XI

The phone was ringing furiously when she got back in, weighted down by shopping bags; the Secret Service might close in around her like the world's most menacing babysitting service, but they had to keep their hands free, so she was still on her own with the bags. Zoey dropped them all on the table and slumped into a chair before reaching for the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, honey." It was her dad, sounding bunged up and somewhat rattled. "I've been trying all day - you weren't answering the phone."

"Jeez, dad, panic attack!" She sat back and gave a resigned chuckle, unsure whether to be irritated or touched. "I just went out."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry, sweetheart." Zoey could picture him running a hand through his hair. "I... I worry."

She smiled wryly to herself. "The baby's not due for another four months, dad." And Lord, what was he going to be like then?

There was a beat of silence, and when he spoke again, he sounded melancholy and subdued. "Yeah. Listen, Zoey, come have lunch with me."

"At the White House?"

"Yeah. I don't see enough of you lately."

"You've seen more of me in the last couple of months than the whole time I was at college, but okay."

"You'll come?" He sounded almost relieved. Had he really been worried about her, just not answering her home phone for a few hours? He might be the national role model for an overprotective dad, but that was a little much even for him.

"Yeah, sure, dad. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, honey." Now he sounded faintly exasperated, as he always did when the tables are turned.

"You don't sound fine," she accused.

He sighed, a heavy huff of breath. "It's just a cold."

"Dad, you're President of the United States of America!" she reminded him. "It's never 'just' anything."

"Well, thank you for reminding me of that, sweetheart," he said dryly, "because it slipped my mind for a while there, and I was just about to get in the car and drive out to the university to teach my economics class." Behind the sarcasm, she thought she detected the faintest edge of wistfulness.

Her father seemed down enough already, so she left that well alone. "Did you take your-?"

"I've had this from your mother already, sweetheart, and from your husband," he said, no doubt rolling his eyes at those crazy people who were just trying to get him to look after himself once in a while...

"Which means you didn't take them yet," she divined. He chuckled softly to himself, and sighed again.

"I will take the pills, Zoey."

"Take them now?" she prodded.

"I'll take them later," he shrugged off her concern. "I'll take them after lunch - you can even watch me do it." This was said in the tones of one magnanimously going to great lengths to satisfy unreasonable demands.

"You should take them now," she sighed, knowing that she wouldn't win.

"I need to keep a clear head, honey, you know that." Her father spoke with more seriousness than he would usually allow entreaties about his health, which probably meant he was feeling rotten, damn him. "I can't take too many pills, and I have a dinner party tonight."

"Promise to take them before the party?"

"I promise."

"Because I'm gonna check up on you."

"I'll take the pills!"

"Good. Because otherwise I'll be forced to call mom."

"Traitor," he accused, but his slightly laboured laugh was genuine enough. "Who bought you all that candy when you were a little girl, hmm?"

"Liz, mostly," she remembered.

"Yes, but I put her up to it."

She laughed. "I'll see you for lunch, dad."

"Yeah. See you then. Look after yourself."

That simple direction as he signed off was delivered with great solemnity, and she found herself feeling inexplicably nervous.

Get a hold of yourself, Zoey, she ordered herself sternly. Honestly, five months pregnant and already she was all over the place.


"So." CJ paused, and counted things out on her fingers. "It's down to the Prime Minister's cold but elegant wife, the lithe - but blonde and petite - fiancée, or the bubbly brunette reporter."

Carol smirked at her across the desk. "I think the Danny effect has returned." She slipped out before CJ could register her disagreement.

"The Danny effect." She rolled her eyes to herself. As if she completely lost her head the moment Danny Concannon was in the building.

She paused to brush aside memories of carrying around a fish and walking into doorframes.

Isolated incident, Claudia Jean. Get a grip.

Reminded of the goldfish on her desk and its unlikely origins, she leaned across the bowl, and sent ripples through the water with a quick dab of one fingertip.

"Hey there, Gail."

Gail gawped up at her blankly, and CJ sighed.

"Hey, he's your daddy, you tell me what's going through that infuriating curly head of his." What was Danny thinking? Was he planning to waltz back in and take up his old position as a seasoned reporter as if nothing had happened? Did he want to be friends? Did he want...

She sighed again. Gail remained stubbornly silent. CJ pushed back her hair and glared down at the fish bowl.

"Hey, it's all right for you. It's not like you have to worry about these things. You're just a fish, and I'm-" She considered. "Talking to a fish. Yeah. Um, should probably stop doing that."

She got up to leave, and then hurriedly returned to the fish bowl. "No offence, by the way."

Yup, she reflected as she scurried out past Carol's amused expression, definitely the Danny effect.


"Mr. President."

"Sam." The president sat back in his chair and smiled at him. It was about the only part of his appearance that held the slightest trace of warmth. Sam frowned hesitantly.

"Sir, are you-?"

"About half an inch from having the Secret Service step in and shoot the next person to ask me if I'm all right?" The president gave him a tigerish smile. "Funny you should mention that."

"Okay." He smiled, a little nervously, and took the offered seat.

"What's on your mind?"

"Uh, this evening's speech?"

"Ah, yes." Even in the grips of a miserable winter cold, the president could muster a penetrating gaze when it suited him. "I seem to be missing a final draft on that."

Sam suddenly found the Oval Office carpet very interesting. "It's being polished," he excused quickly.

The president pulled his glasses off. "Still? I thought you were gonna do that last night."

"Well, yes sir, I did."

"And that wasn't enough polishing?"

"Well, as it turned out, that turned out to be more-" He winced. "Really more of a... sandblasting, Mr. President." He quickly forged on ahead. "I just came by to check- Sir, are you absolutely sure you're going to be able to-?"

"I'm absolutely sure." The president's tone was flat; Sam knew he hadn't been completely joking when it came to his frustration level at people checking on his health. He hurriedly stood up.

"Okay. Then I'll get the draft to you as soon as-"

"Thank you."

"Thank you, Mr. President." Dismissed. Sam scurried back towards the bullpen to polish the final draft.

As soon as he'd actually, well, written it.