"Commencement" inspired this. How will Jed take the news? It was just one
of those "Had To Write It" things. Hope you enjoy it.
POV: Jed Spoilers: "Commencement" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not my characters.
Unthinkable A West Wing Story
by MAHC
He fought to remain upright, legs locked in place, standing, taking the news with strength. How, then, had he found himself on his knees, Leo's hard grip on his shoulders the only thing keeping him that far off the floor?
Jed. He had called him Jed and that was the first clue.
"Jed?"
At first he allowed the irritation to show. How could Leo come to him now, knowing that he and Abbey had planned an evening of celebration and bittersweet reflection as their last child, their baby, stepped out into the world? How could he interfere in that private moment between a husband and wife, between a father and mother?
Abbey realized it before he did, had stepped out of his embrace, her face freezing, her body stiffening. He saw, then, that Ron was with Leo, and he didn't think he had ever seen quite the expression on the agent's face as he saw in that moment.
"Jed?" Leo whispered again and the sheer agony in his friend's eyes told him enough.
"Oh God," he groaned, his heart slamming against his chest. It was Zoey. He knew immediately. It was Zoey.
He didn't remember taking the steps forward to reach his Chief of Staff, but he must have, because suddenly they were inches apart, and Leo had taken his shoulders in a firm, almost painful clutch.
He couldn't find enough breath to ask the question, couldn't find enough courage. Leo knew. Leo saw it.
"Jed."
"Tell me!" he almost screamed. And then immediately thought, "Don't tell me! Please don't tell me."
It was Abbey who summoned the strength to ask. "Leo?"
"It's - it's - " And now his best friend stumbled, unfamiliar tears pooling in his eyes.
"Zoey." The President of the United States finally found his voice, although the actual tone was almost inaudible.
The tall presence of Ron Butterfield eased gently into the conversation. Obviously, the agent had seen that none of them could break through that initial, terrible announcement. "Mister President," he said, his voice soft, tortured. "Zoey is missing."
"Missing?" What did that mean? That she had ditched her agents and run off with the French kid? That she had ducked out the back and skipped off to party unfettered by her protectors? What the hell did that mean?
Abbey's hand was at his back, now, pressing hard against the tight muscle that ran beside his spine. "Ron?" she asked.
"She's missing and we have an agent down."
"Down?" Again, had she knocked one of those teenage impersonators over the head and made her escape for the evening? Was she dancing her way through the late night dives of Georgetown even as they stood there?
But Ron's face only fell into deeper lines. "Dead. The agent is dead and - and Zoey's panic button was found in an alley outside the club."
Later, he decided, that must have been when he dropped to his knees, and Leo went right along with him, hands still on his shoulders. The blood rushed in his ears and the nausea rose in his throat. He would not be sick right there in front of everyone. He WOULD not. But he managed it only by the slightest of margins.
"Jed?" Leo again, shaking him steadily. He somehow forced his eyes to focus. "We'll find her. We WILL find her."
The confidence, whether genuine or manufactured for his benefit, bolstered him enough to stand again. He found Abbey at his side, her arms around his waist, holding tight to him - both of them holding tight to each other.
"How - when - " He couldn't get anymore out, but it was enough.
"Not long, sir," Ron supplied, his voice managing to be professional and compassionate at the same time. "We're on it right now."
He didn't bother asking why they weren't on it thirty minutes ago. "Close - close down - close it down." They didn't need to ask what he meant. Abbey's head bore into his shoulder. He pulled her harder against him.
"Yes, sir." Ron stepped into the hall, mouth at his wrist.
Zoey. His little girl. Oh God. The sickening wave swept over him again and he felt his knees weaken. Only with the fiercest of will did he keep his feet. The impulse that rushed through his veins then propelled him away from his wife and toward the door. He couldn't just sit there and wait.
Leo fell into step by his side, his voice edged with suspicion. "Where are you going?"
He didn't break stride, was almost at the threshold. "I'm going out there," he declared.
"Jed, you can't do that." It was a voice of complete understanding, but also one of reason.
He didn't care.
"Get out of my way, Leo," he ground out between clenched teeth, throwing a hand in front of him to ward off the expected attempt to stop his intentions.
"Jed! My God, think!" Realizing his words were ineffective, the chief of staff made a bold move in front of him, forcing Jed to pull up.
But it was only a temporary deterrent. Pushing past the obstacle, he stormed into the hall.
"Mister President!" It took Ron only a few long strides to catch him, but even the secret service agent failed to stop his determined mission. "Mister President," he repeated. Jed ignored him, barely heard the entreaty.
Hands grabbed at him, caught his arms. He jerked away. Now bodies moved in front of him, trying to remain respectful but threatening a definite use of force, if necessary.
And it was.
He found himself in the unyielding grasp of no less than four agents, who, despite their overpowering number, had trouble wrestling him back. For a moment, he freed himself, taking advantage of their surprise at his strength. Never underestimate a father's determination. Finally, they managed to gain a secure hold. Gasping, he strained forward, the frustration giving way to anger, which eventually collapsed in the face of despair. Exhausted, heartsick, he slumped in their arms.
"Get him back in the bedroom," he heard Leo order, and he wasn't sure if his feet moved or if they just dragged him from the hall.
With their help, he sank onto the sofa, felt a soft touch at his shoulder and looked up to see Abbey's eyes. The agony in them, the sheer horror reached him, drew from the inner strength he somehow managed to dig up.
Abbey needed him. This was her child, too. Her baby.
Oh God. Swallowing a sob, he pushed the helping hands away and reached for her. She fell into his arms, the tears flowing freely onto his shirt.
"Shh," he heard himself sooth. Where had the calm voice come from? A stranger, maybe. A stranger whose daughter had not just been abducted. A stranger who could deal logically with the situation. A stranger who had to lock the tortured soul inside him and think through the coming decisions.
"It's all right," he whispered, stroking her hair. "It's all right. We'll find her. We'll find her."
They would. They had to. He was the President of the United States. If he couldn't do it -
Straightening, drawing around him all the dignity, all the strength, all the control he could wrestle over his protesting body, he spoke over his wife's head to the grimacing faces that watched.
"Close down the city. Sweep the streets around the club. And find that French son of a bitch. Shoot him or bring him to me. Doesn't matter." His eyes had taken on the hue of steel and his soul matched it.
"Yes, sir," Ron replied, not even bothering to mention they couldn't kill the boyfriend. Maybe that was because they could - if they needed to.
"You find her." He looked straight at the agent, eyes commanding - eyes pleading. "You find her, Ron. You find her."
As the agent nodded curtly and strode from the room, the President of the United States stood, holding his wife in shaking arms, their tears running together on his chest.
"You find her," he murmured into Abbey's hair.
And then he closed his eyes and lifted his chin in the deepest supplication he had in him. "Oh God. Please find her."
He had to believe they would. He had to. Anything else was unthinkable.
So he clung to Abbey. And she clung to him. And they waited.
POV: Jed Spoilers: "Commencement" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not my characters.
Unthinkable A West Wing Story
by MAHC
He fought to remain upright, legs locked in place, standing, taking the news with strength. How, then, had he found himself on his knees, Leo's hard grip on his shoulders the only thing keeping him that far off the floor?
Jed. He had called him Jed and that was the first clue.
"Jed?"
At first he allowed the irritation to show. How could Leo come to him now, knowing that he and Abbey had planned an evening of celebration and bittersweet reflection as their last child, their baby, stepped out into the world? How could he interfere in that private moment between a husband and wife, between a father and mother?
Abbey realized it before he did, had stepped out of his embrace, her face freezing, her body stiffening. He saw, then, that Ron was with Leo, and he didn't think he had ever seen quite the expression on the agent's face as he saw in that moment.
"Jed?" Leo whispered again and the sheer agony in his friend's eyes told him enough.
"Oh God," he groaned, his heart slamming against his chest. It was Zoey. He knew immediately. It was Zoey.
He didn't remember taking the steps forward to reach his Chief of Staff, but he must have, because suddenly they were inches apart, and Leo had taken his shoulders in a firm, almost painful clutch.
He couldn't find enough breath to ask the question, couldn't find enough courage. Leo knew. Leo saw it.
"Jed."
"Tell me!" he almost screamed. And then immediately thought, "Don't tell me! Please don't tell me."
It was Abbey who summoned the strength to ask. "Leo?"
"It's - it's - " And now his best friend stumbled, unfamiliar tears pooling in his eyes.
"Zoey." The President of the United States finally found his voice, although the actual tone was almost inaudible.
The tall presence of Ron Butterfield eased gently into the conversation. Obviously, the agent had seen that none of them could break through that initial, terrible announcement. "Mister President," he said, his voice soft, tortured. "Zoey is missing."
"Missing?" What did that mean? That she had ditched her agents and run off with the French kid? That she had ducked out the back and skipped off to party unfettered by her protectors? What the hell did that mean?
Abbey's hand was at his back, now, pressing hard against the tight muscle that ran beside his spine. "Ron?" she asked.
"She's missing and we have an agent down."
"Down?" Again, had she knocked one of those teenage impersonators over the head and made her escape for the evening? Was she dancing her way through the late night dives of Georgetown even as they stood there?
But Ron's face only fell into deeper lines. "Dead. The agent is dead and - and Zoey's panic button was found in an alley outside the club."
Later, he decided, that must have been when he dropped to his knees, and Leo went right along with him, hands still on his shoulders. The blood rushed in his ears and the nausea rose in his throat. He would not be sick right there in front of everyone. He WOULD not. But he managed it only by the slightest of margins.
"Jed?" Leo again, shaking him steadily. He somehow forced his eyes to focus. "We'll find her. We WILL find her."
The confidence, whether genuine or manufactured for his benefit, bolstered him enough to stand again. He found Abbey at his side, her arms around his waist, holding tight to him - both of them holding tight to each other.
"How - when - " He couldn't get anymore out, but it was enough.
"Not long, sir," Ron supplied, his voice managing to be professional and compassionate at the same time. "We're on it right now."
He didn't bother asking why they weren't on it thirty minutes ago. "Close - close down - close it down." They didn't need to ask what he meant. Abbey's head bore into his shoulder. He pulled her harder against him.
"Yes, sir." Ron stepped into the hall, mouth at his wrist.
Zoey. His little girl. Oh God. The sickening wave swept over him again and he felt his knees weaken. Only with the fiercest of will did he keep his feet. The impulse that rushed through his veins then propelled him away from his wife and toward the door. He couldn't just sit there and wait.
Leo fell into step by his side, his voice edged with suspicion. "Where are you going?"
He didn't break stride, was almost at the threshold. "I'm going out there," he declared.
"Jed, you can't do that." It was a voice of complete understanding, but also one of reason.
He didn't care.
"Get out of my way, Leo," he ground out between clenched teeth, throwing a hand in front of him to ward off the expected attempt to stop his intentions.
"Jed! My God, think!" Realizing his words were ineffective, the chief of staff made a bold move in front of him, forcing Jed to pull up.
But it was only a temporary deterrent. Pushing past the obstacle, he stormed into the hall.
"Mister President!" It took Ron only a few long strides to catch him, but even the secret service agent failed to stop his determined mission. "Mister President," he repeated. Jed ignored him, barely heard the entreaty.
Hands grabbed at him, caught his arms. He jerked away. Now bodies moved in front of him, trying to remain respectful but threatening a definite use of force, if necessary.
And it was.
He found himself in the unyielding grasp of no less than four agents, who, despite their overpowering number, had trouble wrestling him back. For a moment, he freed himself, taking advantage of their surprise at his strength. Never underestimate a father's determination. Finally, they managed to gain a secure hold. Gasping, he strained forward, the frustration giving way to anger, which eventually collapsed in the face of despair. Exhausted, heartsick, he slumped in their arms.
"Get him back in the bedroom," he heard Leo order, and he wasn't sure if his feet moved or if they just dragged him from the hall.
With their help, he sank onto the sofa, felt a soft touch at his shoulder and looked up to see Abbey's eyes. The agony in them, the sheer horror reached him, drew from the inner strength he somehow managed to dig up.
Abbey needed him. This was her child, too. Her baby.
Oh God. Swallowing a sob, he pushed the helping hands away and reached for her. She fell into his arms, the tears flowing freely onto his shirt.
"Shh," he heard himself sooth. Where had the calm voice come from? A stranger, maybe. A stranger whose daughter had not just been abducted. A stranger who could deal logically with the situation. A stranger who had to lock the tortured soul inside him and think through the coming decisions.
"It's all right," he whispered, stroking her hair. "It's all right. We'll find her. We'll find her."
They would. They had to. He was the President of the United States. If he couldn't do it -
Straightening, drawing around him all the dignity, all the strength, all the control he could wrestle over his protesting body, he spoke over his wife's head to the grimacing faces that watched.
"Close down the city. Sweep the streets around the club. And find that French son of a bitch. Shoot him or bring him to me. Doesn't matter." His eyes had taken on the hue of steel and his soul matched it.
"Yes, sir," Ron replied, not even bothering to mention they couldn't kill the boyfriend. Maybe that was because they could - if they needed to.
"You find her." He looked straight at the agent, eyes commanding - eyes pleading. "You find her, Ron. You find her."
As the agent nodded curtly and strode from the room, the President of the United States stood, holding his wife in shaking arms, their tears running together on his chest.
"You find her," he murmured into Abbey's hair.
And then he closed his eyes and lifted his chin in the deepest supplication he had in him. "Oh God. Please find her."
He had to believe they would. He had to. Anything else was unthinkable.
So he clung to Abbey. And she clung to him. And they waited.