Bounds of Freedom
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Three – Under the Yum Yum Tree
POV: Abbey Bartlet
Spoilers: AISTTC (very minor)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Jed and Abbey aren't mine. Darn.
The Peking Opera
8:05 p.m., Tuesday
Beijing Time
Abigail Bartlet leaned slightly forward in the theater chair, enthralled with the pageantry playing out on the stage before her. The gray formality of the Chinese diplomats they had dealt with all day was shattered by the bursts of color, the explosion of movement, and the symphony of sound that whipped through the auditorium.
The Peking Opera – or the politically correct Beijing Opera – was over 200 years old, begun in 1790 during the reign of Emperor Qianlong, or so their interpreter had told them. The artistry combined singing, dialogue, mime, acrobatics, and dance to represent a story or emote anger, sorrow, happiness, surprise, and fear. Abbey observed that it must be their only outlet for these feelings, since they seemed quite unemotional at all other times, at least the stoic government officials who had dominated their time thus far.
As the action slowed, no doubt in preparation for segue to another movement, she caught a familiar low rumbling to her left. Without even a glance, she let her elbow ease over and nudge her husband's ribs. Right on target. He jerked slightly and cleared his throat, shifting so that he sat a little straighter. Then she allowed a peek, and smiled sympathetically at his sheepish wince. If she didn't think it would cause an international incident, she would just let him sleep. God knew he could use it. Despite his thin lie that morning, she doubted that he had gotten any real rest on the trip over – and he hadn't been to bed at all the night before their 3:00 a.m. departure. And the rest of their day had not exactly been leisurely, packed with tours of the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square, as well as the first round of talks. With a crude calculation in her head, she put it at almost 36 hours for him without sleep. How he was even marginally coherent was beyond her.
"Let me know when Yum Yum comes out," he mumbled, squinting at her before he closed his eyes again.
She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see it. "First of all, Mister 800-790 SATs, Yum Yum is Japanese, not Chinese."
His grunt was unimpressed.
"And second, that's from The Mikado, not the Beijing Opera."
Another grunt. "At least Gilbert and Sullivan knew something about a plot."
"You know," she challenged, "if you paid attention, you might learn something."
That earned her a one-eyed glare before he unfolded his arms and leaned forward. "Do you see that instrument there?" he asked, pointing at a two-stringed bowed piece.
Well, she'd walked right into that one. "Mmm." Better not to give him too much encouragement.
"That's a jinghu. That moon-shaped one that the guy is plucking is a yueqin. And that other – "
"Jed – " She tried to keep her voice low, to hint to him that he was disturbing the show, but he was oblivious, or more likely unrepentant.
" – is a sanxian."
Shaking her head, she leaned back in the chair. "Well, thanks. I was really wondering about that."
"I could tell you were."
"How do you know these things?" she asked, even though it only egged him on.
He shrugged. "I know many things."
"Too many." It was a mumble, but his mock glare indicated he had heard her.
Fascinating though it was, the repetitious rhythm of the opera had grown a bit tedious. After glancing about at the audience, she concluded that their exchange really had not diminished from the festivities. And since they had been given a private box, maybe they actually weren't disturbing anyone else.
Allowing herself to continue being distracted, she watched him from the corner of her eye, taking note of the dark circles under his eyes, the deeper lines in his brow, the rounder slump to his shoulders. She knew he felt the enormity of this chance to bring at least the beginnings of democracy to a vast population in the chains of a totalitarian regime hiding under the guise of a "people's republic." She saw the weight of responsibility push down with the magnitude of his task. She felt the burden of his idealism fight with the yoke of reality.
Josiah Bartlet would change the world. That was his dream. His goal.
If only he could see that he already had. It was there every day in the lives he had touched, in the faces and voices and actions of the people who had the privilege of being around him – of calling him boss, friend, father – husband. But she knew this very mortal man yearned for immortality, sought a legacy that would surpass a presidential library in Manchester and a moving mannequin at Disney World.
He believed that China could be free. She just wished everyone else believed it, too.
"How'd the talks go?" she asked, hoping to boost him for the next day.
Pulling himself from another nod, he shrugged. "Predictably. They can't get past the idea that the West is inherently decadent."
"That's absurd," she declared, even though she knew he was right. "They want to talk about decadence, what about the young things half the Chinese ministry keeps for their lunchtime trysts?"
His grin softened her affronted dignity. "That's just because they don't have hot babes like you waiting for them."
Oh, he was incorrigible. Marvelously incorrigible. She couldn't help but grin back. "Maybe we are decadent," she said, shaking her head.
"Some of us, anyway," he leered, and let his hand slide up her thigh.
Irritation faded with the pleasure ignited by his caress. "Do any of them even realize you've brought your wife?"
"Maybe we could arrange some sort of trade?" he pondered, brow bouncing with evil innocence.
Her eyes twinkled back at him. "How do you think that would affect the talks?"
"I think they'd have free elections tomorrow if I promised to leave you here."
She gave him that baby doll look. "Part of the negotiations?"
To her surprise, his face darkened a bit. "Babe, I'd put Castro in charge over here before I'd let on of those ham-handed old men so much as blink at you."
She smirked, and even though she knew he was teasing, it warmed her to hear the edge of conviction he couldn't quite keep from his tone.
"We're fighting centuries of prejudice, Abbey," he reminded more seriously, but still easing his hand higher. "They aren't going to reform overnight."
"Mmm." She was rapidly losing interest in their political topic as his palm rested at the top of her thigh and his fingers sneaked inside the skirt that had ridden up when she sat.
"Jed," she scolded, but only for protocol, drawing the "e" out plaintively.
"What?" Yes, he was good with the innocence.
"Someone could see."
The blue eyes sparkled in the light from the stage. "Nah. Just Ron, and it's not like he hasn't seen me cop a feel in the past six years."
Oh God. She jerked away at the reminder that the agent sat just behind them and certainly saw the progress of his boss' hand. To her chagrin, this move created much more attention than Jed's subtle wanderings.
"Jackass," she muttered, tugging her skirt down in punishment for his amusement at her expense.
He slid his hand away, but leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Wanna see just how decadent we Westerners can get later?"
Ron shifted behind them. He had to have heard that.
"You'll be paying for this, Comrade," she hissed back.
"Promise?" The huskiness of his voice triggered a familiar thrill deep inside her. Oh yes. She promised.
They settled back, and she noted with amusement that Ron relaxed – as much as he could, anyway. She wondered when his professional devotion to the President had become his personal devotion to Jed Bartlet. There was no doubt in her mind that it had occurred somewhere along the way. She had seen the admiration and affection peek through that stern façade enough times to figure how he felt about his charge.
And Jed was right. He had certainly observed more than one intimate exchange between the President and First Lady. Not much fazed him after the time he opened the limousine door a little too early and caught them well involved in a welcome back encounter. Occasionally, Jed still chuckled about that. Not that she found any humor in the humiliation at the time.
"You got the hospital tomorrow during talks?" Her husband's abrupt non sequitur drew her away from her musings, and it took her a minute to connect.
Hospital? Tomorrow? "Oh. Yeah."
He was referring to the Shijingshan Hospital in the western section of the city. She had anticipated this part of the trip since it was arranged, pouring over research articles that reported and analyzed the alarming increase in cancer diagnoses in the area, especially among people who lived near rivers. Speculation was that the growing pollution levels were a direct contributor.
"We go to the Ming Tombs tomorrow morning," he reminded, moving on.
"Yeah."
"I find the terra cotta warriors fascinating."
"I know that you do." Indeed, he had made a study of them a few years before and regaled them all – as usual – with the details. She bet she could give more tidbits about the famous statues than their trained guide.
"Maybe I should have some made for me."
Okay, surely has wasn't serious – but it did take a voluntary tug at his lips to dispel any doubts.
"That's an excellent idea, Babe."
His head cocked suspiciously. "Are you patronizing me?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
After that they lapsed back into the mood of the performance, whether by interest or sheer fatigue, she couldn't tell, but it was several minutes before her mind stirred from the colorful patterns to revive their conversation. Jed had not attempted another stolen caress, which both relieved and disappointed her. In face, now that she thought about it, she realized he had grown quite still.
"I think this is the final movement where all the characters come back together – " she began, but the words died at her lips as she turned to look at him.
His normally ruddy face had paled slightly and he stared at the stage, sweat beading over his brow and across his upper lip.
Aw, hell. "Jed?" Be calm. Don't jump to conclusions. He hates that.
"I'm fine." Well, that confirmed it. His answer was too quick, too reassuring.
"Jed – " she asked pointedly, sliding a hand up his arm, trying to make it appear more like a caress than a doctor's touch.
"I told you, I'm fi – "
"Bull." Her hand covered his fist. Was that a tremble? So slight, it was hard to tell.
He pulled away abruptly.
"Let's go," she urged, glancing around at the audience to see if anyone was watching. Of course, just about every eye in the place was at glued on the President of the United States. She realized their departure would not go unnoticed – as if it ever had.
"We can't just leave, Abbey. This is all part of the diplomacy, remember?"
Damn him for observing protocol. But she knew it was more than that. She knew he couldn't let on that he felt bad. Of all people, he simply couldn't be sick. He could never just be sick. The speculation would run wild, would prompt a world-wide discussion of his health.
She would try reason first, as if it would help. "Are you dizzy?"
He shook his head. Liar.
"I know you haven't slept – "
"Abbey, I'm fine – "
"Don't tell me you're fine," she hissed struggling to maintain the appearance of composure. "You're on the verge of collapse right now. Do you really want that to happen in front of – "
"I'm just tired. I promise." He turned to her and she read the mixture of agitation and need on his face. Let me have this.
Please let it just be fatigue. Please. Pushing back her deep concern, she sighed. "Well – "
"Okay," he decided with more energy, grabbing at her offering. "After the show we go straight to bed." He grinned, but even the promise in his eyes could not mask the deep exhaustion.
Just for him, she returned the smile, squeezing his hand both to reassure him and to search for the tremble again. But the return squeeze was strong and controlled. Thank God.
As the rich symphony of movement and sound entwined on the stage, she leaned back and tried to suppress her growing anxiety. But she couldn't completely give up her peripheral observations. They had a huge day tomorrow, not just publicity tours, but real, vital dialogues with policy makers that could change the relationship of the East and West. He would need all his strength to reform China.
And all of that meant no decadence tonight. Damn.