POV: Jed
Spoilers: "Gaza;" "Memorial Day"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Three of Three (But there is a bonus chapter coming.)
He still had the baseball in his hand when he left the West Wing and strode along the colonnade, wondering – not for the first time – why there was no easy connection from the Residence to the working arm of the building. Maybe someone felt there needed to be that separation between public and private. It was Theodore Roosevelt, wasn't it, who had expanded the Executive Mansion to include new office space on the west side of the house, protecting – or perhaps escaping from – his large brood. Or maybe it was Edith Roosevelt's idea so she could have the freedom to let them be children.
Maybe it was positioned so that the man who could easily suffocate in the oppressive air of the room would have a chance to bring fresh oxygen into his lungs before he took the rare moments to reunite with his family.
He wished Abbey was still there, but knew she would most certainly still be in her meetings. He needed to see her, to touch her. There was no one else in his corner at the moment. No one else – except maybe Kate Harper – who thought there was any chance of peace, any possibility that words and diplomacy could do the job better than a few FA-18s.
"This is a waste of time," Leo had announced blatantly after he and Kate had pulled the President away from his rather destructive practice session in the hallway. And for the first time in their professional relationship, Jed Bartlet had not listened to his closest advisor, cutting him off abruptly with a polite, but firm, "Thank you."
Not immediately grasping the message, Leo persisted, "You need to – "
But another curt "Thank you" got the point across. Jed could still feel the astonishment from his friend as the chief of staff stared for a long moment, then left without another attempt at reason.
He took the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the movement to carry him physically from one place to another. As he passed the agent at the bedroom door, he tossed the baseball casually and couldn't help grinning at the automatic reaction and quick snag. It was the same guy who had caught the lighter the night he had told Bob Ritchie he was going to kick his ass. The night he told Leo to have Shareef killed. The night he triggered events that had almost destroyed him.
He barely heard the door close behind him as he stepped to the window and stared out, an exact repeat of his pensive pose in front of the Oval windows a few minutes earlier.
Fifty casualties, they had said. Thirty in a reduced attack. Fifteen to twenty if they waited until the children were at school. And then what? What the hell would that solve? The Israelis would take the opportunity, as they had proven before, to "help" the U.S. retaliate. The Palestinians would respond, claiming that insurgents had acted without governmental authority. It would continue as it had for decades, centuries, even, and Josiah Bartlet would have only aided in its proliferation.
Someone had to take a chance. Someone had to try at least to break the cycle of violence. Sadat and Begin had done it in 1979. He laughed ironically, just a quick breath, really. Both of those men were dead now, felled by assassins for their noble efforts.
A click drew his attention and he turned, surprised to see Abbey enter. Thank God. Bless her for being there. Bless her for knowing he needed her to be there. It took every bit of control for him not to dash across the floor and catch her up against his chest. But that move would only worry her, would merely confirm her fears for his emotional state. Instead, he waved casually and lifted his chin in greeting.
"Seems dark in the hall," she noted, tossing her briefcase onto a chair.
He flinched. "Yeah. Listen, you know that lamp at the end of the room? That wasn't, say, Eleanor Roosevelt's lamp or anything, was it?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'was'?"
With a quick clearing of his throat, he assured her, "Nothing."
Mercifully accepting that for the moment, she regarded him, then said, "You still going?"
"Yeah. It'll be fine." He offered that as much for himself as for her.
"Jed – "
"It'll be fine," he repeated firmly, taking her hand in his, then added, "I've practiced," deliberately misinterpreting her main point of concern.
She squeezed his fingers. "Did that practice include the demise of Eleanor's lamp?"
A sheepish blush colored his cheeks. "Could have," he admitted.
"You're wearing the vest?"
"Yeah."
"Do they have a helmet, too?"
He took another step forward and clasped her other hand. "Abbey, you put me in a vest and helmet and it'll ruin the whole effect. They might as well think I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger going out there."
The smirk was expected. "You think they're gonna mistake you for Arnold Schwarzenegger?"
"I was making a point," he protested, pulling her closer.
"So was I." She let him touch his lips to her forehead.
After a moment, he untangled one hand from hers and brushed his fingers through her hair. "It'll be fine. And I'll make a damned good pitch, too."
"I know you will."
His brow lifted and he leaned back to determine if he was being patronized, but her eyes met his in complete earnest, and the sincerity in them pulled a ragged breath through his throat. He drew her against him and enjoyed the comforting presence of her arms around his waist, of her head against his chest, of her hips against his hips.
After a moment, she asked, "They're still pushing about Gaza?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Leo?"
"Yeah."
"You'll do the right thing."
Her assurance was a balm over his soul, especially after he had almost destroyed them with another choice. Why the hell hadn't he brought Shareef to her? But he knew. This was different. This was nothing he had caused – except to put Fitz and the others in harm's way. She didn't know what he would do – not really – but here she was giving him her support. It beat the hell out of where they had been a year – or even four months – ago.
He wished he was as certain about it as she was.
He felt one arm withdraw from around him and ease up between them to touch his face, then draw him down to meet her mouth in a tender kiss. Her body molded to his, 36 years of practice making the move natural and right. He didn't have time for anything too involved, but he couldn't resist allowing himself this indulgence in her delicious and soothing embrace.
Her hand slipped behind his head to increase the pressure of the kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue teasing and seductive at once. He let his body respond to her heat – as if he could stop it – and dropped his hand to her hips, pulling her harder against him. They were fully involved in what earlier society had deemed "heavy petting" when the expected, but entirely unwelcome, knock interrupted.
"Damn." True irritation colored her voice.
He didn't respond to the signal immediately. Instead, he held her closer still, regretfully letting the intensity of the moment fade. He didn't want to go. He yearned to stay right there, to carry her to their bed, to feel her body under his, opening to him, wrapping around him, enveloping him in passion and love. But he couldn't. He had duties. He had responsibilities.
"I'll be back, babe," he promised, letting his lips brush against her hair.
"Be careful," she whispered into his shirt, her hands clutching at the material as if she didn't want to let go either.
He nodded, knowing she felt the movement, even thought she didn't see it. As he pulled away, she reached up for one last, deep kiss that was undoubtedly calculated to reach to his soul and keep him warm for later. It worked.
With a tender smile, he broke away and held her at arm's length, noting the brightness of her eyes, the stark fear she couldn't quite mask.
"Abbey, it'll be okay."
A nod was all he received, and he realized that maybe she didn't trust herself to say anything. With a couple of soft kisses against her palms, he made the final move toward the door.
As he opened it, she managed to gather herself and call out, "Hey, Cy!"
He turned and lifted a brow.
Now seduction heated her cheeks, almost covering the anxiety. "Throw a strike and you're up for a substantial bonus after the game."
With a grin, he held her gaze for a long moment, then asked, "What if I throw two strikes? Does that mean – "
She laughed. "I assure you, hotshot, that your bonus will more than cover as many strikes as you want to throw. Just don't tire yourself out for the ceremony later."
He swallowed. "You got it."
They shared a final smile before he reluctantly walked into the hallway, even more determined to make the damned throw.
Camden Yards was only a few minutes away by Marine One, a hop, skip, and jump from the White House – although any hopping or skipping was strictly frowned upon by the secret service, and so they arrived on time. The encompassing roar of the gathered fans was dulled a little in the tunnels, but not enough to mute the powerful disapproval that fairly beat from his chief of staff's body.
"How many times have we tried negotiating?"
Jed turned to him, voice raised to be heard. "We're not negotiating with the Chairman," he reminded.
They had taken the stealth offer from the Prime Minister. They would meet without the Chairman. They would put calm, logical brains together to solve this entire damned mess. At least they had to try.
"Your priority should be the security of this country."
That got his attention and he glanced sharply at his friend, his face hard in defense. It was rare that Leo lectured. It revealed his complete frustration with the turn of events.
But he wasn't finished. "I think you're gunshy, sir. The most important moment of your presidency and you're going to blow it because you're human. You're a father who almost lost – "
He felt the impulse fly up to his hands and had to keep them from grabbing the other man's suit front. "You think this is about Zoey?" he snapped. "You're damned right it's about Zoey. And Ellie, and Elizabeth, and Mallory." That earned him a flinch. "It's about bombs in Macy's and Penn Station. And Starbucks." Finally, he was able to articulate just what bothered him, just what he had told Abbey earlier.
"Bombing Gaza could be the most dangerous move this country has made in two centuries." And he sure as hell wouldn't be the one to do it.
"– or not," Leo returned, his own color higher.
"In seventy-five years we'll know if we're right or wrong, but nobody standing here today can tell me that with any certainty. I'm the guy in the office, Leo. I'll be the one who's judged."
It was time. Baltimore waited. He hoped they were the only ones out there, hoped that some deranged – or paid – assassin didn't lurk in the stands to knock him off. But it didn't matter anymore. God wouldn't send him out now. He had bigger things to do.
It should have been Leo. He had known that all along. It should have been Leo. But fate – or God's mysterious ways – had placed him there. It was his watch, his call. He would be the one judged 75 years into the future. Did he continue the cycle and do what everyone expected, what everyone demanded? Or did he buck every advisor he had – except Abbey and Kate Harper – and take the treacherous and unstable step toward the long-term quest for peace?
He paused at the top of the steps, the adrenaline from both the noise and the danger pumping through his chest. The crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheers as he was announced. At least somebody still liked him. He thought he heard Leo's call then, the rare use of his name, of who he was, but he couldn't stop to see. He was on the field. Open season on the President if anyone really tried hard to get him. Didn't do any good to dwell on that now, though. The huge screen showed his every move, his smile, his wave. He wondered if it picked up the turmoil in his eyes, wondered if they saw the questions jostling for position in his brain. It occurred to him a little late that maybe it wasn't that wussy to throw it from the stands.
Do it fast, Ron had advised. The less time with a target on his back, the better. Trying not to think too much about the pitch, he drew the ball from the glove and took a breath.
That's when it hit. The sheer weight of his decision, the argument and break with Leo, the risk he was about to take with America, with the world. It almost overwhelmed him, and he knew the despair that swept over him had to show on his face. Desperately clamping down on the impossible tears that burned his eyes, he pressed his lips together hard and reared back for the pitch, willing all of the boiling emotions to flow from his heart and into his arm.
It wasn't the fastest ball the Orioles' catcher had even been delivered, but it was crisp and hard, and it hit the mitt with a loud and satisfying smack, drawing screams of impressed appreciation from the crowd.
"Steerike!" the umpire yelled cooperatively, but he didn't have to fudge at all. It really had been.
As he straightened from the follow through, the President's grin was one of relief and satisfaction. At least he had done one thing right. The jumbo- tron replayed his form in slow motion, and he nodded his acknowledgement of the cheers that swelled again when the ball popped into the glove once more on the screen.
A strike. He had earned himself a bonus for the evening – a substantial bonus, she had promised, although he suspected even if the ball had sailed into the stands, she would be there. He could sure as hell use it.
But even with the wild accolades, even with the promise of a passionate night with his wife, he knew as soon as he stepped back under the stadium the decision was still his to make, and Leo still waited with advice he wouldn't take – couldn't take.
And then the real game would begin.
Whence Gaza Mourns A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Three of Three (But there is a bonus chapter coming.)
He still had the baseball in his hand when he left the West Wing and strode along the colonnade, wondering – not for the first time – why there was no easy connection from the Residence to the working arm of the building. Maybe someone felt there needed to be that separation between public and private. It was Theodore Roosevelt, wasn't it, who had expanded the Executive Mansion to include new office space on the west side of the house, protecting – or perhaps escaping from – his large brood. Or maybe it was Edith Roosevelt's idea so she could have the freedom to let them be children.
Maybe it was positioned so that the man who could easily suffocate in the oppressive air of the room would have a chance to bring fresh oxygen into his lungs before he took the rare moments to reunite with his family.
He wished Abbey was still there, but knew she would most certainly still be in her meetings. He needed to see her, to touch her. There was no one else in his corner at the moment. No one else – except maybe Kate Harper – who thought there was any chance of peace, any possibility that words and diplomacy could do the job better than a few FA-18s.
"This is a waste of time," Leo had announced blatantly after he and Kate had pulled the President away from his rather destructive practice session in the hallway. And for the first time in their professional relationship, Jed Bartlet had not listened to his closest advisor, cutting him off abruptly with a polite, but firm, "Thank you."
Not immediately grasping the message, Leo persisted, "You need to – "
But another curt "Thank you" got the point across. Jed could still feel the astonishment from his friend as the chief of staff stared for a long moment, then left without another attempt at reason.
He took the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the movement to carry him physically from one place to another. As he passed the agent at the bedroom door, he tossed the baseball casually and couldn't help grinning at the automatic reaction and quick snag. It was the same guy who had caught the lighter the night he had told Bob Ritchie he was going to kick his ass. The night he told Leo to have Shareef killed. The night he triggered events that had almost destroyed him.
He barely heard the door close behind him as he stepped to the window and stared out, an exact repeat of his pensive pose in front of the Oval windows a few minutes earlier.
Fifty casualties, they had said. Thirty in a reduced attack. Fifteen to twenty if they waited until the children were at school. And then what? What the hell would that solve? The Israelis would take the opportunity, as they had proven before, to "help" the U.S. retaliate. The Palestinians would respond, claiming that insurgents had acted without governmental authority. It would continue as it had for decades, centuries, even, and Josiah Bartlet would have only aided in its proliferation.
Someone had to take a chance. Someone had to try at least to break the cycle of violence. Sadat and Begin had done it in 1979. He laughed ironically, just a quick breath, really. Both of those men were dead now, felled by assassins for their noble efforts.
A click drew his attention and he turned, surprised to see Abbey enter. Thank God. Bless her for being there. Bless her for knowing he needed her to be there. It took every bit of control for him not to dash across the floor and catch her up against his chest. But that move would only worry her, would merely confirm her fears for his emotional state. Instead, he waved casually and lifted his chin in greeting.
"Seems dark in the hall," she noted, tossing her briefcase onto a chair.
He flinched. "Yeah. Listen, you know that lamp at the end of the room? That wasn't, say, Eleanor Roosevelt's lamp or anything, was it?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'was'?"
With a quick clearing of his throat, he assured her, "Nothing."
Mercifully accepting that for the moment, she regarded him, then said, "You still going?"
"Yeah. It'll be fine." He offered that as much for himself as for her.
"Jed – "
"It'll be fine," he repeated firmly, taking her hand in his, then added, "I've practiced," deliberately misinterpreting her main point of concern.
She squeezed his fingers. "Did that practice include the demise of Eleanor's lamp?"
A sheepish blush colored his cheeks. "Could have," he admitted.
"You're wearing the vest?"
"Yeah."
"Do they have a helmet, too?"
He took another step forward and clasped her other hand. "Abbey, you put me in a vest and helmet and it'll ruin the whole effect. They might as well think I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger going out there."
The smirk was expected. "You think they're gonna mistake you for Arnold Schwarzenegger?"
"I was making a point," he protested, pulling her closer.
"So was I." She let him touch his lips to her forehead.
After a moment, he untangled one hand from hers and brushed his fingers through her hair. "It'll be fine. And I'll make a damned good pitch, too."
"I know you will."
His brow lifted and he leaned back to determine if he was being patronized, but her eyes met his in complete earnest, and the sincerity in them pulled a ragged breath through his throat. He drew her against him and enjoyed the comforting presence of her arms around his waist, of her head against his chest, of her hips against his hips.
After a moment, she asked, "They're still pushing about Gaza?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Leo?"
"Yeah."
"You'll do the right thing."
Her assurance was a balm over his soul, especially after he had almost destroyed them with another choice. Why the hell hadn't he brought Shareef to her? But he knew. This was different. This was nothing he had caused – except to put Fitz and the others in harm's way. She didn't know what he would do – not really – but here she was giving him her support. It beat the hell out of where they had been a year – or even four months – ago.
He wished he was as certain about it as she was.
He felt one arm withdraw from around him and ease up between them to touch his face, then draw him down to meet her mouth in a tender kiss. Her body molded to his, 36 years of practice making the move natural and right. He didn't have time for anything too involved, but he couldn't resist allowing himself this indulgence in her delicious and soothing embrace.
Her hand slipped behind his head to increase the pressure of the kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue teasing and seductive at once. He let his body respond to her heat – as if he could stop it – and dropped his hand to her hips, pulling her harder against him. They were fully involved in what earlier society had deemed "heavy petting" when the expected, but entirely unwelcome, knock interrupted.
"Damn." True irritation colored her voice.
He didn't respond to the signal immediately. Instead, he held her closer still, regretfully letting the intensity of the moment fade. He didn't want to go. He yearned to stay right there, to carry her to their bed, to feel her body under his, opening to him, wrapping around him, enveloping him in passion and love. But he couldn't. He had duties. He had responsibilities.
"I'll be back, babe," he promised, letting his lips brush against her hair.
"Be careful," she whispered into his shirt, her hands clutching at the material as if she didn't want to let go either.
He nodded, knowing she felt the movement, even thought she didn't see it. As he pulled away, she reached up for one last, deep kiss that was undoubtedly calculated to reach to his soul and keep him warm for later. It worked.
With a tender smile, he broke away and held her at arm's length, noting the brightness of her eyes, the stark fear she couldn't quite mask.
"Abbey, it'll be okay."
A nod was all he received, and he realized that maybe she didn't trust herself to say anything. With a couple of soft kisses against her palms, he made the final move toward the door.
As he opened it, she managed to gather herself and call out, "Hey, Cy!"
He turned and lifted a brow.
Now seduction heated her cheeks, almost covering the anxiety. "Throw a strike and you're up for a substantial bonus after the game."
With a grin, he held her gaze for a long moment, then asked, "What if I throw two strikes? Does that mean – "
She laughed. "I assure you, hotshot, that your bonus will more than cover as many strikes as you want to throw. Just don't tire yourself out for the ceremony later."
He swallowed. "You got it."
They shared a final smile before he reluctantly walked into the hallway, even more determined to make the damned throw.
Camden Yards was only a few minutes away by Marine One, a hop, skip, and jump from the White House – although any hopping or skipping was strictly frowned upon by the secret service, and so they arrived on time. The encompassing roar of the gathered fans was dulled a little in the tunnels, but not enough to mute the powerful disapproval that fairly beat from his chief of staff's body.
"How many times have we tried negotiating?"
Jed turned to him, voice raised to be heard. "We're not negotiating with the Chairman," he reminded.
They had taken the stealth offer from the Prime Minister. They would meet without the Chairman. They would put calm, logical brains together to solve this entire damned mess. At least they had to try.
"Your priority should be the security of this country."
That got his attention and he glanced sharply at his friend, his face hard in defense. It was rare that Leo lectured. It revealed his complete frustration with the turn of events.
But he wasn't finished. "I think you're gunshy, sir. The most important moment of your presidency and you're going to blow it because you're human. You're a father who almost lost – "
He felt the impulse fly up to his hands and had to keep them from grabbing the other man's suit front. "You think this is about Zoey?" he snapped. "You're damned right it's about Zoey. And Ellie, and Elizabeth, and Mallory." That earned him a flinch. "It's about bombs in Macy's and Penn Station. And Starbucks." Finally, he was able to articulate just what bothered him, just what he had told Abbey earlier.
"Bombing Gaza could be the most dangerous move this country has made in two centuries." And he sure as hell wouldn't be the one to do it.
"– or not," Leo returned, his own color higher.
"In seventy-five years we'll know if we're right or wrong, but nobody standing here today can tell me that with any certainty. I'm the guy in the office, Leo. I'll be the one who's judged."
It was time. Baltimore waited. He hoped they were the only ones out there, hoped that some deranged – or paid – assassin didn't lurk in the stands to knock him off. But it didn't matter anymore. God wouldn't send him out now. He had bigger things to do.
It should have been Leo. He had known that all along. It should have been Leo. But fate – or God's mysterious ways – had placed him there. It was his watch, his call. He would be the one judged 75 years into the future. Did he continue the cycle and do what everyone expected, what everyone demanded? Or did he buck every advisor he had – except Abbey and Kate Harper – and take the treacherous and unstable step toward the long-term quest for peace?
He paused at the top of the steps, the adrenaline from both the noise and the danger pumping through his chest. The crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheers as he was announced. At least somebody still liked him. He thought he heard Leo's call then, the rare use of his name, of who he was, but he couldn't stop to see. He was on the field. Open season on the President if anyone really tried hard to get him. Didn't do any good to dwell on that now, though. The huge screen showed his every move, his smile, his wave. He wondered if it picked up the turmoil in his eyes, wondered if they saw the questions jostling for position in his brain. It occurred to him a little late that maybe it wasn't that wussy to throw it from the stands.
Do it fast, Ron had advised. The less time with a target on his back, the better. Trying not to think too much about the pitch, he drew the ball from the glove and took a breath.
That's when it hit. The sheer weight of his decision, the argument and break with Leo, the risk he was about to take with America, with the world. It almost overwhelmed him, and he knew the despair that swept over him had to show on his face. Desperately clamping down on the impossible tears that burned his eyes, he pressed his lips together hard and reared back for the pitch, willing all of the boiling emotions to flow from his heart and into his arm.
It wasn't the fastest ball the Orioles' catcher had even been delivered, but it was crisp and hard, and it hit the mitt with a loud and satisfying smack, drawing screams of impressed appreciation from the crowd.
"Steerike!" the umpire yelled cooperatively, but he didn't have to fudge at all. It really had been.
As he straightened from the follow through, the President's grin was one of relief and satisfaction. At least he had done one thing right. The jumbo- tron replayed his form in slow motion, and he nodded his acknowledgement of the cheers that swelled again when the ball popped into the glove once more on the screen.
A strike. He had earned himself a bonus for the evening – a substantial bonus, she had promised, although he suspected even if the ball had sailed into the stands, she would be there. He could sure as hell use it.
But even with the wild accolades, even with the promise of a passionate night with his wife, he knew as soon as he stepped back under the stadium the decision was still his to make, and Leo still waited with advice he wouldn't take – couldn't take.
And then the real game would begin.