The White House, Washington DC: (Time Zone Shift) Friday Evening

Rear Admiral Robert Hackett looked at his watch. A shadow of annoyance crossed his face and he told Charlie Young, "The President is avoiding me." The ranking medic's voice retained its normal affability, but there was more than a hint of accusation in his tones.

"You just figured that out?" Although well aware of the Admiral's annoyance, the personal aide to the President of the United States made no effort to be conciliatory. He had problems of his own. Tearing his eyes away from the letter in his hand, Young glanced with obvious foreboding and reluctance at the closed door leading to the Oval Office.

He did not want to go in there, not with Admiral Hackett hovering just outside, not with this, and certainly not again. Not today, at any rate.

"A fairly easy diagnosis and deduction." Taking into account the reserve in the young man's usually lively features, Hackett further observed, a little more sympathetically, "Just as easy to apply those same observational skills and deduce that you are avoiding him."

Generally resentful of the entire situation, Young scowled at the letter.

"Care to talk about it?"

"I'm trying to cultivate a sense of calm in the face of overwhelming odds here, sir."

Hackett smiled. "And I'm not helping?"

"Not unless you can take on a certain stubborn, reactive, frustrating Secret Service Agent who seems to delight lately in making my life a daily nightmare."

"I have enough problems with a certain stubborn, reactive and equally frustrating executive patient who delights in making my life a nightmare."

"You've got rank," Young pointed out, not quite sure if he was being mocked or not.

"He outranks me."

Young smirked. There hadn't been any mockery in that, just a simple statement of fact. It made him feel a little better to know he wasn't alone.

Hackett looked at his watch again, and insisted with returning impatience, "I do need to see him, Charlie. Preferably before the sun sets."

Pushing back his chair and standing up, Young straightened his shoulders. He still had the letter in hand. Couldn't forget that, could he? "Wait here."

"Was that supposed to be funny?"

"I used to understand the definition of that word, till I started working here."

"Life lessons."

"I could do with a few less."

Knocking on the door, Young waited for the muffled response of, "Come in." A quick calculation of the irritation levels in that voice, comparing it to known parameters, and then figuring the odds, he went in. "Mr. President?" He openly winced when he saw the man stuffing papers into his brief case.

"I'm about to call it a day, Charlie." Bartlett took off his glasses and gave his aide his full attention. "You've got something for me?"

Was that executive censure in his voice? "Do you want them in order of importance, or annoyance, sir?"

"You choose... carefully."

"Thank you, sir." Oh, yeah. Definitely a warning there. Young bravely ploughed forward. "Before doing so, may I respectfully remind you that I am only the messenger? And while I know you have a love of Roman history, I don't? I have no intention of falling under the shadow of 'bearer of bad tidings', nor do I have any inclination, now or ever, to fall on my sword."

The President's mouth quirked. "You're in a mood."

"Occupational hazard," Young muttered.

"Snippy, too." This time he did smile.

Embolden by that small encouragement, Young made a quick grab and recover, choosing the lesser of the two evils he's been left with. "Admiral Hackett is in the outer office, sir."

The easy smile disappeared and Bartlet involuntarily looked at the bandages on his left hand, the lighter dressings that had only been substituted the night before. Using his right hand, he picked up his briefcase and snapped a little curtly, "Reschedule."

"Sir..."

"Reschedule."

"He had an appointment."

"Not tonight, Charlie." Bartlet ripped the words out impatiently. "I'm not in the mood to be poked and prodded tonight."

"Sir, you had an appointment." Young didn't feel safe enough to point out that nobody within a thirty-foot radius seemed to be in the mood this evening.

"Tell him to come back tomorrow."

"Tell him?" Young could already sense defeat on this issue, but he had to try. "He's a two-star Admiral. He outranks me."

"I outrank him."

"So I've been told."

"Count 'em, Charlie. Fifty stars." With a deliberately casual motion, Bartlet turned towards the portico.

"Right now, all I can count up to is two." Wisely, Young shelved whatever arguments he'd left on that one. A lost cause. That still left the letter, though. "There's one more item, sir."

"So close," the President growled as he paused, halfway to freedom. A sudden realization struck him and his back stiffened. "He did it again, didn't he?"

Young's shoulders slumped, doing his best Josh Lyman impersonation. "Yes, sir."

Bartlet turned around, eyes flashing with irritation. "How many does this make?"

"Three, sir."

"I thought you could only count to two?"

"It's a situational skill, Mr. President." Young held out the letter. "Agent Carlyle delivered Ron Butterfield's latest resignation request about a half hour ago."

Bartlet stared at the letter, lips tightening. "Is it any different from the other two?"

"No, sir. Carbon copy."

"At least he doesn't have to be creative." Shaking his head, Bartlet had bridled anger in his voice when he said, "No."

"Sir..."

"I said no. If Ron Butterfield wants to fall on his sword, he can do so in person, to my face, and accept my refusal. Why the hell is he sending these to me, not the Secretary of the Treasury?"

"Agent Butterfield's taken a leave of absence, sir." If they knew, nobody on the security details was saying where. Nobody on the staff had the nerve to ask, and the one man who did have the authority to demand an explanation had so far failed to do so.

Leaving Charlie Young stuck in the middle of the bouncing resignations and recurring mood swings.

"Granted," the President was saying, "leaving any number of those letters with his second, no doubt to be delivered daily till he returns. All of which have been, and will continue to be refused." Truly angry now, Bartlet whipped around and stalked towards the portico. "Convey to Agent Carlyle my extreme displeasure with these... missives. If any more should find their way to your desk, and then to mine, there will be a purge. After said purge, everyone will still have their jobs, but they'll wish they could be carried home on their shields."

Not giving the agents outside a chance to do it for him, Bartlet unthinkingly grabbed for the portico door handle. Right hand, left hand, in the heat of anger and frustration, he'd forgotten. A sudden, tearing pain from the palm of his hand. It had been the left hand.

Just his luck.

"Shit!"  He yanked the hand back, resisting the urge to curl his fingers around the wound. "Of all the stupid..." his voice trailed off with a hiss.

The agents outside came to attention. One finished opening the door, a studied bland expression on his face. The executive expletive had been carefully noted.

Nobody dared say a word.

Except Charles Young. Stepping forward, with evident concern he asked, "Sir, are you all right? Did you..."

"Never mind, Charlie," Bartlet said through clenched teeth, not about to let his aide finish the sentence.

"Admiral Hackett is..."

Bartlet turned and glared warningly at the young man. "Swords and shields, Charlie. Leave it." Then he smiled to take some of the sting out. Charlie wasn't anymore responsible for his hand than he was for Ron Battlefield's antics. "Reschedule Admiral Hackett and pass on my message to Agent Carlyle. Then go home."

"Right," Young muttered dubiously. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he watched as the President, left hand in his jacket pocket, stepped through the portico doors and headed towards the Residence. One of the agents caught his eye and nodded to him as he closed the doors.

Did that man just roll his eyes?

Thinking about it, Young shook his head. "Nah." Some things were well outside the realm of possibility.

For one long moment he stood there, staring out the windows and counting the beats. Decisions like the one he was about to make were not part of the job description. Coming to a decision, Butterfield's latest resignation letter still in hand, he went back to the outer office.

Hackett stood up as the door opened and Charlie came in. "Well?" he asked hopefully.

"We have a problem, Admiral."

Hackett sighed. "Still trying to find that definition of fun, Charlie?"

"Oh, yeah. And I know just the person to help."

ooOoo

Turning towards the Residence, the President heard the footsteps, the clump of multiple size-nines on brick as his ever-present shadows fell in behind him. He briefly reflected with some bitterness that he should be used to it by now, if not entirely comfortable. It also occurred to him that for all their training they might just be capable of walking with a softer tread, not sound like a herd of wired, heavily armed elephants.

The cynicism of that thought grated on him and Bartlet's lips tightened with growing irritation, then a flash of anger. He was used to it. For all the Constitution might - Sam was still working on that - guarantee him the right to privacy, it didn't seem to apply here. It never did.

Used to it? Comfortable? Maybe, but not this time.

The President just wasn't in the mood.

"Okay, fellas. That's it." Coming to an abrupt halt, Bartlet rounded on the trailing agents. Oddly pleased at the shocked expressions on their faces - like that happened all that often - he managed to temper some of his simmering anger and demanded coolly, "Could you just... hang back a bit? Give me some room here? You're..." He let out a long breath, losing the battle with his frustration. Shaking his head, he found his self-control and finished evenly, "You're using up all the oxygen in the vicinity."

The agents stared at their Commander in Chief, blinking slowly across a sudden, ringing silence. Conflicting orders fought with respect, then the head of detail nodded. A quick glance the President didn't catch into the shadows by one pillar, and he stood back, his partners following, giving his charge what he could clearly see was some much needed personal space.

None of the agents let the man out of their direct line of sight, though. Certain rules could not be forgotten.

It was a distinction Bartlet didn't miss, but he was prepared to take what he could get.

"You scare the hell out them, sometimes. You know that?"

Bartlet turned sharply, too startled by the familiar voice making the observation to offer any objection other than an undignified yelp of, "Damn it, Leo!" And there he was, bundled in a thick coat and sitting smugly on the bench next to the pillar. "What are you doing lurking out here?"

The White House Chief of Staff's soft chuckle was suspiciously devoid of any sympathy. "Freezing," was the only explanation he gave. The lurking reference he let slide, although that was exactly what he was doing. Charlie had given him the heads up earlier that the President might be trying to ditch his appointment with Admiral Hackett.

Which was exactly what he was doing. No surprises there. However mercurial his old friend could be, Jed Bartlet's consistency on certain matters was a sure bet. Shrugging deeper into the folds of his coat, McGarry stood up and added, "Really freezing."

Clad only in his suit jacket, Bartlet replied dryly, "Then go back inside where it's warm." Like his friend before him, his voice lacked any hint of sympathy. "You can lurk in comfort there."

"I am not lurking," McGarry grinned shamelessly. Cornering him on Hackett may have been his excuse, but he had other reasons for being here. "And right now, the atmosphere seems plenty warm enough out here."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"At least you didn't call me a thin-blooded wimp."

"You are a thin-blooded wimp," Bartlet told him, regarding his friend with reluctant amusement, "and you are trying to be funny."

"Am I succeeding?"

"Do you want an honest answer?"

"This is Washington. What's the average life expectancy of an honest anything?"

Bartlet's laugh, relaxed and just as honest as the light-hearted banter they'd both been missing these long months, was exactly what McGarry wanted to hear. Taking a chance at souring it a little, he looked pointedly at the left hand Bartlet had thrust into his jacket pocket and asked carefully, "What'd you do to your hand?"

Shoving the hand in question deeper into his pocket, Bartlet answered defensively, "I didn't do anything to my hand." He put the emphasis on the possessive, hoping Leo would catch the hint.

He didn't. "You've got your hand in your pocket."

"I can't put my hand in my pocket?"

"You usually put both hands in your pockets."

"I'm carrying a briefcase, Sherlock." Triumphantly, he held up the object in question.

"In that case, you never do put the other hand in your pocket. Simple observation, Watson." McGarry watched as the arm holding the briefcase dropped in defeat. The easy smile disappeared from Bartlet's face as well. A brief stab of guilt that he'd managed to deflate the mood, and then he rallied. It had to be asked. "What'd you do to it?"

'Damn near got it blown off,' came the thought Bartlet couldn't quite stop, but managed somehow not to say out loud. Leo didn't need to hear that, and quite frankly he didn't want to remember. Still, there was no hiding from that direct a question. Not from him. "I banged it, okay?"

"You banged it?"

"I banged it."

McGarry thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay."

"Okay?" Bartlet echoed suspiciously. "That's it? Just okay?"

"It's your hand."

"Finally! Somebody admits to that basic fact! My hand, my problem." He gave McGarry an accusing glare. "And I'm not catching much sympathy or respect here."

"You've always got my respect, Mr. President..."

"Really?"

"... but my sympathy? I'm not the one hiding from a two-star navy medic."

"I am not hiding." Like Leo would actually believe that? Hell, he hadn't even managed to convince himself what he was hiding from.

"Coulda fooled me."

"Or Charlie?" Bartlet winced. There was a touch of resentment there, that glaring lack of privacy, and Bartlet was glad of the semi-darkness that hid his features.

He should have known Leo would hear it anyway. "I'll take the fifth on that one," he said evenly, admitting nothing.

"How convenient, for you and Mr. Young." Bartlet drawled, the banter still there but now including a thread of warning. "That amendment needs to be reworked."

"It's getting warmer out here again." McGarry ignored the warning. "You can't hide from him forever."

"Watch me."

"I have, Mr. President." That was the sound byte McGarry had been waiting for, the lead-in to the problem he knew was really bothering the Leader of the Free World, and his oldest friend. Right now, he knew as well which one he needed to talk to the most. "And you're scaring the hell out of me."

"I thought I was scaring the hell out of the Secret Service?"

It was a brush-off; one McGarry wasn't about to let him get away with. What he'd seen, what he'd heard during those terrible minutes at Manchester last week had to be addressed, opened and drained or the wound would continue to fester. There was more to this than simply being frightened, of being cornered by an enemy who may now have a name and a face, but was still out there somewhere, still hunting.         

There had been anger in that torn up, bullet-pocked hallway, fueled by a needless death and a rage that burned soul deep and primal in its intensity. A rage totally alien to the compassionate nature of the man who had felt it. It had frightened Bartlet, adding to a burden McGarry was all too aware the man already carried. Death, choices, responsibility and the price paid by the conscience of the man who had to make them.

He knew as well that Josiah Bartlet was perfectly capable of assuming the entire burden, the guilt and the sin, and leave nothing for those who loved him to share.

Leo McGarry wasn't about to let him. "Mr. President, you're only human. What happened..."

"Is over," the President cut him off, his voice harsh and raw. "Let's move on."

"It's far from over, and you know it. This is just the beginning of the war, and if you can't come to terms with the decisions you had to make, the decisions you still have to make, then we've already lost. Shareef..."

"This has nothing to do with Shareef." The warning was sharper.

McGarry ignored it. "It has everything to do with Shareef and this insane need of yours to find a moral high ground you think you've lost, a justification for doing what you know was right in the first place but can't make yourself believe."

Explosions... gunshots... too much blood... Bartlet closed his eyes and demanded softly, "Do you actually want to do this now, Leo?"

"Are you going to keep hiding from the truth?"

Opening his eyes, pushing the memory of sound and fury away, Bartlet gave his full attention to the man patiently waiting for an answer. Was he hiding? And if so, hiding from whom? God, or those people he knew loved him, who seemed to have a tighter hold on reality than he did? Bartlet didn't know, wasn't quite sure there was an answer. Or if there was, one he could accept.

Bartlet let out a long, audible breath. Maybe now was the time. "Jekyll and Hyde, Leo."

McGarry just stood there and waited.

What more did he want? "I didn't want to kill Shareef. That order..."

"I made you."

"You didn't make me do anything, Leo. You advised me, I listened."

"And then you made an informed choice," McGarry insisted stubbornly. "It's what you do. Quit looking for a black or white. There isn't one."

"That's what I do?" Bartlet asked incredulously, "Assassinate people?"

"If necessary."

"Necessary and expedient. How long before that excuse becomes too easy?"

"It won't. I trust you."

"You trust me? When I can't even trust myself. That night, in the hallway..." Bartlet turned as close to pleading a glance on his friend he could manage, desperate for an answer, perhaps absolution. "I wanted to kill, Leo. If Volkov..." He faltered, the name and the memory and feel of Paulson's dead body choking him for a moment, for all it gave him a target for the rage he could feel growing once more. A rage that terrified him. "If he'd been there, in front of me at that moment, I'd have gladly done the deed and not looked back. Where's the difference, Leo? He's a killer, I'm a killer. Where's the moral high ground?" He laughed shortly, bitterly. "Do you trust me now?"

"Yes."

Bartlet was left speechless by the strength of conviction in his friend's voice. "How?" he asked hesitantly, torn by conflicting emotions.

"Because you can still ask those questions, sir," McGarry spoke with assurance, as confident of his convictions as he was of the man standing in front of him. "When you can't ask them, that's when I'll worry. Leave Hyde where he belongs, with the library books. This is real, and he doesn't belong here. You do."

"I frightened her, Leo." The words were torn from his soul. Her hand tightening on his shoulder, the fear in her eyes. Her fear of what she saw in him. "What she saw..."

"She saw a human being, Mr. President. Her husband, the man she loves."

"A murderer, with more to come."

The President still didn't believe him; McGarry could see that and it nearly broke his determination. "You're a good man," he said with the rock-solid conviction he always granted his friend. "You don't ever need to prove that to me. You don't need to prove it to her. I could never be convinced that you would act solely for personal gratification. This is a thing that we must do, choices forced on us. And we're not doing it for you. We're doing it for the office, for the country and for those we have already lost in this conflict."

McGarry took a deep breath and shrugged. He almost had the man convinced. "And if, by taking this action, we can also keep you safe, win you a measure of justice… well sue me for considering that to be a good thing. Abbey knows this. Talk to her and you'll see I'm right."

Bartlet smiled thinly, still not completely swayed. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" McGarry's brows rose with mock surprise. It hadn't been a complete victory, but at the very least he had the man thinking. "My best speech in years and all I get is a maybe? You're a tough audience."

"You're a lousy camp counselor."

Laughing at the mental image that conjured up, McGarry retorted archly, "Try telling that to your staff."

"How are you doing?" Bartlet asked, changing a painful subject and ashamed to belatedly realize that he wasn't the only one caught in the middle of a moral quandary here. Leo had his own burdens to carry, not including those of his Commander in Chief.

"I'm fine," McGarry shrugged dismissively, masking the guilt that had been eating away at him since this whole nightmare had begun. "I got you into this, I'll get you out."

"You didn't get me in to this, Leo."

McGarry laughed at that. "New Hampshire, Mr. President. 'It's what's new'? Maybe you should have stuck with that. 'Bartlet for America' hasn't exactly been an easy ride."

"My turn, Leo."

McGarry blinked with momentary confusion. "What?"

"I trusted you then." Bartlet pulled his hand out of his pocket and put it on Leo's shoulder. The white dressings were a stark contrast to the darker background of the man's coat. A reminder as well, but perhaps no longer quite so painful a one. Squeezing gently, he finished softly, "And I trust you now. Choices, Leo. Mine as well as yours."

McGarry swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

Bartlet smiled and nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak further. Maybe it was enough. He turned away, for the moment content with his own thoughts and determined to try and finish what Leo McGarry had begun. Abbey was waiting for him. "Do me a favor, will you?" he called over his shoulder.

"Sir?" Damn, but that man wasn't easy to follow. The thought brought a smile to McGarry's face.

"Find out where the hell Ron Butterfield is and get him in my office. I need to have... words with him."

"Words?" McGarry echoed dubiously. He didn't like the sound of that. "He's taken a leave of absence, sir." And that was the full extent of his knowledge. Where the White House Senior Agent had got himself off to was as much a mystery to him as it was to the President.

"Leave of absence my ass," Bartlet snapped. "Get him back, now."

"Yes, sir." So much for getting things back on track. Oh, but that meeting was going to be fun. Having some small idea what had prompted the request - he'd warned Butterfield that the noblese oblige was not going to be appreciated - McGarry had no doubts he was going to be playing reluctant referee.

McGarry watched the President leave, turning down the bend in the portico with the Secret Service Agents keeping to a respectful distance. His stride seemed to have a force of purpose that had been missing lately. He briefly toyed with the idea of reminding the President that a very unhappy Admiral was waiting in the outer office. He quickly decided to leave that with Charlie.

He had started this with the hope of finding some peace for his friend's troubled soul, and perhaps his own. He thought he had succeeded in some small respect and hopefully Abbey would be able to finish it. In fact he was sure she would, and knew as well that it was a long time coming. That Jed had managed in turn to provide him with the same small measure of absolution had been an unexpected bonus, and served to strengthen his resolve to see this through to the bitter end.

It was a war they were going to win. They just had to take care of a few smaller battles along the way.