POV: Donna
Spoilers: "Bartlet for America"
Rating: PG-13/R
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. AS created them and now I
suppose JW controls them, but I'm exercising my own little bit of control
here.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Fifteen A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The morning of the State of the Union dawned cold and clear. Brilliant sunlight gleamed off the Capitol dome like a beacon drawing all of Washington to its chamber. And all of Washington was there – or at least it seemed that way. Hotel rooms were at a premium. Restaurant waits topped two hours. The world had descended on the seat of government, hungry for the expected pomp.
But this time the anticipation of the annual address, required by the Constitution, but generally disregarded by the majority of the American public, had become much more than just an analysis of the country. This time it was a public diagnosis of the condition of the President of the United States. Toby was right. Josiah Bartlet's performance that evening would impact the influence of their Administration for the rest of his term. Would the public see a strong leader who fought the evils of terror and won? Or would they see a very human man who could not overcome the effects of that terror, who no longer possessed the confidence or even the ability to make the hard decisions, to guide the most powerful nation in the world?
As Donna listened to the uneasy discussions in the sitting area of their bedroom, she really had no idea which it would be. The final practices for the speech had continued, usually with only Toby on hand to critique. She tried to stay away, to allow him the dignity of not having an audience witness his frustrations, but if Jed's moods when they were over were any indication, things weren't going well.
"Just take it slowly, Mister President," Toby reminded, his voice even more edgy than usual. "It will seem more natural then."
One hour before the State of the Union and the tension in the room almost crackled. The anxieties of the speech writer, the Chief of Staff, and the President whipped together like the crossed beams in Ghostbusters, and created almost as much violent energy.
"I – know," Jed protested again. "I – know." He paced in front of the window, his mind apparently locked only on the speech. All the painstaking work of the past week now coming down to one moment. One moment that could determine the course of events both on a national and international scale.
Always the supporter, Leo weighed in, his attempt to comfort woefully inadequate to the tight apprehension. "It'll be fine. Just do your best."
"Easier said – than done," the President reminded them, not breaking his pattern.
"You look good," the Chief of Staff offered. "Scar's not too bad since the stitches are out."
Jed didn't respond.
"Just stay with the script, sir. If you have trouble, the teleprompter will wait on you."
Now the man who was about to deliver not only his agenda for the year, but perhaps more importantly the response of his country to a brutal attack, stopped walking and turned to the small group. "You were – right," he admitted. "I'm – sorry I didn't – listen."
Leo frowned. "What do you mean, Mister President?"
The shoulders slumped in defeat. "We – should have – postponed."
No, Donna thought. Don't do this. Don't start doubting yourself now. But it was too late. She saw the realization wash over Toby's face, too, as he understood the damage his own concerns had caused.
"No, sir," he said quickly. "No, it'll be all right." That smirk twisted his lips. "As usual, I've created a foolproof masterpiece, if only political hacks wouldn't butcher it with their improvs."
The crack broke a little of the tension, and Jed allowed them a smile. "No – promises."
"Mister President?" Charlie's head poked into the room. "Whenever you're ready."
Donna watched as Leo stepped in front of his old friend. No words were exchanged, but the depth of communication between the two needed no verbalization.
"Okay. Let's do this," the Chief of Staff said, extending his arm toward the door in invitation.
She looked at Jed, at the hard lines, the clenched jaw and knew she couldn't let him go like that. Maybe a quick shoulder rub, or just some reassuring words.
"Uh, Leo, Toby, could you excuse us for a few minutes?" Donna asked, fighting to keep her voice and expression completely innocent.
All three men looked at her quizzically.
"Just a few minutes," she repeated, catching Leo's eye and trying to convey the importance of her request.
His chin lifted slightly in comprehension, one brow arched. "Certainly," Leo agreed.
"We are due at the Capitol – "Toby began, but Leo tugged on his sleeve and dragged him out, closing the door behind them.
When they were alone, Donna reached up and straightened her husband's tie, securing the knot firmly at his throat, smoothing the collar and letting her hands drop down the lapels. He did look better, she noted. The scar at his temple was not so Frankenstein-like with the stitches out, and enough hair had grown in to disguise part of it at least, so that it seemed not quite as stark. And even though he had protested, a little camera make- up had softened the garish bruises that gravity had pulled across his cheek and jaw. Nevertheless, the evidence of the attack could not be missed.
"You okay?" she asked lightly, more than just a perfunctory question, but not so much that it smothered him.
He nodded and smiled at her, but the twinkle didn't make it to his eyes. He was focused, "in his head," as Toby said. He had his game face on and no one would distract him, not even his wife.
She tried to work more conversation between them, strangely uncertain exactly how far he had come with the therapy, with his persistent and drawn- out sessions that worked to bring his words out as close to the old Bartlet delivery as possible.
"Jed?" she began, smoothing his tie again absently, then leaning against him so that his arms came around her in an automatic embrace. She felt his muscles hard and tight against his suit, his body almost rigid with the pressure.
"Hmm?"
"You've worked hard for this. Just go out there and do what I know you can do."
She saw the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes and caught her breath at the sudden significance. He wasn't ready.
Leo had told her once that a podium was like a holy place for Jed, an extension of his own body. And she had seen that over and over. It was his gift. But now, for the first time in his life, probably, Jed Bartlet was approaching that holy place like an interloper. It wasn't his, anymore.
She sensed disaster looming. "Toby's helped," she encouraged. "Leo's helped. The speech therapist has helped." Hopefully that was true.
He didn't answer, didn't even look at her. This wasn't working at all.
But a thought crossed her mind, the vanguard of an idea. A crazy idea. A wild idea. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
"But I see we have missed a final step in that process," she said, letting her hands slide up from his lapels to rest at the back of his neck.
He frowned and finally looked at her, pulling back a little. "Donna, I'm – fine. It'll work out – all right."
She shook her head slowly and reached to loosen the tie.
"What – are you doing?" he asked, catching her hand before she could undo his careful knot. This was the State of the Union, after all. The nation and most of the world would be looking at him. They would notice a crooked tie. Well, maybe not before they saw the three-inch bullet wound, but they would notice eventually.
"I'm helping prepare you for the speech," she told him, as if it should have been apparent.
Her other hand slid down his chest and began unbuttoning his shirt. He forgot the tie.
"What the – hell? Donna – what – "
But her tongue licking the bare skin choked him for a moment. When he found his breath, he said, "My God – Donna. We can't – you can't – The State of the – Are you crazy? We don't have – time to – "
She didn't stop, merely pushed back the crisp fabric for better access to him. "Oh yes, we do. I won't need long for this. I'm good."
He couldn't suppress a grin, even past the mild panic she had evoked. "No argument – there," he agreed, "but – "
"Sit."
"Donna – "
"Sit."
Her firm command sent a message of expected compliance. Still, she almost raised a fist in triumph when he actually obeyed. Carefully perched in a hard wingback, he narrowed his eyes as she dropped to her knees in the elegant suit.
"Donna – you don't – intend to – "
Oh, but she did. She did, indeed.
Her hands worked quickly to unbuckle his belt and push his shirttails out of the way. They really didn't have time for him to re-dress. Startled, he tried to pull away, but lost his motivation when she opened his fly and tugged the boxers low enough to release him.
"Ah – Donna – seriously, we can't – "
"Have you noticed," she asked him, taking advantage of his weakening resolve, "that when you are relaxed, you speak more smoothly?"
He looked down now, one brow raised. "What?"
"You do. After our – encounter in the study the other day, you had a much easier time. Then while you were playing with J.T. on the floor last night you were almost eloquent. Each time you were relaxed, and you weren't thinking about trying so hard to say that damned speech." Her eyes softened at his pensive expression.
"That's – ri – diculous," he declared, and she felt his thighs tense beneath her hands. "Really, Donna – we can't –
"It's not ridiculous. It's true."
For a moment he stared at her, contemplating the theory. "You really – think?"
"I know. I've been watching you. I thought we could test my theory. You're very tense right now." Her right hand slid across his leg to place a whisper caress on his thickening flesh. He was working not to react, but his body betrayed him, leaping toward her touch.
Shaking his head, he gulped, "I've got to deliver – the State of the – Union in forty-five minutes, and you're – you're about to – "
"Think about it. Anyone knows that if you try too hard, you just frustrate yourself. It's when you relax that things come naturally again." She let the caress grow a little bolder. "And speaking of hard – "
"I don't know – maybe," he allowed, leaning his head back against the chair. "But Leo – and Toby are – waiting. C-congress is – waiting."
"Let them wait," she said, rubbing her thumb over the tip, now slick with his arousal. "They'll thank me later."
"Hell no," he groaned, pushing into her grasp, finally unable to resist any longer. "I'd – better be the – only one – ah – thanking you."
After that, she was much too occupied and he was much too incoherent to continue the conversation.
Fifteen minutes later, she lay with her head against his knee, his fingers entwined in her hair, his breathing coming hard and fast, mimicking what another part of him had done only moments before. She wished they had more time because she could use a little relaxing, herself. But her mission had been accomplished. She just hoped it had the effect she was counting on.
The knock on the door reminded them of their waiting engagement. "Yeah?" she called, when Jed didn't answer, didn't even raise his head from the back of the chair.
Wisely, Charlie called through the door, "Mister President, the limo's ready."
"Thanks, Charlie," Donna returned. "We'll be right out."
Pushing herself from the floor, she moved back between his legs and leaned in for a kiss. "Sorry I couldn't go slower," she murmured against his lips. "We didn't have much time."
"Umm. You made the best of it," he mumbled back, nibbling at her tongue, his eyes still closed. "But I owe you – "
Pulling back, she rose and headed toward the bathroom. "You owe me the most incredible State of the Union speech ever made."
"It'll be incredible, all right," he agreed, but sarcasm sharpened the tone.
"Jed – "
"No. It's okay." With a reluctant groan, he opened his eyes, stood and re- buttoned, re-tucked and re-zipped. "I will say that your method of preparation sure beats the hell out of – Toby's making me say the same sentence ten times in a row," he decided with a grin. "But I still owe you – "
Then he stopped and stared after her, hearing for the first time what she was talking about.
"See?" she boasted, leaning out of the bathroom door and calling through a mouthful of toothpaste. "I told you."
Cautious amazement brightened his face. "I'll be damned. You think it'll last?"
"Well," she decided, reapplying her lipstick with one hand and smoothing her suit with the other, "we could stop by the cloak room on the way into the Capitol just in case."
As she reached up to fix the tie she had loosened earlier, he smirked. "Okay."
"You would, too."
"Mister President?" Another call from outside the door.
"Toby's getting nervous," he said, and offered his arm to her. "Ready?"
She smiled at him and took the arm, proud and grateful to be at his side. "Ready."
She hoped he was ready, hoped that this momentary release would last long enough to get him through, that the instant he walked into that hall the fears, the demons wouldn't snatch him by the throat and choke him again.
Before they spilled out into the hallway, before they had to share their words with anyone else, she turned and took his face in her hands. "You are the smartest, bravest, strongest, best man I know. Whatever happens out there will not change that. And it won't change the fact that I love you so very much."
His lips pressed together and she watched as the moisture threatened his eyes. Her own were damp, as well.
Not intending to get quite that emotional, she patted him on the arm and said lightly, "You will be wonderful. I know it. Now go out there and ad lib Toby's speech. He'll be disappointed it you don't."
Letting her pull them back from the depths, he smiled. "Thanks." Then his lips met hers for a tender kiss before they opened the door.
As they strolled toward the limo to begin the short trip to the Capitol, she took one small liberty in front of the staff and wiped the light smear of lipstick from his mouth.
If any President ever forgot, during the daily routine of administration, that he was the leader of the free world and arguably the most important person in the world, it would take only one experience like the State of the Union to remind him. The entire Congress, the U.S. Supreme Court, dignitaries, the most important people in Washington, representatives from foreign nations – all there to hear one man, to focus completely on one man.
And tonight that man was Josiah Bartlet.
Alone, except for her agents, Donna walked through the impressive Hall of Columns on her way to the Hall of the House of Representatives directly above. She had left him with his detail, seeing in his eyes that he was once more focused on the task before him, but hoping that her small contribution to his preparation would help him clear the tension. As her eyes fell on the white stalks around her, she wondered if Jed had followed the same path a few minutes earlier, wondered if he remembered the last time they had strolled through the grand room together. A smile curved her lips as Jed's voice echoed his ubiquitous trivia in her head.
"Did you know," he had begun as they visited the Capitol several months before, using his professorial voice, "that this hall takes its name from the twenty-eight fluted, white columns? The capitals are a variation on the Corinthian order, incorporating not only classical acanthus leaves, but also thistles and native American tobacco plants."
She dimpled at the not-so-subtle eye rolls from his senior staff. Despite their professions of irritation with the boss's favorite pastime – well, favorite public pastime – they never failed to jump at the bait when he offered inane trivia.
"Freak," Toby had muttered under his breath.
Jed didn't turn, but continued his swift strides. "I heard that."
"Said with the utmost respect, sir," the communications chief assured him quickly.
"Yeah. Well, since you scoff at such knowledge, Tobias, I sense the need for a more in-depth lesson."
"Good goin'," C.J. accused her fellow senior staffer.
But Donna saw the fond amusement in her eyes.
Gesturing grandly around him, their boss continued, "The marble for the columns was quarried at Lee, Massachusetts, and the ceiling cast in Baltimore at the foundry of Hayward, Bartlett, and Company."
"Relatives, sir?" Josh asked.
"Distant. They have too many t's, though. A family argument or somethin'. The walls between the pilasters are finished in scagliola, an imitation marble made of firmly ground gypsum and glue."
Toby scowled. "They couldn't afford real marble?"
But Jed ignored him. "The original floor was laid with Minton encaustic tiles from England, but they wore out. Any idea where the new marble came from?"
Toby's glare dared anyone to answer, but Josh couldn't resist. "New Hampshire?" he guessed eagerly.
"Heart of Dixie," Jed hinted.
The Deputy Chief of Staff snapped a finger in triumph. "Mississippi!"
"Harvard and Yale?" Jed questioned, his voice falling in mock disappointment. "Should have gone to Notre Dame, Joshua. They actually teach practical things there."
"Like where the tile in this room comes from?" Toby wondered
"First of all," Jed went on, casting only a perfunctory glare at the spoiled sport, "Alabama is the Heart of Dixie, and that's where the white marble is from. The black marble is from New York, which is, by the way, the Empire State."
Josh snapped his fingers. "I knew that one."
"And second of all?" Toby asked.
"What?"
"You said, 'First of all Alabama is the Heart of Dixie.' With a first there must be a second. You have an A, you need a B. What is second of all?"
Jed shrugged, unconcerned with his breech of outline etiquette. "Okay, no second of all. Just – Alabama is the Heart of Dixie."
"And you are telling us this why?"
"Knowledge is power, Toby. Plus one day you may be on Jeopardy, and if this comes up, you're set."
"Of course, sir. Ever the pragmatist."
By then they had left the hall, but the conversation continued throughout the building until duty took the President of the United States away from his captive students. Still, Donna wondered if they all remembered where the marble came from. She bet they did.
With a sigh the First Lady pushed herself back from the fond memory. The columns he had pointed out seemed to close in on her now. The atmosphere was no longer bantering or teasing, but charged. Those days of lightning dialogue were long past. She wondered if Jed would ever be able to volley verbally with his staff again, and fervently prayed that he would. It was so much a part of who he was.
As they passed an office near the stairs, she caught the sound of a television newscast and stopped. Inside the door stood a young man, dark hair flopped over his eyes, a clerk perhaps, propped on a desk that probably wasn't his.
"May I watch a minute?" she asked.
He sprang up instantly, stumbling over a chair. "Yes – yes, ma'am. Of – of course."
But she waved off the seat he offered and leaned against the doorframe, listening to the news anchors speculate on what they would see. They had the script, as usual before hand, knew the points he would emphasize, had already set up the rebuttal from the Republicans. None of those things enticed them. It was the mystery of what man they would see when he finally entered the chamber. The unveiling of a fallen king and the conjectures of what the lifted curtain would reveal.
As Toby had predicted, tonight was not about the State of the Union. It was about the State of the President. News agencies from around the world had poured into D.C. for a week, ever since C.J. announced the speech was still on. Coverage for the night had never been so complete, so electric with anticipation, none of which had much to do with the actual content.
"The President is expected soon in the chamber," Tom Brokaw was saying in his familiar drawl. "And I am sure all of us are anxious to see him. It will be his first real appearance since the assassination attempt, and what a venue to make that first appearance, giving the State of the Union speech."
He turned to the seat beside him and the camera shifted to reveal a stout, gray haired Army officer waiting stiffly for his fifteen minutes of fame to begin. He was apparently the military expert of the moment.
"We have with us tonight Lieutenant Colonel George Besting, former assistant to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs from 1995 to 1997. Thank you for joining us tonight, Colonel."
The solider nodded with typical soldier curtness. "Thank you."
"Well, there seem to be two questions tonight. Who shot the President? And what effects will we see from his injuries?"
"You are certainly right, Tom," the guest agreed amicably. "Everyone wants to know who shot the President, besides, of course, the obvious answer that it was a member of his own staff. I think we have established now that this person, this woman, was a plant. But the question is who planted her?"
The anchorman nodded. "Are there any answers?"
Shrugging, Besting said, "Not officially, of course, or we would have already heard about it."
"Does that mean there are unofficial answers?" Brokaw wanted to know.
Well, he wasn't the only one.
"There is strong talk of a North Korean connection, but of course I hesitate to make any definitive statement. Still, that keeps coming up over and over."
The veteran newsman shook his head. "What will happen if these theories are substantiated, if it's proven that North Korea did have something to do with an attempt on a sitting American President? I mean, could this mean war?"
Donna felt a chill run through her. It could mean war, she knew, even though she felt Jed would do everything he could to keep from reaching that point.
With a sigh, the colonel nodded. "Well, I would have to say that if there was proof of this, it certainly could lead to hostilities. Our troops in the DMZ are already on alert, so that's evidence that the White House and the Pentagon have some sort of suspicions."
With a sympathetic, and possibly concerned, grunt, Brokaw turned away from the military analyst and twisted so that he faced another person to his right.
"Answers to that first question aren't very encouraging. Let's see if we can do better on the second question." He turned to the second guest, an attractive dark-skinned woman who looked much too young to be the obvious expert witness the network had procured for the commentary. "We have with us tonight Doctor Evelyn Borris, neurologist from Johns Hopkins. Thank you for being here, Doctor Borris."
The doctor nodded. "Thank you for having me." Her smooth, confident voice clocked her age more accurately.
"As if possible war with North Korea wasn't enough, the President has even more to worry about as a result of this assault, isn't that right, Doctor?"
She hesitated, her expression a little uncertain about where the reporter was going. Carefully, she responded, "There are always concerns for the recovery of anyone who has sustained such an injury as the President's, but certainly just by who he is, he provokes much more interest."
Brokaw leaned forward. "Doctor Boris, we have reports that the President's speech pattern has been affected by the head injury he suffered. To what extent, we don't know. The White House has been quiet on that matter. Press Secretary C.J. Cregg continues to report that he is recovering well and has already begun his duties again. Let's talk a little about what has happened to the President and what we can expect tonight when he speaks to the nation, and the world for that matter, for the first time since the attack."
"Well, Tom," she began, leaning against the counter with an ease that seemed natural. They had chosen their guest commentator well. "According to hospital reports, the President suffered a bullet wound to the left side of his head just above the brow and extending around the outside of the cranium to exit approximately three inches from the entry point. The bullet did not penetrate the skull, something I believe we can all say was a fairly impressive bit of luck."
"Some have called it a miracle," Brokaw offered.
"So I've heard."
The newscaster glanced down at his notes briefly. "George Washington doctors also reported an injury to his left forearm in that unbelievable scuffle with the assassin. Is there any danger from that?"
"Actually, the IV lines were ripped out of his arm – "
Donna cringed along with Tom Brokaw.
"– during the second attempt. That was when his brother-in-law fell on him in an effort to save his life."
"Another part of this incredible story that has amazed us all since the White House released the information a week ago."
"That is certainly true," the doctor agreed. "The arm wound, however, should not affect him tonight. What will be interesting to see is how the concussion has affected him."
"Now this is just speculation," the newscaster reminded, "but what are the possible effects we might expect?"
She pulled no punches. "With serious concussions there can be memory loss, weakness in the limbs. In severe cases, convulsions."
Brokaw winced. "Are there any signs of those things?"
"Not from what I have heard," she said. "Of course, you have already alluded to another possibility."
"His ability to speak."
"Aphasia."
"Tell us exactly what aphasia is, please."
"Aphasia is the impaired expression or comprehension of written or spoken language."
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means that the President may have difficultly expressing himself. His words may come slowly or not at all. His thoughts may be jerky, hard to string together coherently."
"But this President is giving a major speech in just a few minutes. How could he do that if he had such a disability?"
"He is taking a risk that the world will see any problem as a possible effect on his ability to execute his official duties," she admitted.
"Could it truly affect his ability?'
"I supposed that's to be seen," the doctor said carefully.
Brokaw nodded and smiled to her, his body language a clear sign that the segment was over. "All right. Some of our questions could well be answered soon. Thank you for being with us tonight, Doctor." Swinging back to the camera, he said, "Is war imminent? Is the President up to the task of fulfilling his duties in an escalating situation? We'll return in just a minute with the State of the Union and the first appearance of Josiah Bartlet since his injury in a stunning assassination attempt. Stay with us."
She hoped Jed wasn't watching, hoped he didn't hear that the whole world would be hanging on his every word, and would stretch to hear if his own words hung.
A few minutes before time for his entrance, she made her way through the greeting crowds and eased into the seat on the front row of the balcony amid the generous and warm applause of the assembly. She hoped this indicated a similar reception for her husband. On her left sat Zoey. Ellie sat to her right. And surrounding them were representatives of several families who would be referred to during the speech.
The milling senators, representatives, reporters, clerks, and guests began making their way to their own seats and the air grew almost electric as the time for Jed's entry approached. The Public had not really seen him since the shooting, had relied on C.J.'s briefings to tell them he was fine, he was recovering, he was preparing for the State of the Union.
So as the clerk stood at the doors and announced, "Mister Speaker, the President of the United States," the assembly rose as one and turned expectantly around.
A hush swept through the room as his audience got their first good look at him. Even as good as he looked, it didn't take long to see the scar. She watched the unnerved expressions as it sank in just how narrowly they had escaped disaster. One millimeter over, and the bullet would have smashed straight through that brilliant brain.
But he entered, just as he had done five times before, ignoring the stares, smiling as usual, hands extended to shake those offered hesitantly at first, then with growing eagerness as they felt his strength, saw his confidence. Not a hint of weakness in his step, and he somehow managed to grasp as many hands with his left as he did with his right, even though she knew it had to hurt. Stitches still closed the arm wound.
She couldn't tell if he spoke to anyone more than just a repeated name, but suddenly, the applause grew, expanded as he drew closer to the podium, an audible sign of congratulations for surviving, if nothing else. But he hadn't proved himself, yet. The wariness still pinched their faces, the uncertainty tightened their mouths.
When he finally made it onto the dais, shaking the hands of the Vice- President and the Speaker of the House, she almost felt as if she were watching the final minutes of a Hitchcock movie in which the audience knew something was going to happen, but didn't know if it would be grand or horrifying.
She wished she knew.
Jed faced them and motioned for silence, which fell almost immediately. The entire room held its breath, waited.
Donna held her breath, too, crossed her fingers in the folds of her gown. She noticed Zoey and Ellie in similar poses. He gripped the sides of the podium, squared his shoulders and looked out over the waiting crowd.
Please God, she prayed. Please let him manage this without embarrassment. Please let them hear the words and not just the delivery. Please let the context outweigh any cosmetic factors. Please.
The assembly waited for his first word, ready to hear, ready to listen, ready to judge. Donna opened her eyes and tried to convey her support across the distance, tried to send her strength over the emotional connection she shared with him.
"Mister Speaker. Mister Vice-President. Members of Congress. Honored Guests. My fellow – Americans."
He had paused between each acknowledgement, his words deliberate. His audience waited, having heard the rumors, the dire predictions through the press all week. Having been told that their eloquent, articulate, word- wizard of a chief executive had to fight for every syllable, for every consonant and every vowel.
He had begun conservatively, giving himself a chance to ease into the rhythm, but even with those few words, they had heard the falters, the unaccustomed pauses, which were such stark contrast to his characteristically smooth style that the impact of his injury became instantly clear. It was the ultimate irony, and she dreaded it for him, even as she vowed to be by his side every step of the way, regardless. Every step.
The room remained completely silent. A few representatives stole glances at each other. The more seasoned senators managed to keep their eyes on the President, but she saw the uneasiness in them.
She tried to project her support, tried to make him feel her with him. Letting the silence linger, he pressed his lips together and turned his head so that he was looking directly at her, holding her gaze several moments. And the message that leapt between them almost took her breath.
He was ready. Whatever happened, he was ready.
Pulling his attention back to the audience, he took one deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, looked straight into the camera, and opened his mouth.
"Two weeks ago, the peace and security of our nation was once again challenged by people that view human life without value, by people who elevate power and greed above cooperation and compassion. They challenged. And now I have a message for those terrorists and would-be assassins that didn't intend for me to be here tonight. I have a message for the people of this nation, for the people of the world: We have met the challenge. Because my name is Josiah Bartlet. And I am STILL the President of the United States of America."
For one stunned beat silence prevailed. But only one beat. Then, the room erupted. Senators and representatives on both sides of the aisle leapt to their feet. Foreign dignitaries, the Washington elite, fresh-faced clerks. All of them stood, their shouts and cheers resembling a raucous session of Parliament more than a joint session of Congress. Even the dignified justices, who never responded to anything in the State of the Union, stood and applauded this announcement, this courage, this man.
Donna stared, slack-jawed. That opening had not been part of the original draft, and she wondered if Jed had been the one to add it. It sounded like him. And he had delivered the message without one hesitation, without a single falter. The richness of Jed Bartlet's gift was still there, commanding his audience, winning the nation and the world, and she knew he wouldn't lose them now. They would go the distance with him tonight, no matter how many stumbles he might make later, or how many pauses he might take. With that bold declaration, with that show of pure strength and willpower, they were with him for the distance.
The roar continued, to be recounted by newscasters in the days to come, since they always took notice of the length of applause. It pushed on and on, despite Jed's occasional attempts to silence them so he could continue. This one would go into the record books.
Pride swelled in her heart as she watched him, and he allowed himself a grin toward her, his face flushed with triumph, and a little astonishment. Ignoring protocol, she made a gentle fist with her right hand and placed it over heart, a completely endearing gesture she had learned from him, one that seemed appropriate to use at that moment to express her love. The cameras caught it, and she knew she would see it in the news the next day, but she didn't care.
She didn't care one bit.
A Dagger Unseen – Chapter Fifteen A West Wing Story
by MAHC
The morning of the State of the Union dawned cold and clear. Brilliant sunlight gleamed off the Capitol dome like a beacon drawing all of Washington to its chamber. And all of Washington was there – or at least it seemed that way. Hotel rooms were at a premium. Restaurant waits topped two hours. The world had descended on the seat of government, hungry for the expected pomp.
But this time the anticipation of the annual address, required by the Constitution, but generally disregarded by the majority of the American public, had become much more than just an analysis of the country. This time it was a public diagnosis of the condition of the President of the United States. Toby was right. Josiah Bartlet's performance that evening would impact the influence of their Administration for the rest of his term. Would the public see a strong leader who fought the evils of terror and won? Or would they see a very human man who could not overcome the effects of that terror, who no longer possessed the confidence or even the ability to make the hard decisions, to guide the most powerful nation in the world?
As Donna listened to the uneasy discussions in the sitting area of their bedroom, she really had no idea which it would be. The final practices for the speech had continued, usually with only Toby on hand to critique. She tried to stay away, to allow him the dignity of not having an audience witness his frustrations, but if Jed's moods when they were over were any indication, things weren't going well.
"Just take it slowly, Mister President," Toby reminded, his voice even more edgy than usual. "It will seem more natural then."
One hour before the State of the Union and the tension in the room almost crackled. The anxieties of the speech writer, the Chief of Staff, and the President whipped together like the crossed beams in Ghostbusters, and created almost as much violent energy.
"I – know," Jed protested again. "I – know." He paced in front of the window, his mind apparently locked only on the speech. All the painstaking work of the past week now coming down to one moment. One moment that could determine the course of events both on a national and international scale.
Always the supporter, Leo weighed in, his attempt to comfort woefully inadequate to the tight apprehension. "It'll be fine. Just do your best."
"Easier said – than done," the President reminded them, not breaking his pattern.
"You look good," the Chief of Staff offered. "Scar's not too bad since the stitches are out."
Jed didn't respond.
"Just stay with the script, sir. If you have trouble, the teleprompter will wait on you."
Now the man who was about to deliver not only his agenda for the year, but perhaps more importantly the response of his country to a brutal attack, stopped walking and turned to the small group. "You were – right," he admitted. "I'm – sorry I didn't – listen."
Leo frowned. "What do you mean, Mister President?"
The shoulders slumped in defeat. "We – should have – postponed."
No, Donna thought. Don't do this. Don't start doubting yourself now. But it was too late. She saw the realization wash over Toby's face, too, as he understood the damage his own concerns had caused.
"No, sir," he said quickly. "No, it'll be all right." That smirk twisted his lips. "As usual, I've created a foolproof masterpiece, if only political hacks wouldn't butcher it with their improvs."
The crack broke a little of the tension, and Jed allowed them a smile. "No – promises."
"Mister President?" Charlie's head poked into the room. "Whenever you're ready."
Donna watched as Leo stepped in front of his old friend. No words were exchanged, but the depth of communication between the two needed no verbalization.
"Okay. Let's do this," the Chief of Staff said, extending his arm toward the door in invitation.
She looked at Jed, at the hard lines, the clenched jaw and knew she couldn't let him go like that. Maybe a quick shoulder rub, or just some reassuring words.
"Uh, Leo, Toby, could you excuse us for a few minutes?" Donna asked, fighting to keep her voice and expression completely innocent.
All three men looked at her quizzically.
"Just a few minutes," she repeated, catching Leo's eye and trying to convey the importance of her request.
His chin lifted slightly in comprehension, one brow arched. "Certainly," Leo agreed.
"We are due at the Capitol – "Toby began, but Leo tugged on his sleeve and dragged him out, closing the door behind them.
When they were alone, Donna reached up and straightened her husband's tie, securing the knot firmly at his throat, smoothing the collar and letting her hands drop down the lapels. He did look better, she noted. The scar at his temple was not so Frankenstein-like with the stitches out, and enough hair had grown in to disguise part of it at least, so that it seemed not quite as stark. And even though he had protested, a little camera make- up had softened the garish bruises that gravity had pulled across his cheek and jaw. Nevertheless, the evidence of the attack could not be missed.
"You okay?" she asked lightly, more than just a perfunctory question, but not so much that it smothered him.
He nodded and smiled at her, but the twinkle didn't make it to his eyes. He was focused, "in his head," as Toby said. He had his game face on and no one would distract him, not even his wife.
She tried to work more conversation between them, strangely uncertain exactly how far he had come with the therapy, with his persistent and drawn- out sessions that worked to bring his words out as close to the old Bartlet delivery as possible.
"Jed?" she began, smoothing his tie again absently, then leaning against him so that his arms came around her in an automatic embrace. She felt his muscles hard and tight against his suit, his body almost rigid with the pressure.
"Hmm?"
"You've worked hard for this. Just go out there and do what I know you can do."
She saw the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes and caught her breath at the sudden significance. He wasn't ready.
Leo had told her once that a podium was like a holy place for Jed, an extension of his own body. And she had seen that over and over. It was his gift. But now, for the first time in his life, probably, Jed Bartlet was approaching that holy place like an interloper. It wasn't his, anymore.
She sensed disaster looming. "Toby's helped," she encouraged. "Leo's helped. The speech therapist has helped." Hopefully that was true.
He didn't answer, didn't even look at her. This wasn't working at all.
But a thought crossed her mind, the vanguard of an idea. A crazy idea. A wild idea. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
"But I see we have missed a final step in that process," she said, letting her hands slide up from his lapels to rest at the back of his neck.
He frowned and finally looked at her, pulling back a little. "Donna, I'm – fine. It'll work out – all right."
She shook her head slowly and reached to loosen the tie.
"What – are you doing?" he asked, catching her hand before she could undo his careful knot. This was the State of the Union, after all. The nation and most of the world would be looking at him. They would notice a crooked tie. Well, maybe not before they saw the three-inch bullet wound, but they would notice eventually.
"I'm helping prepare you for the speech," she told him, as if it should have been apparent.
Her other hand slid down his chest and began unbuttoning his shirt. He forgot the tie.
"What the – hell? Donna – what – "
But her tongue licking the bare skin choked him for a moment. When he found his breath, he said, "My God – Donna. We can't – you can't – The State of the – Are you crazy? We don't have – time to – "
She didn't stop, merely pushed back the crisp fabric for better access to him. "Oh yes, we do. I won't need long for this. I'm good."
He couldn't suppress a grin, even past the mild panic she had evoked. "No argument – there," he agreed, "but – "
"Sit."
"Donna – "
"Sit."
Her firm command sent a message of expected compliance. Still, she almost raised a fist in triumph when he actually obeyed. Carefully perched in a hard wingback, he narrowed his eyes as she dropped to her knees in the elegant suit.
"Donna – you don't – intend to – "
Oh, but she did. She did, indeed.
Her hands worked quickly to unbuckle his belt and push his shirttails out of the way. They really didn't have time for him to re-dress. Startled, he tried to pull away, but lost his motivation when she opened his fly and tugged the boxers low enough to release him.
"Ah – Donna – seriously, we can't – "
"Have you noticed," she asked him, taking advantage of his weakening resolve, "that when you are relaxed, you speak more smoothly?"
He looked down now, one brow raised. "What?"
"You do. After our – encounter in the study the other day, you had a much easier time. Then while you were playing with J.T. on the floor last night you were almost eloquent. Each time you were relaxed, and you weren't thinking about trying so hard to say that damned speech." Her eyes softened at his pensive expression.
"That's – ri – diculous," he declared, and she felt his thighs tense beneath her hands. "Really, Donna – we can't –
"It's not ridiculous. It's true."
For a moment he stared at her, contemplating the theory. "You really – think?"
"I know. I've been watching you. I thought we could test my theory. You're very tense right now." Her right hand slid across his leg to place a whisper caress on his thickening flesh. He was working not to react, but his body betrayed him, leaping toward her touch.
Shaking his head, he gulped, "I've got to deliver – the State of the – Union in forty-five minutes, and you're – you're about to – "
"Think about it. Anyone knows that if you try too hard, you just frustrate yourself. It's when you relax that things come naturally again." She let the caress grow a little bolder. "And speaking of hard – "
"I don't know – maybe," he allowed, leaning his head back against the chair. "But Leo – and Toby are – waiting. C-congress is – waiting."
"Let them wait," she said, rubbing her thumb over the tip, now slick with his arousal. "They'll thank me later."
"Hell no," he groaned, pushing into her grasp, finally unable to resist any longer. "I'd – better be the – only one – ah – thanking you."
After that, she was much too occupied and he was much too incoherent to continue the conversation.
Fifteen minutes later, she lay with her head against his knee, his fingers entwined in her hair, his breathing coming hard and fast, mimicking what another part of him had done only moments before. She wished they had more time because she could use a little relaxing, herself. But her mission had been accomplished. She just hoped it had the effect she was counting on.
The knock on the door reminded them of their waiting engagement. "Yeah?" she called, when Jed didn't answer, didn't even raise his head from the back of the chair.
Wisely, Charlie called through the door, "Mister President, the limo's ready."
"Thanks, Charlie," Donna returned. "We'll be right out."
Pushing herself from the floor, she moved back between his legs and leaned in for a kiss. "Sorry I couldn't go slower," she murmured against his lips. "We didn't have much time."
"Umm. You made the best of it," he mumbled back, nibbling at her tongue, his eyes still closed. "But I owe you – "
Pulling back, she rose and headed toward the bathroom. "You owe me the most incredible State of the Union speech ever made."
"It'll be incredible, all right," he agreed, but sarcasm sharpened the tone.
"Jed – "
"No. It's okay." With a reluctant groan, he opened his eyes, stood and re- buttoned, re-tucked and re-zipped. "I will say that your method of preparation sure beats the hell out of – Toby's making me say the same sentence ten times in a row," he decided with a grin. "But I still owe you – "
Then he stopped and stared after her, hearing for the first time what she was talking about.
"See?" she boasted, leaning out of the bathroom door and calling through a mouthful of toothpaste. "I told you."
Cautious amazement brightened his face. "I'll be damned. You think it'll last?"
"Well," she decided, reapplying her lipstick with one hand and smoothing her suit with the other, "we could stop by the cloak room on the way into the Capitol just in case."
As she reached up to fix the tie she had loosened earlier, he smirked. "Okay."
"You would, too."
"Mister President?" Another call from outside the door.
"Toby's getting nervous," he said, and offered his arm to her. "Ready?"
She smiled at him and took the arm, proud and grateful to be at his side. "Ready."
She hoped he was ready, hoped that this momentary release would last long enough to get him through, that the instant he walked into that hall the fears, the demons wouldn't snatch him by the throat and choke him again.
Before they spilled out into the hallway, before they had to share their words with anyone else, she turned and took his face in her hands. "You are the smartest, bravest, strongest, best man I know. Whatever happens out there will not change that. And it won't change the fact that I love you so very much."
His lips pressed together and she watched as the moisture threatened his eyes. Her own were damp, as well.
Not intending to get quite that emotional, she patted him on the arm and said lightly, "You will be wonderful. I know it. Now go out there and ad lib Toby's speech. He'll be disappointed it you don't."
Letting her pull them back from the depths, he smiled. "Thanks." Then his lips met hers for a tender kiss before they opened the door.
As they strolled toward the limo to begin the short trip to the Capitol, she took one small liberty in front of the staff and wiped the light smear of lipstick from his mouth.
If any President ever forgot, during the daily routine of administration, that he was the leader of the free world and arguably the most important person in the world, it would take only one experience like the State of the Union to remind him. The entire Congress, the U.S. Supreme Court, dignitaries, the most important people in Washington, representatives from foreign nations – all there to hear one man, to focus completely on one man.
And tonight that man was Josiah Bartlet.
Alone, except for her agents, Donna walked through the impressive Hall of Columns on her way to the Hall of the House of Representatives directly above. She had left him with his detail, seeing in his eyes that he was once more focused on the task before him, but hoping that her small contribution to his preparation would help him clear the tension. As her eyes fell on the white stalks around her, she wondered if Jed had followed the same path a few minutes earlier, wondered if he remembered the last time they had strolled through the grand room together. A smile curved her lips as Jed's voice echoed his ubiquitous trivia in her head.
"Did you know," he had begun as they visited the Capitol several months before, using his professorial voice, "that this hall takes its name from the twenty-eight fluted, white columns? The capitals are a variation on the Corinthian order, incorporating not only classical acanthus leaves, but also thistles and native American tobacco plants."
She dimpled at the not-so-subtle eye rolls from his senior staff. Despite their professions of irritation with the boss's favorite pastime – well, favorite public pastime – they never failed to jump at the bait when he offered inane trivia.
"Freak," Toby had muttered under his breath.
Jed didn't turn, but continued his swift strides. "I heard that."
"Said with the utmost respect, sir," the communications chief assured him quickly.
"Yeah. Well, since you scoff at such knowledge, Tobias, I sense the need for a more in-depth lesson."
"Good goin'," C.J. accused her fellow senior staffer.
But Donna saw the fond amusement in her eyes.
Gesturing grandly around him, their boss continued, "The marble for the columns was quarried at Lee, Massachusetts, and the ceiling cast in Baltimore at the foundry of Hayward, Bartlett, and Company."
"Relatives, sir?" Josh asked.
"Distant. They have too many t's, though. A family argument or somethin'. The walls between the pilasters are finished in scagliola, an imitation marble made of firmly ground gypsum and glue."
Toby scowled. "They couldn't afford real marble?"
But Jed ignored him. "The original floor was laid with Minton encaustic tiles from England, but they wore out. Any idea where the new marble came from?"
Toby's glare dared anyone to answer, but Josh couldn't resist. "New Hampshire?" he guessed eagerly.
"Heart of Dixie," Jed hinted.
The Deputy Chief of Staff snapped a finger in triumph. "Mississippi!"
"Harvard and Yale?" Jed questioned, his voice falling in mock disappointment. "Should have gone to Notre Dame, Joshua. They actually teach practical things there."
"Like where the tile in this room comes from?" Toby wondered
"First of all," Jed went on, casting only a perfunctory glare at the spoiled sport, "Alabama is the Heart of Dixie, and that's where the white marble is from. The black marble is from New York, which is, by the way, the Empire State."
Josh snapped his fingers. "I knew that one."
"And second of all?" Toby asked.
"What?"
"You said, 'First of all Alabama is the Heart of Dixie.' With a first there must be a second. You have an A, you need a B. What is second of all?"
Jed shrugged, unconcerned with his breech of outline etiquette. "Okay, no second of all. Just – Alabama is the Heart of Dixie."
"And you are telling us this why?"
"Knowledge is power, Toby. Plus one day you may be on Jeopardy, and if this comes up, you're set."
"Of course, sir. Ever the pragmatist."
By then they had left the hall, but the conversation continued throughout the building until duty took the President of the United States away from his captive students. Still, Donna wondered if they all remembered where the marble came from. She bet they did.
With a sigh the First Lady pushed herself back from the fond memory. The columns he had pointed out seemed to close in on her now. The atmosphere was no longer bantering or teasing, but charged. Those days of lightning dialogue were long past. She wondered if Jed would ever be able to volley verbally with his staff again, and fervently prayed that he would. It was so much a part of who he was.
As they passed an office near the stairs, she caught the sound of a television newscast and stopped. Inside the door stood a young man, dark hair flopped over his eyes, a clerk perhaps, propped on a desk that probably wasn't his.
"May I watch a minute?" she asked.
He sprang up instantly, stumbling over a chair. "Yes – yes, ma'am. Of – of course."
But she waved off the seat he offered and leaned against the doorframe, listening to the news anchors speculate on what they would see. They had the script, as usual before hand, knew the points he would emphasize, had already set up the rebuttal from the Republicans. None of those things enticed them. It was the mystery of what man they would see when he finally entered the chamber. The unveiling of a fallen king and the conjectures of what the lifted curtain would reveal.
As Toby had predicted, tonight was not about the State of the Union. It was about the State of the President. News agencies from around the world had poured into D.C. for a week, ever since C.J. announced the speech was still on. Coverage for the night had never been so complete, so electric with anticipation, none of which had much to do with the actual content.
"The President is expected soon in the chamber," Tom Brokaw was saying in his familiar drawl. "And I am sure all of us are anxious to see him. It will be his first real appearance since the assassination attempt, and what a venue to make that first appearance, giving the State of the Union speech."
He turned to the seat beside him and the camera shifted to reveal a stout, gray haired Army officer waiting stiffly for his fifteen minutes of fame to begin. He was apparently the military expert of the moment.
"We have with us tonight Lieutenant Colonel George Besting, former assistant to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs from 1995 to 1997. Thank you for joining us tonight, Colonel."
The solider nodded with typical soldier curtness. "Thank you."
"Well, there seem to be two questions tonight. Who shot the President? And what effects will we see from his injuries?"
"You are certainly right, Tom," the guest agreed amicably. "Everyone wants to know who shot the President, besides, of course, the obvious answer that it was a member of his own staff. I think we have established now that this person, this woman, was a plant. But the question is who planted her?"
The anchorman nodded. "Are there any answers?"
Shrugging, Besting said, "Not officially, of course, or we would have already heard about it."
"Does that mean there are unofficial answers?" Brokaw wanted to know.
Well, he wasn't the only one.
"There is strong talk of a North Korean connection, but of course I hesitate to make any definitive statement. Still, that keeps coming up over and over."
The veteran newsman shook his head. "What will happen if these theories are substantiated, if it's proven that North Korea did have something to do with an attempt on a sitting American President? I mean, could this mean war?"
Donna felt a chill run through her. It could mean war, she knew, even though she felt Jed would do everything he could to keep from reaching that point.
With a sigh, the colonel nodded. "Well, I would have to say that if there was proof of this, it certainly could lead to hostilities. Our troops in the DMZ are already on alert, so that's evidence that the White House and the Pentagon have some sort of suspicions."
With a sympathetic, and possibly concerned, grunt, Brokaw turned away from the military analyst and twisted so that he faced another person to his right.
"Answers to that first question aren't very encouraging. Let's see if we can do better on the second question." He turned to the second guest, an attractive dark-skinned woman who looked much too young to be the obvious expert witness the network had procured for the commentary. "We have with us tonight Doctor Evelyn Borris, neurologist from Johns Hopkins. Thank you for being here, Doctor Borris."
The doctor nodded. "Thank you for having me." Her smooth, confident voice clocked her age more accurately.
"As if possible war with North Korea wasn't enough, the President has even more to worry about as a result of this assault, isn't that right, Doctor?"
She hesitated, her expression a little uncertain about where the reporter was going. Carefully, she responded, "There are always concerns for the recovery of anyone who has sustained such an injury as the President's, but certainly just by who he is, he provokes much more interest."
Brokaw leaned forward. "Doctor Boris, we have reports that the President's speech pattern has been affected by the head injury he suffered. To what extent, we don't know. The White House has been quiet on that matter. Press Secretary C.J. Cregg continues to report that he is recovering well and has already begun his duties again. Let's talk a little about what has happened to the President and what we can expect tonight when he speaks to the nation, and the world for that matter, for the first time since the attack."
"Well, Tom," she began, leaning against the counter with an ease that seemed natural. They had chosen their guest commentator well. "According to hospital reports, the President suffered a bullet wound to the left side of his head just above the brow and extending around the outside of the cranium to exit approximately three inches from the entry point. The bullet did not penetrate the skull, something I believe we can all say was a fairly impressive bit of luck."
"Some have called it a miracle," Brokaw offered.
"So I've heard."
The newscaster glanced down at his notes briefly. "George Washington doctors also reported an injury to his left forearm in that unbelievable scuffle with the assassin. Is there any danger from that?"
"Actually, the IV lines were ripped out of his arm – "
Donna cringed along with Tom Brokaw.
"– during the second attempt. That was when his brother-in-law fell on him in an effort to save his life."
"Another part of this incredible story that has amazed us all since the White House released the information a week ago."
"That is certainly true," the doctor agreed. "The arm wound, however, should not affect him tonight. What will be interesting to see is how the concussion has affected him."
"Now this is just speculation," the newscaster reminded, "but what are the possible effects we might expect?"
She pulled no punches. "With serious concussions there can be memory loss, weakness in the limbs. In severe cases, convulsions."
Brokaw winced. "Are there any signs of those things?"
"Not from what I have heard," she said. "Of course, you have already alluded to another possibility."
"His ability to speak."
"Aphasia."
"Tell us exactly what aphasia is, please."
"Aphasia is the impaired expression or comprehension of written or spoken language."
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means that the President may have difficultly expressing himself. His words may come slowly or not at all. His thoughts may be jerky, hard to string together coherently."
"But this President is giving a major speech in just a few minutes. How could he do that if he had such a disability?"
"He is taking a risk that the world will see any problem as a possible effect on his ability to execute his official duties," she admitted.
"Could it truly affect his ability?'
"I supposed that's to be seen," the doctor said carefully.
Brokaw nodded and smiled to her, his body language a clear sign that the segment was over. "All right. Some of our questions could well be answered soon. Thank you for being with us tonight, Doctor." Swinging back to the camera, he said, "Is war imminent? Is the President up to the task of fulfilling his duties in an escalating situation? We'll return in just a minute with the State of the Union and the first appearance of Josiah Bartlet since his injury in a stunning assassination attempt. Stay with us."
She hoped Jed wasn't watching, hoped he didn't hear that the whole world would be hanging on his every word, and would stretch to hear if his own words hung.
A few minutes before time for his entrance, she made her way through the greeting crowds and eased into the seat on the front row of the balcony amid the generous and warm applause of the assembly. She hoped this indicated a similar reception for her husband. On her left sat Zoey. Ellie sat to her right. And surrounding them were representatives of several families who would be referred to during the speech.
The milling senators, representatives, reporters, clerks, and guests began making their way to their own seats and the air grew almost electric as the time for Jed's entry approached. The Public had not really seen him since the shooting, had relied on C.J.'s briefings to tell them he was fine, he was recovering, he was preparing for the State of the Union.
So as the clerk stood at the doors and announced, "Mister Speaker, the President of the United States," the assembly rose as one and turned expectantly around.
A hush swept through the room as his audience got their first good look at him. Even as good as he looked, it didn't take long to see the scar. She watched the unnerved expressions as it sank in just how narrowly they had escaped disaster. One millimeter over, and the bullet would have smashed straight through that brilliant brain.
But he entered, just as he had done five times before, ignoring the stares, smiling as usual, hands extended to shake those offered hesitantly at first, then with growing eagerness as they felt his strength, saw his confidence. Not a hint of weakness in his step, and he somehow managed to grasp as many hands with his left as he did with his right, even though she knew it had to hurt. Stitches still closed the arm wound.
She couldn't tell if he spoke to anyone more than just a repeated name, but suddenly, the applause grew, expanded as he drew closer to the podium, an audible sign of congratulations for surviving, if nothing else. But he hadn't proved himself, yet. The wariness still pinched their faces, the uncertainty tightened their mouths.
When he finally made it onto the dais, shaking the hands of the Vice- President and the Speaker of the House, she almost felt as if she were watching the final minutes of a Hitchcock movie in which the audience knew something was going to happen, but didn't know if it would be grand or horrifying.
She wished she knew.
Jed faced them and motioned for silence, which fell almost immediately. The entire room held its breath, waited.
Donna held her breath, too, crossed her fingers in the folds of her gown. She noticed Zoey and Ellie in similar poses. He gripped the sides of the podium, squared his shoulders and looked out over the waiting crowd.
Please God, she prayed. Please let him manage this without embarrassment. Please let them hear the words and not just the delivery. Please let the context outweigh any cosmetic factors. Please.
The assembly waited for his first word, ready to hear, ready to listen, ready to judge. Donna opened her eyes and tried to convey her support across the distance, tried to send her strength over the emotional connection she shared with him.
"Mister Speaker. Mister Vice-President. Members of Congress. Honored Guests. My fellow – Americans."
He had paused between each acknowledgement, his words deliberate. His audience waited, having heard the rumors, the dire predictions through the press all week. Having been told that their eloquent, articulate, word- wizard of a chief executive had to fight for every syllable, for every consonant and every vowel.
He had begun conservatively, giving himself a chance to ease into the rhythm, but even with those few words, they had heard the falters, the unaccustomed pauses, which were such stark contrast to his characteristically smooth style that the impact of his injury became instantly clear. It was the ultimate irony, and she dreaded it for him, even as she vowed to be by his side every step of the way, regardless. Every step.
The room remained completely silent. A few representatives stole glances at each other. The more seasoned senators managed to keep their eyes on the President, but she saw the uneasiness in them.
She tried to project her support, tried to make him feel her with him. Letting the silence linger, he pressed his lips together and turned his head so that he was looking directly at her, holding her gaze several moments. And the message that leapt between them almost took her breath.
He was ready. Whatever happened, he was ready.
Pulling his attention back to the audience, he took one deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, looked straight into the camera, and opened his mouth.
"Two weeks ago, the peace and security of our nation was once again challenged by people that view human life without value, by people who elevate power and greed above cooperation and compassion. They challenged. And now I have a message for those terrorists and would-be assassins that didn't intend for me to be here tonight. I have a message for the people of this nation, for the people of the world: We have met the challenge. Because my name is Josiah Bartlet. And I am STILL the President of the United States of America."
For one stunned beat silence prevailed. But only one beat. Then, the room erupted. Senators and representatives on both sides of the aisle leapt to their feet. Foreign dignitaries, the Washington elite, fresh-faced clerks. All of them stood, their shouts and cheers resembling a raucous session of Parliament more than a joint session of Congress. Even the dignified justices, who never responded to anything in the State of the Union, stood and applauded this announcement, this courage, this man.
Donna stared, slack-jawed. That opening had not been part of the original draft, and she wondered if Jed had been the one to add it. It sounded like him. And he had delivered the message without one hesitation, without a single falter. The richness of Jed Bartlet's gift was still there, commanding his audience, winning the nation and the world, and she knew he wouldn't lose them now. They would go the distance with him tonight, no matter how many stumbles he might make later, or how many pauses he might take. With that bold declaration, with that show of pure strength and willpower, they were with him for the distance.
The roar continued, to be recounted by newscasters in the days to come, since they always took notice of the length of applause. It pushed on and on, despite Jed's occasional attempts to silence them so he could continue. This one would go into the record books.
Pride swelled in her heart as she watched him, and he allowed himself a grin toward her, his face flushed with triumph, and a little astonishment. Ignoring protocol, she made a gentle fist with her right hand and placed it over heart, a completely endearing gesture she had learned from him, one that seemed appropriate to use at that moment to express her love. The cameras caught it, and she knew she would see it in the news the next day, but she didn't care.
She didn't care one bit.