Blood and State
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 19/22
The Bartlet Farm: Manchester, New HampshireSunday Morning
Abbey felt a mild streak of irritation course through her. She was warm, comfortable... and had a ridiculous craving for hot cocoa. It was only a few minutes since she had snapped awake with a finality that pretty much guaranteed that no amount of determined burrowing back under the eiderdown would recall her to sleep any time soon.
Raising her head, she squinted at the luminous dial of the bedside clock. Still not yet five a.m. Great, just great. The first morning in weeks that she had an opportunity for a truly lazy sleep-in, and here she was, wide-awake. And hungry, don't forget hungry. Well, she could fix that.
Hitching up cautiously on one elbow, Abbey regarded her still sleeping companion with gentle anxiety. Their bedroom was dimly illuminated by the glow of the Secret Service floodlights on the outside lawns - something she knew the property's owner had never gotten used to - and she used it to study her husband.
The lighting wasn't bothering Jed for once, not even when combined with the fact that his injured hand had obliged him to sleep on his back instead of curled on his side as was his habit, with his wife usually drawn into the hollow thus created. He was sleeping peacefully, breathing deep and slow, his left arm still propped awkwardly on the pillow she had wedged under it last night. He clearly hadn't moved at all, still chasing the exhaustion that had weighted on him in recent times.
Leaning forward, Abbey gently brushed her lips against his cheek, feeling the roughness of both stubble and the scabs that were had formed over the many small abrasions there. Still warm, but not overly so. The slight infection might be making the wicked wound in his palm all the more aching and sensitive to the slightest jarring, but it was showing no danger of spiking into a fever.
Abbey allowed herself a satisfied smile. Robert Hackett had done a good job there, and had insisted the dressings be changed every day until the irritation had fully subsided. Jed had predictably objected to the somewhat time-consuming precaution, but had been firmly quashed by the quelling glares of both his wife and his official attending physician. Hackett had even gone so far as to caution his executive patient against accidentally jolting the injury or otherwise doing anything to undo his good work. His President had not been impressed, and their obvious amusement at his indignation hadn't helped. Jed's near legendary clumsiness was simply too reflexive a joke to pass up, even in these circumstances. Still, the injury was more than sore enough for him to take their recommendation seriously, especially after that rap he had given it while boarding Marine One.
The First Lady frowned slightly in concentration as she delicately patted at a droplet of blood on her husband's lower lip. The tiny cuts tended to keep reopening as his lips cracked and dried, especially at night when it was cooler. Jed rolled his head slightly at her touch and sighed gently, but didn't wake.
Abbey deposited the tissue, and automatically smoothed back his hair, before raising the eiderdown and sliding out of the bed, careful not to let the trapped heat escape. Tucking the covers back around Jed, she shoved her feet into her slippers, slid into a bathrobe and cautiously opened the bedroom door.
In the hallway outside, two agents snapped to startled alertness. Abbey grimaced irritably; unable to control the slight jump their swift response gave her. "At ease, guys. I'm just going down to the kitchen for a while. I'll be back soon. The President's still asleep."
"Yes, ma'am."
Abbey nodded to the agent - Paulson, wasn't it? She was finding it harder to keep track of the numerous new agents Butterfield had brought on to her husband's detail. She had barely taken two steps down the corridor before she heard the agent muttering into his palm communicator and found herself rolling her eyes in anticipation. Sure enough, by the time she reached the foot of the back staircase, she found Agent Vaughn standing there, waiting for her.
"Henry." The First Lady's tone and nod were perfectly civil, but there was a definite snap in her eyes.
Agent Vaughn caught it and his slight smile of greeting to his protectee began to slip. He made a hasty grab and fumble and managed to plaster it back in place. "Ma'am." When she said nothing but continued to just stand there and look at him, he found himself wilting under the relentless regard. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Our instructions are to keep track of all members of the house party, especially you and the President, at all times. Orders," he added hopefully, falling back on the old reliable excuse of underlings throughout history.
"I see." Abbey tilted her head to one side. "Well, Henry, I'm just going into the kitchen, through that door there." She pointed across the narrow hallway. "Think you'll be able to keep track of me in there from all the way over here?"
Agent Vaughn considered the question cautiously. He didn't particularly fancy crowding the First Lady, and all he really had to know was where she was. Besides, discretion was the better part of valor... and the Secret Service prided itself on its discretion. "I'll just be right here if you need me, ma'am," he said blandly, settling into an upright chair at the foot of the staircase.
Abbey's lips curled up in an irrepressible grin. "Good boy." She might be more than happy in the current circumstances for Jed to have a couple of agents treading on his heels even while moving about his own house, but that didn't mean she felt like putting up with a similar level of stalking.
It said a great deal for the sense of heightened awareness and danger projected by the Secret Service activity that the sight of a crack of light under the kitchen door actually gave Abbey pause. But logic quickly convinced her that Vaughn would not be sitting so calmly behind her if the presence in the kitchen constituted any kind of threat. Curious to know who else was afoot this early in the morning, she gently eased the door open and slid inside.
At first glance, the room appeared deserted. Then a slight scuffling noise emerged from behind the island in the center of the kitchen. Rounding the end, Abbey raised a quizzical eyebrow at the cotton-clad legs that were all that could be seen of her unwitting companion as he foraged deep into the cupboard beneath the counter top.
"Can I help you there, Toby?"
A muffled snort of alarm and a truly resounding thud were her response, as Ziegler jerked automatically upright, his head impacting with the underside of the island, causing the jars and pots to vibrate.
Abbey could not contain a slight smirk of satisfaction. Teach him to go rooting around in her kitchen. Automatic professional reflexes made her inquire however, "You okay, Toby?"
"Mrs. Bartlet... Abbey." Ziegler's voice became less muffled - or no more so than usual - as he cautiously backed out of the cupboard and straightened up. "Yes, yes. I'm fine."
Seeing him tenderly cup the back of his cranium, Abbey felt a slight niggle of guilt. She had seen Jed do the same thing often enough, had been the cause of it on more than one occasion, but Toby lacked the slight protection offered by her husband's thick thatch of hair. "You're sure?"
Ziegler gave his skull a tentative prod and winced. "Fine, I assure you. My dignity may take a little longer but, once my heart ceases to do the Macarena, I suspect I'll survive."
Abbey couldn't help grinning again. She had always gotten along particularly well with Toby Ziegler, a fact that surprised those familiar with the blunt, frank nature they both shared. "Yeah, I'm sorry. It was sort of an irresistible moment."
"Quite," Ziegler said dryly.
"So?"
"So...?"
"So, what are you doing up?" Abbey took in her companion's neat slacks and dress shirt and added, "To say nothing of fully dressed."
Ziegler did his usual self-conscious head-roll. "I couldn't sleep. I though I might come down and get something."
"Fully dressed?" Abbey watched her companion squirm uncomfortably for a second before realization dawned. "Toby Ziegler, are you telling me you're embarrassed to be seen by your friends wandering around in your pajamas?"
"No!" That didn't sound convincing, even to Ziegler's ears. He shrugged unhappily. "There are all these agents standing around everywhere, with their guns and communicators and body armor. They make me feel..."
"Underdressed?" Abbey grinned wickedly. "So you decided to put on some body armor of your own?"
Ziegler cocked his head ruefully and ran his hand over his forehead. "Something like that."
"Okay." Abbey moved past him towards the refrigerator. "I was going to make cocoa. Want to join me? I'll even toss in marshmallows."
"Yes." Ziegler leaned in towards the cupboard again. "I was actually going to make some for myself anyway."
"Toby?" Abbey waved a can at him that she had reached down from an overhead shelf. "I've got the cocoa mix here. What are you looking for?"
Ziegler barely spared the can a glance. "I was looking for the kind where you put the water in and microwave. That kind, you have to boil milk and stuff."
"Well, it'll be a long search, mister. This is the only kind we have."
Ziegler slowly straightened up with a dismayed expression. "The only kind? Seriously? But that's..."
"That's...?"
"A lot of hard work just for some hot chocolate."
Abbey shook her head authoritatively. "You can't make proper cocoa with water and a microwave." And when did I start channeling Jed? "You need to heat milk in a pan - heat, not boil. And the cocoa powder should be whisked in to get the proper froth."
"Heat milk?" Ziegler was watching the preparations with what appeared to be mild panic. "Froth?"
"Oh for Heaven's sake, Toby!" Abbey slammed the saucepan down on the gas ring in exasperation. "Don't be such a male stereotype. You went to college, didn't you? And you live alone. How do you survive?"
"By eating out - a lot." Ziegler watched his hostess for a moment. "You know, my way you don't have to do quite so much washing up just to get a simple cup of cocoa."
"Toby?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Shut up, come over here and learn." Abbey pointed sternly with the whisk in her hand. "As God is my witness, you are going to learn the rudiments of how to cope in a kitchen before this weekend is over."
"Yes, ma'am." Ziegler trailed glumly over to her side.
To be continued…