POV: C.J.
Spoilers: "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen," "25," "7A," "Dogs of War," "Han"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but they are marvelous
characters and I love to play with them.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Four: That's Old School A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Never in her life had C.J. answered the phone at two in the morning and have it be good news. By the time she actually lifted the receiver, she would have envisioned every possible scenario and how she would deal with whatever tragedy had just befallen someone she knew and loved. It was the burden of being female. Funerals were planned and music chosen in the three seconds it took to reach across the bed.
Since she had been Press Secretary to the President, however, she had at least realized that all early morning calls didn't necessarily mean death. Most of the time, they meant there was some breaking story that might not play well for the administration and she had to be ready to deflect it by the time dawn broke.
But the instinctive dread never left her, so as she fumbled from under the covers, her mind was already creating the dramas she would face.
"'lo?" Her brain had formed the word clearly, but she figured her mouth didn't quite execute the plan. Didn't matter. It was enough.
"C.J.?"
Yep. It was Leo, as she expected. Could be any number of things. Terrorists? North Korea? The Stock Market crashed?
"Yeah." That brain-to-mouth connection worked better, and she shoved her body up a little more against the pillows.
"C.J., something's happened."
Usually, Leo began these calls with something like, "We've got a situation," or "I need you to be ready for something." This was different. This was personal, she could hear it in his voice.
"What is it?"
He didn't answer immediately. That was never a good sign, either, like he was bracing himself to hear something he already knew, but didn't want to hear again. Finally, he said, "I need you to come to GW right now." The words were slow, deliberate, like Leo did when he was conveying an extremely important instruction.
"The hospital? What - "
"I can't really say over the phone," he emphasized, and she swallowed the sudden fear that jumped into her throat.
It was the President. Otherwise, he could say. It had to be the President.
"Is he - "
"Right now, C.J."
Oh God. Forcing her heart to beat again, she nodded, even though he couldn't see. "Okay. I'm leaving. Should I prepare - "
"We'll talk when you get here." It was Leo in his crisis mode, and that's what scared her the most.
Somehow she dressed, wiped on some make-up, ran a comb through her hair and was out on the darkened streets of Washington, D.C. within fifteen minutes. The familiar sights looked serene, almost ghostly as they were illuminated by haze-surrounded artificial lighting. The famous buildings in the distance stood like mausoleums to those statesmen past who shaped America with their actions.
But she was only concerned about one statesman, one American, at the moment. She knew it had the be the President, even if Leo had never actually said. Was he dead, even as she drove wildly toward the hospital.?
And what would they do if he was? Josiah Bartlet. The President of the United States. "The Real Thing," Josh had called him. What turmoil would the world be thrust into with the loss of his vision, of his idealism?
True, she had seen that idealism crack under the blunt force of reality, had watched as he compromised, as he settled for "proportional responses" when she wanted him to burst forward and do the right thing, even if it wasn't the best thing. And she saw it on his face, which seemed more haggard every day. Heard it in his voice.
When they had first entered the White House, the energy that fairly projected from him had jolted them all. They would change the world. They would make their mark on the universe. That rich voice, so unique, so smooth, had filled them with confidence, with anticipation of so many things.
But in recent months that voice had changed. The spark, the lilt that had colored it, was missing, stolen away from them all by the constant burdens that pushed at him now.
She had heard it only a week before, had listened to sadness bleed through in deeper tones as he lay on the Oval Office couch, hands behind his head, and shared a few moments with her.
He knew how she felt, she had made her opinion - and her disappointment - quite clear. A young man wanted freedom, wanted to taste what they all had, what none of them had really worked for. A young man. A gifted man, who simply bore the misfortune of being born in the wrong country. And he had asked them for help. Had gone directly to the President himself to seek asylum.
A simple request. A simple decision, to grant what we had tried to spread throughout the world for over 200 years.
But apparently, it wasn't simple.
"It's complicated," Leo had said, and even though C.J. had been around long enough to know what he meant, she still couldn't imagine her President, the man she had grown to respect and trust, denying such an American act.
But it was complicated. And in the end, the President did the only thing he could, the only thing that would justify in his mind not immediately granting the request. He left it up to the musician, who had made a decision that was too selfless for someone so young.
But the world had not fallen apart, so it was okay.
Josiah Bartlet had not risen when she entered, had not even budged from his prone position on the couch, and that in itself bothered her. Maybe it was just because he had become comfortable with her. Maybe it was just because it was late, and they were all tired. But she saw in that decision a surrender, an admittance that the energy was gone. Just as the voice had deepened, so had the lines on his face, so had the regret in his eyes.
And she didn't like seeing it. He was their star, their beacon. If that star faded, how would they find their way?
But more than the loss of Josiah Bartlet their leader, she would mourn the loss of Jed Bartlet, their friend, their mentor, their father. Her father. She couldn't deny the closeness of their relationship, wouldn't want to. She loved Jed Bartlet, and it hurt even more to see what was happening to him personally than what she perceived as a loss of focus professionally.
They had gotten through so much. Rosslyn, the MS scandal, re-election. He had persevered through it all, had shown them the solid strength they all relied on. Even the Republicans recognized what incredible sacrifice and courage it had taken to step down during Zoey's kidnapping.
He was still "The Real Thing," she knew that. She had not doubted it, but that courage, which seemed able to withstand even the most violent forces from the outside, was being tested now by even greater inside forces.
And C.J. knew from experience she was powerless to interfere. On that first day back, after Walken had left and the world seemed to be righted again, she had asked the President if the First Lady would be joining him as he addressed the country, assuring them of his strength, thanking them for their prayers, and urging them forward to continue their goals. She already knew the answer before he responded.
No. The First Lady wouldn't be joining him. He had waved her off casually, saying that Abbey was with Zoey at the hospital, but he didn't meet her eyes, and she read enough in his body language to wonder how long it would be before Abbey really did join him again. The temperature in the Residence, which could fluctuate violently, had turned decidedly cold. Abigail Bartlet was furious with her husband, and when she took Zoey to New Hampshire, C.J. knew it was as much to help Zoey as it was to allow the First Lady time away from him.
Maybe it was for the best, but C.J. couldn't help but wonder how good it was to leave the President alone. He had been the calm one, the one who didn't fall apart, who didn't burst into the Press Room to make a plea for his daughter, who didn't need the sedation. He had stayed in focus, had made the incredible decision to put the power in someone else's hands - the other party's hands, even - so he wouldn't use it selfishly. He had been the rock.
But now he didn't have to be. And he was alone with time to reflect on the terror of those days, with time to let his mind dwell on his actions, on his responsibilities - on his guilt. With time to crumble.
C.J. had seen it in his eyes. They all knew he felt it. And she had heard the rumors. The First Lady blamed him. He blamed himself. And now he had even more time to think about that.
So she had sat with him after the concert, had told him in so many words that she knew his gesture of not canceling it was a risk, that he still put his faith in the good character of humans.
But even that had backfired on him. North Korea stopped negotiations because the they didn't like the size of everyone's flags. He had turned his back on his own idealism, made the difficult decision to address the needs of the many over the needs of the one, and what had happened?
She had left him, unable to give much comfort, unable to assure even herself that he had made the right choice. She understood. She was disappointed. And the funny thing was, so was he. She read it every line of his body. Disappointed in himself. Disappointed in the world that he had wanted to change.
They seemed to have had more than their share of disappointments recently. And those disappointments were taking their toll.
Or had they already taken it?
As her chest tightened in fresh reminder of why she was headed to GW, she saw the lights ahead. Squealing around Washington Circle, she headed toward the new emergency entrance that had been completed since their unpleasant experience of Rosslyn. The ambulance lights flashed between 23rd Street and New Hampshire Avenue. New Hampshire Avenue? Was there some deep irony there?
Born in New Hampshire. Died on New Hampshire Avenue? Was this as close as God could get him to home before He took him?
Gritting her teeth, she chided herself for the fatalistic thoughts and fought back into Press Secretary mode. Find out what's happened. Try to figure out what's going to happen. Prepare to tell the world.
But tell them what?
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Four: That's Old School A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Never in her life had C.J. answered the phone at two in the morning and have it be good news. By the time she actually lifted the receiver, she would have envisioned every possible scenario and how she would deal with whatever tragedy had just befallen someone she knew and loved. It was the burden of being female. Funerals were planned and music chosen in the three seconds it took to reach across the bed.
Since she had been Press Secretary to the President, however, she had at least realized that all early morning calls didn't necessarily mean death. Most of the time, they meant there was some breaking story that might not play well for the administration and she had to be ready to deflect it by the time dawn broke.
But the instinctive dread never left her, so as she fumbled from under the covers, her mind was already creating the dramas she would face.
"'lo?" Her brain had formed the word clearly, but she figured her mouth didn't quite execute the plan. Didn't matter. It was enough.
"C.J.?"
Yep. It was Leo, as she expected. Could be any number of things. Terrorists? North Korea? The Stock Market crashed?
"Yeah." That brain-to-mouth connection worked better, and she shoved her body up a little more against the pillows.
"C.J., something's happened."
Usually, Leo began these calls with something like, "We've got a situation," or "I need you to be ready for something." This was different. This was personal, she could hear it in his voice.
"What is it?"
He didn't answer immediately. That was never a good sign, either, like he was bracing himself to hear something he already knew, but didn't want to hear again. Finally, he said, "I need you to come to GW right now." The words were slow, deliberate, like Leo did when he was conveying an extremely important instruction.
"The hospital? What - "
"I can't really say over the phone," he emphasized, and she swallowed the sudden fear that jumped into her throat.
It was the President. Otherwise, he could say. It had to be the President.
"Is he - "
"Right now, C.J."
Oh God. Forcing her heart to beat again, she nodded, even though he couldn't see. "Okay. I'm leaving. Should I prepare - "
"We'll talk when you get here." It was Leo in his crisis mode, and that's what scared her the most.
Somehow she dressed, wiped on some make-up, ran a comb through her hair and was out on the darkened streets of Washington, D.C. within fifteen minutes. The familiar sights looked serene, almost ghostly as they were illuminated by haze-surrounded artificial lighting. The famous buildings in the distance stood like mausoleums to those statesmen past who shaped America with their actions.
But she was only concerned about one statesman, one American, at the moment. She knew it had the be the President, even if Leo had never actually said. Was he dead, even as she drove wildly toward the hospital.?
And what would they do if he was? Josiah Bartlet. The President of the United States. "The Real Thing," Josh had called him. What turmoil would the world be thrust into with the loss of his vision, of his idealism?
True, she had seen that idealism crack under the blunt force of reality, had watched as he compromised, as he settled for "proportional responses" when she wanted him to burst forward and do the right thing, even if it wasn't the best thing. And she saw it on his face, which seemed more haggard every day. Heard it in his voice.
When they had first entered the White House, the energy that fairly projected from him had jolted them all. They would change the world. They would make their mark on the universe. That rich voice, so unique, so smooth, had filled them with confidence, with anticipation of so many things.
But in recent months that voice had changed. The spark, the lilt that had colored it, was missing, stolen away from them all by the constant burdens that pushed at him now.
She had heard it only a week before, had listened to sadness bleed through in deeper tones as he lay on the Oval Office couch, hands behind his head, and shared a few moments with her.
He knew how she felt, she had made her opinion - and her disappointment - quite clear. A young man wanted freedom, wanted to taste what they all had, what none of them had really worked for. A young man. A gifted man, who simply bore the misfortune of being born in the wrong country. And he had asked them for help. Had gone directly to the President himself to seek asylum.
A simple request. A simple decision, to grant what we had tried to spread throughout the world for over 200 years.
But apparently, it wasn't simple.
"It's complicated," Leo had said, and even though C.J. had been around long enough to know what he meant, she still couldn't imagine her President, the man she had grown to respect and trust, denying such an American act.
But it was complicated. And in the end, the President did the only thing he could, the only thing that would justify in his mind not immediately granting the request. He left it up to the musician, who had made a decision that was too selfless for someone so young.
But the world had not fallen apart, so it was okay.
Josiah Bartlet had not risen when she entered, had not even budged from his prone position on the couch, and that in itself bothered her. Maybe it was just because he had become comfortable with her. Maybe it was just because it was late, and they were all tired. But she saw in that decision a surrender, an admittance that the energy was gone. Just as the voice had deepened, so had the lines on his face, so had the regret in his eyes.
And she didn't like seeing it. He was their star, their beacon. If that star faded, how would they find their way?
But more than the loss of Josiah Bartlet their leader, she would mourn the loss of Jed Bartlet, their friend, their mentor, their father. Her father. She couldn't deny the closeness of their relationship, wouldn't want to. She loved Jed Bartlet, and it hurt even more to see what was happening to him personally than what she perceived as a loss of focus professionally.
They had gotten through so much. Rosslyn, the MS scandal, re-election. He had persevered through it all, had shown them the solid strength they all relied on. Even the Republicans recognized what incredible sacrifice and courage it had taken to step down during Zoey's kidnapping.
He was still "The Real Thing," she knew that. She had not doubted it, but that courage, which seemed able to withstand even the most violent forces from the outside, was being tested now by even greater inside forces.
And C.J. knew from experience she was powerless to interfere. On that first day back, after Walken had left and the world seemed to be righted again, she had asked the President if the First Lady would be joining him as he addressed the country, assuring them of his strength, thanking them for their prayers, and urging them forward to continue their goals. She already knew the answer before he responded.
No. The First Lady wouldn't be joining him. He had waved her off casually, saying that Abbey was with Zoey at the hospital, but he didn't meet her eyes, and she read enough in his body language to wonder how long it would be before Abbey really did join him again. The temperature in the Residence, which could fluctuate violently, had turned decidedly cold. Abigail Bartlet was furious with her husband, and when she took Zoey to New Hampshire, C.J. knew it was as much to help Zoey as it was to allow the First Lady time away from him.
Maybe it was for the best, but C.J. couldn't help but wonder how good it was to leave the President alone. He had been the calm one, the one who didn't fall apart, who didn't burst into the Press Room to make a plea for his daughter, who didn't need the sedation. He had stayed in focus, had made the incredible decision to put the power in someone else's hands - the other party's hands, even - so he wouldn't use it selfishly. He had been the rock.
But now he didn't have to be. And he was alone with time to reflect on the terror of those days, with time to let his mind dwell on his actions, on his responsibilities - on his guilt. With time to crumble.
C.J. had seen it in his eyes. They all knew he felt it. And she had heard the rumors. The First Lady blamed him. He blamed himself. And now he had even more time to think about that.
So she had sat with him after the concert, had told him in so many words that she knew his gesture of not canceling it was a risk, that he still put his faith in the good character of humans.
But even that had backfired on him. North Korea stopped negotiations because the they didn't like the size of everyone's flags. He had turned his back on his own idealism, made the difficult decision to address the needs of the many over the needs of the one, and what had happened?
She had left him, unable to give much comfort, unable to assure even herself that he had made the right choice. She understood. She was disappointed. And the funny thing was, so was he. She read it every line of his body. Disappointed in himself. Disappointed in the world that he had wanted to change.
They seemed to have had more than their share of disappointments recently. And those disappointments were taking their toll.
Or had they already taken it?
As her chest tightened in fresh reminder of why she was headed to GW, she saw the lights ahead. Squealing around Washington Circle, she headed toward the new emergency entrance that had been completed since their unpleasant experience of Rosslyn. The ambulance lights flashed between 23rd Street and New Hampshire Avenue. New Hampshire Avenue? Was there some deep irony there?
Born in New Hampshire. Died on New Hampshire Avenue? Was this as close as God could get him to home before He took him?
Gritting her teeth, she chided herself for the fatalistic thoughts and fought back into Press Secretary mode. Find out what's happened. Try to figure out what's going to happen. Prepare to tell the world.
But tell them what?