This is the last chapter of "Love's Creation." If there are interested
folks out there, I can continue with the next story, "Jewel of Their
Souls." Thanks for reading.
POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Except for Dr. Carlstein, these are not my characters.
Love's Creation - Chapter Six A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Donna lumbered toward her office, frustrated at - well, her own body, she guessed. Certainly not at Jed. He had done his job well, had cooperated eagerly and admirably under "doctor's orders." They had stayed in the pool for a long time the night before, so long that their fingers and toes wrinkled, and afterwards, when they finally stumbled upstairs and fell into each other's arms, exhausted, she still lay awake, assessing her body. Nothing. Not a twinge, not a spasm. Not even the false hope of a Braxton- Hicks contraction. She had gotten nothing at all from the evening - well, except for several hours of really good sex. She blushed at the vivid memory of some of the more creative positions they had tried with the help of the buoyant water.
"Morning!"
Startled, she turned enough to see Margaret catching up behind her, suit in its usual, impeccable condition, accenting her slender figure. Donna hated her.
"Hey," she acknowledged nevertheless, trying to keep the envy from her tone.
"How's the President?" Margaret asked the same question she had asked every day since Jed had been sick.
"He's fine," she answered truthfully. He was fine. Completely healed and re-energized from the forced rest. If last night hadn't proved it, nothing would. "Quite chipper today, as a matter of fact," she added.
Margaret's brow lifted. "Really?"
Okay, that smirk indicated knowledge of some juicy information, obviously about her.
"Would his chipperness have anything to do with that grin on your face?"
"Margaret!"
"Or with the fact that he told Leo yesterday that if he tried to find you guys last night, he'd better be glowing with radiation from the nuclear bomb that just dropped.
Donna sighed. Poor Leo. She was glad - for many reasons - that he had been spared the agony of another interruption. "Could be," she acknowledged vaguely.
Margaret nodded, pleased at her deduction, and fell into step beside her. "I saw him this morning. He does look quite chipper. And relaxed. You, on the other hand - "
"Margaret - " she warned.
" - you look horrible."
Gee, thanks. Just what a grossly pregnant woman wants to hear.
"I mean, well - do you feel okay?"
No. My back is killing me and this baby's sitting on my bladder. "Fine."
Although her expression seemed doubtful, Margaret moved on. "Did it work?"
"Did what work?"
"Last night."
"What?"
"Last night. You know - are you in labor?"
"Margaret! How did you - "
"Well, I figured you had a definite mission, as adamant as the President was about Leo staying away. Besides, that's what my cousin and her husband did."
"Did it work?"
"Like a charm," Margaret assured her.
Donna sighed. "That was the plan, yeah, but so far - nothing."
"Well, you'll just have to keep trying," she grinned.
Donna smiled. "That's what Jed said.
This brought a blush to Margaret's cheeks. Finally.
"Anyway, I've got this reception tonight, so it's just as well."
"That's right," Margaret remembered. "For the Ambassador of Bali?"
"Mali."
"Yeah. Well -"
Whatever she might have said was lost under a familiar, enthusiastic greeting. "Hey, ladies."
They turned as Josh Lyman sauntered down the hall toward them. "Margaret."
"Josh."
"Mrs. Bartlet."
"Mister Lyman."
She really wasn't in the humor today to banter with her former boss, but she didn't want to be rude, either, so she resumed her waddle toward the office door.
"Hey!" he called. "You, uh, you need any help?"
Help? "What do you mean?" She dared him to say it.
"I just, uh, well, you look like - I mean, you seem - Geez, Donna, you look horrible."
Once again, such tact. "Really?"
That look suddenly crossed his face. That look that said, "I just screwed up and there's absolutely no way out of it, but I'm going to try, anyway."
"In a beautiful - pregnant - sort of way - " he floundered.
A familiar cough snapped around the heads of everyone in the hallway and it cleared quickly as the President strolled toward them, hands in his pockets, head cocked curiously.
"You know, Josh," he began in that professorial tone, drawing an immediate grimace from his impromptu student, "one of these days some girl, overcome, no doubt by a form of incurable dementia, will agree to marry you. And if you are so blessed - although I'm not sure about the rest of the world - she will bear your children. And as she approaches - or exceeds - the anticipated delivery of your children, there is one thing you might want to do."
She could tell he didn't want to ask, but he had to, anyway. "What's that, sir?"
The President leveled a pointed look at him. "Keep your mouth totally and completely shut."
Margaret snickered. Donna grinned. Josh just reddened and nodded.
"Yes, sir. Good advice, sir."
"Damn right it is," Jed agreed, turning his attention to his very pregnant wife, his voice shifting from the teasing punch he had shown Josh to the warm caress he reserved for her alone. "Hey." So much in that one word.
She felt the heat race up her face at the intimacy of the tone. Apparently, she wasn't alone. Both Margaret and Josh ducked their heads and coughed discreetly.
"Well, uh, I'll just be, uh - going," the Deputy Chief of Staff muttered, stumbling backwards down the hallway. But he couldn't' quite overcome his genuine concern for his former assistant. "Uh, if you'll pardon me for saying, so, Mister President - "
Jed twisted to pin him with a sharp glare. Undaunted, Josh dared to continue. "Make the First Lady take a load off. 'Cause she really does look - "
"Horrible?" Donna finished for him, smiling despite the tactless comment. She read the caring behind his words.
For a moment, she was afraid of Jed's response, but he had already comprehended the situation, perhaps even before she had. "You heard the man," he said, tossing his head toward her closed office door. "Take a load off, Mrs. Bartlet."
With a wide grin, Josh ran a hand through his hair and continued, forward this time, toward the bullpen.
Her husband stepped closer, his hand at her elbow, his eyes suddenly holding hers with an intensity she had come to expect. Instantly, she was back in his arms, floating in the warm water, arching against him, feeling him inside -
She opened her eyes to find his gaze still on her, his hand still in the same position, his lips parted expectantly, his breathing accelerated, as if he felt the same jolt, re-lived the same sensations. And she almost grabbed his arm to drag him into the office, to close the door, to christen her couch like they had not quite managed to do yet in the Oval Office. Too many windows.
But a low "ahem" stopped her before she could even consider the wisdom of that idea. Both turned their gazes simultaneously, coming to rest on Margaret, her lips pursed, her head snapping back and forth between them. "Did you, uh, need something, Mister President? Is there something I can get for you?"
"No." Jed looked back at Donna.
But Margaret was persistent. "Coffee, maybe? Or water?"
He didn't remove his gaze. "No." More firmly this time.
"See, it wouldn't be any trouble. I'll just -"
Jed's sudden kiss startled his wife. Not that she minded, but they were standing in the middle of the East Wing hall.
"Margaret, does the door to my wife's office lock?" the President choked out, his mouth hovering only inches away from Donna's.
Leo's secretary stared at him, her eyes wide. "Uh - "
"Jed!" What was he doing?
He dragged her against him as best he could and leaned in for a harder kiss. "I mean," he rasped in a stage whisper, "I came by for our usual - you know - meeting."
What the hell -
"You know, the meeting, our usual meet - Oh hell, I need you, Donna. I need you now." He turned to Margaret, whose jaw had just thudded on the ground. "No offense, but I don't think I can wait any longer." Now he looked back at his confused wife. "Hop up on that desk there, Baby."
A strangled exclamation was all that was left of Margaret when they turned toward her. What on earth was going on? But when she looked back at Jed, he had braced himself on the afore-mentioned desk and was laughing. Laughing so hard that he had to bend over to catch his breath.
"Jed?" She wasn't worried, exactly. But she did still have some concerns about his physical health. Or perhaps, she thought, watching him now, she should consider his mental health, too.
"Maybe - " he tried, unable to continue at first. "Maybe, " he tried again, "she'll learn to take a hint sooner."
Ah. "You, Mister President," Donna accused, "are impertinent." The relief of comprehension flowed through her.
He grinned, finally managing to bring his laughter under control. "Me and Squirrel Nutkin."
"Who?"
"Boy do you have a lot to learn, Mom," he declared. "Beatrix Potter?" At her blank expression, he added, "Peter Rabbit?"
Oh.
"The girls loved her and she was quite an erudite children's writer, by the way. Squirrel Nutkin is impertinent. "
"Really?" She guessed she'd spent too much time with Mother Goose. It figured he'd find a children's book with a college vocabulary.
With enthusiasm, he launched into a laudatory commentary on the writer. "Amazing, actually. Zoey was using the word correctly at eighteen months." His eyes shone. "And Ellie knew at two that Jemima Puddle Duck complained about the 'superfluous' hen."
Okay, this was scary.
"She also pushed around a perambulator."
"Ellie?'
"Jemima Puddle Duck." As if everybody knew that.
Donna found this hard to believe, but he seemed quite certain. Well, maybe when she finished War and Peace she'd tackle Beatrix Potter.
"You know," he observed, face straightening into more serious lines. "You do look - "
"Don't say it - "
" - tired," he finished tactfully, and she wasn't sure if he had changed his sentence or not.
"Well, it's your fault. Who wouldn't be after a night like last night?"
"Umm," he grunted, sliding his arm around her waist, or at least as far as he could get it. "So it's my fault, is it?" Then he shifted his suggestive smirk to a gentle smile and reached up, slipping a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Anything yet?"
She knew what he meant. She shook her head. "Not yet."
"Wanna try again tonight?" He really was impertinent. Or maybe just insatiable. Either way, she was glad of it.
Her brain yelled, "yes!" but as much as she hated to admit it, she didn't feel so hot, and couldn't see herself mustering up the energy for hours of lovemaking. "We have the reception for the ambassador from Bali, tonight," she hedged.
"Mali," he corrected, adding a clear and succinct expletive to express his disappointment.
"Besides," she soothed, "I'm still a little sore." True. They had expended a great deal of energy and muscle.
Now his eyes softened in true comprehension. "Okay," he said, smiling and leading her to the couch. "Why don't you do what Josh suggested: Take a load off until then? 'Cause you really do look - "
"Horrible?"
He colored and shrugged. "Well - "
Donna smiled tiredly. "I know."
The First Lady of the United States took a moment to ease into a corner chair, at least temporarily under the radar of the ubiquitous baby-watching reporters. She didn't know exactly where they had disappeared to, but this was a rare opportunity she couldn't let pass.
Sliding her swollen feet into another chair, she breathed as deeply as the baby would allow and watched the crowd. It was a small affair, not that many people even knew there was a Mali ambassador, but the U.S. had been trying to help this poor country increase its economic growth, and evidently a deal had been brokered that involved gold mining. Whatever the reason, Donna wished the evening would wind down so she could go to bed. Her back ached, her legs throbbed, and her stomach protested the little bit she had put into it.
Across the room, she saw her husband standing under the green, yellow, and red bands of the Mali flag, engaged in deep conversation with an attractive, slender congresswoman, one she thought she remembered from some other state dinner, one who was unattached. More than a twinge of jealousy flashed through her, even though logic told her she was being ridiculous.
He looked good - really good - in his tuxedo, his stance relaxed, his mouth open in a smile, her hand placed casually on his arm. Hmm. Frowning, she tried to make a telepathic connection with him, tried to turn the offending arm into a current of electricity. But he was too caught up in the animation of his story.
Fortunately, before she could make a scene, Margaret slipped between them, settling obliviously at the table. "Having fun, yet?" she asked.
"Yeah. Lots."
"Listen, I'm, uh, I'm really sorry about this morning." Her eyes shot back to where Jed still entertained the dazzled woman. "I didn't know you guys - I mean - I didn't realize the President and you usually - "
Good old Margaret. She wished Jed could hear her, to see how convincing his act had been. Her laugh stopped the awkward apology.
"What?"
"Margaret - he was kidding. He doesn't - that is, we don't - well, he was just kidding."
Doubt still lingered on her friend's face, her eyes flickering down to Donna's protruding belly, but she smiled anyway. "Okay."
But the amusement faded as abruptly as it had come on. Her back still ached, her feet still throbbed and Jed still stood talking to that damned female, who now had the audacity to smooth his jacket lapel. And he didn't even realize she was coming on to him right there in the East Room. Okay, that was enough. With no little effort, she shoved her body from the chair, shaking off Margaret's startled offer of aid, and pounded toward her unsuspecting husband.
"Josiah?" Soft, calm, deceptive. But she never called him that, so when he turned, she saw the wariness all over his face.
"Donnatella?" he returned in kind, glancing at the quickly retreating hands of his conversationalist. Ah. She watched the comprehension dawn. "Donna?" he said, voice admitting his role, however innocent, in her discomfort.
"Thank you for your time, Mister President," the congresswoman said hastily, backing away.
At least now that he realized what had been happening, he had the good sense to look sheepish. With a helpless shrug, he asked, "Dance?"
The sheer absurdity of the proposal brought a relieved laugh to her lips, effectively dispelling the jealousy that had momentarily overtaken her. "Right."
He smiled, extending a hand.
"Jed! I can't dance with you."
"Why not?" he asked with apparent sincerity. "I won't step on your feet."
"I couldn't see it if you did," she noted with a rueful touch of humor.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
In her peripheral vision, she saw the dark-skinned man approach. He wore a sash that looked like a Miss America ribbon across his chest, bowed deeply, and gave her a deferential nod.
"Ambassador Diarrah." Jed reached his hand out in greeting, lifting his chin in acknowledgement of the hovering translator.
"I bring greetings from President Toure and Prime Minister Keita," the Ambassador announced in a rehearsed rhythm, glancing at the translator for confirmation of his accuracy.
"Welcome," Jed returned simply.
"My gratuity - "
The translator leaned in and whispered something to the ambassador, who smiled and began again. "My gratitude for your impossible - "
Another whisper from the translator.
"For your impressive party."
Patiently, Jed accepted the praise. "Thank you."
"And for your hospital."
Donna frowned, but Jed jumped in ahead of the translator.
" -ity," he finished. "Hospitality. Our pleasure, Mister Ambassador. I spoke with Ambassador Ranneberger just the other day - "
She tried to maintain focus on the three, tried to listen to the polite conversation, tried not to cast an evil glare at the congresswoman who still threw occasional looks their way. But the growing discomfort in her back demanded her entire attention.
"Don't you agree, Donna?" Jed was asking. She had no idea at all what he had said, but made a weak attempt to provide a response.
"Well, I - " She stopped as the pain in her back stretched around the front, almost doubling her over.
"About the econ - Donna?"
Oh boy, that hurt. But the uncomfortable pressure was forgotten at the surprising sensation of the gush from between her legs. It took a moment to realize what had happened, and in that moment, she and Jed stared at each other.
"Oh my God!" he finally snapped. "Oh my God! You - you - Charlie!" he called, oblivious to the startled attention they had drawn from every person in the room.
"Jed!" she cried, clutching her stomach and failing to fight back a groan.
Ambassador and translator both forgotten, he caught her as her legs buckled and her grasp on consciousness loosened.
"Donna? Charlie! Where the hell - "
Then Charlie was there, with Ron and Jonah close behind - and at least a dozen reports clamoring for a better view.
She heard Jed's voice, harsh and angry. "Get them out of here!" Then someone was yelling to clear the room.
"Jed?"
"I'm here, Baby," he assured her, the sound close to her ear. "You're okay. You're okay."
They had eased her to the floor and she felt better, not as lightheaded. Opening her eyes, she found her husband's face and smiled. "Guess it did work," she noted.
"What?"
"The pool."
His grin didn't quite mask the concern behind his eyes, but he nodded. "Guess so."
"Sir?" Ron's voice. "The Suburban's pulled around. GW's alerted. We're ready."
"Donna?" Jed asked again at her ear. "You ready?"
She felt dizzy, disoriented. Ready for what? Then another whip of pain cracked across her back and abdomen and she remembered. "Yes," she hissed. God, yes, she was ready.
Somehow, they made it to the waiting vehicle. Even more amazing was the fact that they allowed Jed to crawl in the back, too, his hand never leaving hers.
She'd never had a baby before, had heard the horror stories from aunts, had wondered how she would fare in that situation. Well, she was finding out, wasn't she? She wondered if it was too late to consider adoption.
Then they were there, nurses and doctors swarming around her, wheelchair waiting. She hung on to Jed's hand, the only steady connection to the familiar. In the labor/delivery room, a nurse wiped the sweat from her forehead as Dr. Carlstein checked her.
"Nice job, Mrs. Bartlet," she announced. "You're already five centimeters. This is going fast."
Donna answered with a bellow as the contraction spread through her.
"Can she have an epidural, Doctor?" Jed asked, bless him. Good job, Big Boy. She'd have to reward for that, later.
"I really think she's too far now," Carlstein decided.
Well, damn it.
"I figure we're only an hour or so from delivery." She leaned closer to her patient. "You sure this is your first?" she teased.
Somehow, Donna failed to find the humor. "Yes!" she snapped.
Jed grinned, having gone through this three times already. Apparently, he knew what to expect from a woman in the midst of delivery.
He stayed with her, mopped her brow, fed her ice chips, until the overpowering sensation of wanting to push this baby out hit her.
Finally, Dr. Carlstein appeared and propped up her feet in the break-down bed. "All right. We're there. Ten centimeters, one hundred percent effaced. This baby's coming!"
Yes, yes. Let's do it. Let's do it now!
Jed shifted, still holding her hand even though she knew his own must ache by now.
"All right," Dr. Carlstein said, watching the monitor. "Here comes one."
No kidding. But this time as the strong wave swept over her, she sucked in a hard breath and held it, pushing down.
"Okay," Jed coached. "Push - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten. Great! Relax."
Letting it out, she turned to this man. This man who had done nothing but encourage, and sooth, and pet. Damn him. "You're doing it wrong," she grated out between clenched teeth.
"What?"
"Wrong! Doing it wrong!" Was he deaf? "It's NOT 'Push - ONE - two - three. It's 'Push - TWO - three."
"Donna, I don't see what's so diff - "
Another swell approached. "It is!" she screamed. "Do it the hell right!" Who was this person she had become? But Jed just nodded and held on again.
"Okay. Here we go. Push - TWO - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten."
All right. Better. She'd let him live a while longer.
The clock in the room had become a focal point, and it now showed that she had been pushing for an hour and a half. Longer than Carlstein predicted. That was not helping her mood.
Her legs shook, her arms ached, and she noticed Jed had traded hands. "One more push, Donna. One more," he coaxed.
"You - said that - last time."
"Come on, Donna," Dr. Carlstein said. "I can see the head. You're almost there."
Okay. Okay. Let's do it. She felt the pressure, felt the baby coming and knew she'd gone too far now.
"Come on, Baby," Jed urged her, or maybe the child, or maybe both.
As the pain hit her again, she put everything into the push, forcing down, face red, jaw clenched.
"That's it!" Jed yelled. "That's it!"
And suddenly, a sharp pain ripped through her, then was gone. She felt the child slip from her - and then silence.
No cry. No wail. She had expected the stereotypical slap and scream, but neither occurred. What was happening? Straining to see, to hear, she distinguished several sounds, mainly a low gurgling and wet squirm. Desperate, she glanced up at Jed and her heart froze at the look on his face. He stared, eyes unbelieving, mouth open.
Finally, he managed, "Oh my God." Then he swallowed so hard, she heard it. "Holy Mother."
Oh God, she thought. What is it? What's happened? What's wrong?
"Jed?" She didn't want to know, but she had to know. Had to ask. "What - what is it?"
"It's - it's - the baby."
Tears welled in her eyes. Please, God. Please don't let something be wrong. Please don't.
"What about - the baby? What?" Struggling to push up, she was still unable to see anything. "Jed?"
"The baby - " He stopped, still staring down, not meeting her gaze, not able to tear himself from whatever horrible sight had captured his focus.
"Jed!" A scream, almost. The doctor flinched.
Her husband finally comprehended her anguish and turned back to her, still stunned, still a bit dazed about the eyes. She braced herself. Somehow, they could manage. Or could they? She didn't think she could take one more crisis. Not now.
He grasped her hands. "Donna, the baby - we can't - "
We can't what? We can't handle it? We can't - we can't - WHAT? Oh God, what was it? What was so wrong that Jed couldn't bring himself to tell her?
"We can't name the baby Abigail."
"Huh?" What was he saying? He wasn't making sense.
But then he smiled. He smiled! A shocked, bemused, but delighted smile. "Donna, it's-it's a boy."
A boy? A boy. A boy!
"He's okay? He's okay, Jed?"
The doctor answered. "He's fine, Mrs. Bartlet. A little low on APGAR at first, but he's fine, now."
At that moment, to reinforce the physician's assessment, the younger male Bartlet let out an angry, frustrated bellow and Donna found him placed on her stomach, legs and arms flung wide, lungs taking in his first breaths of air.
She stared at the child, wet and splotched red and white, but still the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And he was definitely a boy. Jed thrust a finger into the tiny hand, and his son hung on hard, in search of some security in these moments of being suddenly jerked from the serene existence that was the only thing he had ever known. His eyes were squeezed shut and it was difficult to tell how dark his hair was since he had not yet been cleaned up, but already she saw a clear resemblance to her husband.
As she thought of Jed, she spared a glance away from her newborn to look at his father. The President of the United States stood, his dinner jacket discarded long ago, his tie gone, his collar open, sleeves rolled up, his hair scattered, and his face completely and effectively stunned. But his eyes shone with a light she had not seen in - well, perhaps she had never seen it. He stared at the baby, tugged gently on the hand that still grasped his finger and the tenderness he showed swelled her heart with joy, and love, and pride.
After a moment, he seemed to sense her glance, because he turned toward her. "My God, Donna," he breathed.
She smiled and he leaned forward, kissing her softly, the emotions on his face echoed in the touch of his lips. "You did good," he whispered.
"Well," she corrected and he grinned.
"Would you like to cut the cord, Mister President?" the doctor offered, interrupting their quiet connection.
Jed looked back at her, his brow raised in doubt. "I figure you're better qualified than I am. Be my guest."
Nodding, Carlstein efficiently clipped the obsolete lifeline between mother and son. "Would you like to place him on the warming table, sir?" she asked, pointing to the cart that had been pulled up next to the delivery bed.
Donna watched Jed's jaw work in an effort to control his emotions as he detached his finger from the tiny grip and slipped his hands beneath the baby. Lifting his son, he cradled him, unconcerned with the smear of blood and afterbirth on his white tuxedo shirt.
"Hey, fella," he cooed. "Did we mess up your day?"
The baby's screams calmed in his father's arms and he opened his blue eyes curiously.
Jed laughed. "Well, you sure made mine."
And the tears came, now, flowed down her cheeks as she watched the man - no, the two men - she loved most in the world.
"Look at this," he grinned. "Look what we created."
Tired, but as happy as she had ever been in her life, Donna sighed. "What love created," she amended.
As he laid the child on the table and the nurses began to clean him up, Dr. Carlstein grinned triumphantly up at them from her continued ministrations. "Congratulations, Mister President. Mrs. Bartlet. What are you going to name him?"
Jed's startled eyes met hers and they simply stared at one another for a moment.
Him.
What are you going to name HIM? Uh oh.
What indeed?
"Child of love, our love's expression, Love's creation, loved indeed! Fresh from God, refresh our spirits, Into joy and laughter lead."
- Ronald S. Cole-Turner "Child of Blessing, Child of Promise" New Century Hymnal, 1995
POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Except for Dr. Carlstein, these are not my characters.
Love's Creation - Chapter Six A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Donna lumbered toward her office, frustrated at - well, her own body, she guessed. Certainly not at Jed. He had done his job well, had cooperated eagerly and admirably under "doctor's orders." They had stayed in the pool for a long time the night before, so long that their fingers and toes wrinkled, and afterwards, when they finally stumbled upstairs and fell into each other's arms, exhausted, she still lay awake, assessing her body. Nothing. Not a twinge, not a spasm. Not even the false hope of a Braxton- Hicks contraction. She had gotten nothing at all from the evening - well, except for several hours of really good sex. She blushed at the vivid memory of some of the more creative positions they had tried with the help of the buoyant water.
"Morning!"
Startled, she turned enough to see Margaret catching up behind her, suit in its usual, impeccable condition, accenting her slender figure. Donna hated her.
"Hey," she acknowledged nevertheless, trying to keep the envy from her tone.
"How's the President?" Margaret asked the same question she had asked every day since Jed had been sick.
"He's fine," she answered truthfully. He was fine. Completely healed and re-energized from the forced rest. If last night hadn't proved it, nothing would. "Quite chipper today, as a matter of fact," she added.
Margaret's brow lifted. "Really?"
Okay, that smirk indicated knowledge of some juicy information, obviously about her.
"Would his chipperness have anything to do with that grin on your face?"
"Margaret!"
"Or with the fact that he told Leo yesterday that if he tried to find you guys last night, he'd better be glowing with radiation from the nuclear bomb that just dropped.
Donna sighed. Poor Leo. She was glad - for many reasons - that he had been spared the agony of another interruption. "Could be," she acknowledged vaguely.
Margaret nodded, pleased at her deduction, and fell into step beside her. "I saw him this morning. He does look quite chipper. And relaxed. You, on the other hand - "
"Margaret - " she warned.
" - you look horrible."
Gee, thanks. Just what a grossly pregnant woman wants to hear.
"I mean, well - do you feel okay?"
No. My back is killing me and this baby's sitting on my bladder. "Fine."
Although her expression seemed doubtful, Margaret moved on. "Did it work?"
"Did what work?"
"Last night."
"What?"
"Last night. You know - are you in labor?"
"Margaret! How did you - "
"Well, I figured you had a definite mission, as adamant as the President was about Leo staying away. Besides, that's what my cousin and her husband did."
"Did it work?"
"Like a charm," Margaret assured her.
Donna sighed. "That was the plan, yeah, but so far - nothing."
"Well, you'll just have to keep trying," she grinned.
Donna smiled. "That's what Jed said.
This brought a blush to Margaret's cheeks. Finally.
"Anyway, I've got this reception tonight, so it's just as well."
"That's right," Margaret remembered. "For the Ambassador of Bali?"
"Mali."
"Yeah. Well -"
Whatever she might have said was lost under a familiar, enthusiastic greeting. "Hey, ladies."
They turned as Josh Lyman sauntered down the hall toward them. "Margaret."
"Josh."
"Mrs. Bartlet."
"Mister Lyman."
She really wasn't in the humor today to banter with her former boss, but she didn't want to be rude, either, so she resumed her waddle toward the office door.
"Hey!" he called. "You, uh, you need any help?"
Help? "What do you mean?" She dared him to say it.
"I just, uh, well, you look like - I mean, you seem - Geez, Donna, you look horrible."
Once again, such tact. "Really?"
That look suddenly crossed his face. That look that said, "I just screwed up and there's absolutely no way out of it, but I'm going to try, anyway."
"In a beautiful - pregnant - sort of way - " he floundered.
A familiar cough snapped around the heads of everyone in the hallway and it cleared quickly as the President strolled toward them, hands in his pockets, head cocked curiously.
"You know, Josh," he began in that professorial tone, drawing an immediate grimace from his impromptu student, "one of these days some girl, overcome, no doubt by a form of incurable dementia, will agree to marry you. And if you are so blessed - although I'm not sure about the rest of the world - she will bear your children. And as she approaches - or exceeds - the anticipated delivery of your children, there is one thing you might want to do."
She could tell he didn't want to ask, but he had to, anyway. "What's that, sir?"
The President leveled a pointed look at him. "Keep your mouth totally and completely shut."
Margaret snickered. Donna grinned. Josh just reddened and nodded.
"Yes, sir. Good advice, sir."
"Damn right it is," Jed agreed, turning his attention to his very pregnant wife, his voice shifting from the teasing punch he had shown Josh to the warm caress he reserved for her alone. "Hey." So much in that one word.
She felt the heat race up her face at the intimacy of the tone. Apparently, she wasn't alone. Both Margaret and Josh ducked their heads and coughed discreetly.
"Well, uh, I'll just be, uh - going," the Deputy Chief of Staff muttered, stumbling backwards down the hallway. But he couldn't' quite overcome his genuine concern for his former assistant. "Uh, if you'll pardon me for saying, so, Mister President - "
Jed twisted to pin him with a sharp glare. Undaunted, Josh dared to continue. "Make the First Lady take a load off. 'Cause she really does look - "
"Horrible?" Donna finished for him, smiling despite the tactless comment. She read the caring behind his words.
For a moment, she was afraid of Jed's response, but he had already comprehended the situation, perhaps even before she had. "You heard the man," he said, tossing his head toward her closed office door. "Take a load off, Mrs. Bartlet."
With a wide grin, Josh ran a hand through his hair and continued, forward this time, toward the bullpen.
Her husband stepped closer, his hand at her elbow, his eyes suddenly holding hers with an intensity she had come to expect. Instantly, she was back in his arms, floating in the warm water, arching against him, feeling him inside -
She opened her eyes to find his gaze still on her, his hand still in the same position, his lips parted expectantly, his breathing accelerated, as if he felt the same jolt, re-lived the same sensations. And she almost grabbed his arm to drag him into the office, to close the door, to christen her couch like they had not quite managed to do yet in the Oval Office. Too many windows.
But a low "ahem" stopped her before she could even consider the wisdom of that idea. Both turned their gazes simultaneously, coming to rest on Margaret, her lips pursed, her head snapping back and forth between them. "Did you, uh, need something, Mister President? Is there something I can get for you?"
"No." Jed looked back at Donna.
But Margaret was persistent. "Coffee, maybe? Or water?"
He didn't remove his gaze. "No." More firmly this time.
"See, it wouldn't be any trouble. I'll just -"
Jed's sudden kiss startled his wife. Not that she minded, but they were standing in the middle of the East Wing hall.
"Margaret, does the door to my wife's office lock?" the President choked out, his mouth hovering only inches away from Donna's.
Leo's secretary stared at him, her eyes wide. "Uh - "
"Jed!" What was he doing?
He dragged her against him as best he could and leaned in for a harder kiss. "I mean," he rasped in a stage whisper, "I came by for our usual - you know - meeting."
What the hell -
"You know, the meeting, our usual meet - Oh hell, I need you, Donna. I need you now." He turned to Margaret, whose jaw had just thudded on the ground. "No offense, but I don't think I can wait any longer." Now he looked back at his confused wife. "Hop up on that desk there, Baby."
A strangled exclamation was all that was left of Margaret when they turned toward her. What on earth was going on? But when she looked back at Jed, he had braced himself on the afore-mentioned desk and was laughing. Laughing so hard that he had to bend over to catch his breath.
"Jed?" She wasn't worried, exactly. But she did still have some concerns about his physical health. Or perhaps, she thought, watching him now, she should consider his mental health, too.
"Maybe - " he tried, unable to continue at first. "Maybe, " he tried again, "she'll learn to take a hint sooner."
Ah. "You, Mister President," Donna accused, "are impertinent." The relief of comprehension flowed through her.
He grinned, finally managing to bring his laughter under control. "Me and Squirrel Nutkin."
"Who?"
"Boy do you have a lot to learn, Mom," he declared. "Beatrix Potter?" At her blank expression, he added, "Peter Rabbit?"
Oh.
"The girls loved her and she was quite an erudite children's writer, by the way. Squirrel Nutkin is impertinent. "
"Really?" She guessed she'd spent too much time with Mother Goose. It figured he'd find a children's book with a college vocabulary.
With enthusiasm, he launched into a laudatory commentary on the writer. "Amazing, actually. Zoey was using the word correctly at eighteen months." His eyes shone. "And Ellie knew at two that Jemima Puddle Duck complained about the 'superfluous' hen."
Okay, this was scary.
"She also pushed around a perambulator."
"Ellie?'
"Jemima Puddle Duck." As if everybody knew that.
Donna found this hard to believe, but he seemed quite certain. Well, maybe when she finished War and Peace she'd tackle Beatrix Potter.
"You know," he observed, face straightening into more serious lines. "You do look - "
"Don't say it - "
" - tired," he finished tactfully, and she wasn't sure if he had changed his sentence or not.
"Well, it's your fault. Who wouldn't be after a night like last night?"
"Umm," he grunted, sliding his arm around her waist, or at least as far as he could get it. "So it's my fault, is it?" Then he shifted his suggestive smirk to a gentle smile and reached up, slipping a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Anything yet?"
She knew what he meant. She shook her head. "Not yet."
"Wanna try again tonight?" He really was impertinent. Or maybe just insatiable. Either way, she was glad of it.
Her brain yelled, "yes!" but as much as she hated to admit it, she didn't feel so hot, and couldn't see herself mustering up the energy for hours of lovemaking. "We have the reception for the ambassador from Bali, tonight," she hedged.
"Mali," he corrected, adding a clear and succinct expletive to express his disappointment.
"Besides," she soothed, "I'm still a little sore." True. They had expended a great deal of energy and muscle.
Now his eyes softened in true comprehension. "Okay," he said, smiling and leading her to the couch. "Why don't you do what Josh suggested: Take a load off until then? 'Cause you really do look - "
"Horrible?"
He colored and shrugged. "Well - "
Donna smiled tiredly. "I know."
The First Lady of the United States took a moment to ease into a corner chair, at least temporarily under the radar of the ubiquitous baby-watching reporters. She didn't know exactly where they had disappeared to, but this was a rare opportunity she couldn't let pass.
Sliding her swollen feet into another chair, she breathed as deeply as the baby would allow and watched the crowd. It was a small affair, not that many people even knew there was a Mali ambassador, but the U.S. had been trying to help this poor country increase its economic growth, and evidently a deal had been brokered that involved gold mining. Whatever the reason, Donna wished the evening would wind down so she could go to bed. Her back ached, her legs throbbed, and her stomach protested the little bit she had put into it.
Across the room, she saw her husband standing under the green, yellow, and red bands of the Mali flag, engaged in deep conversation with an attractive, slender congresswoman, one she thought she remembered from some other state dinner, one who was unattached. More than a twinge of jealousy flashed through her, even though logic told her she was being ridiculous.
He looked good - really good - in his tuxedo, his stance relaxed, his mouth open in a smile, her hand placed casually on his arm. Hmm. Frowning, she tried to make a telepathic connection with him, tried to turn the offending arm into a current of electricity. But he was too caught up in the animation of his story.
Fortunately, before she could make a scene, Margaret slipped between them, settling obliviously at the table. "Having fun, yet?" she asked.
"Yeah. Lots."
"Listen, I'm, uh, I'm really sorry about this morning." Her eyes shot back to where Jed still entertained the dazzled woman. "I didn't know you guys - I mean - I didn't realize the President and you usually - "
Good old Margaret. She wished Jed could hear her, to see how convincing his act had been. Her laugh stopped the awkward apology.
"What?"
"Margaret - he was kidding. He doesn't - that is, we don't - well, he was just kidding."
Doubt still lingered on her friend's face, her eyes flickering down to Donna's protruding belly, but she smiled anyway. "Okay."
But the amusement faded as abruptly as it had come on. Her back still ached, her feet still throbbed and Jed still stood talking to that damned female, who now had the audacity to smooth his jacket lapel. And he didn't even realize she was coming on to him right there in the East Room. Okay, that was enough. With no little effort, she shoved her body from the chair, shaking off Margaret's startled offer of aid, and pounded toward her unsuspecting husband.
"Josiah?" Soft, calm, deceptive. But she never called him that, so when he turned, she saw the wariness all over his face.
"Donnatella?" he returned in kind, glancing at the quickly retreating hands of his conversationalist. Ah. She watched the comprehension dawn. "Donna?" he said, voice admitting his role, however innocent, in her discomfort.
"Thank you for your time, Mister President," the congresswoman said hastily, backing away.
At least now that he realized what had been happening, he had the good sense to look sheepish. With a helpless shrug, he asked, "Dance?"
The sheer absurdity of the proposal brought a relieved laugh to her lips, effectively dispelling the jealousy that had momentarily overtaken her. "Right."
He smiled, extending a hand.
"Jed! I can't dance with you."
"Why not?" he asked with apparent sincerity. "I won't step on your feet."
"I couldn't see it if you did," she noted with a rueful touch of humor.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
In her peripheral vision, she saw the dark-skinned man approach. He wore a sash that looked like a Miss America ribbon across his chest, bowed deeply, and gave her a deferential nod.
"Ambassador Diarrah." Jed reached his hand out in greeting, lifting his chin in acknowledgement of the hovering translator.
"I bring greetings from President Toure and Prime Minister Keita," the Ambassador announced in a rehearsed rhythm, glancing at the translator for confirmation of his accuracy.
"Welcome," Jed returned simply.
"My gratuity - "
The translator leaned in and whispered something to the ambassador, who smiled and began again. "My gratitude for your impossible - "
Another whisper from the translator.
"For your impressive party."
Patiently, Jed accepted the praise. "Thank you."
"And for your hospital."
Donna frowned, but Jed jumped in ahead of the translator.
" -ity," he finished. "Hospitality. Our pleasure, Mister Ambassador. I spoke with Ambassador Ranneberger just the other day - "
She tried to maintain focus on the three, tried to listen to the polite conversation, tried not to cast an evil glare at the congresswoman who still threw occasional looks their way. But the growing discomfort in her back demanded her entire attention.
"Don't you agree, Donna?" Jed was asking. She had no idea at all what he had said, but made a weak attempt to provide a response.
"Well, I - " She stopped as the pain in her back stretched around the front, almost doubling her over.
"About the econ - Donna?"
Oh boy, that hurt. But the uncomfortable pressure was forgotten at the surprising sensation of the gush from between her legs. It took a moment to realize what had happened, and in that moment, she and Jed stared at each other.
"Oh my God!" he finally snapped. "Oh my God! You - you - Charlie!" he called, oblivious to the startled attention they had drawn from every person in the room.
"Jed!" she cried, clutching her stomach and failing to fight back a groan.
Ambassador and translator both forgotten, he caught her as her legs buckled and her grasp on consciousness loosened.
"Donna? Charlie! Where the hell - "
Then Charlie was there, with Ron and Jonah close behind - and at least a dozen reports clamoring for a better view.
She heard Jed's voice, harsh and angry. "Get them out of here!" Then someone was yelling to clear the room.
"Jed?"
"I'm here, Baby," he assured her, the sound close to her ear. "You're okay. You're okay."
They had eased her to the floor and she felt better, not as lightheaded. Opening her eyes, she found her husband's face and smiled. "Guess it did work," she noted.
"What?"
"The pool."
His grin didn't quite mask the concern behind his eyes, but he nodded. "Guess so."
"Sir?" Ron's voice. "The Suburban's pulled around. GW's alerted. We're ready."
"Donna?" Jed asked again at her ear. "You ready?"
She felt dizzy, disoriented. Ready for what? Then another whip of pain cracked across her back and abdomen and she remembered. "Yes," she hissed. God, yes, she was ready.
Somehow, they made it to the waiting vehicle. Even more amazing was the fact that they allowed Jed to crawl in the back, too, his hand never leaving hers.
She'd never had a baby before, had heard the horror stories from aunts, had wondered how she would fare in that situation. Well, she was finding out, wasn't she? She wondered if it was too late to consider adoption.
Then they were there, nurses and doctors swarming around her, wheelchair waiting. She hung on to Jed's hand, the only steady connection to the familiar. In the labor/delivery room, a nurse wiped the sweat from her forehead as Dr. Carlstein checked her.
"Nice job, Mrs. Bartlet," she announced. "You're already five centimeters. This is going fast."
Donna answered with a bellow as the contraction spread through her.
"Can she have an epidural, Doctor?" Jed asked, bless him. Good job, Big Boy. She'd have to reward for that, later.
"I really think she's too far now," Carlstein decided.
Well, damn it.
"I figure we're only an hour or so from delivery." She leaned closer to her patient. "You sure this is your first?" she teased.
Somehow, Donna failed to find the humor. "Yes!" she snapped.
Jed grinned, having gone through this three times already. Apparently, he knew what to expect from a woman in the midst of delivery.
He stayed with her, mopped her brow, fed her ice chips, until the overpowering sensation of wanting to push this baby out hit her.
Finally, Dr. Carlstein appeared and propped up her feet in the break-down bed. "All right. We're there. Ten centimeters, one hundred percent effaced. This baby's coming!"
Yes, yes. Let's do it. Let's do it now!
Jed shifted, still holding her hand even though she knew his own must ache by now.
"All right," Dr. Carlstein said, watching the monitor. "Here comes one."
No kidding. But this time as the strong wave swept over her, she sucked in a hard breath and held it, pushing down.
"Okay," Jed coached. "Push - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten. Great! Relax."
Letting it out, she turned to this man. This man who had done nothing but encourage, and sooth, and pet. Damn him. "You're doing it wrong," she grated out between clenched teeth.
"What?"
"Wrong! Doing it wrong!" Was he deaf? "It's NOT 'Push - ONE - two - three. It's 'Push - TWO - three."
"Donna, I don't see what's so diff - "
Another swell approached. "It is!" she screamed. "Do it the hell right!" Who was this person she had become? But Jed just nodded and held on again.
"Okay. Here we go. Push - TWO - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten."
All right. Better. She'd let him live a while longer.
The clock in the room had become a focal point, and it now showed that she had been pushing for an hour and a half. Longer than Carlstein predicted. That was not helping her mood.
Her legs shook, her arms ached, and she noticed Jed had traded hands. "One more push, Donna. One more," he coaxed.
"You - said that - last time."
"Come on, Donna," Dr. Carlstein said. "I can see the head. You're almost there."
Okay. Okay. Let's do it. She felt the pressure, felt the baby coming and knew she'd gone too far now.
"Come on, Baby," Jed urged her, or maybe the child, or maybe both.
As the pain hit her again, she put everything into the push, forcing down, face red, jaw clenched.
"That's it!" Jed yelled. "That's it!"
And suddenly, a sharp pain ripped through her, then was gone. She felt the child slip from her - and then silence.
No cry. No wail. She had expected the stereotypical slap and scream, but neither occurred. What was happening? Straining to see, to hear, she distinguished several sounds, mainly a low gurgling and wet squirm. Desperate, she glanced up at Jed and her heart froze at the look on his face. He stared, eyes unbelieving, mouth open.
Finally, he managed, "Oh my God." Then he swallowed so hard, she heard it. "Holy Mother."
Oh God, she thought. What is it? What's happened? What's wrong?
"Jed?" She didn't want to know, but she had to know. Had to ask. "What - what is it?"
"It's - it's - the baby."
Tears welled in her eyes. Please, God. Please don't let something be wrong. Please don't.
"What about - the baby? What?" Struggling to push up, she was still unable to see anything. "Jed?"
"The baby - " He stopped, still staring down, not meeting her gaze, not able to tear himself from whatever horrible sight had captured his focus.
"Jed!" A scream, almost. The doctor flinched.
Her husband finally comprehended her anguish and turned back to her, still stunned, still a bit dazed about the eyes. She braced herself. Somehow, they could manage. Or could they? She didn't think she could take one more crisis. Not now.
He grasped her hands. "Donna, the baby - we can't - "
We can't what? We can't handle it? We can't - we can't - WHAT? Oh God, what was it? What was so wrong that Jed couldn't bring himself to tell her?
"We can't name the baby Abigail."
"Huh?" What was he saying? He wasn't making sense.
But then he smiled. He smiled! A shocked, bemused, but delighted smile. "Donna, it's-it's a boy."
A boy? A boy. A boy!
"He's okay? He's okay, Jed?"
The doctor answered. "He's fine, Mrs. Bartlet. A little low on APGAR at first, but he's fine, now."
At that moment, to reinforce the physician's assessment, the younger male Bartlet let out an angry, frustrated bellow and Donna found him placed on her stomach, legs and arms flung wide, lungs taking in his first breaths of air.
She stared at the child, wet and splotched red and white, but still the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And he was definitely a boy. Jed thrust a finger into the tiny hand, and his son hung on hard, in search of some security in these moments of being suddenly jerked from the serene existence that was the only thing he had ever known. His eyes were squeezed shut and it was difficult to tell how dark his hair was since he had not yet been cleaned up, but already she saw a clear resemblance to her husband.
As she thought of Jed, she spared a glance away from her newborn to look at his father. The President of the United States stood, his dinner jacket discarded long ago, his tie gone, his collar open, sleeves rolled up, his hair scattered, and his face completely and effectively stunned. But his eyes shone with a light she had not seen in - well, perhaps she had never seen it. He stared at the baby, tugged gently on the hand that still grasped his finger and the tenderness he showed swelled her heart with joy, and love, and pride.
After a moment, he seemed to sense her glance, because he turned toward her. "My God, Donna," he breathed.
She smiled and he leaned forward, kissing her softly, the emotions on his face echoed in the touch of his lips. "You did good," he whispered.
"Well," she corrected and he grinned.
"Would you like to cut the cord, Mister President?" the doctor offered, interrupting their quiet connection.
Jed looked back at her, his brow raised in doubt. "I figure you're better qualified than I am. Be my guest."
Nodding, Carlstein efficiently clipped the obsolete lifeline between mother and son. "Would you like to place him on the warming table, sir?" she asked, pointing to the cart that had been pulled up next to the delivery bed.
Donna watched Jed's jaw work in an effort to control his emotions as he detached his finger from the tiny grip and slipped his hands beneath the baby. Lifting his son, he cradled him, unconcerned with the smear of blood and afterbirth on his white tuxedo shirt.
"Hey, fella," he cooed. "Did we mess up your day?"
The baby's screams calmed in his father's arms and he opened his blue eyes curiously.
Jed laughed. "Well, you sure made mine."
And the tears came, now, flowed down her cheeks as she watched the man - no, the two men - she loved most in the world.
"Look at this," he grinned. "Look what we created."
Tired, but as happy as she had ever been in her life, Donna sighed. "What love created," she amended.
As he laid the child on the table and the nurses began to clean him up, Dr. Carlstein grinned triumphantly up at them from her continued ministrations. "Congratulations, Mister President. Mrs. Bartlet. What are you going to name him?"
Jed's startled eyes met hers and they simply stared at one another for a moment.
Him.
What are you going to name HIM? Uh oh.
What indeed?
"Child of love, our love's expression, Love's creation, loved indeed! Fresh from God, refresh our spirits, Into joy and laughter lead."
- Ronald S. Cole-Turner "Child of Blessing, Child of Promise" New Century Hymnal, 1995