Eventually, the timelines are going to meet, but hope the back and forth isn't too confusing.
Bounds of Freedom
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Chapter Ten – Watching
POV: Charlie
Spoilers: "A Proportional Response;" "The Fall's Gonna Kill You;" "DIW"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not my creations, but I love them, and I hope the PTB will take better care of them.
"One never gets to know a person's character better than by watching his behavior during decisive moments… It is always only danger which forces the most deeply hidden strengths and abilities of a human being to come forth."
Stefan Zweig
1881-1942
"Der Mann und seine Tat" ("The Man and His Feat")
Air Force One
12:15 a.m., Thursday
Beijing Time
Charlie Young watched the President – had been watching the President for almost six years. It was just one of the things he did. He opened doors for him, he put in wake up calls for him, he carried his jacket, he kept his daily schedule, he ran interference from inconvenient visitors (even high level ones), he alerted him to "barbecuing" opportunities when the First Lady was available, he served as a sounding board for toast composing – and he watched him. At first, he watched simply because this was the President of the United States and no little amount of awe kept his eyes trained on his new, unexpected boss. Then, he watched because he came to know the man behind the position, and because Jed Bartlet's warmth, humor, intelligence, and compassion had captured him, just as it had captured everyone who worked for him. Later, he watched because the First Lady asked him to, because this warm, compassionate, brilliant man had been cursed with a disease that threatened to rob him of all of those gifts.
So he watched, for many reasons. But now, standing in the Presidential Suite on Air Force One, he watched with a seething mixture of fear and anger and loathing. He watched as a man who was supposed to have sworn an oath to heal people threatened to steal a life – and not just any life – the very life he had been watching so faithfully all those years.
And another life that was inexorably intertwined with the first one.
Abigail Bartlet's jaw had risen in silent defiance of the gun barrel leveled at her chest, her hands still touching her husband's battered form, her body still hovering in protection over him.
Charlie watched the eyes of the guard. He saw the coldness there, the absence of guilt, of conscience. It would happen. Dear God, it would happen. And he couldn't let it. Not this time. The President couldn't step in front of him this time.
With a surge of adrenaline, he pushed forward, placing himself between the two people who were the closest thing he had to parents left in the world.
"No!"
He had called out before he even realized it, but even if he could have been given the chance to take it back, he would not have. For a moment, the guard's eyes met his, but he didn't let the fear reach the surface, didn't give in to the very real possibility he was about to die. Then, amazingly, Chen Wenyuan snapped out something in Chinese, and the gun slowly lowered until it pointed to the floor of the plane.
The President's bodyman briefly considered fainting, but that would have seriously detracted from his intentions of defiance.
"No. You are more valuable to us alive anyway," the Chinese doctor decided, but Charlie thought he saw relief in those dark eyes. He turned and said something else to one of the traitorous bodyguards, who, despite his look of doubt, nodded and left.
"Our terms, then," the physician explained, as Charlie tried not to gulp in the oxygen that had suddenly become easier to breath. "The demand of the international community for medical reforms in our country in exchange for – the life of Abigail Bartlet."
Charlie's teeth ground together in fury. How dare this man make the First Lady of the United States a pawn in a global game of chicken. His resolve not to do anything else stupid was sliding away in the face of an avalanche of anger. One guard was gone. If he was quick enough, he could take the other one – maybe. His muscles tensed in anticipation.
But a low moan from beneath him checked that impulse immediately.
Abbey Bartlet had fallen back to the floor and now cradled her husband's shoulders against her chest. Charlie heard the harsh grunt as the President fought back to the surface of consciousness. He saw her pull him closer, as if she could cling to the fine mist of reality that the weight of his body brought to her, dispelling the surreal events that came at them through a cloud of disbelief.
"Jed?" she whispered. It was intended only for him, but they all heard.
He didn't answer, but his body shifted, prompting another involuntary groan. Charlie saw the sudden grimace on that noble face, watched the shoulders tense as the pain became sharper with regaining consciousness.
After a moment, those famous blue eyes opened, clouded at first with confusion, then with discomfort. His wife whispered soothing words and tried to wipe the blood from the side of his face.
"Abbey – " Weak, but it sounded good.
"Shh," she ordered. "Just lie still."
His gaze flickered past her, and Charlie saw the confusion shift to anger when he looked at the bodyguards. "What – what the hell – "
"I believe we are hostages, sir," Charlie offered. The President turned to look in his direction, but gasped suddenly and stopped. "Sir?"
"I'm – okay," he grunted, completely unconvincingly.
Right. There was, of course, absolutely no way he was okay.
"Shut up!" the broken command from the remaining guard barked across the cabin, the tinge of desperation in its depths terrifying. Charlie began to wonder if they stood even a remote chance of getting out alive.
"Don't move too much, Jed," the First Lady instructed, her tone soothing. "I'm pretty sure you've got at least one cracked rib."
His eyes closed again. "I'm pretty sure you're right," he agreed ruefully.
To Charlie's surprise, Chen Wenyuan glared at the remaining guard and spat out something that sounded like a reprimand. Then, he turned back to his American colleague – or at least someone who had been a colleague until about 30 minutes before.
"How badly is he injured?" he asked, but Charlie found it hard to believe he really cared. Maybe he figured a dead President didn't help him much. He would be right.
Without moving her eyes away from her husband, she answered, voice curt, "Bad enough. Is this what you wanted? Is this going to get you whatever it is you're trying to get?"
"I had not intended for them to hurt him – or you. I had just wanted – "
"What?" The voice that asked that question was quiet, but firm. Jed Bartlet's eyes were open again, the blue darkened almost to gray, in pain or anger – or both. "What had you wanted? What in God's name made you do this?"
The Chinese doctor lowered his own eyes. "We had to have – we needed – no one had listened before. No one – I didn't want to – " As if suddenly realizing he was rambling, he straightened himself and cleared this throat. "We need sweeping medical reforms in this country. It has taken too long. We needed something to propel our leaders to action. World pressure. World attention."
A strange sound came from the President, and it took Charlie a second or two to realize it was a chuckle that broke off abruptly when his fractured ribs protested. "You sure – as hell – got that." His breathing sounded raspy now, more labored.
Abbey noticed, too, because she laid a hand over his head and urged him to lie still again. He ignored her.
"Help me – up," he ordered quietly to anyone who might follow it. No one moved.
"Help me up." Harder this time, expecting no disobedience.
He got it anyway. There was no doubt that the First Lady could be formidable when she chose to be – usually even when she didn't. Only a few ever dared to cross her, and when the staff found it necessary to "check the First Lady's temperature," the men almost always deferred to C.J., whose success could be considered mixed at best. This time, it was her husband who threw himself into the breach.
From the expression on his wife's face, Charlie figured he didn't stand a chance.
"Josiah Bartlet," she began, voice so sharp even the terrorists flinched.
Nope. Not a chance.
"If you think I'm going to help drag your stubborn ass off that floor so you can shove however many broken ribs you have into those hot-air lungs of yours, you've got more problems than just being held hostage right now."
A nonplussed Jed Bartlet was something few people had ever seen, but Charlie almost smiled, despite their decidedly unsmiling circumstances, at the rare expression of bemusement on the President's face. He stared at his wife for a long beat, then apparently decided that discretion was, indeed, the better part of valor.
"Abbey," be began finally in a more diplomatic tone, taking an extra beat to draw in a slow breath.
"No," she interrupted, not allowing him to continue.
Not a chance.
"Do you understand – "
"Abbey – "
"Do you understand that any movement could cause more damage? Do you understand – "
"Abbey – "
" – that if one of those ribs punctures your lung, the only way you will live is to get to an OR within minutes – "
"Abbey – "
" – and our situation doesn't look too promising for that possibility right now? Do you understand that you very likely have a concussion, as well – "
"Abigail!" The President set his jaw and rose up on one elbow, face pale, arm shaking, but eyes snapping. Charlie could not even imagine where he had found the strength. "I understand," he ground out, finally getting in more than one word. "I understand that the worst nightmare of the Secret Service is in progress right now. I understand that there doesn't seem to be anyone who can change the situation from the outside. I understand that this is my watch, that this is my responsibility."
"How can you say it's your respon – "
"I understand that how I respond to this will dictate what happens today, and tomorrow, and fifty years from now." He was shaking hard now, but refused to let go, refused to give in to defeat, even from his own body.
"Jed – "
"Abbey." And his entire argument was completed in that one word, in that one tone. His eyes warned and pleaded at the same time, sent a message that even Charlie could read. This was important. This was what he had to do.
Get him the hell up now.
After a long, tense moment, she sighed, frowned, and nodded. With a gesture from her, Charlie leaned down, and grabbed his left elbow as Abbey did her best with the injured right shoulder to help him lever himself from the floor. Blood trickled down the President's forehead and over the bridge of his nose. He didn't pay it any attention.
Jed Bartlet was not a big man, but he was solid, his muscles still well-honed despite the intermittent attack from the disease. As his bodyman, Charlie had seen him often enough in various stages of undress to know that the President had a physical strength casual observers might not expect. Still, it was no easy task to pull him from the deck, even with his struggling assistance.
Finally, he made it to his feet, although he ended up bent over and clutching his midsection, sweat beading across his forehead, blood still seeping from the wound over his temple, eyes tight, teeth clenched. The First Lady slipped her arm around his back for support. Charlie followed suit and felt the sharp flinch that resulted. The President's teeth clacked together again hard and he sucked in a sharp breath before managing to clap down on control once more. Charlie winced with him.
"I'm sorry," Abbey whispered, eyes glistening, and Charlie could almost see her heart twisting at the clear agony in her husband's eyes.
The crimson trickle had made its way down his face and dripped from his jaw. "I'm – all right," he assured them, but no one pretended to believe him.
The effort had apparently taken all of his strength for the moment, because he didn't try to take a step, but swayed in place, still accepting their support. Charlie watched his eyes. Eyes that could say so much. Eyes that could be soft with compassion, or twinkling with mischief, or warm with love, or hard with command. Eyes that now showed a volatile mixture of fury, fear, and determination. And it scared the hell out of him because the action that hovered behind those eyes promised almost certain death, if followed through. If the damn fool got himself killed, his wife would never forgive him – and neither would Charlie.
"What do you want?" the President asked Chen, making another effort to straighten, this time with moderate success.
A flash of emotion passed over Chen's features, perhaps from his own situation, perhaps from witnessing such an impressive victory over such substantial blockades. "Medical reforms," he said after a pause. "We want real medicine, real treatment for everyone. Money to research cures for – for the vilest diseases."
Charlie's eyes shifted between the President and First Lady. Her eyes had widened; his had narrowed. He knew what they were thinking, felt the irony of the situation, as well.
"You want medical reforms?"
The doctor nodded.
"You're threatening to kill us – have already killed – and you want MEDICAL REFORMS?" If he had been able, Jed Bartlet would have yelled, but Charlie saw the strength drain from him even from the effort of a harsh whisper. His tentative stance faltered, and he bent again, staying on his feet only with the support of his bodyman and wife. But he waved off any attempts to get him to lie down again.
After another tentative breath, Bartlet turned his head toward the frozen form by the window. "Mister President," he called.
Charlie had almost forgotten about the Chinese leader. Hu Jintao slid a tentative glance their way but did not move otherwise.
"Mister President, you have – a problem, I believe." He coughed once, a sharp, harsh sound that was followed by a grunt and a grimace. "What – are you – going to do – about it?"
The slighter man turned now, his eyes sad. "I cannot change things overnight. And now I cannot change for – for terrorists."
"Agreed. But can you – change for – your people?" the American President wondered, coughing again, this time jerking the two who held him. Charlie felt more of his boss' weight against him.
"You tell this to me, Mister President?" he returned, finally emerging from his shell. "Your country makes clear it does not negotiate with terrorists. Mine does not either. We are – alone, then."
He was right, Charlie knew, but he wasn't right, because, despite the clear policy that the United States had always proclaimed, this situation had never occurred before. This situation had never been broached. This situation broke all rules. He knew there had to be frantic negotiations going on even at that moment. He knew those back in Washington would be desperate to save their President – their friend. He just hoped they figured out something fast, because one way or another, Josiah Bartlet didn't have much time.
"I guess – it's up to – us, then," Bartlet murmured, turning back to the Chinese doctor. "If you want reforms, you're going to have to – get them another way. I can't let you use the – President of the United States as a bargaining tool – "
"Jed!"
Charlie started at the alarm in the First Lady's voice at the same time the body between them started to sink.
"No," Bartlet choked, even though his body was finally betraying him, losing its strength completely. "No, I won't – "
But he did.
The two of them couldn't hold up the sudden dead weight in their arms. As Jed Bartlet's eyes fluttered shut and his head fell back, his body collapsed, sending all three of them hard to the floor. Charlie was able to twist just a little at the last minute to place himself partially below the President, cushioning his fall enough to prevent the already bleeding head from hitting again.
And there they lay, the most powerful man in the world, his wife, and his bodyman, crumpled on the deck of the Presidential Suite on Air Force One.
Fear and anger boiled inside him. Where the hell was Ron Butterfield? Where the hell was Leo McGarry? Where the hell was the 82nd Airborne?
But then Charlie looked into the distraught eyes of the First Lady and the fear and anger twisted into a strong column of determination that it wasn't going to end here. Not this way. Not if he had anything to do with it.
He had lost a father and a mother once before. It wouldn't happen again.