Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Two – One Room Short of Divine Perfection

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "The Portland Trip"

Rating: PG-13/R

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.

Air Force One

3:00 a.m. Tuesday, Beijing Time

Somewhere Over the Pacific

Jed Bartlet couldn't sleep on a plane. By now it was common knowledge for his staff, and they had given up trying to persuade him to catch a few winks en route to whatever function lay before them. They had grown accustomed to seeing him bleary-eyed upon arrival, even though he always seemed to don the appropriate mask of calm by the time the fuselage door swung open.

It wasn't just his mild phobia about heights – not really. He had eventually come to the conclusion that it involved some fear of missing the last few minutes of his life. In case they went down, he didn't want to be snoozing. Illogical, but there he was.

It still hadn't prevented him from choosing night flights for most of his trips, though. That reasoning still held. Flying at night enabled you to cease to be earthbound and burdened with practicality.

It was poetic. It was romantic.

Of course, it also was when they had to leave in order to arrive in Beijing at a decent hour since the flying time was almost seventeen hours and that ancient city was twelve hours ahead of D.C. For an 8:00 a.m. Tuesday touchdown, they had to leave at 3:00 a.m. Monday.

He rubbed a hand over the scratchy stubble of his jaw. They were about five ours away from landing, which would make it 3:00 a.m. Tuesday – at least he thought that was right. You had to cross the International Date Line, which automatically threw you a day ahead – if you were going west, anyway. If you were going east –

He really should try to sleep.

But, as usual, he sat staring out the window into the graying black, wondering once more what chance they had – what chance he had – of bringing democracy to the massive nation of communists.

The deep seeds of idealism embedded in his soul told him it was going to happen. But the increasingly bothersome frost of realism threatened that dream. And it was damned depressing.

In fact, he might have worked himself into morose discouragement if it wasn't for one thing – the warm and sexy creature curled up in his lap at that very moment. Smiling, he placed a kiss on top of the dark head and stroked her short curls. Abbey never had trouble sleeping on a plane. Maybe that was the result of years of grabbing power naps on an office couch in between surgeries and patient visits. He wished he'd developed such a talent.

She stirred, and even though he hadn't meant to wake her, he wasn't disappointed. He needed her, if only just to be conscious with him, to stare out the window with him, to ponder the possibilities with him. Of course, if she was interested in other things –

"Hey," she murmured, pushing up from his chest and running a hand through her hair. "What time is it?"

"D.C. time, or Beijing time, or Wherever-the-hell-we-are time?"

The sleepy chuckle was both endearing and sexy. Not that he found much his wife did that wasn't sexy – even yelling at him. "Doesn't matter."

"We're about five hours out of Beijing, if that helps." He shifted slightly, in a vain attempt to jump start the circulation in his right leg.

"Have you slept?"

"Sure." Not very convincing.

"Liar." Smiling, she helped him out by switching sides, but stayed in his lap. "You have briefings soon?"

"Couple of hours." His tone was decidedly suggestive.

Instantly catching his mood, she cut her eyes at him. "Your plans until then?"

"Hmm. I could test my recently-acquired knowledge of the Peoples Republic of China on you." He tried to suppress the grin at her eye roll.

"Just what I was hoping." Sarcasm colored her tone.

He ignored it. "Really? Because I have done a little research on some of the sites."

"What a surprise."

"Seriously. And I'm happy to share my knowledge."

"Again," she smirked, "note the incredulity on my face." But the teasing in her eyes softened her words.

Secure in the knowledge that he had her, he decided to play a little longer. "Did you know, for example – "

She sent another eye roll hint his way, but he continued undeterred.

"Did you know that the Forbidden City complex contains 9,999 rooms, just one room short of the number that ancient Chinese believed represented divine perfection?"

And even though he would have been happy to regale her with his trivia, he hoped she would be led to attempt a distraction. Sure enough, as he rambled on about the various rooms of that palace, she grasped the edges of her sweater and, with one smooth sweep of a hand, tugged it over her head, revealing a startling red lace bra that fought a losing battle to contain her ample breasts.

Oh yes. "Speaking of divine perfection," he shifted, successfully and willingly sidetracked as he brushed a thumb gently over a decorated nipple.

The interest that had merely tingled in his groin earlier now buzzed into a full-fledged vibration. God, she was beautiful. "Abbey, we only have five hours," he reminded.

She smirked again and squirmed around to straddle him. "What will we do with the other four hours and 45 minutes?" she teased, running her fingers to his shirttails and dragging them out of his pants.

With mock insult, he complained, "You wound me, Abigail. I've never – "

"Well," she reminded, expression coy, "there was that one time after the Inaugural Ball for your second term as governor – "

He wagged a finger at her, fighting the urge to jump her right there. "Oh, no. Not fair. You teased me all night, woman, with your décolleté gown and thrusting hips while I was just trying to dance with my wife. It's a miracle I didn't come right there in front of the whole New Hampshire cabinet."

"You did look a little hot and bothered," she remembered evilly, slipping a hand down to unbutton his trousers.

"The paper the next day speculated that I had a fever, I was so flushed the whole night."

"Oh, you had a fever, all right. And it was a hot one, as I recall."

"Okay, Doctor Bartlet," he whispered, sexual frustration winning out over his patience. "I'm burning again. What's your prescription?"

"Let me just check your temperature," she said, but instead of kissing him on the forehead, she slid off his lap and unzipped his pants, gasping as his erection thrust out eagerly beneath the inadequate boxers.

After that, things progressed much more rapidly than either had planned. He pulled her back up so that she sat over his thighs and guided his aching arousal to press against her, satisfied to feel that she was just as ready for him to be inside her as he was to be inside.

"You ready to join the mile-high club?" he groaned.

Her breath was coming faster as she anticipated his entry. "Babe, we were members in that one when Nixon was President."

He grinned, remembering their hurried initiation into that distinct group. Thirty years made a difference. The Presidential Cabin on Air Force One provided a few more comforts than the cubicle of a bathroom on a 707. But that first encounter would be forever burned into his memory, especially the knowing smirks of the few passengers near the back when they emerged, breathless and tousled. Apparently, they had not been quite as discreet as they intended in the throes of passion.

This time, maybe the agents would be far enough away not to hear too much of the inevitable moans and gasps that accompanied their joining. Then, as Abbey moved against him, he decided he really didn't give a damn.

Apparently sharing the memory, she grinned and ground harder, forcing him farther inside. They both grunted at the sensations created. Serious now, he pushed the rest of the way in, sighing at her warm welcome. Despite their intentions, it did not take long before they were fully involved. He intended to wait for her if it killed him – and he thought for a minute that it might actually come to that – but it turned out that he didn't have to worry. Her movements grew more frantic and he felt the familiar quivering of her body as she cried out and arched hard against him, her head thrown back in surrender to the overpowering convulsions that overtook her and gripped him. Unfettered by the need to be a gentleman, he let go and moaned with the waves as they swept through him, clutching her hips to his in his explosive need.

Finally, his muscles unclenched and melted, and he sighed her name with the last of the spasms, cradling her to him as he enjoyed the satisfaction of her body draped over his, of her delicious flesh still surrounding him as his own flesh softened slowly and let the evidence of their climaxes flow between them.

She groaned happily and kissed his neck before pushing away slightly from him and checking his watch. "Well, not bad. At least we left a little time for your conferences."

Twisting his arm to look for himself, he chuckled when he saw that the elapsed time had at least surpassed the ignominious Inaugural record.

Four hours later, looking fresh and relaxed, the President and First Lady were dressed and coiffed and prepared for their anticipated arrival in the Peoples Republic of China. If the staff speculated on their Commander-in-Chief's unusually chipper attitude after a long flight, they chose not to share it – at least not with him.

His first official peek at the country as President of the United States was from the tarmac of the Beijing Airport, which appeared similar to most other airports in the world. He wasn't sure why he had expected anything else, except that everything about this country had been a mystery to the west for centuries – especially, and unfortunately, the politics.

They had certainly gone all out. The ubiquitous red carpet stretched across the concrete toward the waiting limousine, one of the same American Cadillacs that he always used. Ron had deemed it much too risky to switch vehicles, even if it suggested a lack of confidence in the Chinese security. Waiting about halfway down the runner stood the Chinese President Hu Jintao, Vice-president Zeng Qinghong, and Prime Minister Wen Jiabao. He had spent a couple of hours committing those names to memory so he could greet them without a stumble. Now he found himself going over them once more in his head. No need to insult them before they even got out of the airport.

The early autumn day had a bright snap to it, and he felt Abbey's hand pat his back as she stood just behind him. "Showtime, Babe."

He smiled and waved to the crowd clutching small American and Chinese flags that fluttered in concert. The average Chinese seemed pleased to see him, although he doubted very much that he was looking at anyone remotely average. As they approached the waiting dignitaries, he noted with a touch of amazed pride that, except for his own entourage of Secret Service hulks, he was the tallest person there. Certainly that was a first for him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Abbey's pointed grin and knew she had read him easily. Coloring slightly, he grinned back and shrugged just enough for her to see. He'd enjoy the moment anyway, even if it revealed a rare touch of vanity.

"Mister President," Hu Jintao greeted in heavily accented English.

"Mister President," Jed returned, first giving the traditional Chinese bow, then taking the extended hand of his host in the more familiar western style.

As was the custom, Abbey remained behind him until the men had all been introduced. He wondered if they realized that this mere woman was probably ten times smarter than any of them. Abbey had done her own research to find out what was expected for the woman – even the wife of a President – in regard to protocol. After raving about the ridiculous secondary-citizen status of women, she had promised to hold her tongue, at least until they were alone, and then she could do whatever she pleased with her tongue.

He shook away those dangerous thoughts. It would certainly be an international incident if the President of the United States were photographed with a hard-on when he met the Chinese leader.

Hu Jintao was dark haired and pleasant looking and probably about the same age as he. Hopefully, that meant some common ground, if only from their experiencing the same world events over the past half-century or so. After making the obligatory rounds, they made their way to the limousine, their host surprisingly agreeing to ride in the American automobile with them.

The day promised to be eventful, with a visit to the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square, followed by initial diplomatic talks and capped off with a visit to the Peking Opera. As they traveled along the Shoudujichang Highway into Beijing proper, Jed was struck, as his historian mind frequently was, by the resiliency and stubbornness of mankind. This civilization had survived for centuries, its descendants compliant curators of the treasures of their past dynasties, while embracing – willingly or not – the politics of their current totalitarian regime.

The weight of his responsibility settled on him again, and even Abbey's supportive squeeze of his hand couldn't lighten it. He returned her grip, and smiled in reassurance, but the plastic faces of the Chinese President and his comrades tightened his own features.

Was democracy in China an impossibility? Was he tilting at Windmills, as so many had argued? Or was he the best chance in generations for that country to take the giant step toward true freedom? He had to think so. Otherwise, the trip was a farce, a mere political ploy. And even though he couldn't deny being a politician, he was damned if he would be labeled "political."

"You ready for seeing our country?" Hu Jintao asked, his smile easy enough, although it didn't quite reach his dark eyes.

"Yes," Jed replied, wondering just how much English this guy understood. "Abbey and I are both eager to tour your remarkable land."

He saw his wife nodding in agreement, but noticed that the Chinese leader paid little attention to her. Forcing down a very western irritation, he glanced out the window and recognized a site that had played a historical role in the search for freedom here.

"What is this place?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Hu Jintao hesitated just long enough that his Vice President responded. "Tiananmen Square."

The incredible scene of 1989 flashed back to him. The lone, courageous student who stood before tanks and touched the world with his bold and most certainly sacrificial statement. The hunger strikes. The Massacre of June 4. The yearning for freedom.

He doubted his hosts would welcome these thoughts as they drove through the now-calm square. But they couldn't deny those weeks of the desperate drive toward democracy instigated by their own youth.

He couldn't force freedom on this land. It wasn't his style – or his place – anyway. But maybe he could show those who would that there was another chance, another hope. And maybe that hope lay in the words and actions of an idealistic Westerner who just happened to be President of the United States.

He felt a sudden thrill of hope rush through his chest. Why the hell couldn't he bring democracy to China? With real anticipation now, he began a mental map of his strategy as the new and old edifices of Beijing passed by.

Perhaps this would be a truly eventful trip, after all.