This is the eighth story in the "As I Was Drifting Away" series. The
others go in this order:
"As I Was Drifting Away;" "In Your Eyes;" "Some Say;" "Stony Limits;" "Beauty and Honor;" "Love's Creation;" "Jewel of Their Souls"
POV: Donna Spoilers: "Manchester," "Dead Irish Writers," "The Red Mass" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I appreciate the opportunity, however, to play with them.
All the Way - Chapter One A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The pure, honest voices soared, lifting their glorious praise toward the towering stone ceilings and up into heaven.
"Domini fili unigenite, Jesu Christe."
Wrapped in the fruits of Vivaldi's inspiration, Donna could almost imagine that she sat in the ancient halls of a gothic church of Europe. The arches and spires about her spoke of history and grandeur that had seen centuries of humanity worship and fight and worship again. But the bold lines and delicate stained glass represented a much younger congregation of faith and a much younger kingdom. She leaned a bit to her right, squeezing the hand of the current king. He squeezed back absently, then released her grip, not letting his gaze stray from the choir. A poetic thought leaped to her mind that she was Guinevere to his Arthur. He was her Lancelot, too - or at least he had been until -
The poem fell apart abruptly against the doubts that had hammered at her for two weeks, doubts that logic told her were entirely illogical, doubts that experience told her were unfounded - doubts that nevertheless now almost consumed her every thought.
The tenors' notes soared, then floated down, drawing her attention back to the program. It was certainly not the inaugural performance of the Christmas season at the National Cathedral, but it was the President's first visit, so the press was in attendance, as well, anxious to see the First Lady in her first real outing since the birth of the American prince. She wished they weren't quite so attentive, hoped the strain she felt wasn't visible to them, and wondered if anyone had noticed yet that the First Couple didn't sit quite as close together as they usually did, that they didn't lean head-to-head and whisper with private smiles. Did the crackling tension between them drown out the music they had come to hear?
She smiled toward him, leaned forward to coax his attention to her, but he didn't notice - or didn't choose to notice - and she couldn't very well grab his face and turn him. There were too many people there, too many eyes already alert to the very fact that the President of the United States was in the same room with them.
His schedule obviously did not allow him to patronize all the concerts, so C.J. chose for him. Gloria fulfilled three of his requirements: It was written before the 19th century; it was a lively, fast-paced piece, with one tolerable exception in the second movement; and it was being performed by the Harlem Boys' Choir.
At least Jed's ubiquitous dark expression of late had lifted some with total enchantment as the orchestral score built and the soloists fought a vocally choreographed dual of thirds up and down the scale. Donna would not have been at all surprised to hear him sing along with them, Latin and all. He looked as if he wanted to. It was good to see a slight smile on his lips. Smiles had been rare recently and she still wasn't sure why, wasn't clear about what really was going on, but she knew she didn't like it, not one bit. This uncommunicative, subdued, preoccupied man was not Jed Bartlet. Not her Jed.
"Zoey said you've been to a performance of this before?" She leaned in close and blinked at the flash from the audience. Didn't anyone have any etiquette anymore?
"What?" He didn't turn to her.
"The Gloria. She thought it was at one of the Red Masses. She couldn't remember exactly which one."
"Could be," he murmured vaguely.
She glanced sharply at him, having expected him to launch into a detailed soliloquy about the history of the piece and the composer until she had to shush him back to being a polite audience member. The fact that he didn't - that he didn't even seem to be listening to her - bothered her more than she cared to admit.
The rising score and similarity of the movement to the beginning clued her in that it was winding down. Thank goodness. Not that she wasn't enjoying it, but the heaviness in her breasts warned that they needed relief soon, and reminded her that John Thomas probably was fretting for Zoey. Her step- daughter - still seemed strange to think of her that way - was armed only with a bottle, and J. T. had yet to show one bit of interest in that particular source of nourishment. The first time she had tried it on him, his indignant screams left no doubt about his opinion of the poor substitute. Smirking, Jed had expressed sympathy with his son.
"Cum sancto spiritu In Gloria dei patri A - men - "
After an appropriately repetitive chorus of amens, the conductor directed the last note and the audience erupted in enthusiastic applause. Jed stood, prompting an echoing wave. Making the rounds of congratulations to an appreciative - and rather awed - choir and orchestra, they headed outside.
"Detail is ready, sir," Ron announced, falling quickly into step beside the President.
"Okay." Jed had bent his head and turned it slightly to the left to catch the agent's words. Now he straightened again and caught her hand as they exited the building.
She prepared herself for the rope line, for the hand shakes. Even though she still was not totally comfortable with all the adoration, she had grown more accustomed to it. And when she was with Jed, it was easy. She just followed his lead, delighting the crowds who had the serendipity of catching the hand of the President and the First Lady.
"How long are we going to - "
But when they stepped through the massive doors, they emerged under a protective tent, secret service agents in double force around them. It was the first time she could ever recall him using the tent. Even after criticism the service had received for Rosslyn, Jed Bartlet still insisted on visibility, felt it was essential in his connection with his fellow citizens.
"Jed?" She glanced at him to get a hint of why he chose now to be prudent, but his face remained blank.
"No rope line, tonight," he explained curtly.
No rope line? There was always a rope line. Jed had never declined a rope line. Maybe something was up. Certainly there were many possibilities that threatened his time. North Korea was still squawking about their need to develop nuclear capabilities. The results from the O'Hare plane crash had taken an ominous slant toward terrorism. And those were just the big things. There could be any number of problems that forced them back to the White House. She tried not to let it worry her. She'd go crazy if she thought every little thing was a crisis.
As they slid into the vehicle, she smiled, expecting a quick hug or kiss, a playful grope. All were typical of him as soon as they found a moment alone - and sometimes even before. What wasn't typical, however, was what she got. Distance and silence. He had let go of her hand as soon as they reached the car door.
"That was amazing," she said, hoping to prompt a response.
"Yes," he agreed simply, gazing out the window, and that was all.
"Did you know that Vivaldi was also a violinist?" She wasn't sure why she mentioned that, except to find something that would inspire a conversation.
"No," he said, still not moving his gaze.
No? First, she was amazed that he actually didn't know that. And second, she was even more amazed that he admitted it.
"He died broke, like Mozart, and was buried in a pauper's grave." Well, that was certainly an uplifting bit of information. But it still didn't tweak his interest.
"Yeah." Did that mean he knew that already, or did it mean - did it mean he didn't really care. If that was the truth, it was time to worry. Any time Jed Bartlet didn't care about obscure trivia, there was something wrong.
"I hope John Thomas is not too upset that we're late." Another clue, another attempt to draw him into conversation.
This time, he glanced toward her, eyebrows raised slightly in question.
"It's been three hours since he's nursed," she explained with a pointed smirk. Again, she expected his gaze to fall to her breasts, anticipated a sexy comment, or a light touch. But he didn't even lift a hand for a casual caress.
"Zoey's probably ready for us to get home," he mused, looking out the window again.
Well, hell. She gritted her teeth, fighting back tears of hurt and frustration. This had been going on for two weeks - this silence, this distance - since the day they had named their son, a day she thought would be one of relief and closure for him. Since then, any time she screwed up her courage to get him to talk about it - about anything - their conversations, which had previously been lively and witty and deep, ended up as only perfunctory, sterile inquiries into how their days were and how the baby was.
Oh, he still rose in the middle of the night to retrieve his wailing son and bring the child to her to nurse. He still smiled politely and maintained superficial dialogue, but something was missing. A depth, an intimacy. Her mind wandered as they drove toward the Residence, seeking desperately a reason, a meaning to all this.
As the limousine glided through the streets of Washington, her mind stretched back two weeks to the only moment she could target as a possible trigger - and even that didn't really make sense.
It was Thanksgiving night, after he had honored two important men in his life - one who had earned the honor, one who had not - by naming his son after them. But it was the right name. She woke before dawn had completed its arrival, the room clothed mostly in grays, only just beginning to allow enough light to draw out the other colors. For a moment she lay still, allowing her body to assess the day, to get its bearings. It was a familiar position and one she never tired of. She lay on her left side, head pillowed on her husband's right shoulder, her right arm draped across his chest, her right leg across his hips. He was on his back, right arm flung out under her shoulders, legs stretched straight. In the growing light, she looked at him, took in every detail that she loved. Her first instinct - and it never failed to be first - was to smooth her hand across his chest, swirling the hair, tracing muscles that were still firm and defined. He stirred slightly, but didn't shift positions. She looked up at him, at the strong, bold muscle that ran down the side of his neck, at the line of his jaw, at the tanned skin, at the even, noble angles of his face.
It would probably disconcert him a little if he knew she studied him like that, but she didn't care. She still marveled, on occasion, that she was his wife, that she was his confidant, that she was his lover, that he shared an intimacy with her he had shared with only one other person.
She shifted, and as her leg slid over him, she felt the familiar hot brand of his erection. It was morning, after all, and John Thomas was a month old, which meant it had been just over a month since that wild and incredible night in the White House pool. Even so many weeks later, she still blushed at the memory and felt her skin warm.
A grin crossed her lips. He had been so patient, and the emotional strain of almost purging himself of his father's legacy certainly earned him a reward, she thought. Eager to give him pleasure, she ran her hand down his abdomen and slipped her thumb over the swollen head. Eyes still closed, sleep still claiming him, he moaned, arching into her touch. Yearning to climb on top of him and feel him fill her, she swallowed instead and maintained control. But she wanted to relieve him of his need, wanted to watch him when he came, to see the pleasure on his face, to feel the hot rush of his release on her skin.
Suddenly, she was on her back and he was covering her with his body, pushing insistently between her legs, suckling at her breasts. She gasped at the sensation and moaned as her milk let down, tricking between them. Despite the fear that her body was not yet healed, she found herself moving toward him, eager to feel him inside her again.
"Oh Babe, I need you so much," he murmured at her ear. "I want you so badly."
She didn't know whom he was seeing in his mind, realized that he was still asleep, and hoped it was her, but then it didn't matter. She couldn't hold back, was giving in, spreading to welcome him, to take him in.
The first shallow penetration was a sharp reminder, though, of what her body had been through. Instantly, the desire chilled to fear. He was hurting her and she didn't know how to stop him.
"Jed?" A push against him didn't work.
He thrust a little harder and she cried out, some in pain, mostly in fear. The movement stopped abruptly and she was staring into the horrified eyes of her husband.
"Oh hell," he gasped, pulling out immediately. He pushed up to his knees, and his arousal faded with the terrible realization of what he was doing. "I'm sorry - I didn't - I wouldn't - did I - " He broke off, something that sounded like anger and guilt driving his tone deeper.
She scooted up in the bed and knelt with him, touching his face with gentle fingers. "No," she assured him. "I'm okay." In truth, she ached a little, but didn't feel that he had done any damage.
He scrambled from the bed, as if he didn't trust himself to stay close. The pain in his voice was raw, strident. "I didn't realize - I wasn't - are you sure - "
Her arms yearned to draw him to her, to reassure him, but he wouldn't let her come close, so she settled for a smile. "I'm fine. Really." And only with several more reassurances did he accept her statement.
He had been gone when she woke the next morning and since then had studiously avoided any intimate contact with her, usually stumbling in from the Oval Office well after she had gone to bed and rising before dawn to head back down. Sometimes he never came to their bed at all. She would wake to find him sprawled out on the sofa, feet hanging off the end, arm draped across the back.
Since then, too, his distance had grown, almost to the point that she wondered if he was the one having post-partum depression. Was that possible? Something was definitely up, and she was going to find out what.
Her thoughts came back to present as they passed through the gates onto the White House grounds. "It really was wonderful," she repeated of the concert. "Boys' voices have such a clean tone."
He nodded.
"My folks talked about meeting us in Manchester for a few days. Would that be all right?"
"Manchester?" His eyes didn't move from their monotonous line of sight out the window.
She smiled. "Well, yeah. You know, for Christmas."
"Yeah." It was an absent agreement, but he suddenly turned and gave her his full attention. Normally, that would have thrilled her, but his tone was tight, tentative. "Listen, we might not need - well, I may need to stay in - at the White House this year."
"Oh." What was he saying? He had looked forward to this trip since the baby's birth, had gone into elaborate discourse about bringing his son home to the land of the Bartlets, to the country of his fathers. Awasiwi Odanak. Beyond the Village. She had teased him about it and now -
"Yeah. Maybe later we can go."
She felt her eyebrows drawing hard together in frustrated confusion. What the hell was he talking about? But they were at the South Portico and he had stepped from the car, reaching back to help her out, clutching her hand almost convulsively as she stood. Her brain registered several additional agents around the entrance, and she turned to ask Jed about it, but before she could, a familiar greeting trumped her.
"Mister President?"
Leo stepped into the hallway as they entered and she could tell right away that he had something. He just had that look. She hated that look.
Jed stopped. "Yeah?"
"There's a - thing."
If the chuckle that shook Jed's chest slightly carried any humor at all, she would have been ecstatic. But that quality was absent. "Isn't there always?" he noted ruefully. When Leo simply waited, he jerked his chin up and asked, "What?"
"Ron's waiting to talk with you."
Ron? Donna knew that never boded well. Her fears only multiplied when she saw the immediate hardening of her husband's jaw and the darkness in his eyes. He turned to her and said, "Go on up. I'll be there later."
Suppressing the urge to ask about the crisis, she nodded and tried to smile encouragingly at him as he squeezed her hand and walked away. He looked as if he needed to relax, really needed to relax, and if this was as bad as it sounded, he'd need it even more. And she had just the way to do it - if he would let her near him.
Her body missed his touch, missed the massages and the tickling, missed the possessive comfort of his hand resting on her stomach or her hip when she woke. It wasn't just sexual, it was the intimacy of connection, of someone who was a part of her. It was the reassurance that he was there, in every sense of the word. And now she was missing that reassurance. She was missing it badly.
Only two more weeks, she told herself. Only two more weeks before she was cleared for sexual activity. But since Jed's widening distance from her, even in their bed, she began to have doubts that even that could restore whatever it was they had lost. And she wasn't even sure how they had lost it.
Climbing the stairs to the Residence, her body sensed they were near, yearned to feel her child in her arms, at her breast. It was an urge she hadn't known was possible, but the sheer natural desire to draw this little one close overwhelmed her sometimes. Maybe after she nursed, she would try again to crack the strange, uncharacteristic hard shell that her husband had erected around him. Maybe then -
She heard his furious cries long before she even drew close to the door of the nursery, and she was so focused on him that she barely noticed the two additional guards that flanked the hallway. Poor Zoey must be worn out. Sure enough, her first sight was that of her step-daughter pacing the floor, frantically bouncing the infant in her arms. His fists flailed and his face had flushed the color of bricks.
When she caught sight of Donna, she gushed, "Thank God you're here," and thrust the child toward his mother.
"I'm sorry," Donna said, drawing the baby close and satisfying that instinct before she sat in the chair and slipped the gown from her shoulders. Jed Bartlet's son calmed instantly as he comprehended that what he wanted was nearby. The first greedy sucks sent the usual tingle through her before she relaxed into the comfortable bonding.
"He was great until about thirty minutes ago," Zoey explained, flopping onto the floor and pushing back a strand of hair from her face. "He wasn't too wild about the bottle. I think he prefers Mom."
Donna grinned and almost quipped, "Like father, like son," but remembered who she was talking to and bit it off. Instead, she merely said, "Yeah, he does."
They sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the uninhibited gulps and sighs from the baby. Yes, like father - but her thoughts darkened again.
"Was the performance good?"
"Yeah."
"Did Dad talk all the way through it?"
"No."
Zoey cocked her head in a very familiar way. "Really? He usually bugs the crap out of me, especially if he's heard it before. 'This is the good part.' 'Listen for the tenor note here.' 'Did you know that Vivaldi was an expert violinist?'" She chuckled fondly. "If he weren't the President they'd throw him out."
Donna jerked her head up. "What did you say?"
"If he weren't the President - "
"No. About Vivaldi being a violinist. How did you know that?"
Zoey shook her head and smiled. "The same way I know most of the inane trivia that is taking up valuable space in my head. Dad told me."
Fighting back the sudden tears that burned her eyes, Donna hid the reaction by bending to kiss J. T.'s head.
"Donna?"
She didn't look up. "Hmm?"
"You okay?"
Control it. "Sure." She still pressed her lips against the soft hair of her son.
"Donna?"
Come on. Let's drop this. "Yeah?"
The hesitation was slight, but clear. "Is Dad okay?"
The question startled her so that she straightened and pulled away from John Thomas' mouth. He whimpered in protest. Guiding him back, she looked at the younger woman carefully.
"Why do you ask?"
"You said - well, it sounded as if maybe he - " Pushing from the floor with the agility of youth, she stood in front of her step-mother, eyes holding hers, demanding honesty. "What's wrong, Donna?"
Now she couldn't suppress the tears and they flowed down her cheeks, splashing onto the blanket that wrapped around J.T.
Zoey's eyes widened in alarm. "Donna?"
When she had enough control over her voice to speak, Donna chose her words carefully. After all, this was his daughter. "I'm - not sure, Zoey. Maybe nothing. I'm sure it's nothing." But she knew it wasn't. "He just - he just seems - "
"Distant? Unfocused? Preoccupied?" Zoey supplied involuntarily.
Donna looked up, surprised. If both of them had noticed - Dear God, please don't make this be happening, she prayed. Please, not now. Not now when things are going so well. Not now when he's been given this child. Not now when he has so much to look forward to.
She shifted J.T. to her other breast, meeting Zoey's eyes and seeing the same pain there.
"Do you think - " Zoey began, then stopped. She couldn't say it, either.
Donna tried to stop the panic that threatened to surge up through her, but it pushed out anyway, and the tears rolled harder down her face. Zoey joined her, their mutual fears somehow lending comfort.
Whatever Leo had for him was finished quickly and he joined her again in the Residence, kicking off his shoes and settling in a chair, with John Thomas cradled in his arms.
"So, Zoey's feeling good about her final in her grad stats course, even though she's convinced the professor's holding her to a higher standard because of who her father is." Donna laughed, fully expecting a snide remark from him.
But he didn't respond. He just sat there, staring into the fireplace, and occasionally glancing out the window.
"Jed?"
Still no answer, but his eyes were open and his chest still rose and fell. "Jed?" A little louder.
He jerked slightly, waking the child, who stirred and started to whimper before his father gently jiggled him back to sleep. Clearing his throat, Jed looked toward her, eyebrow lifted in question.
"I was just talking about Zoey," she prompted.
He nodded. "Yeah. How's she doing in her stats class?"
"I just - " Biting her lip almost to the point of bleeding, Donna paused to clutch onto her emotions before continuing. "Good. She feels okay about it."
"Good," he mumbled, looking back out the window, his eyes almost hard, brow drawn together in thought or concentration.
"Jed?"
Another slight jerk. "What?"
"You tired?" That was it, surely. He was tired after the concert and whatever Leo had dragged him into. He was just tired.
But he shook his head. "No. I'm good. Go on and tell me about Ellie's school."
If blood could turn to ice, she figured hers was close it freezing now. "Ellie?" she questioned, trying to keep the disquiet from her voice.
"What?"
"You mean Zoey?"
His eyes darted quickly to her face. "What'd I say?"
Quietly, she said, "Ellie."
He shrugged as much as he could with his child in his arms. "Well, I meant Zoey. Tell me about Zoey's day."
Donna swallowed carefully, letting the controlled motion pace the alarms clanging in her head. After a moment, he rose and placed J.T. in his crib, kissing the tiny hand before he straightened.
"I've got that meeting with Ron and Leo," he announced, stepping back into his shoes.
That was news to her. "What meeting?"
"The one - " He paused, spinning a little to throw a glance at her. "I told you about it," he insisted as he flipped his coat over his head and shrugged into it.
"Jed - " But she saw then the alarm in his own eyes and held back. "Okay." Easy, calm. "Will you be late?"
Already at the door, he didn't turn back. His voice was tight. "Probably."
Outside, she heard him order the guards to keep a close watch. Then his footsteps faded and she was alone. The clock sounded evenly, its rhythm orchestrating with the occasional pop of the fire and the gentle breathing of their son. Her mind tried to gain a grip on what had just happened. The fractured conversation. The scattered responses. This was more than just being tired. This was much more.
He was right. The clock had just chimed one a.m. when he trudged into the Residence, stripping off clothes as he crossed the room. When he emerged from the bathroom, he eased onto the bed, obviously careful not to wake her.
"Jed?"
She felt him tense. "Yeah?"
"Long day?" Rhetorical question. The clock and his heavy shoulders had already told her that.
He only grunted as he sat on the edge.
Tentatively, her hand glided over his shoulder, and she discovered he wore a T-shirt. More exploration revealed pajama bottoms, too. It was the first time since their marriage that he had worn anything - except maybe a grin - to bed, and the significance raced in hot splashes over her body. Still, she tried again, letting her fingers knead the tight, hard muscles at his neck.
To her shock, he pulled away, shifting his body forward. Surely he knew what she was offering. Even if they couldn't have intercourse yet, she could relieve him of some stress - had done it before in those late months of pregnancy.
"Jed?" She reached out again, slid her hand around and into his pajamas.
He caught it and guided her away. "I, uh, I've got some work to do, Donna. I'm gonna sit up a while." With a deep breath, he rose, gathered some papers from a chair, and slipped into the sitting area.
His refusal, the first she could remember, made her stomach churn. Dear God. Now she was really worried. Her mind began putting pieces together, began constructing a vast and disturbing puzzle of the changes in the past two weeks.
Would it happen that quickly? And if it did, how long would it be before -
As she lay there watching his silent back, she felt the nauseating terror grip the middle of her chest, even worse than when they thought they faced the possibility of lung cancer. What threatened now was not an unknown danger. This was one that had already delivered some stinging blows, some warning punches. This was one that loomed over him, unwilling to allow him to forget, to give him the freedom, the blessing, of not knowing his future.
And was it here, now, that future?
He didn't even seem to notice when she slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Kneeling on the floor, she clasped trembling hands before her and prayed for mercy, prayed for grace, prayed for strength.
Prayed for Jed. Prayed for all of them. Because if this really was happening, she wasn't the only one in trouble.
The entire United States would have to deal with it, too.
"As I Was Drifting Away;" "In Your Eyes;" "Some Say;" "Stony Limits;" "Beauty and Honor;" "Love's Creation;" "Jewel of Their Souls"
POV: Donna Spoilers: "Manchester," "Dead Irish Writers," "The Red Mass" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I appreciate the opportunity, however, to play with them.
All the Way - Chapter One A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The pure, honest voices soared, lifting their glorious praise toward the towering stone ceilings and up into heaven.
"Domini fili unigenite, Jesu Christe."
Wrapped in the fruits of Vivaldi's inspiration, Donna could almost imagine that she sat in the ancient halls of a gothic church of Europe. The arches and spires about her spoke of history and grandeur that had seen centuries of humanity worship and fight and worship again. But the bold lines and delicate stained glass represented a much younger congregation of faith and a much younger kingdom. She leaned a bit to her right, squeezing the hand of the current king. He squeezed back absently, then released her grip, not letting his gaze stray from the choir. A poetic thought leaped to her mind that she was Guinevere to his Arthur. He was her Lancelot, too - or at least he had been until -
The poem fell apart abruptly against the doubts that had hammered at her for two weeks, doubts that logic told her were entirely illogical, doubts that experience told her were unfounded - doubts that nevertheless now almost consumed her every thought.
The tenors' notes soared, then floated down, drawing her attention back to the program. It was certainly not the inaugural performance of the Christmas season at the National Cathedral, but it was the President's first visit, so the press was in attendance, as well, anxious to see the First Lady in her first real outing since the birth of the American prince. She wished they weren't quite so attentive, hoped the strain she felt wasn't visible to them, and wondered if anyone had noticed yet that the First Couple didn't sit quite as close together as they usually did, that they didn't lean head-to-head and whisper with private smiles. Did the crackling tension between them drown out the music they had come to hear?
She smiled toward him, leaned forward to coax his attention to her, but he didn't notice - or didn't choose to notice - and she couldn't very well grab his face and turn him. There were too many people there, too many eyes already alert to the very fact that the President of the United States was in the same room with them.
His schedule obviously did not allow him to patronize all the concerts, so C.J. chose for him. Gloria fulfilled three of his requirements: It was written before the 19th century; it was a lively, fast-paced piece, with one tolerable exception in the second movement; and it was being performed by the Harlem Boys' Choir.
At least Jed's ubiquitous dark expression of late had lifted some with total enchantment as the orchestral score built and the soloists fought a vocally choreographed dual of thirds up and down the scale. Donna would not have been at all surprised to hear him sing along with them, Latin and all. He looked as if he wanted to. It was good to see a slight smile on his lips. Smiles had been rare recently and she still wasn't sure why, wasn't clear about what really was going on, but she knew she didn't like it, not one bit. This uncommunicative, subdued, preoccupied man was not Jed Bartlet. Not her Jed.
"Zoey said you've been to a performance of this before?" She leaned in close and blinked at the flash from the audience. Didn't anyone have any etiquette anymore?
"What?" He didn't turn to her.
"The Gloria. She thought it was at one of the Red Masses. She couldn't remember exactly which one."
"Could be," he murmured vaguely.
She glanced sharply at him, having expected him to launch into a detailed soliloquy about the history of the piece and the composer until she had to shush him back to being a polite audience member. The fact that he didn't - that he didn't even seem to be listening to her - bothered her more than she cared to admit.
The rising score and similarity of the movement to the beginning clued her in that it was winding down. Thank goodness. Not that she wasn't enjoying it, but the heaviness in her breasts warned that they needed relief soon, and reminded her that John Thomas probably was fretting for Zoey. Her step- daughter - still seemed strange to think of her that way - was armed only with a bottle, and J. T. had yet to show one bit of interest in that particular source of nourishment. The first time she had tried it on him, his indignant screams left no doubt about his opinion of the poor substitute. Smirking, Jed had expressed sympathy with his son.
"Cum sancto spiritu In Gloria dei patri A - men - "
After an appropriately repetitive chorus of amens, the conductor directed the last note and the audience erupted in enthusiastic applause. Jed stood, prompting an echoing wave. Making the rounds of congratulations to an appreciative - and rather awed - choir and orchestra, they headed outside.
"Detail is ready, sir," Ron announced, falling quickly into step beside the President.
"Okay." Jed had bent his head and turned it slightly to the left to catch the agent's words. Now he straightened again and caught her hand as they exited the building.
She prepared herself for the rope line, for the hand shakes. Even though she still was not totally comfortable with all the adoration, she had grown more accustomed to it. And when she was with Jed, it was easy. She just followed his lead, delighting the crowds who had the serendipity of catching the hand of the President and the First Lady.
"How long are we going to - "
But when they stepped through the massive doors, they emerged under a protective tent, secret service agents in double force around them. It was the first time she could ever recall him using the tent. Even after criticism the service had received for Rosslyn, Jed Bartlet still insisted on visibility, felt it was essential in his connection with his fellow citizens.
"Jed?" She glanced at him to get a hint of why he chose now to be prudent, but his face remained blank.
"No rope line, tonight," he explained curtly.
No rope line? There was always a rope line. Jed had never declined a rope line. Maybe something was up. Certainly there were many possibilities that threatened his time. North Korea was still squawking about their need to develop nuclear capabilities. The results from the O'Hare plane crash had taken an ominous slant toward terrorism. And those were just the big things. There could be any number of problems that forced them back to the White House. She tried not to let it worry her. She'd go crazy if she thought every little thing was a crisis.
As they slid into the vehicle, she smiled, expecting a quick hug or kiss, a playful grope. All were typical of him as soon as they found a moment alone - and sometimes even before. What wasn't typical, however, was what she got. Distance and silence. He had let go of her hand as soon as they reached the car door.
"That was amazing," she said, hoping to prompt a response.
"Yes," he agreed simply, gazing out the window, and that was all.
"Did you know that Vivaldi was also a violinist?" She wasn't sure why she mentioned that, except to find something that would inspire a conversation.
"No," he said, still not moving his gaze.
No? First, she was amazed that he actually didn't know that. And second, she was even more amazed that he admitted it.
"He died broke, like Mozart, and was buried in a pauper's grave." Well, that was certainly an uplifting bit of information. But it still didn't tweak his interest.
"Yeah." Did that mean he knew that already, or did it mean - did it mean he didn't really care. If that was the truth, it was time to worry. Any time Jed Bartlet didn't care about obscure trivia, there was something wrong.
"I hope John Thomas is not too upset that we're late." Another clue, another attempt to draw him into conversation.
This time, he glanced toward her, eyebrows raised slightly in question.
"It's been three hours since he's nursed," she explained with a pointed smirk. Again, she expected his gaze to fall to her breasts, anticipated a sexy comment, or a light touch. But he didn't even lift a hand for a casual caress.
"Zoey's probably ready for us to get home," he mused, looking out the window again.
Well, hell. She gritted her teeth, fighting back tears of hurt and frustration. This had been going on for two weeks - this silence, this distance - since the day they had named their son, a day she thought would be one of relief and closure for him. Since then, any time she screwed up her courage to get him to talk about it - about anything - their conversations, which had previously been lively and witty and deep, ended up as only perfunctory, sterile inquiries into how their days were and how the baby was.
Oh, he still rose in the middle of the night to retrieve his wailing son and bring the child to her to nurse. He still smiled politely and maintained superficial dialogue, but something was missing. A depth, an intimacy. Her mind wandered as they drove toward the Residence, seeking desperately a reason, a meaning to all this.
As the limousine glided through the streets of Washington, her mind stretched back two weeks to the only moment she could target as a possible trigger - and even that didn't really make sense.
It was Thanksgiving night, after he had honored two important men in his life - one who had earned the honor, one who had not - by naming his son after them. But it was the right name. She woke before dawn had completed its arrival, the room clothed mostly in grays, only just beginning to allow enough light to draw out the other colors. For a moment she lay still, allowing her body to assess the day, to get its bearings. It was a familiar position and one she never tired of. She lay on her left side, head pillowed on her husband's right shoulder, her right arm draped across his chest, her right leg across his hips. He was on his back, right arm flung out under her shoulders, legs stretched straight. In the growing light, she looked at him, took in every detail that she loved. Her first instinct - and it never failed to be first - was to smooth her hand across his chest, swirling the hair, tracing muscles that were still firm and defined. He stirred slightly, but didn't shift positions. She looked up at him, at the strong, bold muscle that ran down the side of his neck, at the line of his jaw, at the tanned skin, at the even, noble angles of his face.
It would probably disconcert him a little if he knew she studied him like that, but she didn't care. She still marveled, on occasion, that she was his wife, that she was his confidant, that she was his lover, that he shared an intimacy with her he had shared with only one other person.
She shifted, and as her leg slid over him, she felt the familiar hot brand of his erection. It was morning, after all, and John Thomas was a month old, which meant it had been just over a month since that wild and incredible night in the White House pool. Even so many weeks later, she still blushed at the memory and felt her skin warm.
A grin crossed her lips. He had been so patient, and the emotional strain of almost purging himself of his father's legacy certainly earned him a reward, she thought. Eager to give him pleasure, she ran her hand down his abdomen and slipped her thumb over the swollen head. Eyes still closed, sleep still claiming him, he moaned, arching into her touch. Yearning to climb on top of him and feel him fill her, she swallowed instead and maintained control. But she wanted to relieve him of his need, wanted to watch him when he came, to see the pleasure on his face, to feel the hot rush of his release on her skin.
Suddenly, she was on her back and he was covering her with his body, pushing insistently between her legs, suckling at her breasts. She gasped at the sensation and moaned as her milk let down, tricking between them. Despite the fear that her body was not yet healed, she found herself moving toward him, eager to feel him inside her again.
"Oh Babe, I need you so much," he murmured at her ear. "I want you so badly."
She didn't know whom he was seeing in his mind, realized that he was still asleep, and hoped it was her, but then it didn't matter. She couldn't hold back, was giving in, spreading to welcome him, to take him in.
The first shallow penetration was a sharp reminder, though, of what her body had been through. Instantly, the desire chilled to fear. He was hurting her and she didn't know how to stop him.
"Jed?" A push against him didn't work.
He thrust a little harder and she cried out, some in pain, mostly in fear. The movement stopped abruptly and she was staring into the horrified eyes of her husband.
"Oh hell," he gasped, pulling out immediately. He pushed up to his knees, and his arousal faded with the terrible realization of what he was doing. "I'm sorry - I didn't - I wouldn't - did I - " He broke off, something that sounded like anger and guilt driving his tone deeper.
She scooted up in the bed and knelt with him, touching his face with gentle fingers. "No," she assured him. "I'm okay." In truth, she ached a little, but didn't feel that he had done any damage.
He scrambled from the bed, as if he didn't trust himself to stay close. The pain in his voice was raw, strident. "I didn't realize - I wasn't - are you sure - "
Her arms yearned to draw him to her, to reassure him, but he wouldn't let her come close, so she settled for a smile. "I'm fine. Really." And only with several more reassurances did he accept her statement.
He had been gone when she woke the next morning and since then had studiously avoided any intimate contact with her, usually stumbling in from the Oval Office well after she had gone to bed and rising before dawn to head back down. Sometimes he never came to their bed at all. She would wake to find him sprawled out on the sofa, feet hanging off the end, arm draped across the back.
Since then, too, his distance had grown, almost to the point that she wondered if he was the one having post-partum depression. Was that possible? Something was definitely up, and she was going to find out what.
Her thoughts came back to present as they passed through the gates onto the White House grounds. "It really was wonderful," she repeated of the concert. "Boys' voices have such a clean tone."
He nodded.
"My folks talked about meeting us in Manchester for a few days. Would that be all right?"
"Manchester?" His eyes didn't move from their monotonous line of sight out the window.
She smiled. "Well, yeah. You know, for Christmas."
"Yeah." It was an absent agreement, but he suddenly turned and gave her his full attention. Normally, that would have thrilled her, but his tone was tight, tentative. "Listen, we might not need - well, I may need to stay in - at the White House this year."
"Oh." What was he saying? He had looked forward to this trip since the baby's birth, had gone into elaborate discourse about bringing his son home to the land of the Bartlets, to the country of his fathers. Awasiwi Odanak. Beyond the Village. She had teased him about it and now -
"Yeah. Maybe later we can go."
She felt her eyebrows drawing hard together in frustrated confusion. What the hell was he talking about? But they were at the South Portico and he had stepped from the car, reaching back to help her out, clutching her hand almost convulsively as she stood. Her brain registered several additional agents around the entrance, and she turned to ask Jed about it, but before she could, a familiar greeting trumped her.
"Mister President?"
Leo stepped into the hallway as they entered and she could tell right away that he had something. He just had that look. She hated that look.
Jed stopped. "Yeah?"
"There's a - thing."
If the chuckle that shook Jed's chest slightly carried any humor at all, she would have been ecstatic. But that quality was absent. "Isn't there always?" he noted ruefully. When Leo simply waited, he jerked his chin up and asked, "What?"
"Ron's waiting to talk with you."
Ron? Donna knew that never boded well. Her fears only multiplied when she saw the immediate hardening of her husband's jaw and the darkness in his eyes. He turned to her and said, "Go on up. I'll be there later."
Suppressing the urge to ask about the crisis, she nodded and tried to smile encouragingly at him as he squeezed her hand and walked away. He looked as if he needed to relax, really needed to relax, and if this was as bad as it sounded, he'd need it even more. And she had just the way to do it - if he would let her near him.
Her body missed his touch, missed the massages and the tickling, missed the possessive comfort of his hand resting on her stomach or her hip when she woke. It wasn't just sexual, it was the intimacy of connection, of someone who was a part of her. It was the reassurance that he was there, in every sense of the word. And now she was missing that reassurance. She was missing it badly.
Only two more weeks, she told herself. Only two more weeks before she was cleared for sexual activity. But since Jed's widening distance from her, even in their bed, she began to have doubts that even that could restore whatever it was they had lost. And she wasn't even sure how they had lost it.
Climbing the stairs to the Residence, her body sensed they were near, yearned to feel her child in her arms, at her breast. It was an urge she hadn't known was possible, but the sheer natural desire to draw this little one close overwhelmed her sometimes. Maybe after she nursed, she would try again to crack the strange, uncharacteristic hard shell that her husband had erected around him. Maybe then -
She heard his furious cries long before she even drew close to the door of the nursery, and she was so focused on him that she barely noticed the two additional guards that flanked the hallway. Poor Zoey must be worn out. Sure enough, her first sight was that of her step-daughter pacing the floor, frantically bouncing the infant in her arms. His fists flailed and his face had flushed the color of bricks.
When she caught sight of Donna, she gushed, "Thank God you're here," and thrust the child toward his mother.
"I'm sorry," Donna said, drawing the baby close and satisfying that instinct before she sat in the chair and slipped the gown from her shoulders. Jed Bartlet's son calmed instantly as he comprehended that what he wanted was nearby. The first greedy sucks sent the usual tingle through her before she relaxed into the comfortable bonding.
"He was great until about thirty minutes ago," Zoey explained, flopping onto the floor and pushing back a strand of hair from her face. "He wasn't too wild about the bottle. I think he prefers Mom."
Donna grinned and almost quipped, "Like father, like son," but remembered who she was talking to and bit it off. Instead, she merely said, "Yeah, he does."
They sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the uninhibited gulps and sighs from the baby. Yes, like father - but her thoughts darkened again.
"Was the performance good?"
"Yeah."
"Did Dad talk all the way through it?"
"No."
Zoey cocked her head in a very familiar way. "Really? He usually bugs the crap out of me, especially if he's heard it before. 'This is the good part.' 'Listen for the tenor note here.' 'Did you know that Vivaldi was an expert violinist?'" She chuckled fondly. "If he weren't the President they'd throw him out."
Donna jerked her head up. "What did you say?"
"If he weren't the President - "
"No. About Vivaldi being a violinist. How did you know that?"
Zoey shook her head and smiled. "The same way I know most of the inane trivia that is taking up valuable space in my head. Dad told me."
Fighting back the sudden tears that burned her eyes, Donna hid the reaction by bending to kiss J. T.'s head.
"Donna?"
She didn't look up. "Hmm?"
"You okay?"
Control it. "Sure." She still pressed her lips against the soft hair of her son.
"Donna?"
Come on. Let's drop this. "Yeah?"
The hesitation was slight, but clear. "Is Dad okay?"
The question startled her so that she straightened and pulled away from John Thomas' mouth. He whimpered in protest. Guiding him back, she looked at the younger woman carefully.
"Why do you ask?"
"You said - well, it sounded as if maybe he - " Pushing from the floor with the agility of youth, she stood in front of her step-mother, eyes holding hers, demanding honesty. "What's wrong, Donna?"
Now she couldn't suppress the tears and they flowed down her cheeks, splashing onto the blanket that wrapped around J.T.
Zoey's eyes widened in alarm. "Donna?"
When she had enough control over her voice to speak, Donna chose her words carefully. After all, this was his daughter. "I'm - not sure, Zoey. Maybe nothing. I'm sure it's nothing." But she knew it wasn't. "He just - he just seems - "
"Distant? Unfocused? Preoccupied?" Zoey supplied involuntarily.
Donna looked up, surprised. If both of them had noticed - Dear God, please don't make this be happening, she prayed. Please, not now. Not now when things are going so well. Not now when he's been given this child. Not now when he has so much to look forward to.
She shifted J.T. to her other breast, meeting Zoey's eyes and seeing the same pain there.
"Do you think - " Zoey began, then stopped. She couldn't say it, either.
Donna tried to stop the panic that threatened to surge up through her, but it pushed out anyway, and the tears rolled harder down her face. Zoey joined her, their mutual fears somehow lending comfort.
Whatever Leo had for him was finished quickly and he joined her again in the Residence, kicking off his shoes and settling in a chair, with John Thomas cradled in his arms.
"So, Zoey's feeling good about her final in her grad stats course, even though she's convinced the professor's holding her to a higher standard because of who her father is." Donna laughed, fully expecting a snide remark from him.
But he didn't respond. He just sat there, staring into the fireplace, and occasionally glancing out the window.
"Jed?"
Still no answer, but his eyes were open and his chest still rose and fell. "Jed?" A little louder.
He jerked slightly, waking the child, who stirred and started to whimper before his father gently jiggled him back to sleep. Clearing his throat, Jed looked toward her, eyebrow lifted in question.
"I was just talking about Zoey," she prompted.
He nodded. "Yeah. How's she doing in her stats class?"
"I just - " Biting her lip almost to the point of bleeding, Donna paused to clutch onto her emotions before continuing. "Good. She feels okay about it."
"Good," he mumbled, looking back out the window, his eyes almost hard, brow drawn together in thought or concentration.
"Jed?"
Another slight jerk. "What?"
"You tired?" That was it, surely. He was tired after the concert and whatever Leo had dragged him into. He was just tired.
But he shook his head. "No. I'm good. Go on and tell me about Ellie's school."
If blood could turn to ice, she figured hers was close it freezing now. "Ellie?" she questioned, trying to keep the disquiet from her voice.
"What?"
"You mean Zoey?"
His eyes darted quickly to her face. "What'd I say?"
Quietly, she said, "Ellie."
He shrugged as much as he could with his child in his arms. "Well, I meant Zoey. Tell me about Zoey's day."
Donna swallowed carefully, letting the controlled motion pace the alarms clanging in her head. After a moment, he rose and placed J.T. in his crib, kissing the tiny hand before he straightened.
"I've got that meeting with Ron and Leo," he announced, stepping back into his shoes.
That was news to her. "What meeting?"
"The one - " He paused, spinning a little to throw a glance at her. "I told you about it," he insisted as he flipped his coat over his head and shrugged into it.
"Jed - " But she saw then the alarm in his own eyes and held back. "Okay." Easy, calm. "Will you be late?"
Already at the door, he didn't turn back. His voice was tight. "Probably."
Outside, she heard him order the guards to keep a close watch. Then his footsteps faded and she was alone. The clock sounded evenly, its rhythm orchestrating with the occasional pop of the fire and the gentle breathing of their son. Her mind tried to gain a grip on what had just happened. The fractured conversation. The scattered responses. This was more than just being tired. This was much more.
He was right. The clock had just chimed one a.m. when he trudged into the Residence, stripping off clothes as he crossed the room. When he emerged from the bathroom, he eased onto the bed, obviously careful not to wake her.
"Jed?"
She felt him tense. "Yeah?"
"Long day?" Rhetorical question. The clock and his heavy shoulders had already told her that.
He only grunted as he sat on the edge.
Tentatively, her hand glided over his shoulder, and she discovered he wore a T-shirt. More exploration revealed pajama bottoms, too. It was the first time since their marriage that he had worn anything - except maybe a grin - to bed, and the significance raced in hot splashes over her body. Still, she tried again, letting her fingers knead the tight, hard muscles at his neck.
To her shock, he pulled away, shifting his body forward. Surely he knew what she was offering. Even if they couldn't have intercourse yet, she could relieve him of some stress - had done it before in those late months of pregnancy.
"Jed?" She reached out again, slid her hand around and into his pajamas.
He caught it and guided her away. "I, uh, I've got some work to do, Donna. I'm gonna sit up a while." With a deep breath, he rose, gathered some papers from a chair, and slipped into the sitting area.
His refusal, the first she could remember, made her stomach churn. Dear God. Now she was really worried. Her mind began putting pieces together, began constructing a vast and disturbing puzzle of the changes in the past two weeks.
Would it happen that quickly? And if it did, how long would it be before -
As she lay there watching his silent back, she felt the nauseating terror grip the middle of her chest, even worse than when they thought they faced the possibility of lung cancer. What threatened now was not an unknown danger. This was one that had already delivered some stinging blows, some warning punches. This was one that loomed over him, unwilling to allow him to forget, to give him the freedom, the blessing, of not knowing his future.
And was it here, now, that future?
He didn't even seem to notice when she slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Kneeling on the floor, she clasped trembling hands before her and prayed for mercy, prayed for grace, prayed for strength.
Prayed for Jed. Prayed for all of them. Because if this really was happening, she wasn't the only one in trouble.
The entire United States would have to deal with it, too.