POV: Jed
Spoilers: "The Crackpots and These Women;" "Two Cathedrals;" "Election
Night;" "Jefferson Lives;" "Abu el Banat"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They belong to - well, know who
they belong to.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Eleven: Not That Man A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The world was still slightly out of focus for Jed Bartlet. He knew it could be any number of things. The doctor - he either never knew or had forgotten his name - said he had a slight concussion from the fall. Or it could be the fever - he was still running just below 100. Or - and this was the one he didn't want to acknowledge - it was optic neuritis, the harbinger of an impending MS episode.
Blinking didn't help, hadn't helped yet, but he found himself trying anyway, wanting to look at his daughter's face clearly. Zoey smiled down at him, that innocent, pure grin that, if pushed, he would have to admit came from him. Her fingers entwined in his, not quite the same feel as when she was five, but a good sensation, nevertheless.
Her presence was a balm to sooth the open wound that Abbey had gouged. Not that he blamed his wife. Not at all. It was his fault. He didn't expect any mercy from her - or from God for that matter. And he surely wasn't going to allow it from himself.
But he did thank God, at least, that Zoey was there. Alive and almost herself again, the bubbly, happy little girl around whose finger he had been completely wrapped since he first held her, still slippery from birth. Abbey might be lost to him, but he still had Zoey. He knew she would be there.
"Charlie's worried sick," she told him, smiling fondly at her own mention of the name.
He tried to smile back, but stopped abruptly as the sharp pain shot through his cheek.
"Hurt?" she asked, her own smile faltering, her hand squeezing his a little harder.
"Not bad," he lied. "Charlie's a good boy."
He wondered how Zoey felt about her former suitor now, wondered if there was a chance she would allow him back into her life. Regardless of the pseudo-threats he had made regarding the 82nd Airborne and dungeons, Jed acknowledged, if only to himself, that he wouldn't mind having Charlie Young as a son-in-law. He sure beat the hell out of "The Frog" - or even Doug for that matter.
But Zoey didn't commit to anything. "Yeah," she said simply and smiled again.
He let his gaze connect with that of his youngest child. She would always be a little girl in his eyes, more than Liz or Ellie, even though he loved them fiercely. But they grew up so fast. Liz was always the responsible one, always the worrier, always the rule follower, old even in kindergarten. Ellie was the solemn one, the serious child, the one who inherited the stoic Bartlet genes that Abbey had worked so hard to break through in him. But Zoey. Zoey was fun, witty, the risk-taker. She was what he had wanted to be as a child, but had never had the freedom.
"Dad?" Her voice was guarded, a little tight, and he realized his silence worried her.
"Zoey - " he started, completely unsure about what he was going to say.
She saved him the effort. "I'm okay, Daddy," she assured him. "Really."
The tears burned his eyes. He wanted to apologize, to ask her to forgive him for what he had done, for either being so naïve or so arrogant that he didn't even consider what his decision might do to his family - to his baby.
She must have read his feelings, his intent, because she clutched his hand and swept down to place a gently kiss on his forehead. "It's all right."
Absolution. Forgiveness. He should be relieved, grateful. But it didn't help. He didn't expect anything else from her. Still, he nodded, pressing his lips together tightly.
Keeping her tone light, not allowing him to take on any more guilt, she asked, "You need anything? Some water or jello or something?"
"No." He closed his eyes. The pain medication that dripped through his IV was kicking in, twisting the room eerily. Better enjoy it now. He knew that the doctors would have him off it before long to avoid slowing down the healing process. It took some focused effort to re-open his eyes and speak again. "I think I'm gonna - " What was he going to do? The thought abandoned him.
"Sleep?" Zoey suggested.
"Sleep." Yeah. That was right. She didn't graduate magna cum laude for nothing.
Sleep. For a little while, anyway. He'd just say goodbye to Zoey -
But she wasn't with him any longer. No one was with him. He was alone in his office, the Oval Office, except it looked more like the State House in Manchester. And suddenly Mrs. Landingham's voice was calling him over the intercom, but he only stared at it. He didn't know how to work it. No, wait, it wasn't that he didn't know how, it was just that he hadn't learned yet.
He opened his mouth to tell her, but Debbie Fiderer burst into the room, flowered caftan flowing around her. "Line One gets me," she reminded in her no-nonsense way.
"I can place my own phone calls," he protested again.
But she remained unperturbed. "Soon you might not necessarily remember that you did - "
"I will," he insisted then as he hadn't before, but she just smiled and floated back to Mrs. Landingham's desk.
His head swam and he groped for the chair back, bracing against it to remain standing, squeezing his eyes shut as the disembodied voice danced around him, now in the real Oval Office, wind whipping outside the open door.
"Your father was a prick who could never get over the fact that he wasn't as smart as his brothers." Or his son, maybe, she left unsaid.
"No!" he tried to yell. "He wasn't!" But he was. His father was a prick. And there was nothing Jed could do to change that.
He wanted Mrs. Landingham to come back, to talk with him, to tease him, to let him volley sharp retorts back to her. But she didn't, and he thought he was done again - until C.J. strolled in, notebook in hand, lean body soaring toward the ceiling.
"That was 'old school,'" she said, the admiration obvious on her face.
He didn't respond verbally, but his eyes communicated verification of her deduction. As he watched her, he felt a swell of love for this woman, a feeling of pride, as if she were his own daughter.
He moved to embrace her, even if she didn't want him to, but the admiring expression melted, the light hair darkened, the willowy frame transformed into a petite body, a body he knew well. A body he had touched, kissed, made love to for over 35 years. A body he loved.
"Abbey - " he whispered. Please come to me. Please stay.
But she stood at the door, holding heavy suitcases in both hands, balancing the weight somehow even on three-inch heels. "That man would have never made such a decision," she said. "Not that man." No anger. No reprimand. Just resignation. Just disappointment.
And she turned, moving away from him into the writhing shadows of uncertainty. He called her name, reached out to stop her, but his hand fell without touching her. His body would not move, wouldn't listen to his commands. The muscles twitched, trying to obey, wanting to follow through, but they couldn't. He felt himself fall, jerked his arms up to try to catch himself, but it was too late. He crashed into the blackness that had enclosed her retreating form, abandoning him, leaving him alone. She wouldn't be there, wouldn't see their journey through to the end, wouldn't hold his hand at the last.
Despair flooded him, rising in his lungs until the sobs choked him. What was left?
He didn't believe in suicide. It was against the teachings of the Church. In any event, he had always felt it cowardly. Stand up and face what God had intended for him. Who was he to question? But sometimes he allowed himself a brief moment to ponder the possibilities.
How would it affect Zoey? What about Ellie and Liz? Without Abbey, the burden of his decline would fall on them. Was that fair? Was he being selfish to make them deal with the ugliness that would come? Was it fair to drag them through his disintegration?
Or could he do that one thing for them? Could he let them remember him as their father - not the shell of the man they had once laughed with, cried with, played with, loved. Not the pitiful mess that used to be Jed Bartlet. They wouldn't have to know that. Better to leave while he still knew their names.
Better for everyone while he was on top. Go out at his peak. Like Kennedy. Forever young. Well, not as young as JFK, maybe, but strong still, vital.
Besides, there were other ways than relying on chemicals, without the syringe. Sometimes it just took strength of will. If you tried hard enough - But the turmoil wouldn't let him think about that too long. Voices battled inside him, voices of influence, voices of his conscience.
This was wrong. This was weak. The first voice carried the harsh tones of his father. "This is not worthy of a Bartlet."
Another voice. The subtle prompting of Delores Landingham. "You know, if you don't want to run again, I respect that. But if you don't run because you think it's gonna be too hard, or you think you're gonna lose, well God, Jed, I don't even want to know you."
And another. The righteous reprimand of Toby Ziegler. "Your demons are shouting down the better angels in your brain."
Echoing off all of them, another voice, a final voice, the one that cut the most. "I thought I knew you, Jed."
He swallowed, tried to answer them all, tried to defend himself. But he was tired. He was so tired.
With strength fading, he let his consciousness sink deep within himself, searching for the darkness that might hold the answer. A darkness that could capture his soul and let him slip into the freedom of release, of the next world, away from the voices, away from the demons.
It would be so easy.
No Heavier Burden - Chapter Eleven: Not That Man A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The world was still slightly out of focus for Jed Bartlet. He knew it could be any number of things. The doctor - he either never knew or had forgotten his name - said he had a slight concussion from the fall. Or it could be the fever - he was still running just below 100. Or - and this was the one he didn't want to acknowledge - it was optic neuritis, the harbinger of an impending MS episode.
Blinking didn't help, hadn't helped yet, but he found himself trying anyway, wanting to look at his daughter's face clearly. Zoey smiled down at him, that innocent, pure grin that, if pushed, he would have to admit came from him. Her fingers entwined in his, not quite the same feel as when she was five, but a good sensation, nevertheless.
Her presence was a balm to sooth the open wound that Abbey had gouged. Not that he blamed his wife. Not at all. It was his fault. He didn't expect any mercy from her - or from God for that matter. And he surely wasn't going to allow it from himself.
But he did thank God, at least, that Zoey was there. Alive and almost herself again, the bubbly, happy little girl around whose finger he had been completely wrapped since he first held her, still slippery from birth. Abbey might be lost to him, but he still had Zoey. He knew she would be there.
"Charlie's worried sick," she told him, smiling fondly at her own mention of the name.
He tried to smile back, but stopped abruptly as the sharp pain shot through his cheek.
"Hurt?" she asked, her own smile faltering, her hand squeezing his a little harder.
"Not bad," he lied. "Charlie's a good boy."
He wondered how Zoey felt about her former suitor now, wondered if there was a chance she would allow him back into her life. Regardless of the pseudo-threats he had made regarding the 82nd Airborne and dungeons, Jed acknowledged, if only to himself, that he wouldn't mind having Charlie Young as a son-in-law. He sure beat the hell out of "The Frog" - or even Doug for that matter.
But Zoey didn't commit to anything. "Yeah," she said simply and smiled again.
He let his gaze connect with that of his youngest child. She would always be a little girl in his eyes, more than Liz or Ellie, even though he loved them fiercely. But they grew up so fast. Liz was always the responsible one, always the worrier, always the rule follower, old even in kindergarten. Ellie was the solemn one, the serious child, the one who inherited the stoic Bartlet genes that Abbey had worked so hard to break through in him. But Zoey. Zoey was fun, witty, the risk-taker. She was what he had wanted to be as a child, but had never had the freedom.
"Dad?" Her voice was guarded, a little tight, and he realized his silence worried her.
"Zoey - " he started, completely unsure about what he was going to say.
She saved him the effort. "I'm okay, Daddy," she assured him. "Really."
The tears burned his eyes. He wanted to apologize, to ask her to forgive him for what he had done, for either being so naïve or so arrogant that he didn't even consider what his decision might do to his family - to his baby.
She must have read his feelings, his intent, because she clutched his hand and swept down to place a gently kiss on his forehead. "It's all right."
Absolution. Forgiveness. He should be relieved, grateful. But it didn't help. He didn't expect anything else from her. Still, he nodded, pressing his lips together tightly.
Keeping her tone light, not allowing him to take on any more guilt, she asked, "You need anything? Some water or jello or something?"
"No." He closed his eyes. The pain medication that dripped through his IV was kicking in, twisting the room eerily. Better enjoy it now. He knew that the doctors would have him off it before long to avoid slowing down the healing process. It took some focused effort to re-open his eyes and speak again. "I think I'm gonna - " What was he going to do? The thought abandoned him.
"Sleep?" Zoey suggested.
"Sleep." Yeah. That was right. She didn't graduate magna cum laude for nothing.
Sleep. For a little while, anyway. He'd just say goodbye to Zoey -
But she wasn't with him any longer. No one was with him. He was alone in his office, the Oval Office, except it looked more like the State House in Manchester. And suddenly Mrs. Landingham's voice was calling him over the intercom, but he only stared at it. He didn't know how to work it. No, wait, it wasn't that he didn't know how, it was just that he hadn't learned yet.
He opened his mouth to tell her, but Debbie Fiderer burst into the room, flowered caftan flowing around her. "Line One gets me," she reminded in her no-nonsense way.
"I can place my own phone calls," he protested again.
But she remained unperturbed. "Soon you might not necessarily remember that you did - "
"I will," he insisted then as he hadn't before, but she just smiled and floated back to Mrs. Landingham's desk.
His head swam and he groped for the chair back, bracing against it to remain standing, squeezing his eyes shut as the disembodied voice danced around him, now in the real Oval Office, wind whipping outside the open door.
"Your father was a prick who could never get over the fact that he wasn't as smart as his brothers." Or his son, maybe, she left unsaid.
"No!" he tried to yell. "He wasn't!" But he was. His father was a prick. And there was nothing Jed could do to change that.
He wanted Mrs. Landingham to come back, to talk with him, to tease him, to let him volley sharp retorts back to her. But she didn't, and he thought he was done again - until C.J. strolled in, notebook in hand, lean body soaring toward the ceiling.
"That was 'old school,'" she said, the admiration obvious on her face.
He didn't respond verbally, but his eyes communicated verification of her deduction. As he watched her, he felt a swell of love for this woman, a feeling of pride, as if she were his own daughter.
He moved to embrace her, even if she didn't want him to, but the admiring expression melted, the light hair darkened, the willowy frame transformed into a petite body, a body he knew well. A body he had touched, kissed, made love to for over 35 years. A body he loved.
"Abbey - " he whispered. Please come to me. Please stay.
But she stood at the door, holding heavy suitcases in both hands, balancing the weight somehow even on three-inch heels. "That man would have never made such a decision," she said. "Not that man." No anger. No reprimand. Just resignation. Just disappointment.
And she turned, moving away from him into the writhing shadows of uncertainty. He called her name, reached out to stop her, but his hand fell without touching her. His body would not move, wouldn't listen to his commands. The muscles twitched, trying to obey, wanting to follow through, but they couldn't. He felt himself fall, jerked his arms up to try to catch himself, but it was too late. He crashed into the blackness that had enclosed her retreating form, abandoning him, leaving him alone. She wouldn't be there, wouldn't see their journey through to the end, wouldn't hold his hand at the last.
Despair flooded him, rising in his lungs until the sobs choked him. What was left?
He didn't believe in suicide. It was against the teachings of the Church. In any event, he had always felt it cowardly. Stand up and face what God had intended for him. Who was he to question? But sometimes he allowed himself a brief moment to ponder the possibilities.
How would it affect Zoey? What about Ellie and Liz? Without Abbey, the burden of his decline would fall on them. Was that fair? Was he being selfish to make them deal with the ugliness that would come? Was it fair to drag them through his disintegration?
Or could he do that one thing for them? Could he let them remember him as their father - not the shell of the man they had once laughed with, cried with, played with, loved. Not the pitiful mess that used to be Jed Bartlet. They wouldn't have to know that. Better to leave while he still knew their names.
Better for everyone while he was on top. Go out at his peak. Like Kennedy. Forever young. Well, not as young as JFK, maybe, but strong still, vital.
Besides, there were other ways than relying on chemicals, without the syringe. Sometimes it just took strength of will. If you tried hard enough - But the turmoil wouldn't let him think about that too long. Voices battled inside him, voices of influence, voices of his conscience.
This was wrong. This was weak. The first voice carried the harsh tones of his father. "This is not worthy of a Bartlet."
Another voice. The subtle prompting of Delores Landingham. "You know, if you don't want to run again, I respect that. But if you don't run because you think it's gonna be too hard, or you think you're gonna lose, well God, Jed, I don't even want to know you."
And another. The righteous reprimand of Toby Ziegler. "Your demons are shouting down the better angels in your brain."
Echoing off all of them, another voice, a final voice, the one that cut the most. "I thought I knew you, Jed."
He swallowed, tried to answer them all, tried to defend himself. But he was tired. He was so tired.
With strength fading, he let his consciousness sink deep within himself, searching for the darkness that might hold the answer. A darkness that could capture his soul and let him slip into the freedom of release, of the next world, away from the voices, away from the demons.
It would be so easy.