POV: Donna
Spoilers: None
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Jed and Donna are not my creation, sorry to say.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Thirteen A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Next week.
The State of the Union was next week.
Donna dragged her stunned gaze away from Toby's uncertain one to rest on her husband, to take in the swelling around his eyes, the slice of stitches three inches from his brow to past his ear, the streaks of green and purple bruising down the side of his face.
Next week?
No. Not even next month.
No one spoke for at least a minute after the innocent declaration, so long that the communications director finally twisted his mouth and asked, "What?"
Donna looked at Leo.
Leo looked at her, then at Jed, before turning back to Toby. "Uh, we might need to postpone the State of the Union."
Lips pursed, the speech writer let his eyes shift among the other three people. The silence grew until he nodded and said, "I understand that the President needs to recover. I just thought it would make a strong statement for him to speak to the country as soon as possible." He paused, then added quickly, "IF he's able, of course."
"We need to postpone," Leo repeated firmly, not looking at the President.
Donna chanced a glimpse toward her husband and the ache in his eyes pricked an ache in her own heart. This was torture for him.
She saw a twinge twist Toby's lips. "You know I would never suggest anything that would endanger the President's health, but, due respect, Leo, if the President is able to stand and be reasonably articulate, we need to do this on time. It's important to the country, maybe even to the world, to show that he is in power, that he is in control."
Reasonably articulate. Easier said than done.
"No," Leo said, his voice moving from firm to final.
"I don't – "The communications director cocked his jaw for a moment, then sniffed. "Can you tell me why?"
"The President is recovering from a serious injury as a result of an assassination attempt. I think the American public will cut him a little slack in this situation." Leo's grasp of sarcasm was as good as Jed's.
Donna looked at her husband again. Throughout the conversation, the topic of discussion had bowed his head, one hand pressed over the temple wound. She wondered what was going through his mind, hoped his thought processes worked more smoothly than his speech. His eyes were closed, and she was beginning to think he had tuned them all out. Then he spoke.
"No." His eyes came up, harder and sharper than they had been since he woke. His jaw jutted out defiantly. His body straightened in the bed. Disheveled, swollen, unshaven, and bandaged, Josiah Bartlet could still manage to look imposing.
"Sir?" Leo asked, warning cutting through his tone.
But the President ignored it. "No."
She saw that Toby sensed an ally. He slid in eagerly, ignoring Leo's glare. "Perhaps, sir, I could just let you see a draft, and – "
Jed nodded once. "Yes."
With a quick glance at the Chief of Staff, Toby continued. "This afternoon, I could bring it in – "
"No." This was Leo now, with an imposing presence of his own. "We'll postpone."
Donna watched the uncertainty on the younger man's face as he suddenly realized he was the catalyst for a supreme battle of wills. And between Leo McGarry and Jed Bartlet, he wouldn't take either odds.
After only a few seconds, the President pushed forward slightly. With a firm tone, and a direct address to Leo, he said, "No." Another shift drew a grimace to his face, which the others saw before he could wipe it off. Nevertheless, he added, "We'll – do – this."
The words were stilted, but not enough to make his impairment immediately clear. Still, Donna saw the frown tickle its way across Toby's face.
Leo cut his eyes to the third man and watched him closely.
With only a slight hesitation, Toby asked, "Sir?"
"We – will – do – the – sp-speech – on – time," Jed declared, the effort bringing beads of sweat to his forehead.
This time there was no missing the shocking delivery. Toby stared at the President, his face giving every indication of a man who had just been kicked in the stomach. Almost inaudibly, he murmured, "Oh my God."
"We'll postpone," Leo repeated in a voice that showed he didn't expect a protest anymore.
And he didn't get one – at least not from Toby. Jed, however –
"No. T-Toby's – right," the President managed. "I – n-need to – look – st- strong."
Yeah, you look like Hercules right now, Donna thought with conflicting irritation and compassion.
Donna heard another "Oh my God" from the writer before he cleared his throat and said, "Mister President, I didn't realize – I mean, I think Leo's right, sir. Let's postpone for a few weeks, until – until – "
That dark frown shadowed her husband's face. Donna had seen it before, knew it preceded an unbending back and steel will. Jed had made up his mind, nevermind if the idea was ludicrous.
"I – can – do – this," he insisted, with as much presidential assertiveness as his body would allow him. "I – need – to – do – this."
Dear God, he was serious. He really wanted to stand before the world and deliver the most important speech of the year in a week's time when he couldn't say his name in one breath, when he hadn't even made the first attempt to place his feet on the floor and stand for a minute, much less an hour.
"Jed," she tried, hoping her softer approach would have more influence.
But she saw no weakening of his decision. "I – have – to," he insisted, and she knew he meant for more than just the nation's benefit.
Toby blew out a breath and spoke up, his history of candor with the President serving him when no one stopped him. "Mister President, you must know that this speech is not going to be about the State of the Union."
He paused, let them all wait a beat. "It will be about the State of the President."
Donna flinched. He was right. Everyone would be scrutinizing him, looking at the vivid scar that sliced across his temple, noting the tenderness with which he treated his torn left arm, searching for any minute signal of weakness, of confusion, of lingering effects. At best, they would see a determined, recovering President who tried not to give in to his injuries. At worst, they would hear the stammerings of a brain-damaged victim.
Leo was right. They had to postpone. No doubt about it.
***
"The President is recovering nicely and plans are still on schedule for him to deliver the State of the Union speech three days from now."
Donna sighed as she listened to C.J.'s casual announcement, amazed as always with the press secretary's poker face. Three days from now. She knew as well as any of them that the President had a long way to go if he was going to pull off the miracle he had committed himself to, despite the tedious sessions he endured with the speech therapist. If anything, he left those more frustrated than ever.
What had he been thinking to profess the ability to be ready in a week? What had they been thinking to let him convince them of it? But he was convincing, had persuaded them all against their better judgment – against the painfully obvious – that he could do it.
Leo wanted to postpone. C.J. wanted to postpone. Josh advised postponement. Even Doctor Egris suggested it might be better to wait, although he assured them the appearance would not endanger the President's physical health.
But Jed Bartlet did not want to postpone.
So, since his return from the hospital, he and Toby had sat for hours at a time in the Residence study, writing and practicing the final draft. They had come up with a type of verbal shorthand, the President conveying in an efficiency of words what he wanted, Toby converting that to more eloquent prose. Even after Toby left, Jed forced himself to focus on one paragraph at a time, to push the letters past his lips. But the delivery was still stilted, still achingly slow, still completely un-Bartlet.
Donna had listened to his deliberate struggles, yearned to be able to help, to wave some magic wand and restore the eloquence, the ease to his words. But she couldn't. She couldn't make the speech for him. It would be his ideas, his words, his voice.
As C.J. wound up the conference, Donna cocked an ear toward the closed door of Jed's study. He and Toby had been working since daybreak, just the two of them. Occasionally she heard their voices, Toby's strident, persuasive, Jed's warmer, slower, but no less determined. Mostly, however, and uncharacteristically, things remained quiet between them.
The clock chimed the ¾ hour dutifully, and she looked up, realizing she had lost track of time. Dear Lord, it was almost noon and Jed had not even had breakfast yet. Enough was enough. She could be stubborn, too. Putting away the briefings she had only been ignoring, she eased the door open quietly, not wanting just to burst in. Subtly had its uses.
Jed stood at the window, back to the door, hand pressed to his head. In pain? In frustration? In thought? She couldn't tell. Toby sat in a chair. No pen, no paper. Just listening, filing the President's verbal ideas away in that quirky brain of his.
"Through – out the – twentieth – century --," Jed managed, his speech still labored, "s-small – groups – of – m – m – "
"Men," Toby supplied, then blanched when he saw the President's sharp glare.
"Men," Jed ground out. "S-seized – control – of – g-great – nations, b- built – armies – and – arsenals – " He stopped, taking a breath, rubbing his right hand gingerly over his left forearm.
Frustration crackled around him, and even though she couldn't see his face, the tense set of his shoulders broadcast his agitation.
"Let's take a break, Mister President," Toby suggested, his eye catching Donna's.
Ignoring him, Jed lifted the papers again, picking up where he had stopped. "– and – set – out – to – dom-dominate – the weak – and – intim—idate – the world."
At this pace, the State of the Union would rival the Oscars for airing length. He was trying. Dear God, he was trying. The dampness of his shirt down the middle of his back showed that. But if he tried to go into the House Chamber and inspire anyone, he would fail resoundingly.
Surely she wasn't the only one who saw that. From the shadow of despair on Toby's face, she could tell her opinion wasn't unique.
"Sir," the writer offered again, "let's take a break. Maybe we can pick up later today."
"No." Stubborn.
"But, Mister President – "
"No!" This time the answer was accompanied by a startling slap against the desk. "We – don't – have – time," Jed reminded him.
"Due, respect, sir, but we don't have time to run you into the ground. We've been at this since dawn."
They stared at each other now, hard will up against hard will.
"I'll come back later, Mister President," Toby said finally, and Donna heard the entreaty in his voice. Please don't argue, sir.
Silently, Jed turned away.
So Toby left him, staring at the window. As he stepped past her into the hall, he leaned in close and said, "He did better this morning. He's tired now."
Donna tried to smile, but she couldn't. Toby in a comforting mode was just too much to deal with. Instead, she nodded in thanks. With an awkward pat on her shoulder, he left her to deal with a stubborn husband who needed someone to force him into a much-needed break from the intensity of his efforts. And she was just the wife to do it.
But as she entered the room, she heard him groan, a garbled snarl that cracked the air and sent a surge of adrenaline into her chest. She stared, slack-jawed, as he ripped the speech into shreds that fluttered from his clutching fists like twisted ticker tape. He sank to his knees, hands in his hair, almost incoherent strings of mumbled phrases spilling from his lips.
With a jolt, she realized he was still reciting the speech, or trying to, anyway. But the words fought him, rebelled against the rhythm he grabbed at, slapped away the meter and pitch he was so accustomed to having at his slightest command. He couldn't control his own voice, his own words.
She froze, horrified, wanting to soothe him, yearning to comfort him, to assure him that it didn't matter to her if he couldn't speak at all. But she hesitated until she heard the startling muffled sounds. Looking closer at the broad back, she realized that his shoulders shook in quiet sobs. Dear God. He was crying. She had never really seen him cry before. Not even when Abbey died, although she had to assume he must have expressed his deep grief privately. The fear, the pain, the frustration. Some of it – all of it – had finally hit him, had torn away his carefully placed shielding, his measured confidence, and pierced the soft underbelly of his protective armor.
"Damn – it!" he muttered, catching his breath and sitting back on his heels.
Heartbroken, she couldn't hold back any longer and fell to her knees beside him, catching his shoulders in her hands, pressing her body against his side. He jerked away at the unexpected touch, his lungs fighting to gain control of the gasps.
"God – Donna!" he spat, falling against the desk and almost upsetting a teetering lamp as he turned away from her, out of her grasp. "No – "
"Jed, it's okay." She tried to draw him back to her, but he wrenched free and struggled to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath when he knocked the injured arm against the edge of the desk.
"Jed?"
"Go – away," he repeated, softer this time, pleading, voice breaking, still not meeting her gaze. "Please."
She realized that this was an intensely private moment. He had thought he was alone, and she knew the most devastating thing for him would be to see her there staring at him, pity in her eyes. But she couldn't leave him. Not now.
So she wiped the pity away and touched him again, hands closing once more around his shoulders. "No," she whispered in the voice she used to comfort J.T. when he was at his most agitated. "I'm not going away, Josiah Bartlet. I'm never going away."
As if her declaration freed him from any pretense, he collapsed onto the floor, legs crossed Indian-style, head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. Fighting her own sobs, she held him, whispered to him, stroked his face, his back. He rocked back and forth, leaning against her body, letting her brush through his hair, like a mother with a child.
Finally, he slowed, allowing himself to rest in the warmth of her embrace, until he took a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head.
"I – can't – do it," he admitted, his tone incredulous.
Donna clenched her jaw. She wondered if those words had ever come from Jed Bartlet's lips, wondered if he ever really considered that he couldn't do something.
"It's okay," she assured him. "You don't have to."
"I do," he insisted, running a hand through the thatch of hair across his eyes. "I – need to."
"Your body's not ready. It's not an admittance of weakness. It's just too soon." But even as she said that, she knew he wasn't letting himself believe it.
"I couldn't even – get one – sentence out."
"You're tired," she reminded him, rising to her knees so she could massage the tight muscles of his shoulders. "Rest and try later."
"Leo's right. We – should have – postponed."
"Maybe," she conceded. "You still can." She felt the tiniest bit of give beneath her fingers.
Her hand rose as he sighed. "But, Toby's – right – too. World reaction – rests on – how we – handle this. If I – am – obviously not – destroyed, they lose – credibility. They lose – influence."
True enough, but she felt obligated to remind him of another consequence. "If you don't come across as completely strong and sound, if you are – damaged – they could claim victory."
His head arched back, letting her firm touch ease away some of the agitation. "Whoever – they are."
"I thought the FBI had tagged North Korea."
Jed grunted, almost a laugh. "Not officially. Without – irre-futable evidence, we – can't very well – accuse a sovereign – country of plotting to as-sassinate the – President of the United States."
His words, she suddenly realized, were coming just the tiniest bit faster, as if the emotional release had loosened the strangle his brain held on them. "Jed?"
"Hmm?"
"What does it feel like when you try to speak, when you try to say something and can't?"
He winced a little, maybe not wanting to think too much about it, but answered her anyway. "I just can't – seem – to make my mouth work – like I – want it to."
So simple a description. Too bad the solution wasn't as easy.
But she smiled and leaned over to kiss him, initially just in comfort, but almost immediately letting the first chaste touch grow into a bolder stroke of her lips on his.
"I dunno," she told him when she pulled back. "It works like I want it to."
He grinned, the first real grin she had seen since he woke up in the hospital. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah." Her fingers traced the curve of his mouth.
"I think I – need more – therapy." The message was thrilling, but perhaps even more was the fact that he delivered it with several words strung together, at a smoother pace. She wondered if he had even noticed.
She leaned in again, concentrating on taking his breath as she sucked on his lower lip, then ran her tongue over the reddened flesh.
He swallowed. "Uh, Donna, I'm not – sure we should – "
Her eyes closed, she listened to the speech pattern, noted the definite improvement. With his concentration focused on something else, with him not trying so damned hard, the natural ability had been able to reassert a little more influence. He still didn't realize it.
But her logic told her that was enough. He was still recovering. The doctors had advised him to stick with non-strenuous activities.
Besides, they weren't even in their bedroom. They were on the floor of the President's study.
But she had started something. "Not sure we should what?" she asked coyly, slipping a hand inside his shirt to rub across a nipple.
He sucked in a quick breath at the sensation and closed his eyes. "Um, not sure – we should stop," he decided.
"I'm sure," she told him, and he opened his eyes again, uncertainty clouding them. But she smiled and finished, "I'm sure we shouldn't stop."
"No," he agreed. "Never stop."
Her own concentration on his speech was broken when he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, moving into the pressure, returning her warm caress with a heat of his own. Before she really realized what was happening, his legs had uncrossed, and their bodies had stretched out onto to the floor with more than just their lips touching.
No. Wait.
Some tiny spark of caution flickered at the back of her brain. But she couldn't make herself break away from the deliciousness of his touch, from the hot tingle she got as her hips pressed against his and she felt the hardening ridge pulse beneath his pants.
"Jed," she murmured against his neck, making a feeble attempt to pull back.
He didn't answer. He might not be able to work his mouth right to speak, but he sure as hell was working it right in other ways. She felt the frustration of earlier transform into an energy that throbbed between them, insistent, unyielding, and she began to understand that it didn't really matter now what the doctors had said. He needed this, needed the emotional connection, the physical completion. Maybe he needed the reassurance that there was something he could still do well.
And, indeed, he could.
His hands slipped into her pants and she gasped, her body caught up in the sudden eruption of desire neither had planned. As he pushed the material from her hips, that cautious spark flickered once more, then died. Frantically, she tore at the fastening of his jeans, jerking down the zipper and fumbling inside his boxers to curl her fingers around the thickening shaft.
"Donna," he groaned, arching into her grip.
Deep within her brain, logic and restraint made one last argument for stopping, but disappeared as soon as she got his jeans below his knees and felt him thrusting up hard against her body.
Kicking off her pants and panties, she straddled him. Neither of them could stop now, and she hoped they were not doing irreparable damage somehow, but she figured if his body was not ready, it would not have responded so forcefully, so eagerly.
They were both too far gone to attempt the usual finesse. When she sank onto him, he began moving immediately, unable to hold back even if she needed him to. But she didn't. She was there with him, groaning, and gasping, and grabbing at his shoulders to pull him even harder against her body as he hit each stroke with increasingly frantic thrusts.
Usually, he made sure she was close before he allowed himself to reach the edge, but this time he couldn't control the momentum, and she heard him moan as his body stiffened. The familiar hot sensation burst inside her and threw her into the first pulses of orgasm, as she arched into his continuing climax, her own cries in rhythm with the convulsions that rocked her.
With a final push, he collapsed, arms flung to the side, breath coming in gasps. Her hands shook as she stroked up and down his sides, letting her head rest on his chest. God, that was intense. He lay there, still inside her, his pants still just below his knees. They must make an interesting sight, she thought with a chuckle, then jerked when she remembered that intrusion was not impossible. After all, her brother had been allowed to leave the hospital just the night before, and was sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom.
She pushed herself up, feeling the accustomed regret as he slid from her. "Jed?"
A grunt was her only answer.
She ran a hand over his cheek. "Jed?"
A louder grunt.
"Jed, I think Gino was looking for you earlier."
He sat up so fast, she hoped he hadn't hurt himself. "Not fair," he protested, but his tone was anything but harsh. In fact, he sounded rather chagrined as lay back again and lifted his hips to tug the boxers and jeans back up.
Leaning back against the desk, he smiled at her, an almost timid smirk, full of apology. "Donna, I – I didn't mean for that to – happen. I'm – I'm sorry."
She smiled, sitting up to run a hand through his scattered hair. "I'm not."
He leaned down and kissed her softly, the fierce need satisfied for the moment. "I guess I'm – in trouble now."
With a satisfied grunt, she stretched out and grabbed her rumpled pants and panties, standing to pull them back on. "With Doctor Egris?" she asked.
He nodded.
She grinned. "He doesn't have to know."
But when he turned his head, the grin disappeared. With the area already swelling again, the stitches showed signs of strain, and a few small beads of red oozed from the wound.
"Jed!" she cried, kneeling beside him, alarmed, guilty. Why had she allowed this? What had she been thinking? But she knew what she had been thinking. She had been thinking that she needed him so much she couldn't think. And now look.
"It's okay, "he assured her, dabbing gingerly at his head, unable to avoid a wince when he touched the tender area.
"It's not. I shouldn't have – I'm sorry, Jed."
Now he grinned. "I'm not." And his lips were on hers again, not quite as desperate, but still passionate, nevertheless.
At first she wasn't sure there had really been a knock at the door, but by the time the slight creak indicated it was opening, it was too late.
"Mister Pres – " The unexpected greeting was choked off as their interloper froze, doorknob still in his grasp.
Oh God!
They both jerked away from each other like teenagers caught on her parent's couch. Ron Butterfield stared at them for a moment, obviously not prepared for the sight of the President and First Lady entwined on the floor of the Chief Executive's study. If he had been five minutes earlier –
She smoothed her hair self-consciously and cut her eyes down to make sure everything was covered. Clothes on. Good. Nothing they could do about the obvious aroma of sex, though. But what the hell. Ron would have to be blind anyway not to realize what he had interrupted – or just missed interrupting, thankfully.
Jed turned toward the agent. Donna winced as she got a good look at the oozing railroad tracks of stitches again.
Three days.
"Ron." The acknowledgement held many messages.
The tall head of the POTUS Detail finally entered, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry, sir. Mrs. Bartlet, I apologize for the intrusion. I didn't realize that – "
It was a rare day when Ron Butterfield was unnerved. Donna fought the urge to grin, resisted looking at her husband, because she knew she wouldn't be able to hold a straight face at all then.
"Come in, Ron," Jed invited casually, grabbing the edge of the desk and pulling himself up from the floor, as if the agent had interrupted nothing less innocent than a game of marbles.
"I can come back."
"We're finished," the President said, and winked at Donna when they both saw the flush cross the agent's face. She grinned at the ease of both his words and his body.
But he had taken only a step or two when he paled and swayed, catching himself with a hand on the back of a chair.
Damn. She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.
"Jed?" Donna had his right elbow just as Ron ignored protocol and caught the left.
"I'm – okay," he insisted, pulling away from both of them. "Just stood too –fast."
"Are you sure, Mister President?" Ron asked.
Jed allowed a glare toward his agent. It was out of character for Ron to question a Presidential brush off, even one that didn't fool anyone. But it showed the depth of concern for his boss. Donna loved him for it.
"Yes," Jed hissed, but whether the snap was a result of frustration or pain, she couldn't tell.
Ron straightened and dropped his hands so they no longer reached out to steady his charge. "It's about Mikki Chul."
Jed lifted his chin a little, like he did when he needed to brace himself. "Go."
With a nod, Ron began. "First let me go over the demographic information. Marine Corps records show that she was born in San Francisco in 1972 to an American mother and Korean father. They moved to Los Angeles when she was seven, where the father apparently abandoned the family."
"Didn't you know that already?" Donna wondered. What did this help?
"If you'll bear with me, Mrs. Bartlet," he requested. "There are some new things."
"Go on," Jed ordered, leaning against the chair back now, pointedly discouraging any assistance.
"At eighteen, she finished high school and decided to seek out her father and his family in South Korea, traveling there in July of 1990. She obtained a job with a magazine doing research for about a year, then returned to the U.S. and secured an appointment to the Naval Academy through a Representative from California. After a year and a half, however, her mother's death forced her to drop out. She returned to Korea and disappeared."
Jed frowned. "Disappeared?"
"Yes, sir. For about a year until she enlisted with the Marines in August of 1994. She graduated with honors from Parris Island in November and was sent to rifleman school. Her record in the Corps is spotless. She mustered out in May of 2002."
"And somehow ended up the next year working for Josh," Donna finished. "Interesting, Ron, but not nothing you didn't already know about her. What I want to find out is why she threatened us. Why did she try to – " She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. "– to kill the President?"
But he didn't say he didn't know. He didn't say because the President is a public figure and practically invites assassination from a wide assortment of lunatics. He didn't say anything she expected him to say.
He simply said, "She didn't."
Jed's head cocked slightly, and he reached up absently to touch the tender wound. "What?"
Not even blinking, Ron said, "Mikki Chul didn't try to kill you, Mister President."
What kind of nonsense was this? "She sure as hell made it look good," Donna snapped.
But Jed had pushed off the chair back now, his eyes narrowed. "What do you – have, Ron?"
"Interpol has a confirmed clipping from the Seoul Sinmun newspaper for January 12, 1994. An obituary."
Dear God. Another murder was connected to this?
They had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did. "Mikki Chul was killed January 11, 1994, in a traffic accident in Seoul."
The First Couple stared at Ron for a long moment.
Ironically, it was Jed who found his voice first. "What – are you saying?" he demanded.
The agent softened his voice. "I am saying, Mister President, that Mikki Chul did not shoot you. She couldn't have. She's been dead nine years."
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Thirteen A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Next week.
The State of the Union was next week.
Donna dragged her stunned gaze away from Toby's uncertain one to rest on her husband, to take in the swelling around his eyes, the slice of stitches three inches from his brow to past his ear, the streaks of green and purple bruising down the side of his face.
Next week?
No. Not even next month.
No one spoke for at least a minute after the innocent declaration, so long that the communications director finally twisted his mouth and asked, "What?"
Donna looked at Leo.
Leo looked at her, then at Jed, before turning back to Toby. "Uh, we might need to postpone the State of the Union."
Lips pursed, the speech writer let his eyes shift among the other three people. The silence grew until he nodded and said, "I understand that the President needs to recover. I just thought it would make a strong statement for him to speak to the country as soon as possible." He paused, then added quickly, "IF he's able, of course."
"We need to postpone," Leo repeated firmly, not looking at the President.
Donna chanced a glimpse toward her husband and the ache in his eyes pricked an ache in her own heart. This was torture for him.
She saw a twinge twist Toby's lips. "You know I would never suggest anything that would endanger the President's health, but, due respect, Leo, if the President is able to stand and be reasonably articulate, we need to do this on time. It's important to the country, maybe even to the world, to show that he is in power, that he is in control."
Reasonably articulate. Easier said than done.
"No," Leo said, his voice moving from firm to final.
"I don't – "The communications director cocked his jaw for a moment, then sniffed. "Can you tell me why?"
"The President is recovering from a serious injury as a result of an assassination attempt. I think the American public will cut him a little slack in this situation." Leo's grasp of sarcasm was as good as Jed's.
Donna looked at her husband again. Throughout the conversation, the topic of discussion had bowed his head, one hand pressed over the temple wound. She wondered what was going through his mind, hoped his thought processes worked more smoothly than his speech. His eyes were closed, and she was beginning to think he had tuned them all out. Then he spoke.
"No." His eyes came up, harder and sharper than they had been since he woke. His jaw jutted out defiantly. His body straightened in the bed. Disheveled, swollen, unshaven, and bandaged, Josiah Bartlet could still manage to look imposing.
"Sir?" Leo asked, warning cutting through his tone.
But the President ignored it. "No."
She saw that Toby sensed an ally. He slid in eagerly, ignoring Leo's glare. "Perhaps, sir, I could just let you see a draft, and – "
Jed nodded once. "Yes."
With a quick glance at the Chief of Staff, Toby continued. "This afternoon, I could bring it in – "
"No." This was Leo now, with an imposing presence of his own. "We'll postpone."
Donna watched the uncertainty on the younger man's face as he suddenly realized he was the catalyst for a supreme battle of wills. And between Leo McGarry and Jed Bartlet, he wouldn't take either odds.
After only a few seconds, the President pushed forward slightly. With a firm tone, and a direct address to Leo, he said, "No." Another shift drew a grimace to his face, which the others saw before he could wipe it off. Nevertheless, he added, "We'll – do – this."
The words were stilted, but not enough to make his impairment immediately clear. Still, Donna saw the frown tickle its way across Toby's face.
Leo cut his eyes to the third man and watched him closely.
With only a slight hesitation, Toby asked, "Sir?"
"We – will – do – the – sp-speech – on – time," Jed declared, the effort bringing beads of sweat to his forehead.
This time there was no missing the shocking delivery. Toby stared at the President, his face giving every indication of a man who had just been kicked in the stomach. Almost inaudibly, he murmured, "Oh my God."
"We'll postpone," Leo repeated in a voice that showed he didn't expect a protest anymore.
And he didn't get one – at least not from Toby. Jed, however –
"No. T-Toby's – right," the President managed. "I – n-need to – look – st- strong."
Yeah, you look like Hercules right now, Donna thought with conflicting irritation and compassion.
Donna heard another "Oh my God" from the writer before he cleared his throat and said, "Mister President, I didn't realize – I mean, I think Leo's right, sir. Let's postpone for a few weeks, until – until – "
That dark frown shadowed her husband's face. Donna had seen it before, knew it preceded an unbending back and steel will. Jed had made up his mind, nevermind if the idea was ludicrous.
"I – can – do – this," he insisted, with as much presidential assertiveness as his body would allow him. "I – need – to – do – this."
Dear God, he was serious. He really wanted to stand before the world and deliver the most important speech of the year in a week's time when he couldn't say his name in one breath, when he hadn't even made the first attempt to place his feet on the floor and stand for a minute, much less an hour.
"Jed," she tried, hoping her softer approach would have more influence.
But she saw no weakening of his decision. "I – have – to," he insisted, and she knew he meant for more than just the nation's benefit.
Toby blew out a breath and spoke up, his history of candor with the President serving him when no one stopped him. "Mister President, you must know that this speech is not going to be about the State of the Union."
He paused, let them all wait a beat. "It will be about the State of the President."
Donna flinched. He was right. Everyone would be scrutinizing him, looking at the vivid scar that sliced across his temple, noting the tenderness with which he treated his torn left arm, searching for any minute signal of weakness, of confusion, of lingering effects. At best, they would see a determined, recovering President who tried not to give in to his injuries. At worst, they would hear the stammerings of a brain-damaged victim.
Leo was right. They had to postpone. No doubt about it.
***
"The President is recovering nicely and plans are still on schedule for him to deliver the State of the Union speech three days from now."
Donna sighed as she listened to C.J.'s casual announcement, amazed as always with the press secretary's poker face. Three days from now. She knew as well as any of them that the President had a long way to go if he was going to pull off the miracle he had committed himself to, despite the tedious sessions he endured with the speech therapist. If anything, he left those more frustrated than ever.
What had he been thinking to profess the ability to be ready in a week? What had they been thinking to let him convince them of it? But he was convincing, had persuaded them all against their better judgment – against the painfully obvious – that he could do it.
Leo wanted to postpone. C.J. wanted to postpone. Josh advised postponement. Even Doctor Egris suggested it might be better to wait, although he assured them the appearance would not endanger the President's physical health.
But Jed Bartlet did not want to postpone.
So, since his return from the hospital, he and Toby had sat for hours at a time in the Residence study, writing and practicing the final draft. They had come up with a type of verbal shorthand, the President conveying in an efficiency of words what he wanted, Toby converting that to more eloquent prose. Even after Toby left, Jed forced himself to focus on one paragraph at a time, to push the letters past his lips. But the delivery was still stilted, still achingly slow, still completely un-Bartlet.
Donna had listened to his deliberate struggles, yearned to be able to help, to wave some magic wand and restore the eloquence, the ease to his words. But she couldn't. She couldn't make the speech for him. It would be his ideas, his words, his voice.
As C.J. wound up the conference, Donna cocked an ear toward the closed door of Jed's study. He and Toby had been working since daybreak, just the two of them. Occasionally she heard their voices, Toby's strident, persuasive, Jed's warmer, slower, but no less determined. Mostly, however, and uncharacteristically, things remained quiet between them.
The clock chimed the ¾ hour dutifully, and she looked up, realizing she had lost track of time. Dear Lord, it was almost noon and Jed had not even had breakfast yet. Enough was enough. She could be stubborn, too. Putting away the briefings she had only been ignoring, she eased the door open quietly, not wanting just to burst in. Subtly had its uses.
Jed stood at the window, back to the door, hand pressed to his head. In pain? In frustration? In thought? She couldn't tell. Toby sat in a chair. No pen, no paper. Just listening, filing the President's verbal ideas away in that quirky brain of his.
"Through – out the – twentieth – century --," Jed managed, his speech still labored, "s-small – groups – of – m – m – "
"Men," Toby supplied, then blanched when he saw the President's sharp glare.
"Men," Jed ground out. "S-seized – control – of – g-great – nations, b- built – armies – and – arsenals – " He stopped, taking a breath, rubbing his right hand gingerly over his left forearm.
Frustration crackled around him, and even though she couldn't see his face, the tense set of his shoulders broadcast his agitation.
"Let's take a break, Mister President," Toby suggested, his eye catching Donna's.
Ignoring him, Jed lifted the papers again, picking up where he had stopped. "– and – set – out – to – dom-dominate – the weak – and – intim—idate – the world."
At this pace, the State of the Union would rival the Oscars for airing length. He was trying. Dear God, he was trying. The dampness of his shirt down the middle of his back showed that. But if he tried to go into the House Chamber and inspire anyone, he would fail resoundingly.
Surely she wasn't the only one who saw that. From the shadow of despair on Toby's face, she could tell her opinion wasn't unique.
"Sir," the writer offered again, "let's take a break. Maybe we can pick up later today."
"No." Stubborn.
"But, Mister President – "
"No!" This time the answer was accompanied by a startling slap against the desk. "We – don't – have – time," Jed reminded him.
"Due, respect, sir, but we don't have time to run you into the ground. We've been at this since dawn."
They stared at each other now, hard will up against hard will.
"I'll come back later, Mister President," Toby said finally, and Donna heard the entreaty in his voice. Please don't argue, sir.
Silently, Jed turned away.
So Toby left him, staring at the window. As he stepped past her into the hall, he leaned in close and said, "He did better this morning. He's tired now."
Donna tried to smile, but she couldn't. Toby in a comforting mode was just too much to deal with. Instead, she nodded in thanks. With an awkward pat on her shoulder, he left her to deal with a stubborn husband who needed someone to force him into a much-needed break from the intensity of his efforts. And she was just the wife to do it.
But as she entered the room, she heard him groan, a garbled snarl that cracked the air and sent a surge of adrenaline into her chest. She stared, slack-jawed, as he ripped the speech into shreds that fluttered from his clutching fists like twisted ticker tape. He sank to his knees, hands in his hair, almost incoherent strings of mumbled phrases spilling from his lips.
With a jolt, she realized he was still reciting the speech, or trying to, anyway. But the words fought him, rebelled against the rhythm he grabbed at, slapped away the meter and pitch he was so accustomed to having at his slightest command. He couldn't control his own voice, his own words.
She froze, horrified, wanting to soothe him, yearning to comfort him, to assure him that it didn't matter to her if he couldn't speak at all. But she hesitated until she heard the startling muffled sounds. Looking closer at the broad back, she realized that his shoulders shook in quiet sobs. Dear God. He was crying. She had never really seen him cry before. Not even when Abbey died, although she had to assume he must have expressed his deep grief privately. The fear, the pain, the frustration. Some of it – all of it – had finally hit him, had torn away his carefully placed shielding, his measured confidence, and pierced the soft underbelly of his protective armor.
"Damn – it!" he muttered, catching his breath and sitting back on his heels.
Heartbroken, she couldn't hold back any longer and fell to her knees beside him, catching his shoulders in her hands, pressing her body against his side. He jerked away at the unexpected touch, his lungs fighting to gain control of the gasps.
"God – Donna!" he spat, falling against the desk and almost upsetting a teetering lamp as he turned away from her, out of her grasp. "No – "
"Jed, it's okay." She tried to draw him back to her, but he wrenched free and struggled to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath when he knocked the injured arm against the edge of the desk.
"Jed?"
"Go – away," he repeated, softer this time, pleading, voice breaking, still not meeting her gaze. "Please."
She realized that this was an intensely private moment. He had thought he was alone, and she knew the most devastating thing for him would be to see her there staring at him, pity in her eyes. But she couldn't leave him. Not now.
So she wiped the pity away and touched him again, hands closing once more around his shoulders. "No," she whispered in the voice she used to comfort J.T. when he was at his most agitated. "I'm not going away, Josiah Bartlet. I'm never going away."
As if her declaration freed him from any pretense, he collapsed onto the floor, legs crossed Indian-style, head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. Fighting her own sobs, she held him, whispered to him, stroked his face, his back. He rocked back and forth, leaning against her body, letting her brush through his hair, like a mother with a child.
Finally, he slowed, allowing himself to rest in the warmth of her embrace, until he took a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head.
"I – can't – do it," he admitted, his tone incredulous.
Donna clenched her jaw. She wondered if those words had ever come from Jed Bartlet's lips, wondered if he ever really considered that he couldn't do something.
"It's okay," she assured him. "You don't have to."
"I do," he insisted, running a hand through the thatch of hair across his eyes. "I – need to."
"Your body's not ready. It's not an admittance of weakness. It's just too soon." But even as she said that, she knew he wasn't letting himself believe it.
"I couldn't even – get one – sentence out."
"You're tired," she reminded him, rising to her knees so she could massage the tight muscles of his shoulders. "Rest and try later."
"Leo's right. We – should have – postponed."
"Maybe," she conceded. "You still can." She felt the tiniest bit of give beneath her fingers.
Her hand rose as he sighed. "But, Toby's – right – too. World reaction – rests on – how we – handle this. If I – am – obviously not – destroyed, they lose – credibility. They lose – influence."
True enough, but she felt obligated to remind him of another consequence. "If you don't come across as completely strong and sound, if you are – damaged – they could claim victory."
His head arched back, letting her firm touch ease away some of the agitation. "Whoever – they are."
"I thought the FBI had tagged North Korea."
Jed grunted, almost a laugh. "Not officially. Without – irre-futable evidence, we – can't very well – accuse a sovereign – country of plotting to as-sassinate the – President of the United States."
His words, she suddenly realized, were coming just the tiniest bit faster, as if the emotional release had loosened the strangle his brain held on them. "Jed?"
"Hmm?"
"What does it feel like when you try to speak, when you try to say something and can't?"
He winced a little, maybe not wanting to think too much about it, but answered her anyway. "I just can't – seem – to make my mouth work – like I – want it to."
So simple a description. Too bad the solution wasn't as easy.
But she smiled and leaned over to kiss him, initially just in comfort, but almost immediately letting the first chaste touch grow into a bolder stroke of her lips on his.
"I dunno," she told him when she pulled back. "It works like I want it to."
He grinned, the first real grin she had seen since he woke up in the hospital. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah." Her fingers traced the curve of his mouth.
"I think I – need more – therapy." The message was thrilling, but perhaps even more was the fact that he delivered it with several words strung together, at a smoother pace. She wondered if he had even noticed.
She leaned in again, concentrating on taking his breath as she sucked on his lower lip, then ran her tongue over the reddened flesh.
He swallowed. "Uh, Donna, I'm not – sure we should – "
Her eyes closed, she listened to the speech pattern, noted the definite improvement. With his concentration focused on something else, with him not trying so damned hard, the natural ability had been able to reassert a little more influence. He still didn't realize it.
But her logic told her that was enough. He was still recovering. The doctors had advised him to stick with non-strenuous activities.
Besides, they weren't even in their bedroom. They were on the floor of the President's study.
But she had started something. "Not sure we should what?" she asked coyly, slipping a hand inside his shirt to rub across a nipple.
He sucked in a quick breath at the sensation and closed his eyes. "Um, not sure – we should stop," he decided.
"I'm sure," she told him, and he opened his eyes again, uncertainty clouding them. But she smiled and finished, "I'm sure we shouldn't stop."
"No," he agreed. "Never stop."
Her own concentration on his speech was broken when he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, moving into the pressure, returning her warm caress with a heat of his own. Before she really realized what was happening, his legs had uncrossed, and their bodies had stretched out onto to the floor with more than just their lips touching.
No. Wait.
Some tiny spark of caution flickered at the back of her brain. But she couldn't make herself break away from the deliciousness of his touch, from the hot tingle she got as her hips pressed against his and she felt the hardening ridge pulse beneath his pants.
"Jed," she murmured against his neck, making a feeble attempt to pull back.
He didn't answer. He might not be able to work his mouth right to speak, but he sure as hell was working it right in other ways. She felt the frustration of earlier transform into an energy that throbbed between them, insistent, unyielding, and she began to understand that it didn't really matter now what the doctors had said. He needed this, needed the emotional connection, the physical completion. Maybe he needed the reassurance that there was something he could still do well.
And, indeed, he could.
His hands slipped into her pants and she gasped, her body caught up in the sudden eruption of desire neither had planned. As he pushed the material from her hips, that cautious spark flickered once more, then died. Frantically, she tore at the fastening of his jeans, jerking down the zipper and fumbling inside his boxers to curl her fingers around the thickening shaft.
"Donna," he groaned, arching into her grip.
Deep within her brain, logic and restraint made one last argument for stopping, but disappeared as soon as she got his jeans below his knees and felt him thrusting up hard against her body.
Kicking off her pants and panties, she straddled him. Neither of them could stop now, and she hoped they were not doing irreparable damage somehow, but she figured if his body was not ready, it would not have responded so forcefully, so eagerly.
They were both too far gone to attempt the usual finesse. When she sank onto him, he began moving immediately, unable to hold back even if she needed him to. But she didn't. She was there with him, groaning, and gasping, and grabbing at his shoulders to pull him even harder against her body as he hit each stroke with increasingly frantic thrusts.
Usually, he made sure she was close before he allowed himself to reach the edge, but this time he couldn't control the momentum, and she heard him moan as his body stiffened. The familiar hot sensation burst inside her and threw her into the first pulses of orgasm, as she arched into his continuing climax, her own cries in rhythm with the convulsions that rocked her.
With a final push, he collapsed, arms flung to the side, breath coming in gasps. Her hands shook as she stroked up and down his sides, letting her head rest on his chest. God, that was intense. He lay there, still inside her, his pants still just below his knees. They must make an interesting sight, she thought with a chuckle, then jerked when she remembered that intrusion was not impossible. After all, her brother had been allowed to leave the hospital just the night before, and was sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom.
She pushed herself up, feeling the accustomed regret as he slid from her. "Jed?"
A grunt was her only answer.
She ran a hand over his cheek. "Jed?"
A louder grunt.
"Jed, I think Gino was looking for you earlier."
He sat up so fast, she hoped he hadn't hurt himself. "Not fair," he protested, but his tone was anything but harsh. In fact, he sounded rather chagrined as lay back again and lifted his hips to tug the boxers and jeans back up.
Leaning back against the desk, he smiled at her, an almost timid smirk, full of apology. "Donna, I – I didn't mean for that to – happen. I'm – I'm sorry."
She smiled, sitting up to run a hand through his scattered hair. "I'm not."
He leaned down and kissed her softly, the fierce need satisfied for the moment. "I guess I'm – in trouble now."
With a satisfied grunt, she stretched out and grabbed her rumpled pants and panties, standing to pull them back on. "With Doctor Egris?" she asked.
He nodded.
She grinned. "He doesn't have to know."
But when he turned his head, the grin disappeared. With the area already swelling again, the stitches showed signs of strain, and a few small beads of red oozed from the wound.
"Jed!" she cried, kneeling beside him, alarmed, guilty. Why had she allowed this? What had she been thinking? But she knew what she had been thinking. She had been thinking that she needed him so much she couldn't think. And now look.
"It's okay, "he assured her, dabbing gingerly at his head, unable to avoid a wince when he touched the tender area.
"It's not. I shouldn't have – I'm sorry, Jed."
Now he grinned. "I'm not." And his lips were on hers again, not quite as desperate, but still passionate, nevertheless.
At first she wasn't sure there had really been a knock at the door, but by the time the slight creak indicated it was opening, it was too late.
"Mister Pres – " The unexpected greeting was choked off as their interloper froze, doorknob still in his grasp.
Oh God!
They both jerked away from each other like teenagers caught on her parent's couch. Ron Butterfield stared at them for a moment, obviously not prepared for the sight of the President and First Lady entwined on the floor of the Chief Executive's study. If he had been five minutes earlier –
She smoothed her hair self-consciously and cut her eyes down to make sure everything was covered. Clothes on. Good. Nothing they could do about the obvious aroma of sex, though. But what the hell. Ron would have to be blind anyway not to realize what he had interrupted – or just missed interrupting, thankfully.
Jed turned toward the agent. Donna winced as she got a good look at the oozing railroad tracks of stitches again.
Three days.
"Ron." The acknowledgement held many messages.
The tall head of the POTUS Detail finally entered, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry, sir. Mrs. Bartlet, I apologize for the intrusion. I didn't realize that – "
It was a rare day when Ron Butterfield was unnerved. Donna fought the urge to grin, resisted looking at her husband, because she knew she wouldn't be able to hold a straight face at all then.
"Come in, Ron," Jed invited casually, grabbing the edge of the desk and pulling himself up from the floor, as if the agent had interrupted nothing less innocent than a game of marbles.
"I can come back."
"We're finished," the President said, and winked at Donna when they both saw the flush cross the agent's face. She grinned at the ease of both his words and his body.
But he had taken only a step or two when he paled and swayed, catching himself with a hand on the back of a chair.
Damn. She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.
"Jed?" Donna had his right elbow just as Ron ignored protocol and caught the left.
"I'm – okay," he insisted, pulling away from both of them. "Just stood too –fast."
"Are you sure, Mister President?" Ron asked.
Jed allowed a glare toward his agent. It was out of character for Ron to question a Presidential brush off, even one that didn't fool anyone. But it showed the depth of concern for his boss. Donna loved him for it.
"Yes," Jed hissed, but whether the snap was a result of frustration or pain, she couldn't tell.
Ron straightened and dropped his hands so they no longer reached out to steady his charge. "It's about Mikki Chul."
Jed lifted his chin a little, like he did when he needed to brace himself. "Go."
With a nod, Ron began. "First let me go over the demographic information. Marine Corps records show that she was born in San Francisco in 1972 to an American mother and Korean father. They moved to Los Angeles when she was seven, where the father apparently abandoned the family."
"Didn't you know that already?" Donna wondered. What did this help?
"If you'll bear with me, Mrs. Bartlet," he requested. "There are some new things."
"Go on," Jed ordered, leaning against the chair back now, pointedly discouraging any assistance.
"At eighteen, she finished high school and decided to seek out her father and his family in South Korea, traveling there in July of 1990. She obtained a job with a magazine doing research for about a year, then returned to the U.S. and secured an appointment to the Naval Academy through a Representative from California. After a year and a half, however, her mother's death forced her to drop out. She returned to Korea and disappeared."
Jed frowned. "Disappeared?"
"Yes, sir. For about a year until she enlisted with the Marines in August of 1994. She graduated with honors from Parris Island in November and was sent to rifleman school. Her record in the Corps is spotless. She mustered out in May of 2002."
"And somehow ended up the next year working for Josh," Donna finished. "Interesting, Ron, but not nothing you didn't already know about her. What I want to find out is why she threatened us. Why did she try to – " She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. "– to kill the President?"
But he didn't say he didn't know. He didn't say because the President is a public figure and practically invites assassination from a wide assortment of lunatics. He didn't say anything she expected him to say.
He simply said, "She didn't."
Jed's head cocked slightly, and he reached up absently to touch the tender wound. "What?"
Not even blinking, Ron said, "Mikki Chul didn't try to kill you, Mister President."
What kind of nonsense was this? "She sure as hell made it look good," Donna snapped.
But Jed had pushed off the chair back now, his eyes narrowed. "What do you – have, Ron?"
"Interpol has a confirmed clipping from the Seoul Sinmun newspaper for January 12, 1994. An obituary."
Dear God. Another murder was connected to this?
They had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did. "Mikki Chul was killed January 11, 1994, in a traffic accident in Seoul."
The First Couple stared at Ron for a long moment.
Ironically, it was Jed who found his voice first. "What – are you saying?" he demanded.
The agent softened his voice. "I am saying, Mister President, that Mikki Chul did not shoot you. She couldn't have. She's been dead nine years."