POV: Charlie Young
Spoilers: "7A;" "Dogs of War;" "Jefferson Lives" (and some earlier 1st
season eps)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation, but I love to mess with
them occasionally.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Two A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Charlie Young realized when the letters in front of him began to cross into unreadable blurs that it was time to go home. Never mind that it had really been time to go home about six hours earlier. The President was still in the Oval Office so he was still at his desk. He checked his watch. Midnight. Not unusual for Jed Bartlet to be burning that very oil, but this was the fourth night in a row that he had lingered on into the early morning. Charlie was beginning to wonder if there wasn't more to his hesitancy to spend time in the Residence than just catching up on work missed during Walken's tenure.
Stacking the papers he was sorting, he thought back to the previous few days, grateful they were past the crisis, but aware that another crisis seemed to be brewing, this one more personal, more intimate. One that the world would not share, but one that affected his boss just as deeply.
Zoey was back. Zoey was back and everything should have been normal again. Except that it wasn't. Charlie had been the first to see it. She tried to make a good show, to put on a brave face, but he knew her, he saw. And he couldn't let it go.
He swallowed as he recalled that conversation in the Oval Office. He had never talked to Josiah Bartlet like that. Never in all the years he had worked for him. Despite the intimacy of his contact with the President and the First Family. He had teased - carefully - when his boss seemed open to that. He had deferred, agreed, obeyed. But he had never confronted the President in any serious matter and certainly not one concerning his youngest daughter.
"The 82nd Airborne works for me," he had been reminded on more than one occasion. And Charlie knew him well enough to realize it wasn't completely a joke.
It was a risk. The man had been through so much, it seemed cruel to open his eyes to more sadness, to the pain of realizing his daughter really wasn't okay. Not yet. And he wasn't sure exactly how the President would take the observation. He had rarely been on the receiving end of true anger from his boss, but he had seen the results when directed at others, had heard the steel in that tone, the edge in that normally smooth voice. Usually, Toby had been the one leaving the room immediately after, but Charlie wondered if he might not be inviting a first-hand experience.
Still, there was one thing Charlie Young did know. Despite the bluster, despite the over-protectiveness, Jed Bartlet loved him. And there was another thing he knew. He loved Jed Bartlet. The father he hadn't known. The role model he didn't realize he had needed. The infallible icon, and - at the same time - the very human human being.
He had long ago decided he would do anything for Jed Bartlet. "I work for you," he had told him when the President suggested he return to the Oval Office to help Acting President Walken. "I work for you." And he did. Personal Assistant to the President, true, but in his eyes there was only one President. It would have been impossible for him to walk into that room and serve an imposter in that chair. An imposter whose crude and unpolished behavior marked a pitiful contrast to the sophistication and style of the Bartlet Administration. No, he wouldn't go back to that room until the President - the REAL President - did.
Then it was over, so suddenly he wasn't sure why it had taken so long in the first place. The call, the helicopter ride, the massive spread of blue and red flashing garishly against the Virginia trees. His heart throbbed in his throat as he followed the President and First Lady, picking up his pace as they broke into a run and Mrs. Bartlet cried out her daughter's name.
And it was over. Done. She was back. The President was back.
But he realized now that it was only the beginning. It didn't take him long to see the pain behind the glazed eyes, to feel the forced cheerfulness, the fragile bravado. He knew why. She did it for him - for her father. She was like him, after all. Charlie could imagine a younger Jed Bartlet, popular, charming, the force of his personality an effective cover for some deeper darkness that lay in his heart.
It was unspoken knowledge that Stanley Keyworth had visited the President on more than one occasion. And, although no one really knew exactly what demons the psychiatrist tried to exorcize - and there could be many for a man of such responsibility - Charlie suspected. He had seen the photograph of the elder Dr. Bartlet, had stepped into the aftermath of a conversation with Toby and felt his skin crawl with the charged emotion of the room. The President had composed himself quickly for his body man, but Charlie thought he knew where they anguish lay.
And now Zoey was doing the same thing, putting up a good front, covering her true feelings so her father could see her as he wanted to see her. But that's all it was, a cover.
So he confronted the President of the United States, risked the wrath of a man who, if he so chose, could make him disappear with a simple nod to any one of those dark suited agents. Of course, the only real thing he risked was the defensive anger of a father whose emotional state had to be tenuous at best, after everything he had been through. Nevertheless, it was a risk he had to take. And that was what prompted his own bout of bravery.
"She knows you like to see her strong. She thinks what happened was her fault."
He had braced his body for the response, for the explosion, but it didn't happen. No outburst, no fireworks, no denial. In the end it was only quiet acceptance, as if the President had known this all along. The pain on his face almost made Charlie wish he hadn't said anything, and he found himself apologizing.
The familiar mask was back in place quickly, though. "Her mother wants to take her back to New Hampshire for a while. What do you think?"
Later he would marvel at the significance of the President of the United States asking his advice, at Josiah Bartlet asking his advice. But at the moment, he paused and took a second to weigh the seriousness of that question; in that second he saw that he would only be confirming what Zoey's father had already decided himself.
"I think her momma's right," he said. Then, suddenly feeling as if he had overstepped his privilege, he left his boss to his own thoughts. Surely those were heavy enough without additional commentary.
And so she was gone. Gone with her mother back to recover physically and emotionally. To be around the familiar things of her childhood. But that left someone else alone, someone else who now had to face his demons again.
And Charlie knew what additional burden he bore, had unintentionally caught snatches of the bitter accusations the First Lady had spit out, had seen the self-recrimination on the President's face, had watched the shoulders that bore the responsibility of the world slump under the weight of the guilt.
And now he was alone to ponder all those charges. He had put up a good front, as usual, had met his duties, faced his country and assured them with convincing strength and fervor that all was well.
But after the green lights clicked to red, after Leo returned to his office, after Debbie closed the door to the Oval, the burdens fell on one person.
And so for the fourth night in a row, he took refuge in that office, in that title, in that work that now threatened more than he knew. He had shifted from the desk to his favorite wingback chair about an hour before, the book Charlie brought him from that store he loved resting in his lap. Maybe he found solace in whatever wisdom those ancient poets had preserved for the ages. Charlie hoped so. But evening was quickly moving into early morning. Everyone had left long ago, even Leo. It fell to his body man to prompt him on to bed, whether he wanted to or not. Shoving the remaining papers aside, Charlie eased away from his desk.
Respectfully, he eased his head around the door. "It's late, Sir," he suggested softly, but received no acknowledgement.
"Sir?" A little louder this time.
At first he thought the man must be dozing, and he smiled a little. Heaven knew he could use the sleep. Charlie didn't think he had slept the entire time Zoey was missing. And, of course, the past few nights could only have netted him a total of about 12 hours in a third as many days. As he watched, the book slipped from its perch and fell to the floor. Before he could move to pick it up, the President stirred and reached for it.
Okay. Step back. He didn't like to be fussed over. His boss would protest, but even he had to acknowledge it was time to stop. But it only took a closer look to realize this might be the time to fuss. The strong, square hand didn't close over the volume, just seemed to hover without purpose.
"Mister President?"
Then, the solid body slumped, and he caught a glimpse of the eyes, glazed and a bit stunned, the crinkles around them tight. The President was in pain, that much was certain. Heart pounding, Charlie stepped toward him.
"Are you all right, Sir?"
His wishful brain tried to make one last justification. It was late. He was tired. But as his boss tried to push to his feet, Charlie saw that wasn't it at all.
"Mister President!" he cried, a beat too late to stop the body from crumpling, a step too late to keep the head from striking the table on the way down, and over a week too late to stop Zoey from going to that party and starting this horrible mess in the first place.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Two A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Charlie Young realized when the letters in front of him began to cross into unreadable blurs that it was time to go home. Never mind that it had really been time to go home about six hours earlier. The President was still in the Oval Office so he was still at his desk. He checked his watch. Midnight. Not unusual for Jed Bartlet to be burning that very oil, but this was the fourth night in a row that he had lingered on into the early morning. Charlie was beginning to wonder if there wasn't more to his hesitancy to spend time in the Residence than just catching up on work missed during Walken's tenure.
Stacking the papers he was sorting, he thought back to the previous few days, grateful they were past the crisis, but aware that another crisis seemed to be brewing, this one more personal, more intimate. One that the world would not share, but one that affected his boss just as deeply.
Zoey was back. Zoey was back and everything should have been normal again. Except that it wasn't. Charlie had been the first to see it. She tried to make a good show, to put on a brave face, but he knew her, he saw. And he couldn't let it go.
He swallowed as he recalled that conversation in the Oval Office. He had never talked to Josiah Bartlet like that. Never in all the years he had worked for him. Despite the intimacy of his contact with the President and the First Family. He had teased - carefully - when his boss seemed open to that. He had deferred, agreed, obeyed. But he had never confronted the President in any serious matter and certainly not one concerning his youngest daughter.
"The 82nd Airborne works for me," he had been reminded on more than one occasion. And Charlie knew him well enough to realize it wasn't completely a joke.
It was a risk. The man had been through so much, it seemed cruel to open his eyes to more sadness, to the pain of realizing his daughter really wasn't okay. Not yet. And he wasn't sure exactly how the President would take the observation. He had rarely been on the receiving end of true anger from his boss, but he had seen the results when directed at others, had heard the steel in that tone, the edge in that normally smooth voice. Usually, Toby had been the one leaving the room immediately after, but Charlie wondered if he might not be inviting a first-hand experience.
Still, there was one thing Charlie Young did know. Despite the bluster, despite the over-protectiveness, Jed Bartlet loved him. And there was another thing he knew. He loved Jed Bartlet. The father he hadn't known. The role model he didn't realize he had needed. The infallible icon, and - at the same time - the very human human being.
He had long ago decided he would do anything for Jed Bartlet. "I work for you," he had told him when the President suggested he return to the Oval Office to help Acting President Walken. "I work for you." And he did. Personal Assistant to the President, true, but in his eyes there was only one President. It would have been impossible for him to walk into that room and serve an imposter in that chair. An imposter whose crude and unpolished behavior marked a pitiful contrast to the sophistication and style of the Bartlet Administration. No, he wouldn't go back to that room until the President - the REAL President - did.
Then it was over, so suddenly he wasn't sure why it had taken so long in the first place. The call, the helicopter ride, the massive spread of blue and red flashing garishly against the Virginia trees. His heart throbbed in his throat as he followed the President and First Lady, picking up his pace as they broke into a run and Mrs. Bartlet cried out her daughter's name.
And it was over. Done. She was back. The President was back.
But he realized now that it was only the beginning. It didn't take him long to see the pain behind the glazed eyes, to feel the forced cheerfulness, the fragile bravado. He knew why. She did it for him - for her father. She was like him, after all. Charlie could imagine a younger Jed Bartlet, popular, charming, the force of his personality an effective cover for some deeper darkness that lay in his heart.
It was unspoken knowledge that Stanley Keyworth had visited the President on more than one occasion. And, although no one really knew exactly what demons the psychiatrist tried to exorcize - and there could be many for a man of such responsibility - Charlie suspected. He had seen the photograph of the elder Dr. Bartlet, had stepped into the aftermath of a conversation with Toby and felt his skin crawl with the charged emotion of the room. The President had composed himself quickly for his body man, but Charlie thought he knew where they anguish lay.
And now Zoey was doing the same thing, putting up a good front, covering her true feelings so her father could see her as he wanted to see her. But that's all it was, a cover.
So he confronted the President of the United States, risked the wrath of a man who, if he so chose, could make him disappear with a simple nod to any one of those dark suited agents. Of course, the only real thing he risked was the defensive anger of a father whose emotional state had to be tenuous at best, after everything he had been through. Nevertheless, it was a risk he had to take. And that was what prompted his own bout of bravery.
"She knows you like to see her strong. She thinks what happened was her fault."
He had braced his body for the response, for the explosion, but it didn't happen. No outburst, no fireworks, no denial. In the end it was only quiet acceptance, as if the President had known this all along. The pain on his face almost made Charlie wish he hadn't said anything, and he found himself apologizing.
The familiar mask was back in place quickly, though. "Her mother wants to take her back to New Hampshire for a while. What do you think?"
Later he would marvel at the significance of the President of the United States asking his advice, at Josiah Bartlet asking his advice. But at the moment, he paused and took a second to weigh the seriousness of that question; in that second he saw that he would only be confirming what Zoey's father had already decided himself.
"I think her momma's right," he said. Then, suddenly feeling as if he had overstepped his privilege, he left his boss to his own thoughts. Surely those were heavy enough without additional commentary.
And so she was gone. Gone with her mother back to recover physically and emotionally. To be around the familiar things of her childhood. But that left someone else alone, someone else who now had to face his demons again.
And Charlie knew what additional burden he bore, had unintentionally caught snatches of the bitter accusations the First Lady had spit out, had seen the self-recrimination on the President's face, had watched the shoulders that bore the responsibility of the world slump under the weight of the guilt.
And now he was alone to ponder all those charges. He had put up a good front, as usual, had met his duties, faced his country and assured them with convincing strength and fervor that all was well.
But after the green lights clicked to red, after Leo returned to his office, after Debbie closed the door to the Oval, the burdens fell on one person.
And so for the fourth night in a row, he took refuge in that office, in that title, in that work that now threatened more than he knew. He had shifted from the desk to his favorite wingback chair about an hour before, the book Charlie brought him from that store he loved resting in his lap. Maybe he found solace in whatever wisdom those ancient poets had preserved for the ages. Charlie hoped so. But evening was quickly moving into early morning. Everyone had left long ago, even Leo. It fell to his body man to prompt him on to bed, whether he wanted to or not. Shoving the remaining papers aside, Charlie eased away from his desk.
Respectfully, he eased his head around the door. "It's late, Sir," he suggested softly, but received no acknowledgement.
"Sir?" A little louder this time.
At first he thought the man must be dozing, and he smiled a little. Heaven knew he could use the sleep. Charlie didn't think he had slept the entire time Zoey was missing. And, of course, the past few nights could only have netted him a total of about 12 hours in a third as many days. As he watched, the book slipped from its perch and fell to the floor. Before he could move to pick it up, the President stirred and reached for it.
Okay. Step back. He didn't like to be fussed over. His boss would protest, but even he had to acknowledge it was time to stop. But it only took a closer look to realize this might be the time to fuss. The strong, square hand didn't close over the volume, just seemed to hover without purpose.
"Mister President?"
Then, the solid body slumped, and he caught a glimpse of the eyes, glazed and a bit stunned, the crinkles around them tight. The President was in pain, that much was certain. Heart pounding, Charlie stepped toward him.
"Are you all right, Sir?"
His wishful brain tried to make one last justification. It was late. He was tired. But as his boss tried to push to his feet, Charlie saw that wasn't it at all.
"Mister President!" he cried, a beat too late to stop the body from crumpling, a step too late to keep the head from striking the table on the way down, and over a week too late to stop Zoey from going to that party and starting this horrible mess in the first place.