Again, thanks to Evelyn for the beta. She always makes it better.
POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I guess they are still Aaron Sorkin's. I hope John Wells takes good care of them.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Eight A West Wing Story
by MAHC
November 22, 1963. The file footage of those haunting visions flashed continuously across the television screens of the world, mixing like an eerie harbinger with the newest, and similarly unthinkable tragedy. In one moment JFK was jerking forward, the infamous "amber burst" haloing him. In the next, Josiah Bartlet was convulsing backwards, his own splatter of red a horrifying repeat of 40-year-old brutality.
The CNN shot had become the Zapruder film of this generation, capturing the morbid attention of every viewer, compelling them to watch, even as their stomachs clenched in sickness and fury. This was their President. Their leader. Their guy. How could anyone dare attack them in such a personal way?
But if the country felt so intimately assaulted, Donna Moss Bartlet felt as if a jagged knife had ripped through her body and hacked out a part of her. And, indeed, it had. Her other half. Her strength. Her steady rock. How could she drag herself from the despair that strangled her now? How could she face the un-faceable?
The staff stepped past her quietly, offering coffee or water or whatever she might need or want. But they couldn't provide what she needed. No one could. Not C.J. Not Leo. Not the girls, frantically gathered up and brought to the hospital, their stunned faces tight with disbelief, with pain, with anger. Not even her parents, finally on their way under the heavy protection of the secret service, their well-meaning words no longer the comforting weight they had been when she was a child. The innocence was gone, now. What she faced only one other had dealt with to any extent. And Abbey Bartlet wasn't there to help.
"Hey."
A hand dropped gently on her shoulder and she drew her gaze away from the television screen to meet the reddened eyes of Zoey Bartlet. The youngest daughter of the fallen President didn't pretend to smile, didn't force any hollow words. But her touch held strength, determination – so much like her father.
Donna nodded her response.
"I got you a breast pump," she said, indicating the table on which the compact device now rested.
How strange that she would have to think of that, but life went on. Her body needed to release the milk; her son needed to be fed. For security reasons, he remained at the White House. Ellie had volunteered to go back, to care for him, and Donna felt bad that she would be trying to wrestle a bottle down him. Even after several weeks of effort, he remained discontent with anything but his mother's flesh. Still, there was really no other choice now. She tried a smile; didn't know if it reached her lips.
"Thanks."
"Yeah. You eaten?"
Eaten? Food? Her stomach rebelled at the very thought. "I'm okay."
"Donna – "
Don't snap, she told herself. Zoey is hurting, too. "Really. I'll get something in a little while."
"Sure." But neither of them believed it. Zoey gave her a final pat before leaving the room.
Donna knew she had to move, had to get up out of the chair and face the world. They would expect nothing less. What had Jackie Kennedy done? She had shown grace and poise and dignity. She had set the bar for any future First Ladies unfortunate enough to find themselves in similar situations. She didn't pretend to be Jackie Kennedy. But she would not fail to do her duty. She would not show anything less than control of herself to America – to the world.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
Willing the blood to keep pumping through her heart, she turned again toward the door. It was possible that Ron Butterfield's expression had hardened completely to stone. Only the eyes showed the frustration she knew he felt.
"I know this is not a good time – "
No, she thought, almost laughing at the understatement. No, it's really not a good time. "What is it?"
"I have some questions about – about the attack."
God, please don't. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to think about it. But, damn it, that was all she could think about. Even when the TV wasn't replaying the shooting, she saw it over and over in her own mind, unable to shake the brutally horrifying reality of what had happened.
"What do you want to know?"
He breathed a little easier at her acquiescence and sat ramrod straight in a chair next to her. "Jonah said you were watching the crowd when the shot was fired."
Was she? Snapshots of smiling faces popped into her memory, adoring admirers, cheering followers. Yes. Yes, she was. "That's right."
"Did you see anything unusual? Anything out of place? Anything you weren't accustomed to?"
Anything she wasn't accustomed to? Well, she wasn't really accustomed yet to thousands of people jostling to shake her hand, to touch her husband's coat, to get a smile or wave from both of them. She wasn't accustomed to dragging bodyguards everywhere she went. She wasn't accustomed to having her mail checked before she got to read it. She wasn't accustomed to being called for interviews by Peter Jennings, and Tom Brokaw, and Dan Rather, and Wolf Blitzer all at the same time. And she sure as hell wasn't accustomed to watching as her husband was violently struck down right in front of a stunned world.
The scream ballooned in her aching chest, but she managed to deflate it before the eruption. It wasn't Ron's fault, really, even though as head of the President's detail, he could very easily take the blame. But Jed knew the risks; he just hadn't believed them.
After a long, tense moment, she shook her head. "No." It was all she could manage.
He nodded, sensing not to push, but she felt the urgency bleeding from him, could almost smell the guilt on his skin. With effort, she laid a hand on his arm.
"Any word on the – on the shooter?" She couldn't bring herself to say "assassin." Giving voice to it would make it too real.
He flinched. "No."
"How could he just vanish?" she asked. How could someone who had just fired a rifle on The Mall get away? Hadn't others been caught? John Wilkes Booth. Charles Guiteau. Leon Czolgosz. Lee Harvey Oswalt. John Hinkley, Jr. Why not this time? How could they not catch him? How could they not punish him? How could they not rip out his heart like he had done to her –
Clutching at the escaping shreds of her control, she took a deep breath. "You did your best, Ron."
But that reassurance seemed only to crack the hard façade. The eyes reddened with the strain of unshed tears. Not good enough, they said. Not damned good enough.
As if her touch had burned him, he pulled away, standing and drawing the mask of formality over his face. "We'll find him, ma'am," he promised, voice tight, words clipped, not daring anything more.
He had spun and escaped before she could give him even an insincere smile. Just as well. She didn't know if she could have managed it anyway. So the Secret Service didn't know. There was an assassin on the loose, a country in turmoil, a world poised on the brink of war. No one had any answers. And the one man they wanted to look to couldn't provide them.
For some time she stared across the room, noting the pattern the breaking sunlight threw onto the floor. It could have been a few minutes or an hour, but at least they were leaving her alone. She wanted to be alone, wanted to let her body float in the surreal fantasy that as long as no one said anything nothing had happened. She wanted to escape the constant bustle of a staff trying too hard to help but only succeeding in agitating her more. Too much movement. Too much chaos. There would be time for that later. Her brain needed to think.
But apparently they weren't comfortable with leaving her totally to herself. The door edged open again. "Donna."
Leo stepped inside, looking more haggard and rumpled than she had ever seen him. His double-breasted suit coat hung open, his tie, while still knotted, was no longer square at his throat. The lines of his face had lengthened, etching pain, sorrow, and anger deep into his skin.
"How're you doing?" he asked.
How do you think? How the hell do you thing I'm doing? Again, she forced the bitter response back. It wasn't Leo's fault, really. At least she tried to tell herself that.
"Okay," she lied.
He stepped just inside the door. "Everyone is sending their thoughts and prayers. I think maybe the only country we haven't heard from is Qumar. Big surprise." He tried to smile, a sad upturn of his lips.
She nodded.
"You need anything?"
My husband. "No."
"Liz will be back later. She's making arrangements."
"Yeah." It occurred to her that she had given him only one-word answers so far, but even that much response felt like an ice pick driving into her brain.
"Donna, I – "
Her upraised hand stopped him, unable to hear more. "Not now, Leo, okay? I just – not now."
He nodded, and she tried to feel bad about the moisture in his eyes. But she couldn't. She hurt too much herself to take on the pain of everyone else. One day, maybe. But not now. Not now.
Then she was alone again, just as she had asked earlier. Alone to ponder fate. Alone to build scenarios of hope in her mind. Alone to pray. The sun pushed boldly through the blinds, flooding the room with light and warmth, but it could not penetrate the dark and cold of her soul. Her eyes found the television once more, watched the same images play, each scene twisting her guts, tearing her heart.
Grassy knoll.
The Mall.
Dallas.
Washington.
Parkland Memorial.
George Washington University.
Too many similarities. Too much pain.
Still, despite the footage, despite the comparisons, despite the speculation by media-hired medical commentators, there was one significant difference between November of 1963 and January of 2004.
Josiah Bartlet wasn't dead.
Not yet.
POV: Donna Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I guess they are still Aaron Sorkin's. I hope John Wells takes good care of them.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Eight A West Wing Story
by MAHC
November 22, 1963. The file footage of those haunting visions flashed continuously across the television screens of the world, mixing like an eerie harbinger with the newest, and similarly unthinkable tragedy. In one moment JFK was jerking forward, the infamous "amber burst" haloing him. In the next, Josiah Bartlet was convulsing backwards, his own splatter of red a horrifying repeat of 40-year-old brutality.
The CNN shot had become the Zapruder film of this generation, capturing the morbid attention of every viewer, compelling them to watch, even as their stomachs clenched in sickness and fury. This was their President. Their leader. Their guy. How could anyone dare attack them in such a personal way?
But if the country felt so intimately assaulted, Donna Moss Bartlet felt as if a jagged knife had ripped through her body and hacked out a part of her. And, indeed, it had. Her other half. Her strength. Her steady rock. How could she drag herself from the despair that strangled her now? How could she face the un-faceable?
The staff stepped past her quietly, offering coffee or water or whatever she might need or want. But they couldn't provide what she needed. No one could. Not C.J. Not Leo. Not the girls, frantically gathered up and brought to the hospital, their stunned faces tight with disbelief, with pain, with anger. Not even her parents, finally on their way under the heavy protection of the secret service, their well-meaning words no longer the comforting weight they had been when she was a child. The innocence was gone, now. What she faced only one other had dealt with to any extent. And Abbey Bartlet wasn't there to help.
"Hey."
A hand dropped gently on her shoulder and she drew her gaze away from the television screen to meet the reddened eyes of Zoey Bartlet. The youngest daughter of the fallen President didn't pretend to smile, didn't force any hollow words. But her touch held strength, determination – so much like her father.
Donna nodded her response.
"I got you a breast pump," she said, indicating the table on which the compact device now rested.
How strange that she would have to think of that, but life went on. Her body needed to release the milk; her son needed to be fed. For security reasons, he remained at the White House. Ellie had volunteered to go back, to care for him, and Donna felt bad that she would be trying to wrestle a bottle down him. Even after several weeks of effort, he remained discontent with anything but his mother's flesh. Still, there was really no other choice now. She tried a smile; didn't know if it reached her lips.
"Thanks."
"Yeah. You eaten?"
Eaten? Food? Her stomach rebelled at the very thought. "I'm okay."
"Donna – "
Don't snap, she told herself. Zoey is hurting, too. "Really. I'll get something in a little while."
"Sure." But neither of them believed it. Zoey gave her a final pat before leaving the room.
Donna knew she had to move, had to get up out of the chair and face the world. They would expect nothing less. What had Jackie Kennedy done? She had shown grace and poise and dignity. She had set the bar for any future First Ladies unfortunate enough to find themselves in similar situations. She didn't pretend to be Jackie Kennedy. But she would not fail to do her duty. She would not show anything less than control of herself to America – to the world.
"Mrs. Bartlet?"
Willing the blood to keep pumping through her heart, she turned again toward the door. It was possible that Ron Butterfield's expression had hardened completely to stone. Only the eyes showed the frustration she knew he felt.
"I know this is not a good time – "
No, she thought, almost laughing at the understatement. No, it's really not a good time. "What is it?"
"I have some questions about – about the attack."
God, please don't. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to think about it. But, damn it, that was all she could think about. Even when the TV wasn't replaying the shooting, she saw it over and over in her own mind, unable to shake the brutally horrifying reality of what had happened.
"What do you want to know?"
He breathed a little easier at her acquiescence and sat ramrod straight in a chair next to her. "Jonah said you were watching the crowd when the shot was fired."
Was she? Snapshots of smiling faces popped into her memory, adoring admirers, cheering followers. Yes. Yes, she was. "That's right."
"Did you see anything unusual? Anything out of place? Anything you weren't accustomed to?"
Anything she wasn't accustomed to? Well, she wasn't really accustomed yet to thousands of people jostling to shake her hand, to touch her husband's coat, to get a smile or wave from both of them. She wasn't accustomed to dragging bodyguards everywhere she went. She wasn't accustomed to having her mail checked before she got to read it. She wasn't accustomed to being called for interviews by Peter Jennings, and Tom Brokaw, and Dan Rather, and Wolf Blitzer all at the same time. And she sure as hell wasn't accustomed to watching as her husband was violently struck down right in front of a stunned world.
The scream ballooned in her aching chest, but she managed to deflate it before the eruption. It wasn't Ron's fault, really, even though as head of the President's detail, he could very easily take the blame. But Jed knew the risks; he just hadn't believed them.
After a long, tense moment, she shook her head. "No." It was all she could manage.
He nodded, sensing not to push, but she felt the urgency bleeding from him, could almost smell the guilt on his skin. With effort, she laid a hand on his arm.
"Any word on the – on the shooter?" She couldn't bring herself to say "assassin." Giving voice to it would make it too real.
He flinched. "No."
"How could he just vanish?" she asked. How could someone who had just fired a rifle on The Mall get away? Hadn't others been caught? John Wilkes Booth. Charles Guiteau. Leon Czolgosz. Lee Harvey Oswalt. John Hinkley, Jr. Why not this time? How could they not catch him? How could they not punish him? How could they not rip out his heart like he had done to her –
Clutching at the escaping shreds of her control, she took a deep breath. "You did your best, Ron."
But that reassurance seemed only to crack the hard façade. The eyes reddened with the strain of unshed tears. Not good enough, they said. Not damned good enough.
As if her touch had burned him, he pulled away, standing and drawing the mask of formality over his face. "We'll find him, ma'am," he promised, voice tight, words clipped, not daring anything more.
He had spun and escaped before she could give him even an insincere smile. Just as well. She didn't know if she could have managed it anyway. So the Secret Service didn't know. There was an assassin on the loose, a country in turmoil, a world poised on the brink of war. No one had any answers. And the one man they wanted to look to couldn't provide them.
For some time she stared across the room, noting the pattern the breaking sunlight threw onto the floor. It could have been a few minutes or an hour, but at least they were leaving her alone. She wanted to be alone, wanted to let her body float in the surreal fantasy that as long as no one said anything nothing had happened. She wanted to escape the constant bustle of a staff trying too hard to help but only succeeding in agitating her more. Too much movement. Too much chaos. There would be time for that later. Her brain needed to think.
But apparently they weren't comfortable with leaving her totally to herself. The door edged open again. "Donna."
Leo stepped inside, looking more haggard and rumpled than she had ever seen him. His double-breasted suit coat hung open, his tie, while still knotted, was no longer square at his throat. The lines of his face had lengthened, etching pain, sorrow, and anger deep into his skin.
"How're you doing?" he asked.
How do you think? How the hell do you thing I'm doing? Again, she forced the bitter response back. It wasn't Leo's fault, really. At least she tried to tell herself that.
"Okay," she lied.
He stepped just inside the door. "Everyone is sending their thoughts and prayers. I think maybe the only country we haven't heard from is Qumar. Big surprise." He tried to smile, a sad upturn of his lips.
She nodded.
"You need anything?"
My husband. "No."
"Liz will be back later. She's making arrangements."
"Yeah." It occurred to her that she had given him only one-word answers so far, but even that much response felt like an ice pick driving into her brain.
"Donna, I – "
Her upraised hand stopped him, unable to hear more. "Not now, Leo, okay? I just – not now."
He nodded, and she tried to feel bad about the moisture in his eyes. But she couldn't. She hurt too much herself to take on the pain of everyone else. One day, maybe. But not now. Not now.
Then she was alone again, just as she had asked earlier. Alone to ponder fate. Alone to build scenarios of hope in her mind. Alone to pray. The sun pushed boldly through the blinds, flooding the room with light and warmth, but it could not penetrate the dark and cold of her soul. Her eyes found the television once more, watched the same images play, each scene twisting her guts, tearing her heart.
Grassy knoll.
The Mall.
Dallas.
Washington.
Parkland Memorial.
George Washington University.
Too many similarities. Too much pain.
Still, despite the footage, despite the comparisons, despite the speculation by media-hired medical commentators, there was one significant difference between November of 1963 and January of 2004.
Josiah Bartlet wasn't dead.
Not yet.