POV: Donna
Spoilers: "War Crimes"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not my creation.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Two A West Wing Story
by MAHC
"Tell me everything," she had said. A demand. A request. A plea.
And, damn it, he did. And when he was finished, she wished he hadn't.
"What are we going to do?" she asked him, still numb from the shock, still trying to grasp the full impact of "the situation."
For a moment, he didn't answer, merely stared past her. Then he squared his shoulders and hardened his jaw. "I'm going to Mass and you're going to stay here and wait for your family. After that, we'll have Christmas dinner and exchange presents, just like everyone else."
His voice was confident, almost daring, but she wouldn't let him take the burden alone anymore. He had already done that for three wretched weeks.
"I'm going, too."
"Donna – "
"I'm going, Jed."
"No. "
"We'll do whatever Ron thinks is best for protection," she conceded, knowing it had to be that way for everyone's sake. "But I'm going with you. You told Leo yourself. We can't shut down."
A little of the boldness melted from his body as he closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. "Donna, I don't know – Ron doesn't know enough to predict what might happen. He sure didn't see this coming." He gestured vaguely at the paper that lay on the coffee table. "This is dangerous. This – this terrifies me, Donna."
It terrified her, too, even more so with his admission.
His body straightened and he shook his head. "How could they not see him? How the hell did they not see? Son of a bitch! How did they not – "He stopped abruptly, words deliberate as if the idea was forming as he spoke. "Or did they see him? Did they see him and just not notice because – because it wasn't unusual? Because they see him everyday?"
"What are you saying, Jed?" But she knew anyway, and the thought was almost too unbelievable to consider.
He paced now, running a hand through his hair. "It has to be someone close. Someone familiar enough with the grounds. Someone no one would notice – "
With trembling fingers, she lifted the paper, dreading to see it again, but needing the visual stimulation to think about how they could have gotten the picture.
Jed glanced at her and gritted his teeth. "To get a shot like that, they'd have to be – damn it!"
She was startled when he turned away from her, fists clenched, shoulders tense.
"Jed?"
But he waved her off with a quick motion that clearly asked for a minute or two. Finally, he exhaled heavily and faced her again, his eyes red and moist, his lips pressed tightly together. She fought off her own sob as she realized why he stepped away.
"Oh, Jed," she breathed and held her arms out for him. Slowly, he moved into her embrace, giving his own strong comfort to her, as well. Somehow they would make it through this. Somehow, they would survive this nightmare. Somehow, they would be stronger for it.
At least she told herself that, but right now, despite the insane threats, despite the horrifying evidence before them, she still needed to be in his arms, safe and secure, and warm.
"I didn't lie to you," he whispered into her hair, an answer to a question never asked. "About the letter. I didn't lie." Tears touched his eyes again. "But – but there was more to it."
Yes, indeed, there was, as she now knew.
"I guess we're tempting fate, huh?" he asked, holding her hard against him, his voice wavering between humor and fear, his lips pressing to her ear.
"Ron's out there," she told him. Surely they couldn't be safer? Surely.
"Yeah. And who else? What kind of crazy – "
He didn't finish, but it didn't matter. An insane person wanted to see their son dead for something he had never done. And, even though she knew it was crazy, knew this person was crazy, if anything happened to J.T., she would blame herself. She had caused this, she and Jed. Their sin.
"Donna?"
She looked up and saw his brows drawn down, his eyes dark.
"Don't do it."
"What are you – "
"This is not your fault."
Was she that transparent, or was he just getting better at reading her? Or maybe he was tuned in to her feelings because he was feeling the same thing.
"If we hadn't – "
"Shh. I said don't do it." He touched his lips to hers, soothing and gentle and loving.
And she clung to him, letting his warmth flow through her, calm her, but she couldn't get rid of the vision from the horrible words and raw picture. Pulling away, she protested. "We can't. What if – what if someone's – "
"There's no one here. It's just us."
She knew that. Still, somehow it had happened already. Fighting her own brain every step of the way, she traced back to the note, still clutched in her hand. It was more picture than note, really; a photograph copied onto the paper, a little grainy from the photocopy process, but all too distinguishable, with a few words that together created a terrifying message: A twisted, determined stalker with access to the President and his family. And her mind echoed Jed's impassioned question – How the hell did they not see him?
But he saw them. No doubt about that. He saw them in a way that no one else had seen them – until now. She tried not to imagine the faces of the secret service as they studied it, tried not to think about Leo seeing it. She blushed again just in the presence of her husband, the very man entangled with her in the shot.
It must have been taken from outside the window of the Oval Office. There was no question about the timing: This had happened only once in that particular room. Even with the poor quality, it was clear enough. She was straddling his lap, her head thrown back in pleasure, his mouth on her breast, his hands at her hips, pushing her dress up. Memory told her it was taken only moments before he had hoisted her on the desk and really gotten serious. Even now, her body remembered the pleasure and tingled involuntarily with the sensation. But with that thought came another, a black realization. If there was one photo, there could be others, perhaps even more revealing. Even rawer. And this was just a copy. Where was the real one?
The words were scrawled across the page, dripping with hate and insanity, threatening death, promising ruin. She read them again, trying to look at them without the deep emotions they ignited.
"Sin is death. The product of sin must die. The world will know your sin." Red ink, a bloody message.
"Do you think," she asked Jed, voice trembling at the impact of the sight, "that the papers have this?"
The slight hesitation before he answered was enough to tell her what he really thought. But he said, "I don't know."
"If they do – "
"If they do, they do. There's no scandal here."
She actually laughed, even though it wasn't really funny. "No. Just the President and First Lady screwing in the sacred chamber of the Oval Office."
That wasn't like her, the crudeness, and his face showed his surprise. She waved off any comments. "Oh, I'm not worried about that, really. It will be humiliating, of course. Embarrassing for us, for the girls, for my folks."
God, she had just thought of them. Her mother would die. Conversations over Rook at Marjorie Milsap's house would be decidedly awkward.
He nodded. There was no contradicting that certainty, but at least he was kind enough not to remind her she had initiated the entire event, indeed, even insisted on it. With a deep breath, he stepped back from her and tilted his head toward the bathroom.
"You gonna finish getting ready for church?"
She grinned, ready for the reprieve. "Yeah. Give me a minute, okay?"
But he caught her arm gently and drew her back. "When you're finished, would you mind adding this to your accessories?"
She looked down as he took her left hand in his and slipped off the plain gold band she had only removed once, in the late, swollen days of pregnancy. "Jed – "
But she fell silent as he pulled something from his pocket, two things, actually, and she felt the tears at her eyes when she realized what they were. The band slid back onto her finger, this time flanked by two narrower rings, their surfaces sparkling with diamonds and sapphires.
"Merry Christmas," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her softly.
For one shocked moment, she stared at the glittering stones. Then she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him hard, moving against his mouth with love, and gratitude, and building excitement. She felt his body answer her touch, felt his hips rub intimately against hers.
Reluctantly, she drew back a little, forcing down the desire that leaped to the very surface of her skin. "They're beautiful," she told him, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. "Thank you."
He smiled, face lightening with the pleasure of making her happy. "I love you."
And he did. She would never doubt that again.
Now his eyes darkened a little, his jaw hardened. "Donna, it's going to be okay."
She wanted to believe him, had to believe him. At least right now. At least in this moment. "Yeah."
And she let him hold her for a good five minutes before she continued her preparations for mass.
Church should be restorative, encouraging. She knew that, and usually it was, giving her the calm reflection with which to face the coming week. But even the reassurance of the Almighty couldn't quite remove the pulsing anxiety from her gut. Oh, things progressed normally enough. She had dutifully followed Jed in the ritual dipping of water, crossing herself when they entered. She had genuflected before they took their seats in the pew specifically reserved for the President of the United States.
They proceeded uninterrupted through the Penitential Rite and the Gloria and were well into the Liturgy before her mind wandered again. What was happening in the world at that moment, while they were set apart in this holy place? J.T. was safe at the White House, with Tricia and a beefed-up contingent of Ron's handpicked agents. Jed had once again deferred to advice and allowed the tent to conceal their entry into the church.
Physically, they probably could not be safer. But what other dangers lurked? Was The Star, their old nemesis, even now printing thousands of tabloids with the stark photo of their intimate encounter splashed across the front page? Would they leave the church, this place of worship and consecration, only to step into a vindictive expose that shouldn't be a scandal, but would be anyway?
Would the Press at least give them Christmas Day? But she knew the answer to that.
The priest had finished the first two readings and now moved to Luke for the third. Second chapter – the Christmas story. It drew her back for a moment, reminded her of the deeper power, of the ultimate strength, and she tried to draw on that – on Him.
When he finished, the priest concluded with the expected formula, "This is the gospel of the Lord."
Automatically, she answered, "Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ."
They sat – when had she stood? – and settled in for the homily. With a smirk, she silently wished the priest eloquence. If he didn't deliver a sermon that satisfied the high standards of her husband, she would no doubt hear about it on the way home. He once told her that Abbey teasingly accused him of being an "oratorical snob." But Donna knew most of the time he was right. His voice was an instrument, a gift, and the ease with which he used that gift, with which he played the timbre and pitch and rhythm and volume of words, gave him little patience for those who chose to speak without having the talent for it.
As if he sensed her thoughts, he slid a quick, knowing glance at her, his own lips curving in mutual amusement. Yes, she hoped the priest had practiced.
Even in church, the President was the President, and any time aides pulled him out of the service, all eyes followed him, all minds wondered what national or international crisis loomed. Later, they would watch CNN and tell their friends they had been there when the President got "the word."
It was human nature to anticipate the worst in such a situation, and Donna was no different than anyone else. So, in the middle of the homily, when Charlie slipped down the aisle and leaned in to whisper something to Jed, she tensed. His face showed no sign of alarm, no sudden emotion, but she wouldn't have expected that. He knew the importance of calm in front of his country. That just meant the quick squeeze he gave her hand, and the tight smile he left her with did nothing to alleviate her fear.
The priest droned on, maddening in his monotonous tone, and she fought the urge to scream at him to shut up, to finish already so she could rush out and find her husband, make sure everything was all right. But he was oblivious to her need, and proceeded in a halting rhythm that lacked any flow or beat. If the issue had not suddenly become irrelevant, she would have dropped a tempting comment about it in the limo, just to get Jed started. But that seemed insignificant now as she waited, hearting pounding, for him to return.
The footsteps drew closer. She closed her eyes, bracing for the touch at her shoulder. Drawing her eyes up, she saw Ron Butterfield looking down at her, his face smooth of any hints, as usual.
"Mrs. Bartlet, come with me, please."
Oh, God, she thought, and she really directed it at Him. The walk up the aisle seemed endless, with every eye now on her, speculating, contemplating. Calling out the President indicated any number of events or situations that merited his knowledge or decision. It was not necessarily an uncommon occurrence. But when it was deemed significant enough – or personal enough – for the First Lady to be involved, things took on an entirely different slant.
Her first fears zeroed in on J.T., her innocent child. It suddenly occurred to her that they had trusted him to a relatively young, and new sitter. Of course, Tricia had been carefully vetted, had come highly recommended by several senators, both male and female. She didn't suspect any foul play from the girl herself. But what if something happened? What if she didn't know how to react?
No. The agents were there. Logic told her things were fine. But that didn't keep her heart from pounding hard against her chest.
What was it, then? Was Jed rescuing her so they could make their escape before the tabloids hit the stands? Before the wolves, having gotten a taste of blood, sank their teeth into them? Before they could be asked, right there on the steps of the House of God, about having sex in the Oval Office? About J.T.'s conception?
These speculations came and went quickly, swimming through her thoughts like circling sharks. Which one would attack first?
Finally, they slipped away from the onlookers, easing into a back room, an office apparently, with a large crucifix on the wall. Maybe that would come in handy, if she needed to lie prostrate at the feet of Christ in a moment.
"Donna."
Jed stepped away from the surrounding group and met her, taking her hands, drawing her into the room. Vaguely, she noted the presence of several unfamiliar dark suits. They bore the unpleasant scent of the FBI. She tried to read her husband's face, to brace herself for whatever he thought vital enough to pull her out of church to tell her. His eyes were guarded, wary, his jaw tight. She swallowed, the nausea rising in her throat, waiting for the words that would destroy her – or him, dreading news she couldn't accept.
His hands clutched hers firmly, holding her in place. His voice was low, gentle, sad. "Baby, look, I've got some bad news."
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Two A West Wing Story
by MAHC
"Tell me everything," she had said. A demand. A request. A plea.
And, damn it, he did. And when he was finished, she wished he hadn't.
"What are we going to do?" she asked him, still numb from the shock, still trying to grasp the full impact of "the situation."
For a moment, he didn't answer, merely stared past her. Then he squared his shoulders and hardened his jaw. "I'm going to Mass and you're going to stay here and wait for your family. After that, we'll have Christmas dinner and exchange presents, just like everyone else."
His voice was confident, almost daring, but she wouldn't let him take the burden alone anymore. He had already done that for three wretched weeks.
"I'm going, too."
"Donna – "
"I'm going, Jed."
"No. "
"We'll do whatever Ron thinks is best for protection," she conceded, knowing it had to be that way for everyone's sake. "But I'm going with you. You told Leo yourself. We can't shut down."
A little of the boldness melted from his body as he closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. "Donna, I don't know – Ron doesn't know enough to predict what might happen. He sure didn't see this coming." He gestured vaguely at the paper that lay on the coffee table. "This is dangerous. This – this terrifies me, Donna."
It terrified her, too, even more so with his admission.
His body straightened and he shook his head. "How could they not see him? How the hell did they not see? Son of a bitch! How did they not – "He stopped abruptly, words deliberate as if the idea was forming as he spoke. "Or did they see him? Did they see him and just not notice because – because it wasn't unusual? Because they see him everyday?"
"What are you saying, Jed?" But she knew anyway, and the thought was almost too unbelievable to consider.
He paced now, running a hand through his hair. "It has to be someone close. Someone familiar enough with the grounds. Someone no one would notice – "
With trembling fingers, she lifted the paper, dreading to see it again, but needing the visual stimulation to think about how they could have gotten the picture.
Jed glanced at her and gritted his teeth. "To get a shot like that, they'd have to be – damn it!"
She was startled when he turned away from her, fists clenched, shoulders tense.
"Jed?"
But he waved her off with a quick motion that clearly asked for a minute or two. Finally, he exhaled heavily and faced her again, his eyes red and moist, his lips pressed tightly together. She fought off her own sob as she realized why he stepped away.
"Oh, Jed," she breathed and held her arms out for him. Slowly, he moved into her embrace, giving his own strong comfort to her, as well. Somehow they would make it through this. Somehow, they would survive this nightmare. Somehow, they would be stronger for it.
At least she told herself that, but right now, despite the insane threats, despite the horrifying evidence before them, she still needed to be in his arms, safe and secure, and warm.
"I didn't lie to you," he whispered into her hair, an answer to a question never asked. "About the letter. I didn't lie." Tears touched his eyes again. "But – but there was more to it."
Yes, indeed, there was, as she now knew.
"I guess we're tempting fate, huh?" he asked, holding her hard against him, his voice wavering between humor and fear, his lips pressing to her ear.
"Ron's out there," she told him. Surely they couldn't be safer? Surely.
"Yeah. And who else? What kind of crazy – "
He didn't finish, but it didn't matter. An insane person wanted to see their son dead for something he had never done. And, even though she knew it was crazy, knew this person was crazy, if anything happened to J.T., she would blame herself. She had caused this, she and Jed. Their sin.
"Donna?"
She looked up and saw his brows drawn down, his eyes dark.
"Don't do it."
"What are you – "
"This is not your fault."
Was she that transparent, or was he just getting better at reading her? Or maybe he was tuned in to her feelings because he was feeling the same thing.
"If we hadn't – "
"Shh. I said don't do it." He touched his lips to hers, soothing and gentle and loving.
And she clung to him, letting his warmth flow through her, calm her, but she couldn't get rid of the vision from the horrible words and raw picture. Pulling away, she protested. "We can't. What if – what if someone's – "
"There's no one here. It's just us."
She knew that. Still, somehow it had happened already. Fighting her own brain every step of the way, she traced back to the note, still clutched in her hand. It was more picture than note, really; a photograph copied onto the paper, a little grainy from the photocopy process, but all too distinguishable, with a few words that together created a terrifying message: A twisted, determined stalker with access to the President and his family. And her mind echoed Jed's impassioned question – How the hell did they not see him?
But he saw them. No doubt about that. He saw them in a way that no one else had seen them – until now. She tried not to imagine the faces of the secret service as they studied it, tried not to think about Leo seeing it. She blushed again just in the presence of her husband, the very man entangled with her in the shot.
It must have been taken from outside the window of the Oval Office. There was no question about the timing: This had happened only once in that particular room. Even with the poor quality, it was clear enough. She was straddling his lap, her head thrown back in pleasure, his mouth on her breast, his hands at her hips, pushing her dress up. Memory told her it was taken only moments before he had hoisted her on the desk and really gotten serious. Even now, her body remembered the pleasure and tingled involuntarily with the sensation. But with that thought came another, a black realization. If there was one photo, there could be others, perhaps even more revealing. Even rawer. And this was just a copy. Where was the real one?
The words were scrawled across the page, dripping with hate and insanity, threatening death, promising ruin. She read them again, trying to look at them without the deep emotions they ignited.
"Sin is death. The product of sin must die. The world will know your sin." Red ink, a bloody message.
"Do you think," she asked Jed, voice trembling at the impact of the sight, "that the papers have this?"
The slight hesitation before he answered was enough to tell her what he really thought. But he said, "I don't know."
"If they do – "
"If they do, they do. There's no scandal here."
She actually laughed, even though it wasn't really funny. "No. Just the President and First Lady screwing in the sacred chamber of the Oval Office."
That wasn't like her, the crudeness, and his face showed his surprise. She waved off any comments. "Oh, I'm not worried about that, really. It will be humiliating, of course. Embarrassing for us, for the girls, for my folks."
God, she had just thought of them. Her mother would die. Conversations over Rook at Marjorie Milsap's house would be decidedly awkward.
He nodded. There was no contradicting that certainty, but at least he was kind enough not to remind her she had initiated the entire event, indeed, even insisted on it. With a deep breath, he stepped back from her and tilted his head toward the bathroom.
"You gonna finish getting ready for church?"
She grinned, ready for the reprieve. "Yeah. Give me a minute, okay?"
But he caught her arm gently and drew her back. "When you're finished, would you mind adding this to your accessories?"
She looked down as he took her left hand in his and slipped off the plain gold band she had only removed once, in the late, swollen days of pregnancy. "Jed – "
But she fell silent as he pulled something from his pocket, two things, actually, and she felt the tears at her eyes when she realized what they were. The band slid back onto her finger, this time flanked by two narrower rings, their surfaces sparkling with diamonds and sapphires.
"Merry Christmas," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her softly.
For one shocked moment, she stared at the glittering stones. Then she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him hard, moving against his mouth with love, and gratitude, and building excitement. She felt his body answer her touch, felt his hips rub intimately against hers.
Reluctantly, she drew back a little, forcing down the desire that leaped to the very surface of her skin. "They're beautiful," she told him, stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. "Thank you."
He smiled, face lightening with the pleasure of making her happy. "I love you."
And he did. She would never doubt that again.
Now his eyes darkened a little, his jaw hardened. "Donna, it's going to be okay."
She wanted to believe him, had to believe him. At least right now. At least in this moment. "Yeah."
And she let him hold her for a good five minutes before she continued her preparations for mass.
Church should be restorative, encouraging. She knew that, and usually it was, giving her the calm reflection with which to face the coming week. But even the reassurance of the Almighty couldn't quite remove the pulsing anxiety from her gut. Oh, things progressed normally enough. She had dutifully followed Jed in the ritual dipping of water, crossing herself when they entered. She had genuflected before they took their seats in the pew specifically reserved for the President of the United States.
They proceeded uninterrupted through the Penitential Rite and the Gloria and were well into the Liturgy before her mind wandered again. What was happening in the world at that moment, while they were set apart in this holy place? J.T. was safe at the White House, with Tricia and a beefed-up contingent of Ron's handpicked agents. Jed had once again deferred to advice and allowed the tent to conceal their entry into the church.
Physically, they probably could not be safer. But what other dangers lurked? Was The Star, their old nemesis, even now printing thousands of tabloids with the stark photo of their intimate encounter splashed across the front page? Would they leave the church, this place of worship and consecration, only to step into a vindictive expose that shouldn't be a scandal, but would be anyway?
Would the Press at least give them Christmas Day? But she knew the answer to that.
The priest had finished the first two readings and now moved to Luke for the third. Second chapter – the Christmas story. It drew her back for a moment, reminded her of the deeper power, of the ultimate strength, and she tried to draw on that – on Him.
When he finished, the priest concluded with the expected formula, "This is the gospel of the Lord."
Automatically, she answered, "Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ."
They sat – when had she stood? – and settled in for the homily. With a smirk, she silently wished the priest eloquence. If he didn't deliver a sermon that satisfied the high standards of her husband, she would no doubt hear about it on the way home. He once told her that Abbey teasingly accused him of being an "oratorical snob." But Donna knew most of the time he was right. His voice was an instrument, a gift, and the ease with which he used that gift, with which he played the timbre and pitch and rhythm and volume of words, gave him little patience for those who chose to speak without having the talent for it.
As if he sensed her thoughts, he slid a quick, knowing glance at her, his own lips curving in mutual amusement. Yes, she hoped the priest had practiced.
Even in church, the President was the President, and any time aides pulled him out of the service, all eyes followed him, all minds wondered what national or international crisis loomed. Later, they would watch CNN and tell their friends they had been there when the President got "the word."
It was human nature to anticipate the worst in such a situation, and Donna was no different than anyone else. So, in the middle of the homily, when Charlie slipped down the aisle and leaned in to whisper something to Jed, she tensed. His face showed no sign of alarm, no sudden emotion, but she wouldn't have expected that. He knew the importance of calm in front of his country. That just meant the quick squeeze he gave her hand, and the tight smile he left her with did nothing to alleviate her fear.
The priest droned on, maddening in his monotonous tone, and she fought the urge to scream at him to shut up, to finish already so she could rush out and find her husband, make sure everything was all right. But he was oblivious to her need, and proceeded in a halting rhythm that lacked any flow or beat. If the issue had not suddenly become irrelevant, she would have dropped a tempting comment about it in the limo, just to get Jed started. But that seemed insignificant now as she waited, hearting pounding, for him to return.
The footsteps drew closer. She closed her eyes, bracing for the touch at her shoulder. Drawing her eyes up, she saw Ron Butterfield looking down at her, his face smooth of any hints, as usual.
"Mrs. Bartlet, come with me, please."
Oh, God, she thought, and she really directed it at Him. The walk up the aisle seemed endless, with every eye now on her, speculating, contemplating. Calling out the President indicated any number of events or situations that merited his knowledge or decision. It was not necessarily an uncommon occurrence. But when it was deemed significant enough – or personal enough – for the First Lady to be involved, things took on an entirely different slant.
Her first fears zeroed in on J.T., her innocent child. It suddenly occurred to her that they had trusted him to a relatively young, and new sitter. Of course, Tricia had been carefully vetted, had come highly recommended by several senators, both male and female. She didn't suspect any foul play from the girl herself. But what if something happened? What if she didn't know how to react?
No. The agents were there. Logic told her things were fine. But that didn't keep her heart from pounding hard against her chest.
What was it, then? Was Jed rescuing her so they could make their escape before the tabloids hit the stands? Before the wolves, having gotten a taste of blood, sank their teeth into them? Before they could be asked, right there on the steps of the House of God, about having sex in the Oval Office? About J.T.'s conception?
These speculations came and went quickly, swimming through her thoughts like circling sharks. Which one would attack first?
Finally, they slipped away from the onlookers, easing into a back room, an office apparently, with a large crucifix on the wall. Maybe that would come in handy, if she needed to lie prostrate at the feet of Christ in a moment.
"Donna."
Jed stepped away from the surrounding group and met her, taking her hands, drawing her into the room. Vaguely, she noted the presence of several unfamiliar dark suits. They bore the unpleasant scent of the FBI. She tried to read her husband's face, to brace herself for whatever he thought vital enough to pull her out of church to tell her. His eyes were guarded, wary, his jaw tight. She swallowed, the nausea rising in her throat, waiting for the words that would destroy her – or him, dreading news she couldn't accept.
His hands clutched hers firmly, holding her in place. His voice was low, gentle, sad. "Baby, look, I've got some bad news."