POV: Donna
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Most of the characters are not mine. J.T., however, is.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Four A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Oh God! How had this happened? Why had He let this happen? They were good people, weren't they? She tried to be compassionate, thoughtful, to do right, to do good, especially for those less fortunate. And Jed – Jed was the best man she knew. His entire life was dedicated to making the world better.
Why, then, had God deserted them?
Impossible sensations overwhelmed her: despair so sharp it made her stomach churn, an ache so deep it seemed to plunge to her very soul, a sadness so complete it oozed into every corner of her brain.
It could not be. It just could not be. But there it was, right before her eyes, clawing at her sanity. She had fallen to her knees, still unable to move from the dreadful scene, staring in horror and terror as her husband, tears coursing down his cheeks, clutched the bloody, lifeless body of their son.
Her world was over. Her happiness. Her life. How could she go on? How could she remain on a planet that sustained such creatures as those who would do this?
Jed moaned through his sobs, a deep, torn sound that ripped into her stunned grief and made it all the more horrendous. His clothes were soaked now in their child's blood, his face smeared with the crimson life that no longer pumped through the infant's body. He was visibly broken, kneeling there on the nursery floor, refusing to hand over the baby to anyone, even Leo.
"Jed," she choked out, not knowing what she was going to say after that. "Jed!"
His eyes turned to her, tormented, haunted. "They killed him. They killed my son. Dear God, Donna, they killed him."
He trembled as sweat ran down his face, mixing with the blood. She knew he would collapse any minute. He was a strong man, a man who could take physical pain stoically, a man who could stand against the mightiest forces the world could throw at him. But this – he couldn't stand this. He would fall, and she wasn't sure he would get back up. She wasn't sure she would get back up.
"Jed." She tried again, reaching for him, for them.
"Don't," he warned, his eyes wild. "Don't take him away."
"Jed – "
"Donna, please," he pleaded, his voice unrecognizable as Josiah Bartlet's, no longer warm, no longer strong, no longer commanding. Just crushed, agonized. "Please, Donna. Please. Don't take him away. Please, Donna. Donna – Donna – Donna – "
"Donna!"
Slowly, she became aware of a swimming sensation in her head and a persistent pressure around her hand. Someone held it in a firm grip. A breeze cooled her face, ruffled her hair rhythmically, blowing on her like a fan. Her heart fought to control its frantic race, and she chanced a peek past her dark world, opening her eyes, dreading to see what she had closed them against.
Her husband was there, as before, but instead of clutching their dead child to his chest, he sat in a chair, her hand in both of his, his eyes neither wild nor terrified, merely worried.
"Donna?"
She looked around. They were still in the priest's office, still waiting, apparently, for Ron Butterfield. Dear God! Thank you! It wasn't real. But a darker voice added the words "not yet." Renewed fear bolted her upright.
"Hey, it's okay," Jed said, brushing back the hair that had fallen over her forehead.
"J.T.?" Please tell me it's good. Please.
He shook his head. "Not yet. Should be soon." His voice was steady, but she felt his hand tremble under hers and a closer look clearly showed the fear in his eyes.
The other terror of her day came back to her. "The plane. Have they – "
"No. It'll be a while before – before we'll know much more."
What more was there to know, she thought bitterly. The plane crashed. Her parents were dead. But even beneath the anger, she knew there was more. There was evidence of an attack, not just on her parents, but on the country, as well.
She started to tell him she understood that he needed to go, to take care of things, but before she could, the door opened, screened by no fewer than four agents. A young woman, neat and crisp, strode in.
"Mister President?"
He was already on his feet. "Yes?"
"Agent Butterfield has secured the White House, sir. He sent word that you can return now."
Donna could see the restraint Jed showed in not grabbing the agent's shoulders. She fought the same impulse. "My son?"
"Is safe, sir. Agent Butterfield will explain when you arrive."
Safe. Safe. She couldn't believe it. She had gone from tragedy to giddiness in the span of a few seconds, and even though some of her emotions were the result of a dream, they were no less real.
"All right." He turned to her, jaw clamped hard in an effort to control his own reaction. "Are you all right?" he asked, extending his hand to help her up.
She nodded, eyes glistening. What a damned marvelous Christmas this had been. Threats, a stalking voyeur, the plane crash. But J.T. was all right. He was all right. She hung on to that truth, to that beam of light against all the surrounding darkness. And Jed. She hung on to him, too, letting his strength bolster her, giving her the will to rise, both physically and emotionally. She could do this. As long as she had him, she could do it.
The ride back in the limo might have been long; she wouldn't have known. Her brain was too busy fluttering through the recent events, replayed like flickering old movies. She vaguely remembered her face pressing into Jed's chest, his arms firm around her. She didn't really remember getting out of the car, or walking into the White House. But she must have. And had Jed held her hand the entire time? Had he broken into a run with her as they raced up the stairs, too impatient even to consider using the elevator? All of that passed by in a blur, and her world did not return to focus until they arrived at the residence.
Breathless, they burst through the doors, startling those waiting there: a stern-looking Ron Butterfield, a bemused, but pleased Leo, who had followed Ron, and a stunned, terrified Tricia. If this girl had evil plans for the son of the President of the United States, she sure hid it well. She had gone bone white, and her lips trembled.
Donna's eyes took them all in quickly, then searched for her true goal. She found him, squirming, unsatisfied, in the arms of Admiral Hackett, who only too happily handed him over to his mother.
The hole that had earlier been ripped through her heart closed, filled with love, and gratitude, and joy. She held him tight, which only provoked further protests from him, but she didn't care.
Jed now stood toe-to-toe with the unfortunate nanny, and Donna saw her flinch at the dangerous anger flushing his face. But when he spoke, his voice remained low, controlled.
"What happened here?"
She opened her mouth to speak, eyes shifting between the stern figure of Ron Butterfield and the intense form of the President. Flanked by such intimidation, she didn't seem to be able to enunciate anything intelligible.
"The President asked you a question, m'am," Ron noted unnecessarily.
His harsh reminder only made things worse. She cowered visibly, taking a step back from her inquisitors.
Then a surprise. Jed called her name quietly – and the right name at that. "Tricia."
That seemed to give her the prompt needed. "M-mister President," she stuttered, straightening, unleashing a nervous torrent of information. "I'm sorry I caused – it's just that J.T. was running a fever and – well, I wasn't sure what you – I figured Mrs. Bartlet would want to – to – "
"Doctor?"
The tall admiral nodded confirmation. "He's a little feverish, sir. One- hundred and one. Nothing really dangerous, but, of course, you don't want to take chances. Looks like a touch of congestion – "
Jed spun to face Ron. "Anything else? Any other signs of – "
"No, sir," Ron assured him. "Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary. I believe things are – in order here, sir."
"You mean, there's no – "
Ron stopped him before he gave too much away to the confused woman. "No, sir."
They all turned back to Tricia, who looked as if she would be perfectly happy to melt into the floor, given that option. She kept swinging her gaze back and forth from Jed to Ron, perhaps wondering which one of them was actually going to operate the machine that sucked all the knowledge from her brain before they sent her to some secret labor camp in Nicaragua.
"All right, then," Jed said finally, his voice strained with forced nonchalance. "Thank you, young lady, for your diligence."
He received a blank stare in response. "Sir?"
"We're – done here. Thank you for your help. Why don't you go home to spend Christmas with your family?"
Donna saw the relief surge through the younger woman, mixed with a distinctly nauseated expression. After a brief pause, the nanny nodded and headed for the door, not able to scramble out of there fast enough. She had taken her President's suggestion as an order, which it probably was.
Looked like time for a new nanny search. She doubted Tricia would be interested in taking a chance on going through something like that again.
"There was nothing?" Jed asked Ron again, voice a bit incredulous.
"We're clear, Mister President," the agent repeated patiently. "She apparently simply wanted Mrs. Bartlet to check on him because he was sick." Did she hear compassion in that even tone? "Everything is all right, sir." Yep. Definite compassion.
Sighing, Jed said, "Okay. Thanks, everyone. Good work."
They took this as dismissal – and it was intended that way – and exited. All but Ron, who lingered uneasily at the door.
"Yeah?" Jed invited, realizing the agent had something to say.
"As soon as I have word on the crash – "
"Yeah." Jed nodded, cutting him off before he could finish. Donna was grateful for the intent, but it didn't matter. She'd have to face it sometime.
With a sour laugh, she said, "Merry Christmas," to her husband, who stepped forward to take her and J.T. in his arms.
She heard the pain in his voice when he spoke. "I'm sorry Donna. I can't tell you how sorry. This is all my fault."
Vaguely, she recalled thinking maybe it was his fault, but not for the legitimate reasons he was about to name. "Your fault? How do you figure?"
"How do I not figure?" He pulled back a little, but his eyes wouldn't meet hers. "Start with the fact that if we had gone to New Hampshire for Christmas instead of staying here, they would have been on a different flight – "
"Shh – "His guilt allowed her to press her own pain back and give him comfort. "That's nobody's fault except the terrorists."
"Well, hell. There's another reason," he laughed bitterly, pacing in front of the window and running a hand through his hair. "The terrorists' strike in the first place. All because I wouldn't let – because America does not negotiate with – "
"But we don't Jed. We can't. You can't tell me you would ever consider that."
Not acknowledging her point, he continued. "What about J.T.? Threats, stalkers, damned righteous bastards saying he's a sin. Nobody would care if I weren't President. Nobody would give one single damn if I were still an economics professor. "
Now he turned to her, his fingers pressing hard into her upper arms, his face lined with blame. "I should have been a gentleman, Donna. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you – "
"Josiah Bartlet!"
He stopped, startled at her address.
"What are you talking about, taking advantage? If you recall, I was the one who took advantage of you."
He blushed. That was true.
"And if you were an economics professor, I would probably not have any idea who you were. And we would never have gotten together. And J.T. would not exist."
She wasn't sure if she was getting through, but she plunged ahead anyway. "And do you believe J.T. is a sin? Do you really feel like he is the product of some evil act?"
"No," he muttered, "of course not – "
"Would you change anything that happened between us? Would you have wanted to wait if I hadn't pushed you?" One hand touched his cheek, forced his face to turn toward hers.
A sheepish smile curved his lips and the harsh lines softened. "I don't think I could have waited, Donna. I almost exploded as it was, I wanted you so much."
"And I wanted you. I still want you. Is it my fault, then? Did I make J.T. a sin?" His illogical blame of himself had made her realize how ridiculous it was to dwell on something neither of them could change.
He looked at her, and she watched the confidence smooth over him again, felt his body tighten as he regained power over it. "Things might come out in the press," he reminded her. "Will probably come out."
The photo, he meant. She didn't care and told him so.
"Insinuations, outright accusations," he added.
"About what?"
"J.T.'s conception."
"Don't care."
He lifted a brow, tilted his head. "You tricked me into marrying you because you were pregnant. You blackmailed me."
"Already seen that one."
"I robbed the cradle, got you pregnant, then 'did the right thing."
She smirked. That was too close to what Josh thought at first. She had never told Jed. Never planned to. Instead, she deflected it. "I was after a 'Sugar Daddy.'"
He winced. "I promised you fame, riches, status – "
"Great sex," she added, grinning.
He blushed and grinned back, then sobered, wrapping both arms around her waist. After a long pause, he asked, "You ready for this?"
"I'm ready." She was.
"Okay." He kissed his son's head and stroked the blonde hair. "In the meantime, we can wait here until Ron has word of – until Ron has word."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded, still sure that the real trauma, the true breakdown would come much later, after she had dealt with the initial shock. Would she have to identify the bodies? Would there even be bodies to identify? Her own body stiffened in dread of that gruesome duty.
"I'll go," he whispered into her hair. "I'll do it."
Had she said that aloud? She didn't think so, but he seemed to know what she was thinking anyway. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.
"It'll be – it'll be a crime scene, won't it? The thought had just occurred to her. "Will they release them?"
He considered that and shook his head. "I don't know. They'll have to at some point. When they do, I'll go."
Just one of the things she loved him for. He did the hard things.
"Okay." After another pause, she adjusted J.T. against her shoulder and asked, "Do you need to be somewhere right now?" Surely at such a time he had important things to do. "The Sit Room?"
"I'm okay. I'll stay here with you until – "
"I'm okay," she insisted, pulling back to look at him. And for the moment, she was. Her baby was safe. That would sustain her for a while.
He smiled, keeping his hold on her. "Leo will get me when he needs me."
"Jed – "
"He will. You kicking me out?" The smile was gentle, teasing, and she was reminded of simpler times when it was just the two of them flirting over a Trivial Pursuit board, and that smile had seduced her – with no resistance whatsoever – into his arms, into his bed, into his heart.
"Nah. I'll let you stay – if you're good." Somehow, beneath the pain and fear, she found the ability to tease back.
"But you already told me, my dear, that I'm ALWAYS good," he drawled, pulling her down on the sofa, careful not to dislodge his sleeping son.
They lay there for a long time, content with just the touch, not speaking, not moving. Soon Ron would call, or Leo, and break up their serenity. Soon she would have to face the hard reality of her parents' death. Soon Jed would have to make a decision over how to respond to the terrorist attack. Soon they would both deal with the consequences of a public revelation of their pre-marital relationship. Soon another threat would be made against their child, or her, or all of them.
But for the moment, they simply gathered each other in comforting arms and waited, building strength for what was soon to come.
The abrupt ring of the phone jerked her from his arms, jostled the infant into whimpers. She didn't remember closing her eyes, didn't know how long she had slept. But her body woke instantly. Thrusting J.T. into Jed's grasp allowed her full access to the receiver, and she lifted it, wanting to hear what Ron had to say directly. Wanting his exact words, his frank confirmation of the tragedy. She wasn't sure why, but she needed to hear.
But it wasn't Ron's level voice that greeted her. Not even close.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Sweetheart. Listen, I'm sorry we're late. Long story, but we can tell you over dinner. Are you sending someone or should we just get a cab? It's no problem, except that it IS Christmas, and they're a little hard to grab – "
It couldn't be. It absolutely could not be.
But she had listened to that voice for 30 years, and it was.
"Mom?"
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Four A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Oh God! How had this happened? Why had He let this happen? They were good people, weren't they? She tried to be compassionate, thoughtful, to do right, to do good, especially for those less fortunate. And Jed – Jed was the best man she knew. His entire life was dedicated to making the world better.
Why, then, had God deserted them?
Impossible sensations overwhelmed her: despair so sharp it made her stomach churn, an ache so deep it seemed to plunge to her very soul, a sadness so complete it oozed into every corner of her brain.
It could not be. It just could not be. But there it was, right before her eyes, clawing at her sanity. She had fallen to her knees, still unable to move from the dreadful scene, staring in horror and terror as her husband, tears coursing down his cheeks, clutched the bloody, lifeless body of their son.
Her world was over. Her happiness. Her life. How could she go on? How could she remain on a planet that sustained such creatures as those who would do this?
Jed moaned through his sobs, a deep, torn sound that ripped into her stunned grief and made it all the more horrendous. His clothes were soaked now in their child's blood, his face smeared with the crimson life that no longer pumped through the infant's body. He was visibly broken, kneeling there on the nursery floor, refusing to hand over the baby to anyone, even Leo.
"Jed," she choked out, not knowing what she was going to say after that. "Jed!"
His eyes turned to her, tormented, haunted. "They killed him. They killed my son. Dear God, Donna, they killed him."
He trembled as sweat ran down his face, mixing with the blood. She knew he would collapse any minute. He was a strong man, a man who could take physical pain stoically, a man who could stand against the mightiest forces the world could throw at him. But this – he couldn't stand this. He would fall, and she wasn't sure he would get back up. She wasn't sure she would get back up.
"Jed." She tried again, reaching for him, for them.
"Don't," he warned, his eyes wild. "Don't take him away."
"Jed – "
"Donna, please," he pleaded, his voice unrecognizable as Josiah Bartlet's, no longer warm, no longer strong, no longer commanding. Just crushed, agonized. "Please, Donna. Please. Don't take him away. Please, Donna. Donna – Donna – Donna – "
"Donna!"
Slowly, she became aware of a swimming sensation in her head and a persistent pressure around her hand. Someone held it in a firm grip. A breeze cooled her face, ruffled her hair rhythmically, blowing on her like a fan. Her heart fought to control its frantic race, and she chanced a peek past her dark world, opening her eyes, dreading to see what she had closed them against.
Her husband was there, as before, but instead of clutching their dead child to his chest, he sat in a chair, her hand in both of his, his eyes neither wild nor terrified, merely worried.
"Donna?"
She looked around. They were still in the priest's office, still waiting, apparently, for Ron Butterfield. Dear God! Thank you! It wasn't real. But a darker voice added the words "not yet." Renewed fear bolted her upright.
"Hey, it's okay," Jed said, brushing back the hair that had fallen over her forehead.
"J.T.?" Please tell me it's good. Please.
He shook his head. "Not yet. Should be soon." His voice was steady, but she felt his hand tremble under hers and a closer look clearly showed the fear in his eyes.
The other terror of her day came back to her. "The plane. Have they – "
"No. It'll be a while before – before we'll know much more."
What more was there to know, she thought bitterly. The plane crashed. Her parents were dead. But even beneath the anger, she knew there was more. There was evidence of an attack, not just on her parents, but on the country, as well.
She started to tell him she understood that he needed to go, to take care of things, but before she could, the door opened, screened by no fewer than four agents. A young woman, neat and crisp, strode in.
"Mister President?"
He was already on his feet. "Yes?"
"Agent Butterfield has secured the White House, sir. He sent word that you can return now."
Donna could see the restraint Jed showed in not grabbing the agent's shoulders. She fought the same impulse. "My son?"
"Is safe, sir. Agent Butterfield will explain when you arrive."
Safe. Safe. She couldn't believe it. She had gone from tragedy to giddiness in the span of a few seconds, and even though some of her emotions were the result of a dream, they were no less real.
"All right." He turned to her, jaw clamped hard in an effort to control his own reaction. "Are you all right?" he asked, extending his hand to help her up.
She nodded, eyes glistening. What a damned marvelous Christmas this had been. Threats, a stalking voyeur, the plane crash. But J.T. was all right. He was all right. She hung on to that truth, to that beam of light against all the surrounding darkness. And Jed. She hung on to him, too, letting his strength bolster her, giving her the will to rise, both physically and emotionally. She could do this. As long as she had him, she could do it.
The ride back in the limo might have been long; she wouldn't have known. Her brain was too busy fluttering through the recent events, replayed like flickering old movies. She vaguely remembered her face pressing into Jed's chest, his arms firm around her. She didn't really remember getting out of the car, or walking into the White House. But she must have. And had Jed held her hand the entire time? Had he broken into a run with her as they raced up the stairs, too impatient even to consider using the elevator? All of that passed by in a blur, and her world did not return to focus until they arrived at the residence.
Breathless, they burst through the doors, startling those waiting there: a stern-looking Ron Butterfield, a bemused, but pleased Leo, who had followed Ron, and a stunned, terrified Tricia. If this girl had evil plans for the son of the President of the United States, she sure hid it well. She had gone bone white, and her lips trembled.
Donna's eyes took them all in quickly, then searched for her true goal. She found him, squirming, unsatisfied, in the arms of Admiral Hackett, who only too happily handed him over to his mother.
The hole that had earlier been ripped through her heart closed, filled with love, and gratitude, and joy. She held him tight, which only provoked further protests from him, but she didn't care.
Jed now stood toe-to-toe with the unfortunate nanny, and Donna saw her flinch at the dangerous anger flushing his face. But when he spoke, his voice remained low, controlled.
"What happened here?"
She opened her mouth to speak, eyes shifting between the stern figure of Ron Butterfield and the intense form of the President. Flanked by such intimidation, she didn't seem to be able to enunciate anything intelligible.
"The President asked you a question, m'am," Ron noted unnecessarily.
His harsh reminder only made things worse. She cowered visibly, taking a step back from her inquisitors.
Then a surprise. Jed called her name quietly – and the right name at that. "Tricia."
That seemed to give her the prompt needed. "M-mister President," she stuttered, straightening, unleashing a nervous torrent of information. "I'm sorry I caused – it's just that J.T. was running a fever and – well, I wasn't sure what you – I figured Mrs. Bartlet would want to – to – "
"Doctor?"
The tall admiral nodded confirmation. "He's a little feverish, sir. One- hundred and one. Nothing really dangerous, but, of course, you don't want to take chances. Looks like a touch of congestion – "
Jed spun to face Ron. "Anything else? Any other signs of – "
"No, sir," Ron assured him. "Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary. I believe things are – in order here, sir."
"You mean, there's no – "
Ron stopped him before he gave too much away to the confused woman. "No, sir."
They all turned back to Tricia, who looked as if she would be perfectly happy to melt into the floor, given that option. She kept swinging her gaze back and forth from Jed to Ron, perhaps wondering which one of them was actually going to operate the machine that sucked all the knowledge from her brain before they sent her to some secret labor camp in Nicaragua.
"All right, then," Jed said finally, his voice strained with forced nonchalance. "Thank you, young lady, for your diligence."
He received a blank stare in response. "Sir?"
"We're – done here. Thank you for your help. Why don't you go home to spend Christmas with your family?"
Donna saw the relief surge through the younger woman, mixed with a distinctly nauseated expression. After a brief pause, the nanny nodded and headed for the door, not able to scramble out of there fast enough. She had taken her President's suggestion as an order, which it probably was.
Looked like time for a new nanny search. She doubted Tricia would be interested in taking a chance on going through something like that again.
"There was nothing?" Jed asked Ron again, voice a bit incredulous.
"We're clear, Mister President," the agent repeated patiently. "She apparently simply wanted Mrs. Bartlet to check on him because he was sick." Did she hear compassion in that even tone? "Everything is all right, sir." Yep. Definite compassion.
Sighing, Jed said, "Okay. Thanks, everyone. Good work."
They took this as dismissal – and it was intended that way – and exited. All but Ron, who lingered uneasily at the door.
"Yeah?" Jed invited, realizing the agent had something to say.
"As soon as I have word on the crash – "
"Yeah." Jed nodded, cutting him off before he could finish. Donna was grateful for the intent, but it didn't matter. She'd have to face it sometime.
With a sour laugh, she said, "Merry Christmas," to her husband, who stepped forward to take her and J.T. in his arms.
She heard the pain in his voice when he spoke. "I'm sorry Donna. I can't tell you how sorry. This is all my fault."
Vaguely, she recalled thinking maybe it was his fault, but not for the legitimate reasons he was about to name. "Your fault? How do you figure?"
"How do I not figure?" He pulled back a little, but his eyes wouldn't meet hers. "Start with the fact that if we had gone to New Hampshire for Christmas instead of staying here, they would have been on a different flight – "
"Shh – "His guilt allowed her to press her own pain back and give him comfort. "That's nobody's fault except the terrorists."
"Well, hell. There's another reason," he laughed bitterly, pacing in front of the window and running a hand through his hair. "The terrorists' strike in the first place. All because I wouldn't let – because America does not negotiate with – "
"But we don't Jed. We can't. You can't tell me you would ever consider that."
Not acknowledging her point, he continued. "What about J.T.? Threats, stalkers, damned righteous bastards saying he's a sin. Nobody would care if I weren't President. Nobody would give one single damn if I were still an economics professor. "
Now he turned to her, his fingers pressing hard into her upper arms, his face lined with blame. "I should have been a gentleman, Donna. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you – "
"Josiah Bartlet!"
He stopped, startled at her address.
"What are you talking about, taking advantage? If you recall, I was the one who took advantage of you."
He blushed. That was true.
"And if you were an economics professor, I would probably not have any idea who you were. And we would never have gotten together. And J.T. would not exist."
She wasn't sure if she was getting through, but she plunged ahead anyway. "And do you believe J.T. is a sin? Do you really feel like he is the product of some evil act?"
"No," he muttered, "of course not – "
"Would you change anything that happened between us? Would you have wanted to wait if I hadn't pushed you?" One hand touched his cheek, forced his face to turn toward hers.
A sheepish smile curved his lips and the harsh lines softened. "I don't think I could have waited, Donna. I almost exploded as it was, I wanted you so much."
"And I wanted you. I still want you. Is it my fault, then? Did I make J.T. a sin?" His illogical blame of himself had made her realize how ridiculous it was to dwell on something neither of them could change.
He looked at her, and she watched the confidence smooth over him again, felt his body tighten as he regained power over it. "Things might come out in the press," he reminded her. "Will probably come out."
The photo, he meant. She didn't care and told him so.
"Insinuations, outright accusations," he added.
"About what?"
"J.T.'s conception."
"Don't care."
He lifted a brow, tilted his head. "You tricked me into marrying you because you were pregnant. You blackmailed me."
"Already seen that one."
"I robbed the cradle, got you pregnant, then 'did the right thing."
She smirked. That was too close to what Josh thought at first. She had never told Jed. Never planned to. Instead, she deflected it. "I was after a 'Sugar Daddy.'"
He winced. "I promised you fame, riches, status – "
"Great sex," she added, grinning.
He blushed and grinned back, then sobered, wrapping both arms around her waist. After a long pause, he asked, "You ready for this?"
"I'm ready." She was.
"Okay." He kissed his son's head and stroked the blonde hair. "In the meantime, we can wait here until Ron has word of – until Ron has word."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded, still sure that the real trauma, the true breakdown would come much later, after she had dealt with the initial shock. Would she have to identify the bodies? Would there even be bodies to identify? Her own body stiffened in dread of that gruesome duty.
"I'll go," he whispered into her hair. "I'll do it."
Had she said that aloud? She didn't think so, but he seemed to know what she was thinking anyway. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.
"It'll be – it'll be a crime scene, won't it? The thought had just occurred to her. "Will they release them?"
He considered that and shook his head. "I don't know. They'll have to at some point. When they do, I'll go."
Just one of the things she loved him for. He did the hard things.
"Okay." After another pause, she adjusted J.T. against her shoulder and asked, "Do you need to be somewhere right now?" Surely at such a time he had important things to do. "The Sit Room?"
"I'm okay. I'll stay here with you until – "
"I'm okay," she insisted, pulling back to look at him. And for the moment, she was. Her baby was safe. That would sustain her for a while.
He smiled, keeping his hold on her. "Leo will get me when he needs me."
"Jed – "
"He will. You kicking me out?" The smile was gentle, teasing, and she was reminded of simpler times when it was just the two of them flirting over a Trivial Pursuit board, and that smile had seduced her – with no resistance whatsoever – into his arms, into his bed, into his heart.
"Nah. I'll let you stay – if you're good." Somehow, beneath the pain and fear, she found the ability to tease back.
"But you already told me, my dear, that I'm ALWAYS good," he drawled, pulling her down on the sofa, careful not to dislodge his sleeping son.
They lay there for a long time, content with just the touch, not speaking, not moving. Soon Ron would call, or Leo, and break up their serenity. Soon she would have to face the hard reality of her parents' death. Soon Jed would have to make a decision over how to respond to the terrorist attack. Soon they would both deal with the consequences of a public revelation of their pre-marital relationship. Soon another threat would be made against their child, or her, or all of them.
But for the moment, they simply gathered each other in comforting arms and waited, building strength for what was soon to come.
The abrupt ring of the phone jerked her from his arms, jostled the infant into whimpers. She didn't remember closing her eyes, didn't know how long she had slept. But her body woke instantly. Thrusting J.T. into Jed's grasp allowed her full access to the receiver, and she lifted it, wanting to hear what Ron had to say directly. Wanting his exact words, his frank confirmation of the tragedy. She wasn't sure why, but she needed to hear.
But it wasn't Ron's level voice that greeted her. Not even close.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Sweetheart. Listen, I'm sorry we're late. Long story, but we can tell you over dinner. Are you sending someone or should we just get a cab? It's no problem, except that it IS Christmas, and they're a little hard to grab – "
It couldn't be. It absolutely could not be.
But she had listened to that voice for 30 years, and it was.
"Mom?"