POV: Donna
Spoilers: "20 Hours in LA"
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters of Donna's parents, her brother, and J.T.
Bartlet are mine. All others were created by Aaron Sorkin and belong to
him (I guess they still do.).
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Five A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Life was unpredictable, that was for sure. And in the past 24 hours, Donna Moss Bartlet's life had surged through way too many episodes of unpredictability for her comfort. She perched on the sofa in the residence, one hand fingering a rosary, the other anchored in her mother's clasp. Her father stood by the fireplace, his grandson cradled in his arms. She had heard the story twice now and still could not really believe they had been so lucky.
Remnants of Christmas dinner scattered the table, festive tunes played in the background, and the family had pushed back from their meal to lounge in their living room just like millions of other average Americans who lived on Elm Street or Oak Lane, settling in on their rare day off to catch a college bowl game on television.
Except these weren't average Americans. Instead of Elm Street, they lived on Pennsylvania Avenue. Instead of kicking back in his Lazy Boy and watching football, her husband was hunkered down in the Situation Room with the National Security Advisor, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, his Chief of Staff, and head of the NTSB. And it would be another two years before he could look forward to any days off.
There was no one else there. The planned festivities with Leo and Mallory never materialized. Jed's best friend and his daughter chose not to interrupt family time they first thought would be spent in mourning, and by the time they received the miraculous news, Mallory had already made other arrangements with her mother. Just as well. Donna wasn't sure she was up to additional conversation. Leo, of course, would have been there anyway, by Jed's side as he was all morning and now in the Sit Room. That left only her parents, J.T., and her.
"So Marjorie Milsap saved your lives by being a busybody?" she paraphrased, still amazed at the break fate had given them.
"I suppose you could say that," her mother chuckled. No one had been more stunned than her parents to hear that they were supposed to be dead. "If she hadn't been jabbering on about that ridiculous tabloid story she wouldn't have locked her keys in the car and we wouldn't have been late to the airport."
"I still don't understand why you didn't get on your original flight, since it was delayed anyway," Donna asked. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad, but – "
"The airlines had already given us tickets on another flight – first class this time. We couldn't pass that up, could we?"
"No, Mom. You couldn't." Her parents would never change. Their son-in- law was the President of the United States and they still traveled coach.
"When is Gino getting in?" Another blessing that her brother had not been able to make it earlier. He was driving from Missouri where he had spent a few days visiting a buddy from his old unit.
"Later tonight, he said," her father reported, not looking up from his grandson's face. "I called him as soon as we realized he'd – "
"Yeah." At least he had been spared the awful, crushing pain of thinking their parents had been killed.
"How terrible," her mother said again, shaking her head. "I can't believe how close we were to being on that plane."
Donna patted her hand. "But you weren't. That's what's most important."
"But we could have been."
"One-hundred and eighty-two other people can't say the same thing."
They turned as a new voice interrupted, its hard tone evidence of the stress its possessor was enduring. When he saw the faces, though, he let his gaze fall. "I'm sorry."
"Hey," she greeted softly, rising to take her husband's hands. Fatigue and regret lined his face, but he smiled at her touch.
"Hey."
"You okay?"
"Sure." He didn't mean it.
"Okay." Neither did she. "Any confirmations?"
"The NTSB has evidence."
Dear God. They had all suspected, but no one wanted to believe it. "Terrorism?"
He nodded, pressing his lips together tightly. "Donna, they think – " Sighing, he glanced toward his in-laws. "They think the plane was targeted because – "He couldn't say it, but she realized suddenly what he knew.
Sick. She felt sick to her stomach and saw her parents' expressions sink as they comprehended the same thing.
"Because we were supposed to be on it," her father finished weakly, holding J.T. even tighter as if protecting him from the harsh reality.
Again, Jed nodded.
"Oh my," her mother breathed, drawing a trembling hand to her forehead. "Oh my. We were responsible for – "
"No." The voice of the President stopped her immediately. "No, you were not responsible."
Donna knew where he was going with this, but couldn't stop him, wouldn't have been able to persuade him to think differently anyway.
"I'm responsible. It's my fault."
There it was, that damned sense of duty, of burden. Everything in the world was his fault, or at least he seemed to think so. The sad thing was that he was very often right. The leader of the free world impacts widely and completely. "A human starting gun," Jed had once called himself. Unfortunately, it was too often true.
She put a hand on his arm, felt the muscle hard and tight beneath her touch. As he turned toward her, she flinched a bit at the bright pain in his eyes, knowing there was little she could do to dim it.
"What kind of operation is this?" she wondered aloud before she thought. "Who could have such widespread connections that they can cause a plane crash and just as easily be a threat from inside the White House? What do they want?"
"What?" Her mother had stood, hand at her throat. "What are you talking about, Donna?"
Jed looked at her sharply and she realized what she revealed.
Her father stepped closer. "What are you saying? What kind of threat?"
When she didn't answer, he made a move toward Jed, the first time he had ever taken any kind of confrontational stance with his son-in-law, a man only a few years his junior. "There have been threats?" he demanded, unconcerned with protocol. "On you?"
"Dad – "she tried, but he would not be distracted.
"Threats to whom, Mister President?"
Even in the tension, her husband's mouth curled into a slight smile. "Mister Moss, I'd be pleased if you called me 'Jed'."
Not giving one inch, her father repeated, "Threats to whom, Jed?"
Sensing the reluctance on Jed's part to hurt his in-laws with the bitter truth, Donna stepped forward, physically coming between the two men. "To all of us, Dad. To me, to Jed – even to J.T."
Silence sharpened the air in the room. Her parents stared at them, too horrified even to think of a comment. Finally, her father drew a deep breath and handed J.T. over to her mother.
"I think you'd better tell us the whole story." It was a soft demand, but a demand, nevertheless.
She glanced at Jed. He wasn't accustomed to taking orders, but his expression told her he would acquiesce to his father-in-law.
Jaw muscles flexing, he began relating the events that had created their weeks of tension and fear. Hearing it all again made it seem even more bizarre, even more unbelievable. But there they were, facing a menace no one has suspected was so immense only the day before.
He blushed as he related the accusations of sin for the premarital sex that had created J.T. He grimaced as he briefly touched on the tension he had inadvertently caused by trying to keep the threats from Donna. And he faltered when he came to the latest situation.
"There's a second letter," he said, clearing his throat nervously. Donna blanched at what was coming. These were her parents, after all. "A picture, really, with a caption," Jed clarified, although no one had asked for clarification.
"Of?" he father prompted.
After an uncomfortable pause, Jed said, "Of Donna and me. It's rather – intimate."
Her mother clutched at her throat. "Dear Lord. Do you mean someone had access to your room? How could that happen?"
Could there be a more embarrassing moment, Donna wondered, as Jed's flush matched her own.
"We – uh – we weren't in the Residence," he explained.
Her father's brow lifted in question.
Might as well just blurt it out, she figured. It couldn't sound any worse. "We were in the Oval Office," she announced boldly. Okay, maybe it could sound worse. Jed closed his eyes.
"I had just been released by the doctor for sex, and we hadn't been together for seven weeks, and Jed only had thirty minutes, and neither of us really could wait – "
"Donna – "Her husband interrupted, shaking his head. "Too much information."
One look at her parents told her he was right. "Well, anyway, someone was outside the window. Someone who must belong on the White House grounds or they would never have made it there."
Mercifully, Jed finished with information on the plane crash and the latest findings. When he finished, the room remained silent, except for the sweet sucking noises as J.T. comforted himself with a pacifier. After a moment, her father closed his eyes and whispered an old, but effective prayer.
Jed echoed it, but further comments were lost by the abrupt entrance of Ron Butterfield, his appearance gaining everyone's immediate attention.
Even the bland face could not completely hide the agent's agitation. Something else had happened. Instinctively, Jed moved toward him, and Ron leaned over to whisper in his ear.
"Let me see," Jed ordered softly, but they all heard it, nevertheless.
Reluctantly, Butterfield took in the rest of the room's inhabitants, but handed over a sheet of paper to his boss, then retreated one step to give him a moment to digest its contents.
Donna watched her husband's expression shift and her heart pounded when she realized she had seen that very look much too recently – just that morning. It was a disturbing blend of pale fear and dark anger.
Within seconds, every eye in the room had found him, but he didn't notice. Hand shaking so much that the paper clutched in it rattled in the continued silence, he spun to face the head of his Secret Service.
For a moment, the two men held gazes, wise souls in the midst of the ignorant. But the brief connection shattered with the fierce eruption that followed. Donna had heard Jed curse before, usually nothing more severe than the most common epithets, maybe a "son of a bitch" occasionally. But the burning bit of profanity that exploded from between his gritted teeth shocked them all. To have prompted such a violent expression, that sheet of paper must hold dire news, indeed.
"Jed?" she braved quietly, glancing at Ron for some indication that she was not taking too much of a risk with that attempt.
"Mrs. Bartlet," he said, stepping toward her, "I don't think you need to – "
But he stopped instantly when the Presidential hand lifted. "No." The tone, softer now, was nonetheless strained. "She needs to know." Her husband turned toward her and the anguish on his face set her blood facing again. "No more secrets, Donna. I promised you."
With only a short hesitation, he held out the paper. Swallowing, she took it and stared at a strange collage of sick and horrifying photos. At the top left was a UPI picture of the plane crash out of O'Hare, probably downloaded from an Internet news site. Below stretched the caption "Sorry for your loss." Forcing herself to stay silent, she let her eyes drop to the other pictures. Just below was a portrait of their family, one of the prints taken just before Thanksgiving. She held J.T. in her arms while Jed pressed a gentle kiss against her temple. But the idyllic scene was marred grotesquely by the slash of red across their faces, like claws gouging deep into their joy. She wanted to crush it in her hands, wanted to hurl it into the fire and watch it twist and writhe in the flames. But she could not. And she could not keep her gaze from moving on, despite the nausea that rose in throat. The final image unnerved her so much that she dropped the paper, crying out in dismay. Jed caught her arm and drew her to him, but that comfort could not dispel the vision that was emblazoned on her brain. It had been taken at church – IN the church – somehow – at Christmas mass. Just that morning. It focused on Jed and her, but he was the center of the photo, his head bowed in prayer. And on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart, someone had drawn a target that dripped red. The caption chilled her: "Hypocrite. You had your warnings. Pay the price for your sin."
She shook violently against him, terrified. By now her parents had picked up the sheet and stood, petrified, staring at it.
"Okay, that's it," Ron said softly, "we're going into lockdown. Mister President, you and your family are not safe."
"Not safe here, Ron?" Jed managed to choke out. "Not even here?"
The agent hesitated just a moment, but when he spoke, uncharacteristic emotion clouded his tone. "I'm sorry, sir. This is a viable threat against the President of the United States. I don't have a choice."
"I'm not going to the bunker, Ron." There was steel in that tone.
"Mister President – "
"I'm not going. You find a way to secure us here. Bring out the heavy artillery if you have to, but I'm not going to the bunker."
Two immovable forces stood toe to toe. For sheer physical presence, Ron would have won hands down, but there was more to this battle than that. Jed Bartlet had power of his own, power that didn't come solely from his position. Finally, the intensity in those famous blue eyes took the day and the agent backed down. Donna thought this might be an historic moment.
"All right. We will be in lockdown, Mister President," he said. "No one enters or leaves except on my word."
After a moment, his boss conceded that compromise. "All right."
"Gino?" Donna remembered suddenly.
"Yes, m'am," Ron confirmed. "We'll take care of him."
She wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but surely they'd allow him in.
"It is advisable that you go downstairs, Mister President, at least until we can complete the additional security."
She saw her husband stifle his impulse to refuse, then acknowledge the request with a curt nod. But before they could be led deeper into the vast underground labyrinth of the White House, she stooped down and snatched up the evil photos.
"Donna," Jed began, but she held up her hand to stop him.
"Wait." An idea was forming, a little hazy still, but it was something. "This picture."
"Baby, give me that," he said, extending his hand. "You don't have to look – "
She pulled away. "No. Listen. This middle picture, the one of all of us."
Ron stepped closer. "What about it, Mrs. Bartlet?"
"It was taken just before Thanksgiving."
"Yeah?" Jed acknowledged.
"Well – "She paused, realizing her revelation would spoil a minor surprise, but deciding this was more important. She turned to Jed. "One of your presents is my favorite shot that the photographer took that day. I'm sorry. It was going to be a surprise."
He smiled gently, then prodded, "Go on."
"He brought me all the choices of shots, at least I thought they were all. But this one wasn't with them."
"You're sure?" Ron asked.
"Yes. I remember them all. I thought they were all the proofs, but this was not one he showed me."
"What's his name?"
"What?"
"The photographer," the agent prompted urgently. "What's his name?"
"Ah. Tom. No, Tony. Tony Far – Farlow. No, that's not right."
"Donna," Jed encouraged, unable to keep quiet.
"Fargood. Farside. FarWELL! That's it! Fahrwell."
Before she had drawn another breath, the agent whirled to face his boss.
"Find him," Jed ordered, eyes snapping. "You find that son of a bitch."
But Ron was gone already.
Mercifully, Ron declared the White House secure within an hour and a half, and the First Couple, along with J.T. and her parents, were allowed to return to the Residence. By that time, the Christmas spirit had deserted them, and they chose simply to retire for the evening in the hopes that the next day would bring more answers and maybe some relief.
As far as she knew, Tony Fahrwell had not been located yet, and the NTSB was still sitting on its evidence, so the media continued their own speculations. The White House remained strangely silent on any of the day's events, even the information that Donna Bartlet's parents had been on the downed flight. And the silence merely fed the stories that grew wilder with each undisputed claim.
Finally allowed back in their own bedroom, Donna gave J.T. his night feeding and laid him gently in the crib in the room next door, satisfied that the heavy forces of secret service agents would not even let a mouse sneak past their fortress. And while that made her feel much better about her son's protection, she was a little unsure about the impact of the increased numbers outside her door. Despite the events of the day, she planned to enjoy another evening of desire, still making up for seven weeks of abstinence, and she really didn't need an audience.
There was only one catch – the object of her desire was back in the Sit Room being briefed on more crash information as well as North Korea's latest step toward nuclear capability. Ignoring her body's anticipation, she thumbed through The Ladies Home Journal, then Redbook, Architectural Digest, Entertainment Weekly, and finally, out of desperation, People. For her troubles she discovered the best way to entice her husband into bed – completely unnecessary information for her – the latest fad diet, how to dress up windows, the Christmas plans of all the stars of Friends, and yet another account of the late JFK Jr.'s enigmatic marriage.
Just when she debated giving in to the heaviness that tugged at her eyelids, the door eased open and Jed slipped in, lifting his chin slightly to see if he evoked a response from her. Smiling, she sat up and opened her arms to him.
"Hey."
He sat wearily on the bed, allowing himself to be folded in her embrace. "You okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Sure." He was lying again, but she didn't push it.
"Any news?"
He nodded. "They got into Fahrwell's apartment in Foggy Bottom."
Please be good. "And?"
"He apparently hasn't been there for a couple of days."
Damn. "So a dead end?"
"Well – "
"What?"
"They found the proofs of the photos, plus more shots of – of us."
That sick feeling crept back into her stomach. "From the Oval – "
"Yeah. They're, well, they're – "
"Explicit?"
He blushed even though they were alone. These must be something. "Yeah."
"The church shot?"
"Nothing on that, yet."
"But it had to be somebody who was there. Somebody who had a damned good view." How could anyone have gotten in?
"I don't know. They're checking it out. Could have been hiding anywhere."
"Or they could have been in plain sight." She sighed. They wouldn't solve this mystery tonight anyway. "How many of the pictures did they find?"
"Twenty-three exposures, including the one sent to us."
A sharp burst of anxiety shot up her spine. "Twenty-three?"
Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he nodded absently. Didn't he understand?
"Where's the twenty-fourth?"
His head shot up. "What?"
"The twenty-fourth, Jed. Most rolls have 24 or 36 exposures. One's missing."
It hit him then and she saw the alarm on his face even as he tried to answer calmly. "Maybe he didn't take the last one. Or maybe it didn't develop. Or – "
"Or maybe it's on its way to the Associate Press right now," she finished with a moan. "Oh God!"
He clutched her hands in his, his warmth settling her a little. "Listen, Donna. It may not even exist. Don't think about that. The FBI is investigating. There's nothing we can do right now, anyway. You've been through too much today to add one more crisis, all right?"
"But – "
"No."
"What if it's published – "
"Who cares?"
"How can you say that?"
"Who cares, Donna? You are my wife. I can make love to you if I want to. Don't you think everyone knows we have sex? J.T.'s proof of that." He teased, but his grin was forced.
"But in the Oval Office, Jed – "
"Hush. I said don't worry about it. I'll stay here with you. If they find out anything new, they'll let me know." His eyes were soft, loving, and she melted into them, pushing back the fears, needing to lose herself in him tonight.
"Does that mean you're coming to bed?" She made sure her voice held the blatant invitation.
He heard it. "If you want me to. Last night was pretty – "
"Wonderful," she finished for him. "It was wonderful."
"I'll be more careful – "
"Don't worry about that."
"But I will," he assured her, leaning in to kiss her, his hand brushing a taut nipple that pushed against the golden satin of her gown.
"But not too careful," she asked, stretching her neck as his lips slid down her throat.
"Merry Christmas, Baby," he whispered before he slipped the gown off her completely.
"Merry Christmas," she returned, reaching for his belt.
Donna moaned softly under her husband's touch, always grateful – and a little surprised – by the variety of skills within his repertoire. Even as the memories of the previous night's sizzling, uncontrolled passion still burned her cheeks, she relaxed as he approached with an entirely different strategy, teasing her with the gentle dance of kisses across her stomach, the fluttering tickle of fingers over her arms. Teeth nipped at her earlobe, lips caressed her neck. Instead of the immediate ignition of desire that had boiled quickly to overload yesterday, tonight was a slow simmer that heated steadily and evenly, but promised just as fiery an end.
He murmured in her ear, beautiful words of love and passion, even as his hands wandered over her intimate parts, entwining the most significant sexual organ – her mind – with the rest of her body. She needed this – not just the physical release, but the mental distraction from the complications and fear that had invaded their world. She needed to feel the raw, healing pleasure that came from the act of intercourse, but she also needed to feel the tenderness and love that no one but her husband could give her.
And he was doing an excellent job, she reflected, on both fronts. Chill bumps prickled her skin as he slid his tongue the length of her body and back up, detouring occasionally to devote a little extra attention in certain key areas. With the growing urge to feel him inside, she tried coaxing him up with her legs, but he refused to increase the pace, made her wait, teased her with deliciously cruel moments of ecstasy that didn't quite take her over the edge – not just yet.
"Jed – "she groaned, arching toward his touch.
"I'm here, Baby," he whispered. "I'm here."
His breath warmed her skin, moistened by his tongue and her own exertions. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to force herself onto him, but she was determined to let him lead her wherever he wanted. When he finally raised above her, she spread her legs to welcome him, sighing as he pushed in slowly, keeping the pace steady. She watched his face as their bodies merged, holding his gaze as he moved deeper, and she concentrated on the incredible sense of satisfaction, on the sensation of being completely filled with him.
Their abdomens brushed together when he moved forward, the hair that curled on his tickling her smooth skin. Cool air breathed over the same area when he withdrew, taking slow, even strokes, letting his hips rotate slightly, smiling when she gasped at the motion. It seemed effortless to him, and she wondered just how long he could hold out. But a closer look revealed a tell-tale twitch in his jaw and she realized how hard he was working to maintain his own control.
Maybe it was time to put them both out of the marvelous misery. But he felt so good sliding in and out, so hard against her soft flesh, radiating deep within her, that she hated for it to end. Still, her body was taking over. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she moved with him, arching up when he thrust, pulling back when he withdrew. Suddenly struck by the intimacy of their moment, she lifted her hands to his face, holding it so he was watching her as she pushed harder against him, feeling him plunge even deeper, groaning as the measured movement lost some of its rhythm.
Now he picked up the pace, his breath coming faster, his body glistening with sweat. Her hands ran down his chest, twirling in the hair, following the line to where their bodies joined. And finally they did begin to boil. The slow burn roared into an inferno, consuming their ebbing patience and billowing upward through their bodies. Her world became one point, one focus. She felt nothing but his hard thrusts, heard nothing but her own groans and pleas for him to come inside her. She desperately wanted nothing more than to feel the ecstasy of his climax, to tremble around the deep hot pulses that powered his release into her body. She needed that connection, that security, that explosive emotion.
"Donna? Mom and Dad said you had come up here and – Oh my God!"
In later years she would reflect on that particular moment with amusement. Even Jed eventually found a small measure of humor in it – if he was in a really good mood. But as it was happening – Earlier in the day, when Jed was confessing their Oval Office tryst to her parents, she had wondered if there could be a more embarrassing moment. She had her answer now.
With a scream, she pushed Jed away and scrambled under the covers. He groaned in both frustration and pain – she hadn't been very gentle – until he realized they were no longer alone.
"What the hell – "
Gino Moss stood, face flushed as red as the stripes on the patriotic shirt he wore, jaw slack. No one spoke. What was there to say, really? The tableau froze: Donna with the sheet clutched to her chest; Jed with her discarded gown dragged strategically across his groin, and Gino with no visible means of retreat since a Secret Service agent now stood, equally stunned, at the door.
Good old Gino. He had really made points so far with his brother-in-law the President. At their first meeting, he had decked him and busted his lip. And now at the second – well, he had perhaps inflicted even greater damage as far as Jed was concerned. She sensed that Jack Reese might soon have some company at the Arctic Circle.
And from the expression on her husband's face, it would be a good, long tour of duty.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Five A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Life was unpredictable, that was for sure. And in the past 24 hours, Donna Moss Bartlet's life had surged through way too many episodes of unpredictability for her comfort. She perched on the sofa in the residence, one hand fingering a rosary, the other anchored in her mother's clasp. Her father stood by the fireplace, his grandson cradled in his arms. She had heard the story twice now and still could not really believe they had been so lucky.
Remnants of Christmas dinner scattered the table, festive tunes played in the background, and the family had pushed back from their meal to lounge in their living room just like millions of other average Americans who lived on Elm Street or Oak Lane, settling in on their rare day off to catch a college bowl game on television.
Except these weren't average Americans. Instead of Elm Street, they lived on Pennsylvania Avenue. Instead of kicking back in his Lazy Boy and watching football, her husband was hunkered down in the Situation Room with the National Security Advisor, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, his Chief of Staff, and head of the NTSB. And it would be another two years before he could look forward to any days off.
There was no one else there. The planned festivities with Leo and Mallory never materialized. Jed's best friend and his daughter chose not to interrupt family time they first thought would be spent in mourning, and by the time they received the miraculous news, Mallory had already made other arrangements with her mother. Just as well. Donna wasn't sure she was up to additional conversation. Leo, of course, would have been there anyway, by Jed's side as he was all morning and now in the Sit Room. That left only her parents, J.T., and her.
"So Marjorie Milsap saved your lives by being a busybody?" she paraphrased, still amazed at the break fate had given them.
"I suppose you could say that," her mother chuckled. No one had been more stunned than her parents to hear that they were supposed to be dead. "If she hadn't been jabbering on about that ridiculous tabloid story she wouldn't have locked her keys in the car and we wouldn't have been late to the airport."
"I still don't understand why you didn't get on your original flight, since it was delayed anyway," Donna asked. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad, but – "
"The airlines had already given us tickets on another flight – first class this time. We couldn't pass that up, could we?"
"No, Mom. You couldn't." Her parents would never change. Their son-in- law was the President of the United States and they still traveled coach.
"When is Gino getting in?" Another blessing that her brother had not been able to make it earlier. He was driving from Missouri where he had spent a few days visiting a buddy from his old unit.
"Later tonight, he said," her father reported, not looking up from his grandson's face. "I called him as soon as we realized he'd – "
"Yeah." At least he had been spared the awful, crushing pain of thinking their parents had been killed.
"How terrible," her mother said again, shaking her head. "I can't believe how close we were to being on that plane."
Donna patted her hand. "But you weren't. That's what's most important."
"But we could have been."
"One-hundred and eighty-two other people can't say the same thing."
They turned as a new voice interrupted, its hard tone evidence of the stress its possessor was enduring. When he saw the faces, though, he let his gaze fall. "I'm sorry."
"Hey," she greeted softly, rising to take her husband's hands. Fatigue and regret lined his face, but he smiled at her touch.
"Hey."
"You okay?"
"Sure." He didn't mean it.
"Okay." Neither did she. "Any confirmations?"
"The NTSB has evidence."
Dear God. They had all suspected, but no one wanted to believe it. "Terrorism?"
He nodded, pressing his lips together tightly. "Donna, they think – " Sighing, he glanced toward his in-laws. "They think the plane was targeted because – "He couldn't say it, but she realized suddenly what he knew.
Sick. She felt sick to her stomach and saw her parents' expressions sink as they comprehended the same thing.
"Because we were supposed to be on it," her father finished weakly, holding J.T. even tighter as if protecting him from the harsh reality.
Again, Jed nodded.
"Oh my," her mother breathed, drawing a trembling hand to her forehead. "Oh my. We were responsible for – "
"No." The voice of the President stopped her immediately. "No, you were not responsible."
Donna knew where he was going with this, but couldn't stop him, wouldn't have been able to persuade him to think differently anyway.
"I'm responsible. It's my fault."
There it was, that damned sense of duty, of burden. Everything in the world was his fault, or at least he seemed to think so. The sad thing was that he was very often right. The leader of the free world impacts widely and completely. "A human starting gun," Jed had once called himself. Unfortunately, it was too often true.
She put a hand on his arm, felt the muscle hard and tight beneath her touch. As he turned toward her, she flinched a bit at the bright pain in his eyes, knowing there was little she could do to dim it.
"What kind of operation is this?" she wondered aloud before she thought. "Who could have such widespread connections that they can cause a plane crash and just as easily be a threat from inside the White House? What do they want?"
"What?" Her mother had stood, hand at her throat. "What are you talking about, Donna?"
Jed looked at her sharply and she realized what she revealed.
Her father stepped closer. "What are you saying? What kind of threat?"
When she didn't answer, he made a move toward Jed, the first time he had ever taken any kind of confrontational stance with his son-in-law, a man only a few years his junior. "There have been threats?" he demanded, unconcerned with protocol. "On you?"
"Dad – "she tried, but he would not be distracted.
"Threats to whom, Mister President?"
Even in the tension, her husband's mouth curled into a slight smile. "Mister Moss, I'd be pleased if you called me 'Jed'."
Not giving one inch, her father repeated, "Threats to whom, Jed?"
Sensing the reluctance on Jed's part to hurt his in-laws with the bitter truth, Donna stepped forward, physically coming between the two men. "To all of us, Dad. To me, to Jed – even to J.T."
Silence sharpened the air in the room. Her parents stared at them, too horrified even to think of a comment. Finally, her father drew a deep breath and handed J.T. over to her mother.
"I think you'd better tell us the whole story." It was a soft demand, but a demand, nevertheless.
She glanced at Jed. He wasn't accustomed to taking orders, but his expression told her he would acquiesce to his father-in-law.
Jaw muscles flexing, he began relating the events that had created their weeks of tension and fear. Hearing it all again made it seem even more bizarre, even more unbelievable. But there they were, facing a menace no one has suspected was so immense only the day before.
He blushed as he related the accusations of sin for the premarital sex that had created J.T. He grimaced as he briefly touched on the tension he had inadvertently caused by trying to keep the threats from Donna. And he faltered when he came to the latest situation.
"There's a second letter," he said, clearing his throat nervously. Donna blanched at what was coming. These were her parents, after all. "A picture, really, with a caption," Jed clarified, although no one had asked for clarification.
"Of?" he father prompted.
After an uncomfortable pause, Jed said, "Of Donna and me. It's rather – intimate."
Her mother clutched at her throat. "Dear Lord. Do you mean someone had access to your room? How could that happen?"
Could there be a more embarrassing moment, Donna wondered, as Jed's flush matched her own.
"We – uh – we weren't in the Residence," he explained.
Her father's brow lifted in question.
Might as well just blurt it out, she figured. It couldn't sound any worse. "We were in the Oval Office," she announced boldly. Okay, maybe it could sound worse. Jed closed his eyes.
"I had just been released by the doctor for sex, and we hadn't been together for seven weeks, and Jed only had thirty minutes, and neither of us really could wait – "
"Donna – "Her husband interrupted, shaking his head. "Too much information."
One look at her parents told her he was right. "Well, anyway, someone was outside the window. Someone who must belong on the White House grounds or they would never have made it there."
Mercifully, Jed finished with information on the plane crash and the latest findings. When he finished, the room remained silent, except for the sweet sucking noises as J.T. comforted himself with a pacifier. After a moment, her father closed his eyes and whispered an old, but effective prayer.
Jed echoed it, but further comments were lost by the abrupt entrance of Ron Butterfield, his appearance gaining everyone's immediate attention.
Even the bland face could not completely hide the agent's agitation. Something else had happened. Instinctively, Jed moved toward him, and Ron leaned over to whisper in his ear.
"Let me see," Jed ordered softly, but they all heard it, nevertheless.
Reluctantly, Butterfield took in the rest of the room's inhabitants, but handed over a sheet of paper to his boss, then retreated one step to give him a moment to digest its contents.
Donna watched her husband's expression shift and her heart pounded when she realized she had seen that very look much too recently – just that morning. It was a disturbing blend of pale fear and dark anger.
Within seconds, every eye in the room had found him, but he didn't notice. Hand shaking so much that the paper clutched in it rattled in the continued silence, he spun to face the head of his Secret Service.
For a moment, the two men held gazes, wise souls in the midst of the ignorant. But the brief connection shattered with the fierce eruption that followed. Donna had heard Jed curse before, usually nothing more severe than the most common epithets, maybe a "son of a bitch" occasionally. But the burning bit of profanity that exploded from between his gritted teeth shocked them all. To have prompted such a violent expression, that sheet of paper must hold dire news, indeed.
"Jed?" she braved quietly, glancing at Ron for some indication that she was not taking too much of a risk with that attempt.
"Mrs. Bartlet," he said, stepping toward her, "I don't think you need to – "
But he stopped instantly when the Presidential hand lifted. "No." The tone, softer now, was nonetheless strained. "She needs to know." Her husband turned toward her and the anguish on his face set her blood facing again. "No more secrets, Donna. I promised you."
With only a short hesitation, he held out the paper. Swallowing, she took it and stared at a strange collage of sick and horrifying photos. At the top left was a UPI picture of the plane crash out of O'Hare, probably downloaded from an Internet news site. Below stretched the caption "Sorry for your loss." Forcing herself to stay silent, she let her eyes drop to the other pictures. Just below was a portrait of their family, one of the prints taken just before Thanksgiving. She held J.T. in her arms while Jed pressed a gentle kiss against her temple. But the idyllic scene was marred grotesquely by the slash of red across their faces, like claws gouging deep into their joy. She wanted to crush it in her hands, wanted to hurl it into the fire and watch it twist and writhe in the flames. But she could not. And she could not keep her gaze from moving on, despite the nausea that rose in throat. The final image unnerved her so much that she dropped the paper, crying out in dismay. Jed caught her arm and drew her to him, but that comfort could not dispel the vision that was emblazoned on her brain. It had been taken at church – IN the church – somehow – at Christmas mass. Just that morning. It focused on Jed and her, but he was the center of the photo, his head bowed in prayer. And on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart, someone had drawn a target that dripped red. The caption chilled her: "Hypocrite. You had your warnings. Pay the price for your sin."
She shook violently against him, terrified. By now her parents had picked up the sheet and stood, petrified, staring at it.
"Okay, that's it," Ron said softly, "we're going into lockdown. Mister President, you and your family are not safe."
"Not safe here, Ron?" Jed managed to choke out. "Not even here?"
The agent hesitated just a moment, but when he spoke, uncharacteristic emotion clouded his tone. "I'm sorry, sir. This is a viable threat against the President of the United States. I don't have a choice."
"I'm not going to the bunker, Ron." There was steel in that tone.
"Mister President – "
"I'm not going. You find a way to secure us here. Bring out the heavy artillery if you have to, but I'm not going to the bunker."
Two immovable forces stood toe to toe. For sheer physical presence, Ron would have won hands down, but there was more to this battle than that. Jed Bartlet had power of his own, power that didn't come solely from his position. Finally, the intensity in those famous blue eyes took the day and the agent backed down. Donna thought this might be an historic moment.
"All right. We will be in lockdown, Mister President," he said. "No one enters or leaves except on my word."
After a moment, his boss conceded that compromise. "All right."
"Gino?" Donna remembered suddenly.
"Yes, m'am," Ron confirmed. "We'll take care of him."
She wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but surely they'd allow him in.
"It is advisable that you go downstairs, Mister President, at least until we can complete the additional security."
She saw her husband stifle his impulse to refuse, then acknowledge the request with a curt nod. But before they could be led deeper into the vast underground labyrinth of the White House, she stooped down and snatched up the evil photos.
"Donna," Jed began, but she held up her hand to stop him.
"Wait." An idea was forming, a little hazy still, but it was something. "This picture."
"Baby, give me that," he said, extending his hand. "You don't have to look – "
She pulled away. "No. Listen. This middle picture, the one of all of us."
Ron stepped closer. "What about it, Mrs. Bartlet?"
"It was taken just before Thanksgiving."
"Yeah?" Jed acknowledged.
"Well – "She paused, realizing her revelation would spoil a minor surprise, but deciding this was more important. She turned to Jed. "One of your presents is my favorite shot that the photographer took that day. I'm sorry. It was going to be a surprise."
He smiled gently, then prodded, "Go on."
"He brought me all the choices of shots, at least I thought they were all. But this one wasn't with them."
"You're sure?" Ron asked.
"Yes. I remember them all. I thought they were all the proofs, but this was not one he showed me."
"What's his name?"
"What?"
"The photographer," the agent prompted urgently. "What's his name?"
"Ah. Tom. No, Tony. Tony Far – Farlow. No, that's not right."
"Donna," Jed encouraged, unable to keep quiet.
"Fargood. Farside. FarWELL! That's it! Fahrwell."
Before she had drawn another breath, the agent whirled to face his boss.
"Find him," Jed ordered, eyes snapping. "You find that son of a bitch."
But Ron was gone already.
Mercifully, Ron declared the White House secure within an hour and a half, and the First Couple, along with J.T. and her parents, were allowed to return to the Residence. By that time, the Christmas spirit had deserted them, and they chose simply to retire for the evening in the hopes that the next day would bring more answers and maybe some relief.
As far as she knew, Tony Fahrwell had not been located yet, and the NTSB was still sitting on its evidence, so the media continued their own speculations. The White House remained strangely silent on any of the day's events, even the information that Donna Bartlet's parents had been on the downed flight. And the silence merely fed the stories that grew wilder with each undisputed claim.
Finally allowed back in their own bedroom, Donna gave J.T. his night feeding and laid him gently in the crib in the room next door, satisfied that the heavy forces of secret service agents would not even let a mouse sneak past their fortress. And while that made her feel much better about her son's protection, she was a little unsure about the impact of the increased numbers outside her door. Despite the events of the day, she planned to enjoy another evening of desire, still making up for seven weeks of abstinence, and she really didn't need an audience.
There was only one catch – the object of her desire was back in the Sit Room being briefed on more crash information as well as North Korea's latest step toward nuclear capability. Ignoring her body's anticipation, she thumbed through The Ladies Home Journal, then Redbook, Architectural Digest, Entertainment Weekly, and finally, out of desperation, People. For her troubles she discovered the best way to entice her husband into bed – completely unnecessary information for her – the latest fad diet, how to dress up windows, the Christmas plans of all the stars of Friends, and yet another account of the late JFK Jr.'s enigmatic marriage.
Just when she debated giving in to the heaviness that tugged at her eyelids, the door eased open and Jed slipped in, lifting his chin slightly to see if he evoked a response from her. Smiling, she sat up and opened her arms to him.
"Hey."
He sat wearily on the bed, allowing himself to be folded in her embrace. "You okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Sure." He was lying again, but she didn't push it.
"Any news?"
He nodded. "They got into Fahrwell's apartment in Foggy Bottom."
Please be good. "And?"
"He apparently hasn't been there for a couple of days."
Damn. "So a dead end?"
"Well – "
"What?"
"They found the proofs of the photos, plus more shots of – of us."
That sick feeling crept back into her stomach. "From the Oval – "
"Yeah. They're, well, they're – "
"Explicit?"
He blushed even though they were alone. These must be something. "Yeah."
"The church shot?"
"Nothing on that, yet."
"But it had to be somebody who was there. Somebody who had a damned good view." How could anyone have gotten in?
"I don't know. They're checking it out. Could have been hiding anywhere."
"Or they could have been in plain sight." She sighed. They wouldn't solve this mystery tonight anyway. "How many of the pictures did they find?"
"Twenty-three exposures, including the one sent to us."
A sharp burst of anxiety shot up her spine. "Twenty-three?"
Rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, he nodded absently. Didn't he understand?
"Where's the twenty-fourth?"
His head shot up. "What?"
"The twenty-fourth, Jed. Most rolls have 24 or 36 exposures. One's missing."
It hit him then and she saw the alarm on his face even as he tried to answer calmly. "Maybe he didn't take the last one. Or maybe it didn't develop. Or – "
"Or maybe it's on its way to the Associate Press right now," she finished with a moan. "Oh God!"
He clutched her hands in his, his warmth settling her a little. "Listen, Donna. It may not even exist. Don't think about that. The FBI is investigating. There's nothing we can do right now, anyway. You've been through too much today to add one more crisis, all right?"
"But – "
"No."
"What if it's published – "
"Who cares?"
"How can you say that?"
"Who cares, Donna? You are my wife. I can make love to you if I want to. Don't you think everyone knows we have sex? J.T.'s proof of that." He teased, but his grin was forced.
"But in the Oval Office, Jed – "
"Hush. I said don't worry about it. I'll stay here with you. If they find out anything new, they'll let me know." His eyes were soft, loving, and she melted into them, pushing back the fears, needing to lose herself in him tonight.
"Does that mean you're coming to bed?" She made sure her voice held the blatant invitation.
He heard it. "If you want me to. Last night was pretty – "
"Wonderful," she finished for him. "It was wonderful."
"I'll be more careful – "
"Don't worry about that."
"But I will," he assured her, leaning in to kiss her, his hand brushing a taut nipple that pushed against the golden satin of her gown.
"But not too careful," she asked, stretching her neck as his lips slid down her throat.
"Merry Christmas, Baby," he whispered before he slipped the gown off her completely.
"Merry Christmas," she returned, reaching for his belt.
Donna moaned softly under her husband's touch, always grateful – and a little surprised – by the variety of skills within his repertoire. Even as the memories of the previous night's sizzling, uncontrolled passion still burned her cheeks, she relaxed as he approached with an entirely different strategy, teasing her with the gentle dance of kisses across her stomach, the fluttering tickle of fingers over her arms. Teeth nipped at her earlobe, lips caressed her neck. Instead of the immediate ignition of desire that had boiled quickly to overload yesterday, tonight was a slow simmer that heated steadily and evenly, but promised just as fiery an end.
He murmured in her ear, beautiful words of love and passion, even as his hands wandered over her intimate parts, entwining the most significant sexual organ – her mind – with the rest of her body. She needed this – not just the physical release, but the mental distraction from the complications and fear that had invaded their world. She needed to feel the raw, healing pleasure that came from the act of intercourse, but she also needed to feel the tenderness and love that no one but her husband could give her.
And he was doing an excellent job, she reflected, on both fronts. Chill bumps prickled her skin as he slid his tongue the length of her body and back up, detouring occasionally to devote a little extra attention in certain key areas. With the growing urge to feel him inside, she tried coaxing him up with her legs, but he refused to increase the pace, made her wait, teased her with deliciously cruel moments of ecstasy that didn't quite take her over the edge – not just yet.
"Jed – "she groaned, arching toward his touch.
"I'm here, Baby," he whispered. "I'm here."
His breath warmed her skin, moistened by his tongue and her own exertions. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to force herself onto him, but she was determined to let him lead her wherever he wanted. When he finally raised above her, she spread her legs to welcome him, sighing as he pushed in slowly, keeping the pace steady. She watched his face as their bodies merged, holding his gaze as he moved deeper, and she concentrated on the incredible sense of satisfaction, on the sensation of being completely filled with him.
Their abdomens brushed together when he moved forward, the hair that curled on his tickling her smooth skin. Cool air breathed over the same area when he withdrew, taking slow, even strokes, letting his hips rotate slightly, smiling when she gasped at the motion. It seemed effortless to him, and she wondered just how long he could hold out. But a closer look revealed a tell-tale twitch in his jaw and she realized how hard he was working to maintain his own control.
Maybe it was time to put them both out of the marvelous misery. But he felt so good sliding in and out, so hard against her soft flesh, radiating deep within her, that she hated for it to end. Still, her body was taking over. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she moved with him, arching up when he thrust, pulling back when he withdrew. Suddenly struck by the intimacy of their moment, she lifted her hands to his face, holding it so he was watching her as she pushed harder against him, feeling him plunge even deeper, groaning as the measured movement lost some of its rhythm.
Now he picked up the pace, his breath coming faster, his body glistening with sweat. Her hands ran down his chest, twirling in the hair, following the line to where their bodies joined. And finally they did begin to boil. The slow burn roared into an inferno, consuming their ebbing patience and billowing upward through their bodies. Her world became one point, one focus. She felt nothing but his hard thrusts, heard nothing but her own groans and pleas for him to come inside her. She desperately wanted nothing more than to feel the ecstasy of his climax, to tremble around the deep hot pulses that powered his release into her body. She needed that connection, that security, that explosive emotion.
"Donna? Mom and Dad said you had come up here and – Oh my God!"
In later years she would reflect on that particular moment with amusement. Even Jed eventually found a small measure of humor in it – if he was in a really good mood. But as it was happening – Earlier in the day, when Jed was confessing their Oval Office tryst to her parents, she had wondered if there could be a more embarrassing moment. She had her answer now.
With a scream, she pushed Jed away and scrambled under the covers. He groaned in both frustration and pain – she hadn't been very gentle – until he realized they were no longer alone.
"What the hell – "
Gino Moss stood, face flushed as red as the stripes on the patriotic shirt he wore, jaw slack. No one spoke. What was there to say, really? The tableau froze: Donna with the sheet clutched to her chest; Jed with her discarded gown dragged strategically across his groin, and Gino with no visible means of retreat since a Secret Service agent now stood, equally stunned, at the door.
Good old Gino. He had really made points so far with his brother-in-law the President. At their first meeting, he had decked him and busted his lip. And now at the second – well, he had perhaps inflicted even greater damage as far as Jed was concerned. She sensed that Jack Reese might soon have some company at the Arctic Circle.
And from the expression on her husband's face, it would be a good, long tour of duty.