Thanks for the feedback from the first chapter. If you've seen the final
episode, this occurs after the heated argument between Jed and Leo outside
the Oval Office under the walkway. Hope you enjoy.
POV: Jed Spoilers: "The State Dinner;" "ITSOTG;" "Posse Comitatus;" "Gaza;" "Memorial Day" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation, but I love to play with them.
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Two of Three
"When the sun comes up in Gaza, you're gonna have to launch those planes."
As Jed Bartlet stormed past the whitewashed pillars of the colonnade, the words rebounded in his head, hardened by the concrete conviction in his chief of staff's tone.
"You're gonna have to launch those planes."
Damn. Damn it!
The agents stood their ground, as usual, but flinched a little as their commander stalked by them, his jaw hard, his eyes gray. Some had heard the conversation he had just had, but it wasn't their place to comment. Either way, he figured, they'd probably be on Leo's side. Everyone else was.
It would be so easy, so expected, so demanded, to send the power of a mere two FA-18s into that tormented land. To show the anger of the United States, to display the severe disapproval of the world's police and be done with it.
"The Israelis are right," Leo had emphasized. "There's only one way to bring stability to this region, and we should be out there with them digging ditches and putting up barbed wire."
The sheer incredulity of the declaration stunned him. "Defense?"
"It's a realistic solution," Leo had argued.
"It's a land grab!"
"There's no alternative."
No alternative? He had walked away, unable to break Leo's stubborn position, unwilling to bend his own.
But as the fury of the moment calmed a bit, as the breeze of a Washington late spring day cooled his ire, he fell once more into retrospection. Were they right? Should the U.S. throw in their lot completely with God's Chosen People? It's what Congress wanted. It's what America wanted. It's what Leo wanted.
But it wasn't what Jed Bartlet wanted.
He had not even looked at the final report, the collateral damage assessment he had tossed onto a chair as soon as Leo handed it to him. Wouldn't matter. He knew what it said. Fifty dead. Maybe thirty. Twenty if they bombed after school had begun. None of those numbers were acceptable.
Leo thought – Leo told him –
But as Abbey had said, Leo wasn't always right, was he? Didn't they have a year and a half of pure hell over Shareef and Zoey to prove that? Leo hadn't foreseen that result. Neither had Fitz for that matter. None of them had. He wished to God they had. He wished –
He was wishing way too much these days.
When they started, Leo had been bigger in the Party than he was. Leo had been higher up in national politics that he was. Leo had known more than he did about running the country.
Maybe then. Maybe even now. But then again, maybe not. Not anymore.
Maybe Jed Bartlet was the only voice for peace. Was that too presumptuous to assume? Too egotistical to declare? He had an ego the size of Montana, according to Abbey. He thought he could fix anything. Was this just one more thing he would try to fix, only to meet disaster?
The subtle straightening of the agents outside the bedroom door provided a needed splash of amusement. How did they go from ramrod straight to ramrod straighter? Nodding to them, he strode into the room, the energy of his turmoil taking him through the threshold with a gust of air following in his wake.
It startled the other occupant of the room so that she jerked her head up and gave a little "Oh!"
He pulled up abruptly and stared at her. She was supposed to have gone – somewhere, he couldn't remember exactly. But for some reason, one he wasn't questioning, she was there. A rush of relief lifted his chest.
He knew she could read the anger, the frustration, in every tense line of his body, but he wasn't ready to address that yet. Better to start with something less critical. Something almost trivial even. He searched for something innocuous.
"They want me to throw out the first pitch," he growled, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair, unconcerned that it ended up halfway sprawled on the floor.
"What?" Abbey looked up from what she had been reading, a medical journal probably, given the thickness and her recent foray back into surreptitious practice.
"Toby and Josh. They want me to throw out the damn ball at Camden Yards."
This revelation was sufficient for her to abandon the book. "They've seen you pitch?"
Ouch. "I don't know. Maybe."
"They've seen you shoot a basketball," she noted pointedly.
"I can shoot a basketball," he proclaimed.
"Well, true. We won't debate how well – "
He waved her off, half acknowledging her point, and dropped into the same chair his jacket clung to. "Says it'll send the right message."
She had shifted on the bed, and he noticed how the plum of her shirt brought out the natural flush of her cheeks. He wanted just to stare at the softness there, but the ubiquitous pressure wouldn't allow him even that moment.
"Message about what?" It was subtle, but he heard the probing in her tone.
"Gaza, I suppose."
She signed, well aware of the treacherous situation in the Middle East, and fully aware of his choices. He had told her everything. Never again would he keep things from her. It had hurt both of them too much already. In fact, he had realized that for the past several weeks she had become more of his political advisor than his political advisors – even more than Leo, in many ways. The scowl that crossed his brow at the thought of his estranged chief of staff must have been obvious. She smiled softly.
"Jed?"
Jerking his chin once in acknowledgment of her concern, he said, "They're outraged."
"Who?"
"The country. The world."
"And you're not?"
"Of course I am!" he snapped, not angry at her but unable to keep the fire from his voice. "I sent them over there. I sent Fitz – " And he stopped just in time to hold back the sob. The bed creaked as weight left it, and the gentle hand that settled on his shoulder allowed him a moment to compose himself, to regain control.
More quietly this time, he continued. "Of course I'm outraged, but I can't just go out there with guns blazing. I bomb Gaza and it could destroy any chance we ever had at peace there. But the country wants – Leo wants – "
He broke off again, still not sure what was happening between his oldest friend, his most trusted advisor, and him. Leo wanted war. How the hell could Leo want war? Then he remembered another, fateful conversation two years before in the opulent lobby of a New York theater.
"What's your objection exactly, sir?"
"Does this mean we join the league of ordinary nations?"
"That's your objection? I'm not gonna have trouble saying the Pledge of Allegiance tomorrow."
But that wasn't his objection. His objection – to the arguably justified assassination of an evil man – was that it was wrong. "It's absolutely wrong," he had told Leo.
But he had done it, hadn't he? Had followed right along with Leo's urging and look what it got him. A conscience tortured, a daughter snatched from him, a wife almost lost. No, he would not chose violence so trustingly again, and not just because of the personal pain it had caused him, but because – well, because it was wrong.
Dragging himself back to safer ground, he forced a chuckle and said, "So anyway, I'll appease the world – or at least Toby – by exhibiting my dexterity on the diamond."
The ploy worked, but probably only because Abbey allowed him to pull her from the deeper topic. "It's an easy toss, Sweetheart," she reassured him, perching on the chair arm and running the fingers of one hand through his hair. Usually he relished her touch, but her words involuntarily drew him away from her.
"What?" she asked, suddenly wary.
"Well – "Might as well fess up. It would be hard for her to miss him when he pre-empted every network station and a few of the cable channels, too.
"Well what?" The stroking had abruptly ceased.
"Well, I'm not exactly throwing from the stands." Ease into it.
"Not exactly?"
"Not exactly."
"Exactly where are you throwing from, Jed?" Her eyes had darkened with suspicion, her body tensed.
"The, uh – the field." Coward.
But she knew now. "Where on the field?" She would make him confess.
Okay. Just do it. "I'm throwing from the mound, okay?"
"The mound."
"The mound."
The beat was not long, but it was intense. And when it had passed she stood over him, chin jutted out, hands on hips. Attack stance.
"Josiah Bartlet, what the hell are you thinking?"
He swayed between defense and appeasement, and he wasn't sure if his response was either. "It'll be fine. I'll just throw it to the catcher easy and that'll be it. They're not expecting a fast ball or anything."
But he realized almost immediately at her incredulous expression that she could not have cared less about his delivery.
"I'm not talking about the pitch, Jackass. I'm talking about the bullet through your thick skull as you stand out there in front of 90,000 people who have an invitation to take pot shots at the President of the United States. They've already tried once – "
"Actually, Camden Yards holds 48, 262 – "
Okay that was a mistake, judging from the sudden darts that formed in her eyes. "They were shooting at Charlie," he reminded before he realized how foolish that comment was, too. "They missed."
Her eyes narrowed, and he scrambled to recover. "I'll have a vest."
"Yeah, lotta good that'll do you when they aim between the eyes – " She bit off the harsh words as if the sudden graphic visual she had created in her head jarred her with its horror. Calmer, she turned her back to him and asked, "You can't just throw from the stands?"
He sighed, having already gone through this with Toby. "If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it all the way." It was one thing he stood firm on, even convincing Ron Butterfield it could work. "It's wussy to throw it from the stands."
"Kennedy threw it from the stands," she argued.
"Kennedy was a wuss," he countered.
"John F. Kennedy was a wuss?"
He blanched. When she put it like that – "Well, in that way, anyway."
"Ron – "
"Knows. He's working on the details." Now he softened, seeing the fear on her face behind the anger. As he stood, his fingers closed gently around her arm. "Abbey, it'll be okay."
With a shaky sigh, she nodded and pushed up from her perch, completely unconvinced, but willing to drop it – at least for the time being. "So – no pressure, Mister President," she teased, forcing the lightness into her tone. "Just the world watching to see if you throw like a girl."
"Hey!" he protested. "I'm not a novice to America's favorite pastime."
Deliberately misinterpreting, she leered. "No, indeed, you most certainly are not."
Relief washed through him. "I meant baseball," he scolded in mock anger.
"Oh." When she played coy, she was incredibly sexy.
"I played ball."
"You played ball?"
"Yeah."
Her brow rose. "You played organized baseball?"
"Well," he admitted, "depends on what you mean by 'organized'."
"Okay – "
"My games were organized."
"By whom?"
"Billy Washburn organized our games."
"He was your coach?"
"He was the kid who had the biggest back yard. He always divided the teams because we used his sister's tea set dishes as bases. At least until we lost 'em against the side of the garage with a good slide."
"You," she declared, "are doomed."
"I got game," he insisted.
"Too bad it's not baseball," she returned.
"You're really stroking my ego here, Abbey."
She smirked. "Oh, was it your ego that needed stroking?" Her voice dropped into that hazy seduction that never failed to send a warm flush straight to his groin. "I thought it was something else."
Her hand slid down his chest with no hesitancy at all, unbuttoning his suit vest and twisting as she approached the waist band of his trousers. With a bounce of her eyebrows, she dived below to bestow her firm strokes on 'something else.'
At least her teasing was turning productive. The move had completely and effectively shattered any previous train of thought. With a groan, he pushed into her touch once before clutching her shoulders and drawing her to him. He was momentarily disappointed when her hand withdrew, but the insistent pressure of her lips on his and her groin against his more than made up for it. It ignited him. He felt the burn flare at the pit of his belly, felt the swelling heat ache as it tightened beneath his increasingly uncomfortable trousers. He rubbed against her, his body seeking relief from the sudden, overwhelming arousal, unable to get close enough to her even though she had wrapped one leg around his hips and thrust equally hard against him. He was dizzy with the rapid escalation of desire, and realized suddenly that if they didn't stop he was going to lose control and come right there without ever taking off his pants.
Voice rough, he gasped, "Abbey," as he tried to push her back, to descend the precarious summit. But she shook her head firmly and drew his mouth back to hers, sucking hard on his tongue as her hand returned between his legs and gripped him through the straining, dampening fabric.
"Abbey!" More urgently this time.
She grinned at him, but took pity, easing her hand away just in time. He had been right at the edge.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the chair and fought for control, still not sure he was completely in charge of his body. A knock at the door jarred him into turning so that his blatant reaction wouldn't be visible to the interloper, even though he imagined anyone could have read the frustration even in his shoulders.
Abbey called out, "Come."
A groan slipped past his lips. "God, Abbey, don't say that. I almost did."
"What if I said, 'Come inside – '"
The agent stepped in, and his President only narrowly avoided an embarrassing moment. The stern expression didn't waver from its constant solemnity, even if he did suspect something. "The Secretary of Defense is waiting for you in the Oval, sir."
The President nodded, keeping his body turned still. Voice tight, he asked, "Give me a minute, would you?" Or ten –
"Of course, sir."
When they were alone again, he pulled her to him and kissed her with as much heat and passion as he could risk in his perilous condition. When he finally pulled back, he noted with satisfaction her own rough moan.
"You really have to go?" she whispered, her face against his neck, her hands threaded through his hair.
No. Not going anywhere. Why the hell would I go anywhere when I could be right here making love to this amazing creature? "Yeah," he murmured reluctantly.
After a couple of heavy breaths, he finally managed to ease away from the imminent release, re-buttoning his vest as he threw a rueful grin at his wife. "You gonna be here later?"
She sighed, the apology apparent before she even spoke. "Probably not. I have meetings, but I'll try – "
"It's okay," he assured her, heart falling more than a little.
Catching his jaw in her palm, she said, "I will try, Jed."
He nodded, knowing he wouldn't see her later, but knowing she really meant that she would try. After another tender, but much too brief kiss, he left her, and headed back into the debacle that was the Middle East, with only the dim prospect of being with her later to give him focus.
Maybe Leo was right. Maybe he should just run down to the Home Depot and grab a shovel and some barbed wire. At least he wouldn't be the only one digging.
POV: Jed Spoilers: "The State Dinner;" "ITSOTG;" "Posse Comitatus;" "Gaza;" "Memorial Day" Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: These characters are not my creation, but I love to play with them.
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Two of Three
"When the sun comes up in Gaza, you're gonna have to launch those planes."
As Jed Bartlet stormed past the whitewashed pillars of the colonnade, the words rebounded in his head, hardened by the concrete conviction in his chief of staff's tone.
"You're gonna have to launch those planes."
Damn. Damn it!
The agents stood their ground, as usual, but flinched a little as their commander stalked by them, his jaw hard, his eyes gray. Some had heard the conversation he had just had, but it wasn't their place to comment. Either way, he figured, they'd probably be on Leo's side. Everyone else was.
It would be so easy, so expected, so demanded, to send the power of a mere two FA-18s into that tormented land. To show the anger of the United States, to display the severe disapproval of the world's police and be done with it.
"The Israelis are right," Leo had emphasized. "There's only one way to bring stability to this region, and we should be out there with them digging ditches and putting up barbed wire."
The sheer incredulity of the declaration stunned him. "Defense?"
"It's a realistic solution," Leo had argued.
"It's a land grab!"
"There's no alternative."
No alternative? He had walked away, unable to break Leo's stubborn position, unwilling to bend his own.
But as the fury of the moment calmed a bit, as the breeze of a Washington late spring day cooled his ire, he fell once more into retrospection. Were they right? Should the U.S. throw in their lot completely with God's Chosen People? It's what Congress wanted. It's what America wanted. It's what Leo wanted.
But it wasn't what Jed Bartlet wanted.
He had not even looked at the final report, the collateral damage assessment he had tossed onto a chair as soon as Leo handed it to him. Wouldn't matter. He knew what it said. Fifty dead. Maybe thirty. Twenty if they bombed after school had begun. None of those numbers were acceptable.
Leo thought – Leo told him –
But as Abbey had said, Leo wasn't always right, was he? Didn't they have a year and a half of pure hell over Shareef and Zoey to prove that? Leo hadn't foreseen that result. Neither had Fitz for that matter. None of them had. He wished to God they had. He wished –
He was wishing way too much these days.
When they started, Leo had been bigger in the Party than he was. Leo had been higher up in national politics that he was. Leo had known more than he did about running the country.
Maybe then. Maybe even now. But then again, maybe not. Not anymore.
Maybe Jed Bartlet was the only voice for peace. Was that too presumptuous to assume? Too egotistical to declare? He had an ego the size of Montana, according to Abbey. He thought he could fix anything. Was this just one more thing he would try to fix, only to meet disaster?
The subtle straightening of the agents outside the bedroom door provided a needed splash of amusement. How did they go from ramrod straight to ramrod straighter? Nodding to them, he strode into the room, the energy of his turmoil taking him through the threshold with a gust of air following in his wake.
It startled the other occupant of the room so that she jerked her head up and gave a little "Oh!"
He pulled up abruptly and stared at her. She was supposed to have gone – somewhere, he couldn't remember exactly. But for some reason, one he wasn't questioning, she was there. A rush of relief lifted his chest.
He knew she could read the anger, the frustration, in every tense line of his body, but he wasn't ready to address that yet. Better to start with something less critical. Something almost trivial even. He searched for something innocuous.
"They want me to throw out the first pitch," he growled, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair, unconcerned that it ended up halfway sprawled on the floor.
"What?" Abbey looked up from what she had been reading, a medical journal probably, given the thickness and her recent foray back into surreptitious practice.
"Toby and Josh. They want me to throw out the damn ball at Camden Yards."
This revelation was sufficient for her to abandon the book. "They've seen you pitch?"
Ouch. "I don't know. Maybe."
"They've seen you shoot a basketball," she noted pointedly.
"I can shoot a basketball," he proclaimed.
"Well, true. We won't debate how well – "
He waved her off, half acknowledging her point, and dropped into the same chair his jacket clung to. "Says it'll send the right message."
She had shifted on the bed, and he noticed how the plum of her shirt brought out the natural flush of her cheeks. He wanted just to stare at the softness there, but the ubiquitous pressure wouldn't allow him even that moment.
"Message about what?" It was subtle, but he heard the probing in her tone.
"Gaza, I suppose."
She signed, well aware of the treacherous situation in the Middle East, and fully aware of his choices. He had told her everything. Never again would he keep things from her. It had hurt both of them too much already. In fact, he had realized that for the past several weeks she had become more of his political advisor than his political advisors – even more than Leo, in many ways. The scowl that crossed his brow at the thought of his estranged chief of staff must have been obvious. She smiled softly.
"Jed?"
Jerking his chin once in acknowledgment of her concern, he said, "They're outraged."
"Who?"
"The country. The world."
"And you're not?"
"Of course I am!" he snapped, not angry at her but unable to keep the fire from his voice. "I sent them over there. I sent Fitz – " And he stopped just in time to hold back the sob. The bed creaked as weight left it, and the gentle hand that settled on his shoulder allowed him a moment to compose himself, to regain control.
More quietly this time, he continued. "Of course I'm outraged, but I can't just go out there with guns blazing. I bomb Gaza and it could destroy any chance we ever had at peace there. But the country wants – Leo wants – "
He broke off again, still not sure what was happening between his oldest friend, his most trusted advisor, and him. Leo wanted war. How the hell could Leo want war? Then he remembered another, fateful conversation two years before in the opulent lobby of a New York theater.
"What's your objection exactly, sir?"
"Does this mean we join the league of ordinary nations?"
"That's your objection? I'm not gonna have trouble saying the Pledge of Allegiance tomorrow."
But that wasn't his objection. His objection – to the arguably justified assassination of an evil man – was that it was wrong. "It's absolutely wrong," he had told Leo.
But he had done it, hadn't he? Had followed right along with Leo's urging and look what it got him. A conscience tortured, a daughter snatched from him, a wife almost lost. No, he would not chose violence so trustingly again, and not just because of the personal pain it had caused him, but because – well, because it was wrong.
Dragging himself back to safer ground, he forced a chuckle and said, "So anyway, I'll appease the world – or at least Toby – by exhibiting my dexterity on the diamond."
The ploy worked, but probably only because Abbey allowed him to pull her from the deeper topic. "It's an easy toss, Sweetheart," she reassured him, perching on the chair arm and running the fingers of one hand through his hair. Usually he relished her touch, but her words involuntarily drew him away from her.
"What?" she asked, suddenly wary.
"Well – "Might as well fess up. It would be hard for her to miss him when he pre-empted every network station and a few of the cable channels, too.
"Well what?" The stroking had abruptly ceased.
"Well, I'm not exactly throwing from the stands." Ease into it.
"Not exactly?"
"Not exactly."
"Exactly where are you throwing from, Jed?" Her eyes had darkened with suspicion, her body tensed.
"The, uh – the field." Coward.
But she knew now. "Where on the field?" She would make him confess.
Okay. Just do it. "I'm throwing from the mound, okay?"
"The mound."
"The mound."
The beat was not long, but it was intense. And when it had passed she stood over him, chin jutted out, hands on hips. Attack stance.
"Josiah Bartlet, what the hell are you thinking?"
He swayed between defense and appeasement, and he wasn't sure if his response was either. "It'll be fine. I'll just throw it to the catcher easy and that'll be it. They're not expecting a fast ball or anything."
But he realized almost immediately at her incredulous expression that she could not have cared less about his delivery.
"I'm not talking about the pitch, Jackass. I'm talking about the bullet through your thick skull as you stand out there in front of 90,000 people who have an invitation to take pot shots at the President of the United States. They've already tried once – "
"Actually, Camden Yards holds 48, 262 – "
Okay that was a mistake, judging from the sudden darts that formed in her eyes. "They were shooting at Charlie," he reminded before he realized how foolish that comment was, too. "They missed."
Her eyes narrowed, and he scrambled to recover. "I'll have a vest."
"Yeah, lotta good that'll do you when they aim between the eyes – " She bit off the harsh words as if the sudden graphic visual she had created in her head jarred her with its horror. Calmer, she turned her back to him and asked, "You can't just throw from the stands?"
He sighed, having already gone through this with Toby. "If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it all the way." It was one thing he stood firm on, even convincing Ron Butterfield it could work. "It's wussy to throw it from the stands."
"Kennedy threw it from the stands," she argued.
"Kennedy was a wuss," he countered.
"John F. Kennedy was a wuss?"
He blanched. When she put it like that – "Well, in that way, anyway."
"Ron – "
"Knows. He's working on the details." Now he softened, seeing the fear on her face behind the anger. As he stood, his fingers closed gently around her arm. "Abbey, it'll be okay."
With a shaky sigh, she nodded and pushed up from her perch, completely unconvinced, but willing to drop it – at least for the time being. "So – no pressure, Mister President," she teased, forcing the lightness into her tone. "Just the world watching to see if you throw like a girl."
"Hey!" he protested. "I'm not a novice to America's favorite pastime."
Deliberately misinterpreting, she leered. "No, indeed, you most certainly are not."
Relief washed through him. "I meant baseball," he scolded in mock anger.
"Oh." When she played coy, she was incredibly sexy.
"I played ball."
"You played ball?"
"Yeah."
Her brow rose. "You played organized baseball?"
"Well," he admitted, "depends on what you mean by 'organized'."
"Okay – "
"My games were organized."
"By whom?"
"Billy Washburn organized our games."
"He was your coach?"
"He was the kid who had the biggest back yard. He always divided the teams because we used his sister's tea set dishes as bases. At least until we lost 'em against the side of the garage with a good slide."
"You," she declared, "are doomed."
"I got game," he insisted.
"Too bad it's not baseball," she returned.
"You're really stroking my ego here, Abbey."
She smirked. "Oh, was it your ego that needed stroking?" Her voice dropped into that hazy seduction that never failed to send a warm flush straight to his groin. "I thought it was something else."
Her hand slid down his chest with no hesitancy at all, unbuttoning his suit vest and twisting as she approached the waist band of his trousers. With a bounce of her eyebrows, she dived below to bestow her firm strokes on 'something else.'
At least her teasing was turning productive. The move had completely and effectively shattered any previous train of thought. With a groan, he pushed into her touch once before clutching her shoulders and drawing her to him. He was momentarily disappointed when her hand withdrew, but the insistent pressure of her lips on his and her groin against his more than made up for it. It ignited him. He felt the burn flare at the pit of his belly, felt the swelling heat ache as it tightened beneath his increasingly uncomfortable trousers. He rubbed against her, his body seeking relief from the sudden, overwhelming arousal, unable to get close enough to her even though she had wrapped one leg around his hips and thrust equally hard against him. He was dizzy with the rapid escalation of desire, and realized suddenly that if they didn't stop he was going to lose control and come right there without ever taking off his pants.
Voice rough, he gasped, "Abbey," as he tried to push her back, to descend the precarious summit. But she shook her head firmly and drew his mouth back to hers, sucking hard on his tongue as her hand returned between his legs and gripped him through the straining, dampening fabric.
"Abbey!" More urgently this time.
She grinned at him, but took pity, easing her hand away just in time. He had been right at the edge.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the chair and fought for control, still not sure he was completely in charge of his body. A knock at the door jarred him into turning so that his blatant reaction wouldn't be visible to the interloper, even though he imagined anyone could have read the frustration even in his shoulders.
Abbey called out, "Come."
A groan slipped past his lips. "God, Abbey, don't say that. I almost did."
"What if I said, 'Come inside – '"
The agent stepped in, and his President only narrowly avoided an embarrassing moment. The stern expression didn't waver from its constant solemnity, even if he did suspect something. "The Secretary of Defense is waiting for you in the Oval, sir."
The President nodded, keeping his body turned still. Voice tight, he asked, "Give me a minute, would you?" Or ten –
"Of course, sir."
When they were alone again, he pulled her to him and kissed her with as much heat and passion as he could risk in his perilous condition. When he finally pulled back, he noted with satisfaction her own rough moan.
"You really have to go?" she whispered, her face against his neck, her hands threaded through his hair.
No. Not going anywhere. Why the hell would I go anywhere when I could be right here making love to this amazing creature? "Yeah," he murmured reluctantly.
After a couple of heavy breaths, he finally managed to ease away from the imminent release, re-buttoning his vest as he threw a rueful grin at his wife. "You gonna be here later?"
She sighed, the apology apparent before she even spoke. "Probably not. I have meetings, but I'll try – "
"It's okay," he assured her, heart falling more than a little.
Catching his jaw in her palm, she said, "I will try, Jed."
He nodded, knowing he wouldn't see her later, but knowing she really meant that she would try. After another tender, but much too brief kiss, he left her, and headed back into the debacle that was the Middle East, with only the dim prospect of being with her later to give him focus.
Maybe Leo was right. Maybe he should just run down to the Home Depot and grab a shovel and some barbed wire. At least he wouldn't be the only one digging.