POV: Ron
Spoilers: ITSOTG, "Dead Irish Writers;" "25;" "7A;" "Dogs of War;"
"Jefferson Lives;" "
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Six: Eagle's Down A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The First Lady was on her way. That was good news. At least, Ron hoped it was good news. Usually, the return of the First Lady from a trip prompted instructions to the agents that no one - and that meant absolutely no one - would disturb the President for the evening.
It was no secret among the Service that Jed and Abbey Bartlet were a demonstrative, affectionate couple who took every opportunity to enjoy their marital relations. Agents on guard duty were under strict orders to ignore whatever audible evidences they might overhear from behind closed doors, but Ron had, on more than one occasion, heard a story or two about the enthusiasm with which the First Couple participated in those opportunities. Charlie Young and Debbie Fiderer even had a designation for it on the President's daily schedule. A quick get-away to the Residence was recorded for posterity as "barbecuing." And when the First Lady was in town, there was a great deal of cooking going on.
But there had been a famine for the past few weeks. No barbecuing. Not even discussion about barbecuing, and when there was discussion at all, it was not the playful, teasing banter that usually surrounded their leader and his wife. It was hard, bitter, and sometimes cruel.
When the First Lady had called Ron in after Zoey's rescue and asked about the security in New Hampshire as compared with the White House, he knew where she was headed. And he knew why. It wasn't just to protect her daughter, or to help her recover from the traumatic ordeal. It was to get away. To get away from the politics that controlled her life. To get away from the memories of those days of horror. To get away from the constant media attention.
But mostly, it was to get away from him.
Ron had taken on the task of making himself personally responsible for the life of the President of the United States. In order to do that, he had to know a great deal about the man, and be with him day in and day out. Ron had heard things and he had seen things that most people shouldn't see or hear. Some touching and joyful. Others disturbing and sad.
He had seen the fear on Abigail Bartlet's face when she entered the trauma room of George Washington University Hospital on that warm May evening after Rosslyn. He had watched her bend over her husband, their heads close, and talk them both through the crisis.
He had watched the President spend a good 45 minutes wandering the grounds outside the White House during the First Lady's birthday party, just to find the right words to tell how much he loved her. In the end, he told a funny story that didn't dip too deeply into the emotional realm. But Ron had seen their eyes, had felt the charge between them, and had known - even without the agent's report later - that he had found a way to show his love that evening.
He had seen her swallow her pride and let go of the most important thing to her besides her family to pull them all out of the MS controversy.
He had watched him commit the bravest and most unselfish act he had ever witnessed by giving up the most powerful position in the world because he felt it was the only way to save his country from his own parental emotions.
He had seen her folded in his arms, head on his chest, her customary strength and independence submitting, for the moment, to his calm guidance and control, waiting for news about their daughter, waiting for it to be over. They held each other, leaned on each other.
Until the story broke.
Until Shareef.
Then what he saw changed.
He saw the stiff posture from that petite frame. He saw the fury in the eyes. He saw the accusation in the jaw. He heard, in the silence, the loud proclamation of blame.
And he saw the guilt in his eyes. He saw the pain. He heard the whispered prayers, even though they were not meant to be heard by any earthly creature.
But he saw the miracle, too, the rescue, the retrieval. And for a short time, mother and father held hands again, raced together to bring their lost child back into their arms.
For a short time.
Then she was gone, taking her away, too. And he was alone.
It wasn't that Ron agreed or disagreed with what they had done. That wasn't his place. In the years he had known Jed Bartlet, he had come to realize he was perhaps the most moral man he had ever met. If he felt Shareef needed to die, Shareef needed to die. But, having witnessed the President's habit of taking guilt on himself, he knew it could not have been an easy decision.
Why he didn't tell his wife, even when he knew the story was breaking, Ron couldn't say. Abigail Bartlet was a formidable woman, and one even he preferred not to cross, if at all possible. As powerful and strong as the President was, he still didn't envy him the task of confessing to the mother of their child that his actions might have led to that child's abduction and possible death.
No, it wasn't his place to judge. Jed Bartlet judged himself much harsher than anyone else could have. Even his wife.
So he had been alone. When the day was done, and the bustle of the West Wing had subsided for a few hours, he was alone, and God only knew what torments that sharp mind conjured.
Ron knew he worked into the early hours in the Oval Office. Even when he finally dragged himself to the Residence, he didn't sleep. Agents reported the lights on or CNN playing almost to daybreak. But it wasn't his place to advise the President of the United States on his own health. Usually, the First Lady did that. But she wasn't there anymore.
Still, he had seen the strength in Josiah Bartlet, had watched his resiliency overcome numerous obstacles, even the spectre of impeachment and resignation. But that had been only politics.
This was personal.
"Eagle's down."
He had hoped never to hear that call again. Once was more than enough and Eagle had been "down" twice already in his tenure. The first time was the collapse in the Oval Office early on. The flu, they had said. And it was. But how much more had they discovered since then? The second time was at Rosslyn, even though no one called out the alert because they didn't realize it at the time.
And they were still dealing with the third time. Charlie's call to the agent. The agent's call to him.
Get a doctor.
Get the paramedics.
They had acted quickly, efficiently, and appropriately. But it didn't change the fact that Eagle was down.
The splatter of blood kicked him in the chest. Never a good sign. But he already knew there was no breach, no assailant. No, this time Josiah Bartlet was the victim of a much more subtle enemy, one that Ron Butterfield was helpless to subdue.
And now he trailed Leo McGarry as they made their way back to the trauma room where the President still lay, waiting with the eternal patience of the unconscious for the attendants to move him to the ICU suite he had already occupied one too many times.
It struck him as ironic that they were the closest thing to family Jed Bartlet had with him. The bodyguard who was supposed to keep him physically safe, and the chief of staff who was supposed to keep him politically safe. Neither of them had done a very good job with their duties recently.
But they seemed to be all he had at the moment.
"Mrs. Bartlet's on her way?" the young physician asked again as they neared the Presidential unit.
"Yeah," Leo answered, short, sharp. Ron figured it was all the information he had.
The First Lady was on her way.
And then what?
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Six: Eagle's Down A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The First Lady was on her way. That was good news. At least, Ron hoped it was good news. Usually, the return of the First Lady from a trip prompted instructions to the agents that no one - and that meant absolutely no one - would disturb the President for the evening.
It was no secret among the Service that Jed and Abbey Bartlet were a demonstrative, affectionate couple who took every opportunity to enjoy their marital relations. Agents on guard duty were under strict orders to ignore whatever audible evidences they might overhear from behind closed doors, but Ron had, on more than one occasion, heard a story or two about the enthusiasm with which the First Couple participated in those opportunities. Charlie Young and Debbie Fiderer even had a designation for it on the President's daily schedule. A quick get-away to the Residence was recorded for posterity as "barbecuing." And when the First Lady was in town, there was a great deal of cooking going on.
But there had been a famine for the past few weeks. No barbecuing. Not even discussion about barbecuing, and when there was discussion at all, it was not the playful, teasing banter that usually surrounded their leader and his wife. It was hard, bitter, and sometimes cruel.
When the First Lady had called Ron in after Zoey's rescue and asked about the security in New Hampshire as compared with the White House, he knew where she was headed. And he knew why. It wasn't just to protect her daughter, or to help her recover from the traumatic ordeal. It was to get away. To get away from the politics that controlled her life. To get away from the memories of those days of horror. To get away from the constant media attention.
But mostly, it was to get away from him.
Ron had taken on the task of making himself personally responsible for the life of the President of the United States. In order to do that, he had to know a great deal about the man, and be with him day in and day out. Ron had heard things and he had seen things that most people shouldn't see or hear. Some touching and joyful. Others disturbing and sad.
He had seen the fear on Abigail Bartlet's face when she entered the trauma room of George Washington University Hospital on that warm May evening after Rosslyn. He had watched her bend over her husband, their heads close, and talk them both through the crisis.
He had watched the President spend a good 45 minutes wandering the grounds outside the White House during the First Lady's birthday party, just to find the right words to tell how much he loved her. In the end, he told a funny story that didn't dip too deeply into the emotional realm. But Ron had seen their eyes, had felt the charge between them, and had known - even without the agent's report later - that he had found a way to show his love that evening.
He had seen her swallow her pride and let go of the most important thing to her besides her family to pull them all out of the MS controversy.
He had watched him commit the bravest and most unselfish act he had ever witnessed by giving up the most powerful position in the world because he felt it was the only way to save his country from his own parental emotions.
He had seen her folded in his arms, head on his chest, her customary strength and independence submitting, for the moment, to his calm guidance and control, waiting for news about their daughter, waiting for it to be over. They held each other, leaned on each other.
Until the story broke.
Until Shareef.
Then what he saw changed.
He saw the stiff posture from that petite frame. He saw the fury in the eyes. He saw the accusation in the jaw. He heard, in the silence, the loud proclamation of blame.
And he saw the guilt in his eyes. He saw the pain. He heard the whispered prayers, even though they were not meant to be heard by any earthly creature.
But he saw the miracle, too, the rescue, the retrieval. And for a short time, mother and father held hands again, raced together to bring their lost child back into their arms.
For a short time.
Then she was gone, taking her away, too. And he was alone.
It wasn't that Ron agreed or disagreed with what they had done. That wasn't his place. In the years he had known Jed Bartlet, he had come to realize he was perhaps the most moral man he had ever met. If he felt Shareef needed to die, Shareef needed to die. But, having witnessed the President's habit of taking guilt on himself, he knew it could not have been an easy decision.
Why he didn't tell his wife, even when he knew the story was breaking, Ron couldn't say. Abigail Bartlet was a formidable woman, and one even he preferred not to cross, if at all possible. As powerful and strong as the President was, he still didn't envy him the task of confessing to the mother of their child that his actions might have led to that child's abduction and possible death.
No, it wasn't his place to judge. Jed Bartlet judged himself much harsher than anyone else could have. Even his wife.
So he had been alone. When the day was done, and the bustle of the West Wing had subsided for a few hours, he was alone, and God only knew what torments that sharp mind conjured.
Ron knew he worked into the early hours in the Oval Office. Even when he finally dragged himself to the Residence, he didn't sleep. Agents reported the lights on or CNN playing almost to daybreak. But it wasn't his place to advise the President of the United States on his own health. Usually, the First Lady did that. But she wasn't there anymore.
Still, he had seen the strength in Josiah Bartlet, had watched his resiliency overcome numerous obstacles, even the spectre of impeachment and resignation. But that had been only politics.
This was personal.
"Eagle's down."
He had hoped never to hear that call again. Once was more than enough and Eagle had been "down" twice already in his tenure. The first time was the collapse in the Oval Office early on. The flu, they had said. And it was. But how much more had they discovered since then? The second time was at Rosslyn, even though no one called out the alert because they didn't realize it at the time.
And they were still dealing with the third time. Charlie's call to the agent. The agent's call to him.
Get a doctor.
Get the paramedics.
They had acted quickly, efficiently, and appropriately. But it didn't change the fact that Eagle was down.
The splatter of blood kicked him in the chest. Never a good sign. But he already knew there was no breach, no assailant. No, this time Josiah Bartlet was the victim of a much more subtle enemy, one that Ron Butterfield was helpless to subdue.
And now he trailed Leo McGarry as they made their way back to the trauma room where the President still lay, waiting with the eternal patience of the unconscious for the attendants to move him to the ICU suite he had already occupied one too many times.
It struck him as ironic that they were the closest thing to family Jed Bartlet had with him. The bodyguard who was supposed to keep him physically safe, and the chief of staff who was supposed to keep him politically safe. Neither of them had done a very good job with their duties recently.
But they seemed to be all he had at the moment.
"Mrs. Bartlet's on her way?" the young physician asked again as they neared the Presidential unit.
"Yeah," Leo answered, short, sharp. Ron figured it was all the information he had.
The First Lady was on her way.
And then what?