This is for those of you who thought Jed had worked too hard to have to
wait until September for his bonus. There's a little h/c in here, too, for
those fans – and you know who you are! I suppose it is technically the
fourth chapter (and final) of the story. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for the
feedback.
POV: Jed Spoilers: "Gaza;" "Memorial Day;" "NSFT" (6th season premier) Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish Jed was, at least.
Whence Gaza Mourns "Bonus" Chapter
by MAHC
Jed Bartlet tried not to stumble out of the Sit Room, but he wasn't completely successful. Maybe it was the late – or early – hour. Maybe it was the final exhaustion of the adrenaline that had rushed through him all day. Maybe it was the fact that he had been played, and he hated to be played.
Whatever it was, he cursed when his feet betrayed him and tossed him toward the door right there in front of the Joint Chiefs, Secretary of Defense, and Leo. Fortunately, he caught himself before he ended up in a humiliating heap on the floor. No harm done, except his pride – and the sudden, jarring pain that shot through his shoulder when he grabbed the door frame.
"Mister President?" At least five different voices sounded around him, accompanied by an equal number of extended hands.
Damn.
Waving them off with his left hand, he straightened carefully and tried not to grimace, concentrating on making sure his shoes cleared the surface. A flash of heat swept just beneath his skin as he considered the possibility that this moment might be a harbinger of a familiar, but very unwelcome, visitor. But a quick assessment of his body seemed to dispel that, thank God.
No, he was just tired. And frustrated. And more than a little pissed. Leo hadn't said "I told you so," but his pointed glances sent the message just as well.
The Chairman can't be trusted. There is no solution. We should support the Israelis and just bomb the hell out of Gaza and be done with it.
"Remember Chamberlain," his chief of staff had reminded after catching him on his victorious sprint off the diamond at Camden Yards, instantly shattering any glee from that momentary triumph.
He remembered Chamberlain. He didn't intend to be Chamberlain. Chamberlain had been naïve. Jed Bartlet was not. Not anymore. But if there was even a remote possibility of truly bringing "peace for our time" he had to try. He just prayed there was no Hitler waiting to exploit his good faith.
"Sir?"
Barely resisting the instinct to brace his throbbing shoulder, he turned to see Kate Harper hanging back uncertainly, her eyes clouded with concern. For him? For the situation? He wasn't sure.
"Yes?"
"May I suggest, Mister President, that further discussion on this will keep until morning."
He caught the scowl Leo threw her way. There had apparently been some give and take behind his back. Pushing away the irritation at his show of weakness, he gave her an indulgent half smile and asked, "Do I look that bad?"
His tease worked just like it had the day before. She colored instantly. "Ah, no, sir. I didn't mean – I wasn't trying to imply that – "
Another casual wave of his hand rescued her. He figured he probably did look that bad. "Go home, everybody. We'll tackle this tomorrow." A quick glance at his watch told him it already was tomorrow. "Or later today."
"Mister President?" The Secretary of Defense stepped up to him, and with a nod from his boss, continued. "The Fa-18s are still on alert, sir. Whenever you give the word – "
Another push. Who the hell was in charge, anyway? A flush of anger snapped out his response. "When I give the word. Remember that, Mister Secretary. They don't go until you hear it from ME."
"Of course not, sir." The other man seemed astonished that the President would even suggest he would do otherwise, and Jed felt a twinge of guilt for the implication.
Softening the moment with an acknowledging sigh, the commander in chief said, "I know," before he strode from the room, eager to leave the weight of the decision behind him, if only for a little while.
What a mess. What a God-awful mess. And it was Jed Bartlet's mess to clean up. But did he spank the ones who created the mess and still have a mess, or did he make them all sit down and figure out how to clean up the mess once and for all? He knew what the answer was, but he wasn't sure he had the strength to withstand the unified front against it.
He was sure of one thing, though: His shoulder hurt like hell. Now that he was away from too many prying eyes, secret service not withstanding, he gave in to the urge to press his left hand against the aching joint. He bet JFK hadn't had to ice his arm. He considered again that it might not be so wussy to throw from the stands.
"Are you all right, Mister President?" The agent's question pulled Jed's head up from his bowed contemplation and he realized that he was almost at the Residence, not having really taken any notice of the journey there.
Dropping the hand abruptly, he assumed a jauntier stride, even though he figured the guy wasn't the least bit fooled. "How ya' doin', Tom?"
"I'm fine, sir." At least he took a hint. "Turning in?"
"Yeah."
"Have a good night, sir."
"What's left of it."
A slight grin curved the normally straight mouth. "Yes, sir."
Jed wondered if the smile was because of his comment, or because he actually got the fellow's name right.
He glanced at his watch again: 1:30 a.m. Well, there went his bonus. Abbey would have been asleep for some time now. Too bad, too, because he had earned it. And he had the wounds to prove it – both physical and emotional. Still, it was a beautiful strike. Fifty-thousand fans seemed to agree, if the cheers and screams were any indication. And Charlie had even high-fived him enthusiastically before Leo's announcement screwed up his satisfaction.
In just a few minutes, he was slipping through the double doors and closing them quietly behind him, navigating the dark room with the expertise of one who had done it for six years already. Jacket first, then shoes, then trousers, draped not quite neatly over a chair back. He realized for the first time that he had not retrieved his suit vest from whoever took it when he was getting into the protective bullet proof vest. Well, it would turn up sooner or later – probably. And if it didn't, that would be okay, too. Abbey had told him to ditch it anyway. Claimed it gave her too many layers to go through. Socks followed, along with a shirt only partially unbuttoned and still tangled with his tie. Now, if he could just ease under the covers without disturbing her –
The snap of the light switch and the sudden illumination of the room startled him, and he spun so quickly that he forgot about the tender shoulder. The twist of his body wrenched it again, and he sucked in air between gritted teeth. But the pain dimmed immediately, replaced by an ache in an entirely different area as his eyes focused on the sight before him, poured into the wingback armchair.
"Ladies and gentlemen – Cannonball Bartlet, 2004 Cy Young Winner."
He wasn't sure what affected him most, the sexy swirl of the drink in her hand, the sleek netted stockings that clung seductively to her long legs, the wicked half-smile that touched her lips, or the creamy swell of her breasts over the incredible lace bodice. He lingered at her breasts. Okay, maybe he was sure.
After a breathless moment, he recovered enough to manage a verbal response. "I thought you'd be asleep." Well, that was pretty lame, but he considered it amazing that he had been able to utter anything at all.
"You held up your end of the bargain," she reasoned, "I had to do my part." With another swirl of the glass, she sipped at the burgundy liquid while her eyes held his, fire blazing in their green depths.
The realization that he would, indeed, receive his bonus tonight kicked his heart into overdrive and sent the blood rushing toward his groin. The boxers were woefully overpowered by his body's insistence.
"Is that a curveball in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"
Before he could answer – and he had no idea what to say anyway – her legs uncrossed and re-crossed, flashing him an ephemeral glimpse of paradise in a credible re-enactment of the infamous Basic Instinct scene.
The ache at his groin intensified to the point that he almost felt dizzy. His head buzzed, his heart pounded, his knees weakened. This gorgeous creature was here before him, offering herself, and he would be the only one to touch her, to take her, to claim her. He cringed inside when he thought of how she might react to his using that particular term. One didn't claim Abigail Bartlet – at least not involuntarily. He would keep that thought to himself.
But he would still keep it.
"Have you – "To his chagrin, his voice cracked like a pubescent teenager's. He tried again. "Have you been waiting here all night?"
"Just for you."
"Seriously, Abbey, you've been sitting in that chair like – like that – all evening?" What if someone walked in?
"You don't think I would?" The teasing pout pushed out her lips. God, she was beautiful.
"Well, I just think – "
"Tony called ahead when you passed him on the way up," she finally admitted. "Gave me a few minutes warning."
Tony? Ah. Not Tom. Well, he had been close.
"But I have had this on all night. Just waiting for you."
"Abbey," he groaned, her name slipping from his lips as she shifted again in the chair, this time more slowly, giving him an unobstructed view of exactly where he wanted to be – where he yearned to be.
"You, Mister President," she cooed, setting the glass down and gliding from the chair, "were very, very good tonight."
Her hands slid up his chest to play with the curls that had begun graying when he was still in the 30s. She never could resist them. His blood leaped toward her.
"Yeah?" Smooth, Romeo, but it was the best he could do.
"Oh, yeah." She smiled and trailed delicate, talented fingers down his abdomen to tease through the darker patch of hair just above his waistband.
"The night's not over," he countered. "I might just turn bad."
Her tongue flicked out to lick at his chin. "Promise?"
"Prom – " He had lifted his arms to draw her against him, but the stab of pain in his right shoulder aborted the move abruptly. Damn it, not now!
Seductress Abbey morphed into Doctor Abbey with no effort at all. "Jed? What is it?"
He knew what it was. Ego, machismo, pride. "Nothing," he answered, but the tight discomfort in his voice completely destroyed his attempt to minimize the problem. Abbey glared at him, totally un-swayed.
Coloring a little with the necessity of admitting to imperfection, he conceded, "Shoulder's a little sore from pitching. Toby and Charlie didn't want me to embarrass them on national television."
Cocking her head, she apparently decided to accept his explanation and smiled, returning her hands to his body, this time focusing on the offending limb. "Poor baby," she clucked. "But their persistence paid off, didn't it? That was a very impressive performance."
"You saw?"
"Of course I saw. I had to have proof that you deserve that bonus, didn't I?"
His abused muscles eased slightly under her touch. "Oh, I deserve it, but you know I can be impressive in other ways, too."
"How well I know," she purred, but their heated banter cooled when she hit a particularly tender spot, and he couldn't hold back the yelp. Now her teasing tone dropped completely.
"That bad?"
He started a casual shrug, but decided that would be unwise on many levels. Instead, he grinned sheepishly and admitted, "It hurts some." Like a baseball bat slammed into it, maybe.
"You could have done some real damage, Jed," she scolded, hands probing now with none of the passion they had carried earlier. Strictly a clinical touch. "I don't know why you didn't just throw from the stands."
"That's – "
"Wussy, I know. And you're going to look real tough tomorrow with your arm trussed up in a sling."
"Abbey, I'm fine, really. It's just so – ow!" A knife sliced directly through the center of his joint, piercing bone and muscle and tendon and whatever else was there. "Damn it, Abbey! That hurt!"
But she only nodded unapologetically. "I don't think it's separated, but you've strained it quite nicely."
"It's just sore."
Her palm began to press once more on the spot of agony. Hastily, he pulled away. "Okay. Maybe it's a little strained. It'll be fine."
"No," she said slowly, hand at her chin as if contemplating the situation, "I think you need medical attention."
Medical attention? That meant Hackett and that certainly meant an end to his bonus evening. "Abbey, you don't need to call Hackett," he wheedled.
"Who said anything about calling Hackett?" she tossed over her shoulder as she sauntered toward the bathroom.
Surely she didn't mean that SHE would treat him. Hadn't they gotten into enough trouble before with that? But his fears dissipated when she returned and leaned seductively against the doorframe, a bottle of what he recognized as massage oil in one hand.
"One shoulder rub coming up," she announced, her voice huskier. "Doctor's orders."
Well, that was more like it. He could go for that kind of medicine. Lifting a brow, he asked, "Where do you – want me?"
"On the bed, of course. Lie down on your stomach."
He did as he was told, and expected her to perch next to him, or maybe to stand beside him. But she had other plans. Tossing the bottle next to his shoulder, she climbed onto the bed and over his body, straddling his hips so that her stocking legs gripped him firmly. The arousal that had faded with the pain returned at double the intensity. This time he couldn't stop the groan.
Her hands, slick with the oil, glided over his throbbing muscles, rubbing and kneading the soreness out through her fingers and palms. She spread the liquid warmth down his arm, over his biceps and triceps and across the broad muscles of his back. Slowly, the sharp pain receded to a distant ache, overwhelmed by the magic of her touch.
"God, that feels good," he murmured into the pillow, the melting muscles sighing with relief. If it weren't for the raging erection that now pushed against the mattress, he might have sunk into a blissful slumber.
As it was, her hands only heightened his senses, electrified the sensations coursing through his body. After a long time, he felt her shifting, spreading the silkiness over his lower back. She lifted off him long enough to tug at the boxers, and he eased his hips up to help her slide them from his body.
"How's the shoulder?" she asked as her fingers dug into his hamstrings.
"What shoulder?"
Her hands pulled gently at his sides, urging him onto his back. He smiled at her molten expression when she saw just how intensely she had affected him. When he was in place, she straddled him again, bracing on her knees so that he pushed against her.
"God, Abbey!" He was as aroused as he had been in his youth when the surges of testosterone were the constant companions of adolescence.
His hands reached up to capture her breasts in his palms, and she gasped as his thumbs flicked over her nipples. With an expert twist, he had the hooks of the bodice undone, and the enticing material fell away from her to reveal the treasure beneath. He felt his body thrust forward.
She reached a hand to her thigh to unsnap the stocking from the garter, but he covered her fingers with his own.
"Leave them on," he ordered hoarsely, pushing a little farther into her.
Now his hands slid to her hips, taking control of the progress, forcing the pace. He didn't think he could take much more of being almost there. "Abbey, I need – "
She groaned and spread her knees so that she dropped onto him. He couldn't help the harsh grunt.
"Yeah, that was – what I – needed."
His hands ran up and down her thighs as he entered her, then withdrew. She arched against him with the movement, her own hands playing across his chest, his stomach, then between them. They were both too far gone to stop the momentum now, both too eager, too inflamed to hold back – even if they had wanted to.
When he finally heard the little cries, soft and high, he bent forward to take a nipple in his mouth and suck firmly.
"Jed!" As his name left her lips, she drove down on him, the ripples tearing through her muscles and gripping him hard over and over.
He grunted, biting his lip to hang on just a few more seconds, to make sure she was fully satisfied. She gasped with each wave, moaning his name again and again, until finally her cries began to soften.
With a deep groan, he turned them so that he was above her, then let his trembling muscles go until the unbearable ache shot through his body in hot, powerful bursts that exploded at her center and triggered another series of convulsions from her.
Sweating and shaking, he continued to rock against her gently, sliding in and out as they came down from the pinnacle. Her low moan of complete satisfaction stroked his male ego, but it was overshadowed by his genuine desire to give her pleasure.
Beneath him, she grunted and said, "You know, the baseball commissioner wanted to give you the bonus himself, but I told him I'd take care of it."
"Thank God for little favors."
He wanted to stay right where they were, to remain inside her until they were ready for another round, but, despite her expert ministrations to his shoulder, it was aching again. Regretfully, he withdrew from her and slid to the side.
"So," she whispered, her eyes closed, "was it worth it?"
He lay back on the pillows and gathered her against him. "Was what worth what?"
"Was almost jerking your arm out of socket worth your bonus?"
It wasn't like Abbey to fish for compliments. She was looking for something deeper. But his answer remained light. "Babe, it would have been worth jerking every joint I have out of socket."
Smiling, she snuggled into his left shoulder. "Okay."
"Okay."
They lay in silence for a few minutes, and he thought she had fallen asleep until she said, "What are you going to do?"
"About what?" But he knew.
"Gaza. The Chairman." She paused, then added, "Leo."
He knew she felt him stiffen and was grateful for the gentleness of her continued caress over his stomach. "I'm gonna try for peace." He almost laughed. It seemed so simple when he put it that way.
"And Leo?"
He tried not to lecture her anymore. She had heard all of his pontifications, and didn't pay him any attention anyway, but something he read somewhere flittered through his brain. "Theodore Roosevelt said once that peace is normally a great good, and normally it coincides with righteousness, but it is righteousness and not peace which should bind the conscience of a nation as it should bind the conscience of an individual."
"Okay – " He heard the question in her voice.
With her he could ask his own question. "Am I doing the right thing? Is it righteousness that binds me?"
She pushed up now to look at him. "Do you think you are?"
He sighed and completed the quote. "He also said that neither a nation nor an individual can surrender conscience to another's keeping."
Her eyes narrowed as she perceived his real trouble. "Have you done that?"
"Maybe. Maybe with Leo I have. Maybe I've let him make the hard calls. Maybe I've figured the results would be on his conscience. He's always been willing."
"You haven't, Jed. You've gone against Leo when you thought he was wrong. You have been your own man."
Not with Shareef. Not when it mattered the most. But he didn't bring that up. She knew it just as well as he did. Instead, he said, "Not often. At least not until now." He raised a hand to run his fingers through her tousled hair. "Leo wants to bomb Gaza."
"I know."
"I don't."
"I know."
"We're not going to bomb."
She smiled. "I know."
"But what if – "
Her fingers against his lips stopped him. "It's your conscience, Jed. It's your righteousness. It's your peace. You are the President of the United States of America."
Dear God, he was, wasn't he? Even after six years he still occasionally woke to the renewed realization of that bizarre reality. President of the United States. Who would have thought?
He stared at her, the only person who was whole-heartedly with him, and felt the tears push at his eyes. They had been through so much. He had wondered in the past year if she would stay, had actually questioned her love and her promise to remain in sickness and in health. He didn't anymore. He wouldn't again.
"Well, if it doesn't work out, I always have my career in baseball," he reasoned, letting the smile touch his lips as he finished the sentence.
"A bonus for every strike?" she offered, swinging her left leg over his torso and pulling herself on top of him again.
"What about balls?"
The warm laughter slapped away the doubts and tension. "Wicked boy," she accused, while reaching down at the same time to that sensitive area.
He closed his eyes at her touch and drew his arms around her, the familiar stirrings returning, the welcome desires re-igniting. Tomorrow he would tackle the Chairman. Tomorrow he would stare down Leo, and the Joint Chiefs, and the Cabinet, and Congress.
Tomorrow.
But tonight, he was apparently still collecting on a bonus for making the best pitch any President had ever made at a Memorial Day game. He was right. Tossing it from the stands was for wusses.
And Jed Bartlet was no wuss.
The crowd at Camden Yards had found that out tonight. The world would know it tomorrow.
My good friends, this is the second time in our history that there has come back from Germany to Downing Street peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts. And now I recommend you to go home and sleep quietly in your beds.
Neville Chamberlain Sept. 30, 1938
Peace is normally a great good, and normally it coincides with righteousness, but it is righteousness and not peace which should bind the conscience of a nation as it should bind the conscience of an individual; and neither a nation nor an individual can surrender conscience to another's keeping.
Theodore Roosevelt December 4, 1906
POV: Jed Spoilers: "Gaza;" "Memorial Day;" "NSFT" (6th season premier) Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish Jed was, at least.
Whence Gaza Mourns "Bonus" Chapter
by MAHC
Jed Bartlet tried not to stumble out of the Sit Room, but he wasn't completely successful. Maybe it was the late – or early – hour. Maybe it was the final exhaustion of the adrenaline that had rushed through him all day. Maybe it was the fact that he had been played, and he hated to be played.
Whatever it was, he cursed when his feet betrayed him and tossed him toward the door right there in front of the Joint Chiefs, Secretary of Defense, and Leo. Fortunately, he caught himself before he ended up in a humiliating heap on the floor. No harm done, except his pride – and the sudden, jarring pain that shot through his shoulder when he grabbed the door frame.
"Mister President?" At least five different voices sounded around him, accompanied by an equal number of extended hands.
Damn.
Waving them off with his left hand, he straightened carefully and tried not to grimace, concentrating on making sure his shoes cleared the surface. A flash of heat swept just beneath his skin as he considered the possibility that this moment might be a harbinger of a familiar, but very unwelcome, visitor. But a quick assessment of his body seemed to dispel that, thank God.
No, he was just tired. And frustrated. And more than a little pissed. Leo hadn't said "I told you so," but his pointed glances sent the message just as well.
The Chairman can't be trusted. There is no solution. We should support the Israelis and just bomb the hell out of Gaza and be done with it.
"Remember Chamberlain," his chief of staff had reminded after catching him on his victorious sprint off the diamond at Camden Yards, instantly shattering any glee from that momentary triumph.
He remembered Chamberlain. He didn't intend to be Chamberlain. Chamberlain had been naïve. Jed Bartlet was not. Not anymore. But if there was even a remote possibility of truly bringing "peace for our time" he had to try. He just prayed there was no Hitler waiting to exploit his good faith.
"Sir?"
Barely resisting the instinct to brace his throbbing shoulder, he turned to see Kate Harper hanging back uncertainly, her eyes clouded with concern. For him? For the situation? He wasn't sure.
"Yes?"
"May I suggest, Mister President, that further discussion on this will keep until morning."
He caught the scowl Leo threw her way. There had apparently been some give and take behind his back. Pushing away the irritation at his show of weakness, he gave her an indulgent half smile and asked, "Do I look that bad?"
His tease worked just like it had the day before. She colored instantly. "Ah, no, sir. I didn't mean – I wasn't trying to imply that – "
Another casual wave of his hand rescued her. He figured he probably did look that bad. "Go home, everybody. We'll tackle this tomorrow." A quick glance at his watch told him it already was tomorrow. "Or later today."
"Mister President?" The Secretary of Defense stepped up to him, and with a nod from his boss, continued. "The Fa-18s are still on alert, sir. Whenever you give the word – "
Another push. Who the hell was in charge, anyway? A flush of anger snapped out his response. "When I give the word. Remember that, Mister Secretary. They don't go until you hear it from ME."
"Of course not, sir." The other man seemed astonished that the President would even suggest he would do otherwise, and Jed felt a twinge of guilt for the implication.
Softening the moment with an acknowledging sigh, the commander in chief said, "I know," before he strode from the room, eager to leave the weight of the decision behind him, if only for a little while.
What a mess. What a God-awful mess. And it was Jed Bartlet's mess to clean up. But did he spank the ones who created the mess and still have a mess, or did he make them all sit down and figure out how to clean up the mess once and for all? He knew what the answer was, but he wasn't sure he had the strength to withstand the unified front against it.
He was sure of one thing, though: His shoulder hurt like hell. Now that he was away from too many prying eyes, secret service not withstanding, he gave in to the urge to press his left hand against the aching joint. He bet JFK hadn't had to ice his arm. He considered again that it might not be so wussy to throw from the stands.
"Are you all right, Mister President?" The agent's question pulled Jed's head up from his bowed contemplation and he realized that he was almost at the Residence, not having really taken any notice of the journey there.
Dropping the hand abruptly, he assumed a jauntier stride, even though he figured the guy wasn't the least bit fooled. "How ya' doin', Tom?"
"I'm fine, sir." At least he took a hint. "Turning in?"
"Yeah."
"Have a good night, sir."
"What's left of it."
A slight grin curved the normally straight mouth. "Yes, sir."
Jed wondered if the smile was because of his comment, or because he actually got the fellow's name right.
He glanced at his watch again: 1:30 a.m. Well, there went his bonus. Abbey would have been asleep for some time now. Too bad, too, because he had earned it. And he had the wounds to prove it – both physical and emotional. Still, it was a beautiful strike. Fifty-thousand fans seemed to agree, if the cheers and screams were any indication. And Charlie had even high-fived him enthusiastically before Leo's announcement screwed up his satisfaction.
In just a few minutes, he was slipping through the double doors and closing them quietly behind him, navigating the dark room with the expertise of one who had done it for six years already. Jacket first, then shoes, then trousers, draped not quite neatly over a chair back. He realized for the first time that he had not retrieved his suit vest from whoever took it when he was getting into the protective bullet proof vest. Well, it would turn up sooner or later – probably. And if it didn't, that would be okay, too. Abbey had told him to ditch it anyway. Claimed it gave her too many layers to go through. Socks followed, along with a shirt only partially unbuttoned and still tangled with his tie. Now, if he could just ease under the covers without disturbing her –
The snap of the light switch and the sudden illumination of the room startled him, and he spun so quickly that he forgot about the tender shoulder. The twist of his body wrenched it again, and he sucked in air between gritted teeth. But the pain dimmed immediately, replaced by an ache in an entirely different area as his eyes focused on the sight before him, poured into the wingback armchair.
"Ladies and gentlemen – Cannonball Bartlet, 2004 Cy Young Winner."
He wasn't sure what affected him most, the sexy swirl of the drink in her hand, the sleek netted stockings that clung seductively to her long legs, the wicked half-smile that touched her lips, or the creamy swell of her breasts over the incredible lace bodice. He lingered at her breasts. Okay, maybe he was sure.
After a breathless moment, he recovered enough to manage a verbal response. "I thought you'd be asleep." Well, that was pretty lame, but he considered it amazing that he had been able to utter anything at all.
"You held up your end of the bargain," she reasoned, "I had to do my part." With another swirl of the glass, she sipped at the burgundy liquid while her eyes held his, fire blazing in their green depths.
The realization that he would, indeed, receive his bonus tonight kicked his heart into overdrive and sent the blood rushing toward his groin. The boxers were woefully overpowered by his body's insistence.
"Is that a curveball in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"
Before he could answer – and he had no idea what to say anyway – her legs uncrossed and re-crossed, flashing him an ephemeral glimpse of paradise in a credible re-enactment of the infamous Basic Instinct scene.
The ache at his groin intensified to the point that he almost felt dizzy. His head buzzed, his heart pounded, his knees weakened. This gorgeous creature was here before him, offering herself, and he would be the only one to touch her, to take her, to claim her. He cringed inside when he thought of how she might react to his using that particular term. One didn't claim Abigail Bartlet – at least not involuntarily. He would keep that thought to himself.
But he would still keep it.
"Have you – "To his chagrin, his voice cracked like a pubescent teenager's. He tried again. "Have you been waiting here all night?"
"Just for you."
"Seriously, Abbey, you've been sitting in that chair like – like that – all evening?" What if someone walked in?
"You don't think I would?" The teasing pout pushed out her lips. God, she was beautiful.
"Well, I just think – "
"Tony called ahead when you passed him on the way up," she finally admitted. "Gave me a few minutes warning."
Tony? Ah. Not Tom. Well, he had been close.
"But I have had this on all night. Just waiting for you."
"Abbey," he groaned, her name slipping from his lips as she shifted again in the chair, this time more slowly, giving him an unobstructed view of exactly where he wanted to be – where he yearned to be.
"You, Mister President," she cooed, setting the glass down and gliding from the chair, "were very, very good tonight."
Her hands slid up his chest to play with the curls that had begun graying when he was still in the 30s. She never could resist them. His blood leaped toward her.
"Yeah?" Smooth, Romeo, but it was the best he could do.
"Oh, yeah." She smiled and trailed delicate, talented fingers down his abdomen to tease through the darker patch of hair just above his waistband.
"The night's not over," he countered. "I might just turn bad."
Her tongue flicked out to lick at his chin. "Promise?"
"Prom – " He had lifted his arms to draw her against him, but the stab of pain in his right shoulder aborted the move abruptly. Damn it, not now!
Seductress Abbey morphed into Doctor Abbey with no effort at all. "Jed? What is it?"
He knew what it was. Ego, machismo, pride. "Nothing," he answered, but the tight discomfort in his voice completely destroyed his attempt to minimize the problem. Abbey glared at him, totally un-swayed.
Coloring a little with the necessity of admitting to imperfection, he conceded, "Shoulder's a little sore from pitching. Toby and Charlie didn't want me to embarrass them on national television."
Cocking her head, she apparently decided to accept his explanation and smiled, returning her hands to his body, this time focusing on the offending limb. "Poor baby," she clucked. "But their persistence paid off, didn't it? That was a very impressive performance."
"You saw?"
"Of course I saw. I had to have proof that you deserve that bonus, didn't I?"
His abused muscles eased slightly under her touch. "Oh, I deserve it, but you know I can be impressive in other ways, too."
"How well I know," she purred, but their heated banter cooled when she hit a particularly tender spot, and he couldn't hold back the yelp. Now her teasing tone dropped completely.
"That bad?"
He started a casual shrug, but decided that would be unwise on many levels. Instead, he grinned sheepishly and admitted, "It hurts some." Like a baseball bat slammed into it, maybe.
"You could have done some real damage, Jed," she scolded, hands probing now with none of the passion they had carried earlier. Strictly a clinical touch. "I don't know why you didn't just throw from the stands."
"That's – "
"Wussy, I know. And you're going to look real tough tomorrow with your arm trussed up in a sling."
"Abbey, I'm fine, really. It's just so – ow!" A knife sliced directly through the center of his joint, piercing bone and muscle and tendon and whatever else was there. "Damn it, Abbey! That hurt!"
But she only nodded unapologetically. "I don't think it's separated, but you've strained it quite nicely."
"It's just sore."
Her palm began to press once more on the spot of agony. Hastily, he pulled away. "Okay. Maybe it's a little strained. It'll be fine."
"No," she said slowly, hand at her chin as if contemplating the situation, "I think you need medical attention."
Medical attention? That meant Hackett and that certainly meant an end to his bonus evening. "Abbey, you don't need to call Hackett," he wheedled.
"Who said anything about calling Hackett?" she tossed over her shoulder as she sauntered toward the bathroom.
Surely she didn't mean that SHE would treat him. Hadn't they gotten into enough trouble before with that? But his fears dissipated when she returned and leaned seductively against the doorframe, a bottle of what he recognized as massage oil in one hand.
"One shoulder rub coming up," she announced, her voice huskier. "Doctor's orders."
Well, that was more like it. He could go for that kind of medicine. Lifting a brow, he asked, "Where do you – want me?"
"On the bed, of course. Lie down on your stomach."
He did as he was told, and expected her to perch next to him, or maybe to stand beside him. But she had other plans. Tossing the bottle next to his shoulder, she climbed onto the bed and over his body, straddling his hips so that her stocking legs gripped him firmly. The arousal that had faded with the pain returned at double the intensity. This time he couldn't stop the groan.
Her hands, slick with the oil, glided over his throbbing muscles, rubbing and kneading the soreness out through her fingers and palms. She spread the liquid warmth down his arm, over his biceps and triceps and across the broad muscles of his back. Slowly, the sharp pain receded to a distant ache, overwhelmed by the magic of her touch.
"God, that feels good," he murmured into the pillow, the melting muscles sighing with relief. If it weren't for the raging erection that now pushed against the mattress, he might have sunk into a blissful slumber.
As it was, her hands only heightened his senses, electrified the sensations coursing through his body. After a long time, he felt her shifting, spreading the silkiness over his lower back. She lifted off him long enough to tug at the boxers, and he eased his hips up to help her slide them from his body.
"How's the shoulder?" she asked as her fingers dug into his hamstrings.
"What shoulder?"
Her hands pulled gently at his sides, urging him onto his back. He smiled at her molten expression when she saw just how intensely she had affected him. When he was in place, she straddled him again, bracing on her knees so that he pushed against her.
"God, Abbey!" He was as aroused as he had been in his youth when the surges of testosterone were the constant companions of adolescence.
His hands reached up to capture her breasts in his palms, and she gasped as his thumbs flicked over her nipples. With an expert twist, he had the hooks of the bodice undone, and the enticing material fell away from her to reveal the treasure beneath. He felt his body thrust forward.
She reached a hand to her thigh to unsnap the stocking from the garter, but he covered her fingers with his own.
"Leave them on," he ordered hoarsely, pushing a little farther into her.
Now his hands slid to her hips, taking control of the progress, forcing the pace. He didn't think he could take much more of being almost there. "Abbey, I need – "
She groaned and spread her knees so that she dropped onto him. He couldn't help the harsh grunt.
"Yeah, that was – what I – needed."
His hands ran up and down her thighs as he entered her, then withdrew. She arched against him with the movement, her own hands playing across his chest, his stomach, then between them. They were both too far gone to stop the momentum now, both too eager, too inflamed to hold back – even if they had wanted to.
When he finally heard the little cries, soft and high, he bent forward to take a nipple in his mouth and suck firmly.
"Jed!" As his name left her lips, she drove down on him, the ripples tearing through her muscles and gripping him hard over and over.
He grunted, biting his lip to hang on just a few more seconds, to make sure she was fully satisfied. She gasped with each wave, moaning his name again and again, until finally her cries began to soften.
With a deep groan, he turned them so that he was above her, then let his trembling muscles go until the unbearable ache shot through his body in hot, powerful bursts that exploded at her center and triggered another series of convulsions from her.
Sweating and shaking, he continued to rock against her gently, sliding in and out as they came down from the pinnacle. Her low moan of complete satisfaction stroked his male ego, but it was overshadowed by his genuine desire to give her pleasure.
Beneath him, she grunted and said, "You know, the baseball commissioner wanted to give you the bonus himself, but I told him I'd take care of it."
"Thank God for little favors."
He wanted to stay right where they were, to remain inside her until they were ready for another round, but, despite her expert ministrations to his shoulder, it was aching again. Regretfully, he withdrew from her and slid to the side.
"So," she whispered, her eyes closed, "was it worth it?"
He lay back on the pillows and gathered her against him. "Was what worth what?"
"Was almost jerking your arm out of socket worth your bonus?"
It wasn't like Abbey to fish for compliments. She was looking for something deeper. But his answer remained light. "Babe, it would have been worth jerking every joint I have out of socket."
Smiling, she snuggled into his left shoulder. "Okay."
"Okay."
They lay in silence for a few minutes, and he thought she had fallen asleep until she said, "What are you going to do?"
"About what?" But he knew.
"Gaza. The Chairman." She paused, then added, "Leo."
He knew she felt him stiffen and was grateful for the gentleness of her continued caress over his stomach. "I'm gonna try for peace." He almost laughed. It seemed so simple when he put it that way.
"And Leo?"
He tried not to lecture her anymore. She had heard all of his pontifications, and didn't pay him any attention anyway, but something he read somewhere flittered through his brain. "Theodore Roosevelt said once that peace is normally a great good, and normally it coincides with righteousness, but it is righteousness and not peace which should bind the conscience of a nation as it should bind the conscience of an individual."
"Okay – " He heard the question in her voice.
With her he could ask his own question. "Am I doing the right thing? Is it righteousness that binds me?"
She pushed up now to look at him. "Do you think you are?"
He sighed and completed the quote. "He also said that neither a nation nor an individual can surrender conscience to another's keeping."
Her eyes narrowed as she perceived his real trouble. "Have you done that?"
"Maybe. Maybe with Leo I have. Maybe I've let him make the hard calls. Maybe I've figured the results would be on his conscience. He's always been willing."
"You haven't, Jed. You've gone against Leo when you thought he was wrong. You have been your own man."
Not with Shareef. Not when it mattered the most. But he didn't bring that up. She knew it just as well as he did. Instead, he said, "Not often. At least not until now." He raised a hand to run his fingers through her tousled hair. "Leo wants to bomb Gaza."
"I know."
"I don't."
"I know."
"We're not going to bomb."
She smiled. "I know."
"But what if – "
Her fingers against his lips stopped him. "It's your conscience, Jed. It's your righteousness. It's your peace. You are the President of the United States of America."
Dear God, he was, wasn't he? Even after six years he still occasionally woke to the renewed realization of that bizarre reality. President of the United States. Who would have thought?
He stared at her, the only person who was whole-heartedly with him, and felt the tears push at his eyes. They had been through so much. He had wondered in the past year if she would stay, had actually questioned her love and her promise to remain in sickness and in health. He didn't anymore. He wouldn't again.
"Well, if it doesn't work out, I always have my career in baseball," he reasoned, letting the smile touch his lips as he finished the sentence.
"A bonus for every strike?" she offered, swinging her left leg over his torso and pulling herself on top of him again.
"What about balls?"
The warm laughter slapped away the doubts and tension. "Wicked boy," she accused, while reaching down at the same time to that sensitive area.
He closed his eyes at her touch and drew his arms around her, the familiar stirrings returning, the welcome desires re-igniting. Tomorrow he would tackle the Chairman. Tomorrow he would stare down Leo, and the Joint Chiefs, and the Cabinet, and Congress.
Tomorrow.
But tonight, he was apparently still collecting on a bonus for making the best pitch any President had ever made at a Memorial Day game. He was right. Tossing it from the stands was for wusses.
And Jed Bartlet was no wuss.
The crowd at Camden Yards had found that out tonight. The world would know it tomorrow.
My good friends, this is the second time in our history that there has come back from Germany to Downing Street peace with honour. I believe it is peace for our time. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts. And now I recommend you to go home and sleep quietly in your beds.
Neville Chamberlain Sept. 30, 1938
Peace is normally a great good, and normally it coincides with righteousness, but it is righteousness and not peace which should bind the conscience of a nation as it should bind the conscience of an individual; and neither a nation nor an individual can surrender conscience to another's keeping.
Theodore Roosevelt December 4, 1906