POV: Donna
Spoilers: None, except the previous stories in this series
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't know if AS has ever mention siblings for Donna, but
I've created one here. Hope it doesn't contradict anything. By the way,
except for a couple of characters, all have been created by AS.
Jewel of Their Souls - Chapter Two
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Jed was running late - no newsflash there - so Donna took the moment to adjust her son's attire. The photographer had suggested a blue color scheme and she concurred. It would highlight the eyes of both her husband and child. She looked down at the baby and the swell of love that pushed at her heart nearly overwhelmed her. She had known she would love the child, had no doubts about that. But she had not anticipated the aching joy that had invaded her soul from the very moment that the infant, still slippery from birth, was placed on her. She wondered if Jed felt it, too. Wondered if his heart leaped each morning when he woke and remembered that he had created this life, this child - this son.
"Hello."
She looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and smiled at C.J., pushing back the tears that suddenly burned her eyes.
"Donna, you all right?"
How could she explain the emotions that surged through her? How could she relate the sensation of completeness? She decided she couldn't. Only a mother - or possibly father - could understand. Instead, she nodded.
"Oh yeah. Just these silly hormones trying to get back to normal."
C.J. didn't look convinced, but she seemed to accept the explanation, nevertheless. "Sure." Then she bent over to grin at the President's son. "Hey there, Little Jed," she greeted, offering her finger for sacrifice in the tight little list. To her satisfaction, the baby grabbed on and gurgled.
"Little Jed?" Donna asked.
C.J. shrugged. "Well, if you guys aren't gonna name him, somebody has to. And since he looks so much like his dad - "
Donna smiled. It was kind of cute. "Okay. For now, anyway."
"You look good," C. J. noted, still tugging gently against the child's grip.
Donna raised her brow. She didn't feel as if she looked good. Quite the contrary. Although some of the weight had come off, she still felt wide and flabby. But her muttered complaints in front of the bathroom mirror merely garnered her scoffing protests from her husband, who showed her exactly what he thought of her body by running his hands down it and kissing the tiny stretch marks their son had left her with.
"Where's Jed?" she asked, ignoring the compliment.
"Briefing," C. J. replied quickly - too quickly. A sure sign it was not just a briefing. More than likely he was in the Sit Room again, surrounded by the Joint Chiefs and special advisors. He hadn't discussed whatever they had discovered so far in the 757 crash - she hadn't asked - but the tense lines in his shoulders when he trudged into the Residence at night revealed enough.
Any explanation she might have been tempted to reveal was swallowed by the breeze that swept into the room as the subject of their conversation entered at his usual purposeful stride.
"Sorry I'm late." His voice, one that she now associated not only with calm reassurance and confidence, but also with intimate whispers and endearments, warmed the room.
"Speak of the devil," she grinned, lifting her lips so he could brush them with his.
"Guilty," he confessed, kissing her again, a little longer this time, before he squatted on his haunches and placed another kiss on his son's forehead. A flash drew their attention.
Jed's eyes darkened as he turned toward the tossled-headed photographer, but she placed a gentle hand on his arm, stilling whatever sharp remark he had intended.
"I'm sorry, Mister President," came the flustered apology. "I thought - well - are you ready, sir?"
C. J. stepped in quickly. "Mister President, this is Tony Fahrwell. He'll be doing the shots today. I told him you only had a few minutes, so he was trying to maximize the time, I think."
Fahrwell nodded gratefully, his curly hair bouncing over one eye. Donna suppressed a smirk at the uncertainty on his face as he waited for the President's response.
"Yeah," Jed finally allowed, after a long study of the young man. "Okay. Let's do it, then."
With a nervous nod, the photographer directed them, carefully showing his respect, to the area he had set up with special lighting thrown to capture the mood he wanted.
As they moved into place, Donna raised her brow in appreciation of her husband's attire. Not his usual office dress today. For the picture she had asked him to wear her favorite of his casual apparel. Jeans - always jeans - a navy open-collared, long-sleeved pullover shirt and soft, worn loafers. She didn't dictate his underwear - sort of hoped he hadn't -
Uh oh. Maybe no one saw the flush, but she couldn't keep it from her cheeks at the thought. Not the time for that, she knew - Even though he looked good. Damned good. Good enough to eat. Okay. That just drew a deeper blush. Now he was looking at her curiously, as if he really wanted to know what she was thinking about. His eyes twinkled, and she considered the possibility that her body projected the sexual interest it had involuntarily generated. The kiss he gave her then, soft but promising much more, only supported her theory.
"Excuse me." C. J. interrupted, her voice tinged with reluctance at breaking into the moment.
Jed finished the kiss without hurry before he granted the press secretary his attention. Even then, he continued looking at his wife and child. "Okay. We're ready."
"Yeah, I can see that - " C.J. mumbled and Donna couldn't suppress an embarrassed chuckle.
The photographer guided them to sit close, their son between them, Jed to her right, the child cradled against her left arm so that he faced his father.
To complement Jed, she wore jeans herself, able at least to squeeze back into an old pair, and a soft light blue sweater. Their son seemed unimpressed by his azure gown. Later, she imagined, he would look back on the family portrait and cringe in typical teenage embarrassment.
C. J. watched them from behind the lights, her eyes bright with both the pleasure of seeing them and the emotion of the moment.
"I only need you to do one thing for me," Tony Fahrwell instructed. "Talk - just be natural. I'll take the shots. Don't worry about poses."
Jed shrugged and threw a glance at Donna. They could do that.
As they interacted with each other and their baby, they grew accustomed to the flashes and clicks, eventually ignoring them completely. Speaking softly, they used this time to catch up on the lost moments since he had been pulled away to deal with the possible implications of the plane crash.
"Theodore?" he asked abruptly. She had grown accustomed to his practice of throwing out names in the middle of other conversations. No reference was needed. "Means 'divine gift.' Also a rather famous presidential name."
She considered it. Not the worst he'd suggested. She studied the infant's sweet face, mentally trying out the name. "What would we call him?"
"Theo. Or Ted?"
"Ted and Jed?"
"Hmm."
"Theo and Leo?"
"Okay. Maybe not," he conceded.
For a little while they just sat, shifting as they felt like it, alternating looking at each other and at the baby, who stared right back at them with an air of confidence that spoke of his parentage. The shutter clicked almost constantly now.
"Thanksgiving's Thursday," she reminded him.
He answered her but kept his eyes on his son. "Did you call your folks?"
"Yeah. They're coming. Gino, too."
"Your brother? Did I meet him? He wasn't at the wedding, was he?"
At first she felt a shock of fear zap her. Did he not remember meeting Gino? Then she almost laughed when she realized he was right. Gino had not been there at all. The fact the he wasn't sure was evidence of their total concentration on each other on that hectic day. She could barely recall who was there, herself.
"No," she reminded him. "He was still overseas."
"His reserve unit, right?"
She nodded. Gino's unit was standing down, now, after almost a year in Afghanistan and she would be glad to see him, to have him meet Jed. As long as he behaved himself. He was still like a little kid sometimes.
But as she felt Jed's fingers slip under the back of her sweater, out of camera sight, she decided he wasn't the only one.
"Mom's pretty freaked about spending Thanksgiving at the White House," she told him, casually pushing his hand back down. Understatement. Her mother had almost fainted on the other end of the phone line when Donna issued the invitation.
"Well, I'll be glad to get to know them," Jed assured her, content to caress lower back. "There was really no time to visit at the wedding."
"You had - other things on your mind," she remembered, smiling slyly at him. The spark that leapt between them when his eyes met hers was almost audible. She heard C. J. clear her throat.
That was true in more ways than one, too. Between Korea and their quest for some private moments, they had hardly had a chance to visit with their guests.
"Don't be surprised if Mom just stares at you for awhile," she warned him.
At his lifted brow, she explained, "She's still adjusting to the fact that she can actually use the line 'my son-in-law the President.'"
He chuckled and kissed her over the baby's head. Another flash.
"He's beautiful," she said, echoing the same observation they had both used daily since his birth.
"Yeah," Jed agreed, as usual.
"You know, we really need to -"
"Yeah," he interrupted. He knew.
She told him about C. J.'s christening and figured that "Little Jed" might just become the press secretary's designation regardless of their choice. He laughed, that rich, full laugh. Another flash.
"All right," he promised. "By Thanksgiving, okay?"
She smiled at him and they both looked down at Baby Bartlet. The shutter clicked again.
By the time the session ended, Tony Fahrwell had collected a rich array of shots that all of America, and even the world, would more than likely devour over the next few days.
Donna woke abruptly, not sure what had brought her out of a dead sleep until she felt the kick against her shin. "Ow!" she protested, ready to swat Jed playfully for that. But the word fell from her lips only half- uttered when she realized he was still asleep himself - and tossing roughly enough to push the covers from his body. A nightmare, or at least a persistent worry apparently held his subconscious thoughts.
"Jed?" she whispered, careful not to wake him too suddenly. He did not respond. She tried again, pushing at his shoulder. "Jed?"
But this time he pushed back, calling out hoarsely.
"No! Stop!"
Okay, maybe more than just a persistent worry. Many things had the potential of threatening his rest. A plane crash that could have terrorist connections was only one possibility. She placed a hand on his chest.
He thrashed with more power now, throwing a hand up against an unseen attacker. "Stay away!"
From the door, Donna heard an uneasy voice. "Mister President? Mrs. Bartlet?" Jonah peeked into the room, his stance revealing his distinct discomfort about entering. He knew the possibilities of what he might interrupt.
Pulling the covers around her, she reassured him quietly, still trying to calm her husband. "It's all right. Just a nightmare."
"Yes, m'am," he answered, and eased out, but his tone let her know he would be right back if she needed him.
Jed's voice suddenly became clear, anguished. "No, Father - Sir! Don't! Just leave me alone!"
Whoa. This was unexpected. A nightmare? she wondered.
Or was it a memory?
There were many things she did not know about Josiah Bartlet, many life experiences they had not shared. Was this something he had kept from her? Finally, her gentle caresses soothed him back to sleep and he rested peacefully until their son woke them both with his insistent cries to be fed. She didn't mention the dream and he didn't seem to remember it, but she filed the moment away for later.
But this wasn't the last of the dreams.
They were still half asleep on Thanksgiving morning, only two hours after the baby had had his four a.m. feeding and barely an hour away from the very last moment they could stay in bed. Snuggling deeper under the warm covers, Donna scooted back against her husband's body, hoping to feel his hands move automatically to rub her back as they sometimes did before he was really aware of what he was doing. And even then he usually indulged her, at least for a little while.
Sure enough, he was curled on his side, facing her, and his right hand fell conveniently over her hip when she nudged him. With an incoherent mumble, he let his fingers gently knead the muscles as he leaned closer into her, still obviously not completely alert. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the delicious race of chill bumps over her skin, groaned softly with the release of stiffness and tension his touch brought. Then she groaned again as his lips slid over her shoulder and his hand snaked around her body to cup a breast, to caress her stomach. She wasn't sure he was really awake, yet, didn't know if he had an ulterior motive or was just taking a moment to cuddle. But when he pulled her closer against him and she felt the hard shaft heat her buttocks, she knew he anticipated more.
"Jed," she whispered, not eager to wake their son who slumbered next to the bed.
In answer, he pushed his hips harder against her, ran his tongue up her neck. She was caught between the automatic arousal his actions caused and the natural protest her healing body threw out.
"Jed," she tried again, but his lips sucked on her earlobe. For a moment, she gave into his touch.
"Come on, Abbey," came the soft coaxing.
She froze, uncertain, unable to squelch the sick pang in her heart. That had never happened before.
He had never called Abbey's name when he was with her, not even in the delirious throes of orgasm. A dizzy wave of jealousy passed through her, even as she tried to justify the moment. He was obviously still asleep, dreaming of her - of the First Lady. And Donna would always think of Abigail Bartlet as the First Lady, even though she, herself, held the title now.
But how could she hold that against him? He had 35 years of history with Abbey, for goodness sake. Thirty-five years of intimacy, of - making love. What a strange sensation it was, coming face to face with another blunt reminder of his previous life. It was eerily reminiscent of Daphne DuMarier's troubled heroine and her struggle to overcome the dynamic, consuming spectre of Rebecca deWinter.
Still, a meek voice of reason struggled to wiggle its way through the envy, the emotion that was disturbingly close to anger. He was not responsible for his subconscious thoughts, she told herself. It was bound to happen. That was only natural, logical.
Despite her efforts, though, it still hurt.
"Sweet Knees," he murmured again, running a hand over her hips.
She almost panicked, had to do something, had to stop him. He was touching Abbey, kissing Abbey, making love to Abbey, not her. She had been strong, understanding.
But she wasn't that understanding.
"Jed," she called, louder this time, with more force behind it. At the same moment, she pushed at him, perhaps a little harder than necessary.
His eyes opened, disoriented and confused for a moment. A flash of pain crossed his face; then he looked at her and brought himself completely into the conscious world. He smiled, a little sheepishly.
"Hey, Baby," he greeted.
Well, at least he recognized her. She forced the smile to her lips, made herself treat him as if nothing had happened. In truth, nothing had, except in his dreams. "Morning," she returned.
As he became aware of his aroused condition, of where his hands rested, his cheeks flushed. "Sorry." He grinned, pulling his hands away, and the little boy expression helped soften her heart.
Did she dare test it? Did he even remember what he had just been dreaming? "You okay?" she asked carefully.
He laughed lightly, a short, almost defensive sound. "Sure. Why do you ask?"
Pressing her lips together, she decided to dip a toe in. "You just seemed restless right before you woke up. And you were mumbling in your sleep."
Now his eyes grew darker, guarded. "Yeah? What'd I say?"
But she couldn't do it. Couldn't say something that would make him feel guilty. He couldn't help it, after all. And she knew he loved her, knew that without doubt. So she smiled gently and brushed the hair back from his forehead.
"Couldn't tell, really," she lied. "Just mumbling." Now she let the smile broaden into a grin and she slipped her hand down to stroke him. "But it must have been good, from the evidence."
A groan rumbled through his throat at her touch. "Ah, Donna," he gasped. "I know where this can't lead. And as good as that feels, I don't think I'll have much power to stop if you keep going."
All right. That only encouraged her.
She pumped harder, leaning in to kiss his chest, to swirl her tongue in the hair.
"Donna," he warned, his voice hoarse.
But she ignored him, determined to lead exactly where she wanted it to lead, at least until she was cleared for more active participation. She stayed where she was, her hands squeezing and stroking, her tongue flicking, her teeth nibbling, until he gave up trying to fight it and came, hard and strong, with her name on his lips.
Satisfied, she slowed to a few, final caresses before she leaned back and watched him regain his breath. Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled at her.
"Okay," he groaned. "I didn't expect that - but thanks."
"My pleasure," she said. And it was the truth. She enjoyed bringing him pleasure just as much as she enjoyed the pleasure he brought her. Well, almost as much.
"I made a mess," he observed, but didn't sound too remorseful about it.
Slipping out from under the covers to retrieve a washcloth, she admitted, "I helped."
"That you did."
When she was finished, he pulled her into his arms and she felt his lips against her hair. "Donna?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitated, and such a long silence grew between them that she almost raised her head to look at his eyes, but then he sighed and said simply, "Happy Thanksgiving."
Thanksgiving dinner at the White House had gone much better than Donna anticipated. With Annie Weston volunteering to check on the baby for her, and the food prepared and served, she allowed herself a moment of relief. They had dodged questions about the baby's name - at least for a while - and only occasionally did she have to glare in warning at her mother to keep her from staring a hole through her husband.
Even Gino seemed on his best behavior, curbing his normally hyperactive energy to a barely-contained excitement. She stifled a giggle again as she remembered the look on Jed's face when his brother-in-law snapped a crisp salute at their meeting. But eventually the President managed to set him at ease - literally.
The banter at the table grew, with Jed's girls chiming in easily, interacting with her own family in a way that made it seem as if they had been together for years instead of only a few hours. A glow of warmth spread through her and she lifted her gaze to try to catch Jed's eye, to share the satisfying moment with him.
But he was busy, traditional knife in hand, carving the huge turkey that had been unfortunate enough to lose out on the pardoning lottery. She thought about what would have happened months ago if he had not followed her, had not confronted her about trying to leave. Where would she be today? Probably in Wisconsin having dinner with her parents, a single parent herself, harboring a secret that would tear her up. Instead, she sat at a table filled with laughter and warmth and love. The man responsible for that finally looked up and saw her gaze on him. He smiled softly at her, apparently comprehending her own musings. Donna blushed as Zoey smirked at them both, catching the unspoken communication between her father and step-mother.
"Okay," Jed called out, balancing several slices of the bird between knife and fork. "Who's first?"
"Mister President?"
Damn it! As soon as Donna saw the young woman who had taken her place as Josh's assistant, she knew their cozy gathering was about to be disrupted. Jed turned immediately, years of interruptions moving his body out of habit.
"Yeah?"
"Doctor McNally is waiting in the Sit Room, sir." Donna tried to recall the new girl's name. Vicky? Nicki? Something like that.
He sighed and nodded all at once. "Okay."
Catching her eye for a quick apology, he announced, "Sorry about that. Everyone go ahead. I'll catch up later."
Charlie took up the task of carving the bird, his hands running almost lovingly over the knife. Donna made a mental note to ask him about the obvious significance of the instrument.
Zoey picked up the conversation like a back-up host in her father's absence, directing her attention toward Gino. "Hey, Donna said you did some amateur boxing in the Army. That's cool."
Oh good Lord, thought Donna. Don't ask him that. Why did I mention it before?
But it was too late. Gino's eyes flashed with delight and his entire body almost bounced from the chair. Donna caught her mother's eye and figured she bore the same nervous expression. Gino's favorite subject was boxing, something Donna always had trouble understanding, but once unleashed, his enthusiasm was almost impossible to reign in.
True to form, he had already leaped from his seat, re-enacting each bout of his ephemeral career, dancing around the room as he regaled them with blow- by-blow accounts. Donna watched carefully as his audience's reaction - mostly from Jed's daughters - shifted from initial bemusement to eventual amusement.
Okay, not so bad. He was actually rather entertaining, she realized to her surprise, allowing herself to relax just a bit.
He had launched into a particularly acrobatic stunt, rounding the head of the table and showing how he had knocked out his favored opponent, when their host returned.
Sweeping into the room suddenly, Jed announced, "I think that's it for a whi-"
But he never completed his sentence.
To everyone's abject horror, Gino had already pushed into the swing, fist tight, and could not check it. To Donna's mind, the scene almost froze, pulling the movements down to frustratingly labored action. She tried to warn him, tried to stop the inevitable, but it was useless.
Before she could take even one step forward, he caught the President hard on the jaw, slamming him back through the doorway.
"Oh my God!" The cry was wrenched simultaneously from Donna and her mother.
Now the action jerked to fast forward, and before they could blink again, Ron Butterfield, who had been trailing his charge, had one steel arm around Gino in a headlock, and the other pinning the unintended weapon immovably behind his back. The hapless young man stared wide-eyed at his victim, who lay sprawled, unmoving, on the carpet in the next room.
For a long moment, Donna was unable to move, herself. Dear God, what had he done?
Jewel of Their Souls - Chapter Two
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Jed was running late - no newsflash there - so Donna took the moment to adjust her son's attire. The photographer had suggested a blue color scheme and she concurred. It would highlight the eyes of both her husband and child. She looked down at the baby and the swell of love that pushed at her heart nearly overwhelmed her. She had known she would love the child, had no doubts about that. But she had not anticipated the aching joy that had invaded her soul from the very moment that the infant, still slippery from birth, was placed on her. She wondered if Jed felt it, too. Wondered if his heart leaped each morning when he woke and remembered that he had created this life, this child - this son.
"Hello."
She looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and smiled at C.J., pushing back the tears that suddenly burned her eyes.
"Donna, you all right?"
How could she explain the emotions that surged through her? How could she relate the sensation of completeness? She decided she couldn't. Only a mother - or possibly father - could understand. Instead, she nodded.
"Oh yeah. Just these silly hormones trying to get back to normal."
C.J. didn't look convinced, but she seemed to accept the explanation, nevertheless. "Sure." Then she bent over to grin at the President's son. "Hey there, Little Jed," she greeted, offering her finger for sacrifice in the tight little list. To her satisfaction, the baby grabbed on and gurgled.
"Little Jed?" Donna asked.
C.J. shrugged. "Well, if you guys aren't gonna name him, somebody has to. And since he looks so much like his dad - "
Donna smiled. It was kind of cute. "Okay. For now, anyway."
"You look good," C. J. noted, still tugging gently against the child's grip.
Donna raised her brow. She didn't feel as if she looked good. Quite the contrary. Although some of the weight had come off, she still felt wide and flabby. But her muttered complaints in front of the bathroom mirror merely garnered her scoffing protests from her husband, who showed her exactly what he thought of her body by running his hands down it and kissing the tiny stretch marks their son had left her with.
"Where's Jed?" she asked, ignoring the compliment.
"Briefing," C. J. replied quickly - too quickly. A sure sign it was not just a briefing. More than likely he was in the Sit Room again, surrounded by the Joint Chiefs and special advisors. He hadn't discussed whatever they had discovered so far in the 757 crash - she hadn't asked - but the tense lines in his shoulders when he trudged into the Residence at night revealed enough.
Any explanation she might have been tempted to reveal was swallowed by the breeze that swept into the room as the subject of their conversation entered at his usual purposeful stride.
"Sorry I'm late." His voice, one that she now associated not only with calm reassurance and confidence, but also with intimate whispers and endearments, warmed the room.
"Speak of the devil," she grinned, lifting her lips so he could brush them with his.
"Guilty," he confessed, kissing her again, a little longer this time, before he squatted on his haunches and placed another kiss on his son's forehead. A flash drew their attention.
Jed's eyes darkened as he turned toward the tossled-headed photographer, but she placed a gentle hand on his arm, stilling whatever sharp remark he had intended.
"I'm sorry, Mister President," came the flustered apology. "I thought - well - are you ready, sir?"
C. J. stepped in quickly. "Mister President, this is Tony Fahrwell. He'll be doing the shots today. I told him you only had a few minutes, so he was trying to maximize the time, I think."
Fahrwell nodded gratefully, his curly hair bouncing over one eye. Donna suppressed a smirk at the uncertainty on his face as he waited for the President's response.
"Yeah," Jed finally allowed, after a long study of the young man. "Okay. Let's do it, then."
With a nervous nod, the photographer directed them, carefully showing his respect, to the area he had set up with special lighting thrown to capture the mood he wanted.
As they moved into place, Donna raised her brow in appreciation of her husband's attire. Not his usual office dress today. For the picture she had asked him to wear her favorite of his casual apparel. Jeans - always jeans - a navy open-collared, long-sleeved pullover shirt and soft, worn loafers. She didn't dictate his underwear - sort of hoped he hadn't -
Uh oh. Maybe no one saw the flush, but she couldn't keep it from her cheeks at the thought. Not the time for that, she knew - Even though he looked good. Damned good. Good enough to eat. Okay. That just drew a deeper blush. Now he was looking at her curiously, as if he really wanted to know what she was thinking about. His eyes twinkled, and she considered the possibility that her body projected the sexual interest it had involuntarily generated. The kiss he gave her then, soft but promising much more, only supported her theory.
"Excuse me." C. J. interrupted, her voice tinged with reluctance at breaking into the moment.
Jed finished the kiss without hurry before he granted the press secretary his attention. Even then, he continued looking at his wife and child. "Okay. We're ready."
"Yeah, I can see that - " C.J. mumbled and Donna couldn't suppress an embarrassed chuckle.
The photographer guided them to sit close, their son between them, Jed to her right, the child cradled against her left arm so that he faced his father.
To complement Jed, she wore jeans herself, able at least to squeeze back into an old pair, and a soft light blue sweater. Their son seemed unimpressed by his azure gown. Later, she imagined, he would look back on the family portrait and cringe in typical teenage embarrassment.
C. J. watched them from behind the lights, her eyes bright with both the pleasure of seeing them and the emotion of the moment.
"I only need you to do one thing for me," Tony Fahrwell instructed. "Talk - just be natural. I'll take the shots. Don't worry about poses."
Jed shrugged and threw a glance at Donna. They could do that.
As they interacted with each other and their baby, they grew accustomed to the flashes and clicks, eventually ignoring them completely. Speaking softly, they used this time to catch up on the lost moments since he had been pulled away to deal with the possible implications of the plane crash.
"Theodore?" he asked abruptly. She had grown accustomed to his practice of throwing out names in the middle of other conversations. No reference was needed. "Means 'divine gift.' Also a rather famous presidential name."
She considered it. Not the worst he'd suggested. She studied the infant's sweet face, mentally trying out the name. "What would we call him?"
"Theo. Or Ted?"
"Ted and Jed?"
"Hmm."
"Theo and Leo?"
"Okay. Maybe not," he conceded.
For a little while they just sat, shifting as they felt like it, alternating looking at each other and at the baby, who stared right back at them with an air of confidence that spoke of his parentage. The shutter clicked almost constantly now.
"Thanksgiving's Thursday," she reminded him.
He answered her but kept his eyes on his son. "Did you call your folks?"
"Yeah. They're coming. Gino, too."
"Your brother? Did I meet him? He wasn't at the wedding, was he?"
At first she felt a shock of fear zap her. Did he not remember meeting Gino? Then she almost laughed when she realized he was right. Gino had not been there at all. The fact the he wasn't sure was evidence of their total concentration on each other on that hectic day. She could barely recall who was there, herself.
"No," she reminded him. "He was still overseas."
"His reserve unit, right?"
She nodded. Gino's unit was standing down, now, after almost a year in Afghanistan and she would be glad to see him, to have him meet Jed. As long as he behaved himself. He was still like a little kid sometimes.
But as she felt Jed's fingers slip under the back of her sweater, out of camera sight, she decided he wasn't the only one.
"Mom's pretty freaked about spending Thanksgiving at the White House," she told him, casually pushing his hand back down. Understatement. Her mother had almost fainted on the other end of the phone line when Donna issued the invitation.
"Well, I'll be glad to get to know them," Jed assured her, content to caress lower back. "There was really no time to visit at the wedding."
"You had - other things on your mind," she remembered, smiling slyly at him. The spark that leapt between them when his eyes met hers was almost audible. She heard C. J. clear her throat.
That was true in more ways than one, too. Between Korea and their quest for some private moments, they had hardly had a chance to visit with their guests.
"Don't be surprised if Mom just stares at you for awhile," she warned him.
At his lifted brow, she explained, "She's still adjusting to the fact that she can actually use the line 'my son-in-law the President.'"
He chuckled and kissed her over the baby's head. Another flash.
"He's beautiful," she said, echoing the same observation they had both used daily since his birth.
"Yeah," Jed agreed, as usual.
"You know, we really need to -"
"Yeah," he interrupted. He knew.
She told him about C. J.'s christening and figured that "Little Jed" might just become the press secretary's designation regardless of their choice. He laughed, that rich, full laugh. Another flash.
"All right," he promised. "By Thanksgiving, okay?"
She smiled at him and they both looked down at Baby Bartlet. The shutter clicked again.
By the time the session ended, Tony Fahrwell had collected a rich array of shots that all of America, and even the world, would more than likely devour over the next few days.
Donna woke abruptly, not sure what had brought her out of a dead sleep until she felt the kick against her shin. "Ow!" she protested, ready to swat Jed playfully for that. But the word fell from her lips only half- uttered when she realized he was still asleep himself - and tossing roughly enough to push the covers from his body. A nightmare, or at least a persistent worry apparently held his subconscious thoughts.
"Jed?" she whispered, careful not to wake him too suddenly. He did not respond. She tried again, pushing at his shoulder. "Jed?"
But this time he pushed back, calling out hoarsely.
"No! Stop!"
Okay, maybe more than just a persistent worry. Many things had the potential of threatening his rest. A plane crash that could have terrorist connections was only one possibility. She placed a hand on his chest.
He thrashed with more power now, throwing a hand up against an unseen attacker. "Stay away!"
From the door, Donna heard an uneasy voice. "Mister President? Mrs. Bartlet?" Jonah peeked into the room, his stance revealing his distinct discomfort about entering. He knew the possibilities of what he might interrupt.
Pulling the covers around her, she reassured him quietly, still trying to calm her husband. "It's all right. Just a nightmare."
"Yes, m'am," he answered, and eased out, but his tone let her know he would be right back if she needed him.
Jed's voice suddenly became clear, anguished. "No, Father - Sir! Don't! Just leave me alone!"
Whoa. This was unexpected. A nightmare? she wondered.
Or was it a memory?
There were many things she did not know about Josiah Bartlet, many life experiences they had not shared. Was this something he had kept from her? Finally, her gentle caresses soothed him back to sleep and he rested peacefully until their son woke them both with his insistent cries to be fed. She didn't mention the dream and he didn't seem to remember it, but she filed the moment away for later.
But this wasn't the last of the dreams.
They were still half asleep on Thanksgiving morning, only two hours after the baby had had his four a.m. feeding and barely an hour away from the very last moment they could stay in bed. Snuggling deeper under the warm covers, Donna scooted back against her husband's body, hoping to feel his hands move automatically to rub her back as they sometimes did before he was really aware of what he was doing. And even then he usually indulged her, at least for a little while.
Sure enough, he was curled on his side, facing her, and his right hand fell conveniently over her hip when she nudged him. With an incoherent mumble, he let his fingers gently knead the muscles as he leaned closer into her, still obviously not completely alert. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the delicious race of chill bumps over her skin, groaned softly with the release of stiffness and tension his touch brought. Then she groaned again as his lips slid over her shoulder and his hand snaked around her body to cup a breast, to caress her stomach. She wasn't sure he was really awake, yet, didn't know if he had an ulterior motive or was just taking a moment to cuddle. But when he pulled her closer against him and she felt the hard shaft heat her buttocks, she knew he anticipated more.
"Jed," she whispered, not eager to wake their son who slumbered next to the bed.
In answer, he pushed his hips harder against her, ran his tongue up her neck. She was caught between the automatic arousal his actions caused and the natural protest her healing body threw out.
"Jed," she tried again, but his lips sucked on her earlobe. For a moment, she gave into his touch.
"Come on, Abbey," came the soft coaxing.
She froze, uncertain, unable to squelch the sick pang in her heart. That had never happened before.
He had never called Abbey's name when he was with her, not even in the delirious throes of orgasm. A dizzy wave of jealousy passed through her, even as she tried to justify the moment. He was obviously still asleep, dreaming of her - of the First Lady. And Donna would always think of Abigail Bartlet as the First Lady, even though she, herself, held the title now.
But how could she hold that against him? He had 35 years of history with Abbey, for goodness sake. Thirty-five years of intimacy, of - making love. What a strange sensation it was, coming face to face with another blunt reminder of his previous life. It was eerily reminiscent of Daphne DuMarier's troubled heroine and her struggle to overcome the dynamic, consuming spectre of Rebecca deWinter.
Still, a meek voice of reason struggled to wiggle its way through the envy, the emotion that was disturbingly close to anger. He was not responsible for his subconscious thoughts, she told herself. It was bound to happen. That was only natural, logical.
Despite her efforts, though, it still hurt.
"Sweet Knees," he murmured again, running a hand over her hips.
She almost panicked, had to do something, had to stop him. He was touching Abbey, kissing Abbey, making love to Abbey, not her. She had been strong, understanding.
But she wasn't that understanding.
"Jed," she called, louder this time, with more force behind it. At the same moment, she pushed at him, perhaps a little harder than necessary.
His eyes opened, disoriented and confused for a moment. A flash of pain crossed his face; then he looked at her and brought himself completely into the conscious world. He smiled, a little sheepishly.
"Hey, Baby," he greeted.
Well, at least he recognized her. She forced the smile to her lips, made herself treat him as if nothing had happened. In truth, nothing had, except in his dreams. "Morning," she returned.
As he became aware of his aroused condition, of where his hands rested, his cheeks flushed. "Sorry." He grinned, pulling his hands away, and the little boy expression helped soften her heart.
Did she dare test it? Did he even remember what he had just been dreaming? "You okay?" she asked carefully.
He laughed lightly, a short, almost defensive sound. "Sure. Why do you ask?"
Pressing her lips together, she decided to dip a toe in. "You just seemed restless right before you woke up. And you were mumbling in your sleep."
Now his eyes grew darker, guarded. "Yeah? What'd I say?"
But she couldn't do it. Couldn't say something that would make him feel guilty. He couldn't help it, after all. And she knew he loved her, knew that without doubt. So she smiled gently and brushed the hair back from his forehead.
"Couldn't tell, really," she lied. "Just mumbling." Now she let the smile broaden into a grin and she slipped her hand down to stroke him. "But it must have been good, from the evidence."
A groan rumbled through his throat at her touch. "Ah, Donna," he gasped. "I know where this can't lead. And as good as that feels, I don't think I'll have much power to stop if you keep going."
All right. That only encouraged her.
She pumped harder, leaning in to kiss his chest, to swirl her tongue in the hair.
"Donna," he warned, his voice hoarse.
But she ignored him, determined to lead exactly where she wanted it to lead, at least until she was cleared for more active participation. She stayed where she was, her hands squeezing and stroking, her tongue flicking, her teeth nibbling, until he gave up trying to fight it and came, hard and strong, with her name on his lips.
Satisfied, she slowed to a few, final caresses before she leaned back and watched him regain his breath. Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled at her.
"Okay," he groaned. "I didn't expect that - but thanks."
"My pleasure," she said. And it was the truth. She enjoyed bringing him pleasure just as much as she enjoyed the pleasure he brought her. Well, almost as much.
"I made a mess," he observed, but didn't sound too remorseful about it.
Slipping out from under the covers to retrieve a washcloth, she admitted, "I helped."
"That you did."
When she was finished, he pulled her into his arms and she felt his lips against her hair. "Donna?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitated, and such a long silence grew between them that she almost raised her head to look at his eyes, but then he sighed and said simply, "Happy Thanksgiving."
Thanksgiving dinner at the White House had gone much better than Donna anticipated. With Annie Weston volunteering to check on the baby for her, and the food prepared and served, she allowed herself a moment of relief. They had dodged questions about the baby's name - at least for a while - and only occasionally did she have to glare in warning at her mother to keep her from staring a hole through her husband.
Even Gino seemed on his best behavior, curbing his normally hyperactive energy to a barely-contained excitement. She stifled a giggle again as she remembered the look on Jed's face when his brother-in-law snapped a crisp salute at their meeting. But eventually the President managed to set him at ease - literally.
The banter at the table grew, with Jed's girls chiming in easily, interacting with her own family in a way that made it seem as if they had been together for years instead of only a few hours. A glow of warmth spread through her and she lifted her gaze to try to catch Jed's eye, to share the satisfying moment with him.
But he was busy, traditional knife in hand, carving the huge turkey that had been unfortunate enough to lose out on the pardoning lottery. She thought about what would have happened months ago if he had not followed her, had not confronted her about trying to leave. Where would she be today? Probably in Wisconsin having dinner with her parents, a single parent herself, harboring a secret that would tear her up. Instead, she sat at a table filled with laughter and warmth and love. The man responsible for that finally looked up and saw her gaze on him. He smiled softly at her, apparently comprehending her own musings. Donna blushed as Zoey smirked at them both, catching the unspoken communication between her father and step-mother.
"Okay," Jed called out, balancing several slices of the bird between knife and fork. "Who's first?"
"Mister President?"
Damn it! As soon as Donna saw the young woman who had taken her place as Josh's assistant, she knew their cozy gathering was about to be disrupted. Jed turned immediately, years of interruptions moving his body out of habit.
"Yeah?"
"Doctor McNally is waiting in the Sit Room, sir." Donna tried to recall the new girl's name. Vicky? Nicki? Something like that.
He sighed and nodded all at once. "Okay."
Catching her eye for a quick apology, he announced, "Sorry about that. Everyone go ahead. I'll catch up later."
Charlie took up the task of carving the bird, his hands running almost lovingly over the knife. Donna made a mental note to ask him about the obvious significance of the instrument.
Zoey picked up the conversation like a back-up host in her father's absence, directing her attention toward Gino. "Hey, Donna said you did some amateur boxing in the Army. That's cool."
Oh good Lord, thought Donna. Don't ask him that. Why did I mention it before?
But it was too late. Gino's eyes flashed with delight and his entire body almost bounced from the chair. Donna caught her mother's eye and figured she bore the same nervous expression. Gino's favorite subject was boxing, something Donna always had trouble understanding, but once unleashed, his enthusiasm was almost impossible to reign in.
True to form, he had already leaped from his seat, re-enacting each bout of his ephemeral career, dancing around the room as he regaled them with blow- by-blow accounts. Donna watched carefully as his audience's reaction - mostly from Jed's daughters - shifted from initial bemusement to eventual amusement.
Okay, not so bad. He was actually rather entertaining, she realized to her surprise, allowing herself to relax just a bit.
He had launched into a particularly acrobatic stunt, rounding the head of the table and showing how he had knocked out his favored opponent, when their host returned.
Sweeping into the room suddenly, Jed announced, "I think that's it for a whi-"
But he never completed his sentence.
To everyone's abject horror, Gino had already pushed into the swing, fist tight, and could not check it. To Donna's mind, the scene almost froze, pulling the movements down to frustratingly labored action. She tried to warn him, tried to stop the inevitable, but it was useless.
Before she could take even one step forward, he caught the President hard on the jaw, slamming him back through the doorway.
"Oh my God!" The cry was wrenched simultaneously from Donna and her mother.
Now the action jerked to fast forward, and before they could blink again, Ron Butterfield, who had been trailing his charge, had one steel arm around Gino in a headlock, and the other pinning the unintended weapon immovably behind his back. The hapless young man stared wide-eyed at his victim, who lay sprawled, unmoving, on the carpet in the next room.
For a long moment, Donna was unable to move, herself. Dear God, what had he done?