration. The MS?
He had a history of recovering from his episodes rather quickly, but this?
Apparently a marathon run of sleep was vastly underrated.
He had the audacity to grin. "Yeah," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Ulterior motives."
Taking her chin gently in hand, he tilted her head up.
To be continued…