This is the penultimate chapter of this story. I started this before the season began, even before there was a China storyline, so I figure I can make up my own plot for what happens at the China Summit. I'm sure you have figured out that C.J. is still press secretary and Leo is still chief of staff. (And if it were up to me, I would have Jed Bartlet be President on into infinity.) So there.

I also figure that I have dangled everyone above the precipice long enough. Time for a little resolution, at least a partial one.

Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Fourteen – Mark Twain

POV: Jed

Spoilers: No big ones for anything

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: All the major characters were created by Aaron Sorkin. I made up a few minor characters. Wish it was the other way around.

Location and Time Unknown

"Mister President!"

"Ten more minutes, Charlie," he muttered. Let him sleep ten more minutes.

"Mister President!"

Damn, the boy was persistent, but wasn't that what he paid him for? Okay, time to get up. He would just ease out of bed –

Oh, shit! Okay, on second thought, no easing out of bed.

The burst of pain caught him cold and slammed through every nerve in his body. Something was definitely not right here. If someone would just give him a hand and move the anvil off his chest – and while they were at it, they might take a moment to pull the screwdriver out of his temple. Yeah, that would probably help.

Maybe Charlie would be so kind –

But something tugged at his brain when the pain eased enough to let more coherent thoughts through. Something disturbing about Charlie. Something he didn't think he wanted to know.

"You think he can hear us?"

Yes, I can hear you fine. I'm not deaf.

Blind maybe, he mused, realizing that everything in front of him was black. What would cause that? The MS for sure. It was something – one of many things – he had dreaded about the disease. Had that happened? Had he suddenly lost his vision? It didn't seem likely. He didn't remember having any warnings about it, any blurriness or pain. But there wasn't always a warning, was there?

"Jed? Can you open your eyes?"

Ah. Leave it to Abbey, the doctor. Open your eyes. Why hadn't he thought of that?

Gritting his teeth, he peeled open one eye, closing it again instantly as the harsh glare flashed straight to the center of his brain. Mistake. Maybe that's why he hadn't thought of it.

"Josiah?"

Josiah? Was she mad at him for something? Or was she just trying to reach into his deeper consciousness, the one that reminded him he was the President and he had duties –

Duties. He had duties, didn't he? What the hell were they? He had been doing something important, he thought. Well, that was brilliant. He was the damn President of the United States. Every damn thing he did was important. But this – it was something really big. Something he should remember, but his head throbbed and his body ached, and he couldn't grab onto that elusive bit of information that would bring him back to awareness.

Another voice floated into his head, one he didn't recognize, one with a faint oriental accent. "The medication will impair his ability to reason, right now. And the concussion certainly does not help."

Concussion? Okay, that explained some of it. What about the tire iron across his ribs? What the hell had he done to himself? Maybe that's why Abbey was mad. Maybe he had done something really stupid and gotten himself banged up. As much as she needled him about taking care of himself, that would really piss her off.

If he could just ask Charlie to sneak him an aspirin or two –

The uneasy feeling that had nudged him earlier returned. Charlie. Something about Charlie. Something that wasn't good.

"Nancy McNally called a few minutes ago," Leo was saying to someone. To him, maybe? He tried to answer, but couldn't quite form the words.

Abbey answered, instead. "She able to rein in Russell?"

Oh God. Russell. If the President of the United States was out with a concussion, or even with an MS attack, that idiot was in charge. Please say Nancy was reining him in. Please say it.

The humor bled through Leo's tone easily. "She's had help. C.J. told me Berryhill and Hutchinson haven't even let him go to the head on his own."

Good. Good. That was last thing they needed – for Bingo Bob to be making policy decisions, or any decisions for that matter. He would have made an absolute mess of China –

China. Yes! That was it. Through the medication, through the concussion, the synapses finally snapped together again.

China.

Terrorists.

Bomb. That was it. That was the bad feeling.

"Charlie!" He thought he screamed the name, but it must have bubbled out as only a whisper, since Abbey's voice came to him from a closer distance, along with the sensation that someone was holding his hand.

"Jed? Sweetheart?"

Good. Sweetheart. Not mad, then. He braved the light again, squinting with both eyes, trying to see past the constant pounding in his head.

"Abbey?" he managed weakly, as he made out the silhouette of her wavy hair.

The relief that warmed her voice made the effort worthwhile. "Welcome back." A gentle squeeze told him who had been holding his hand.

Had he been somewhere? Were they still in China? Were they still on Air Force One? No. There was a bomb. They couldn't still be on Air Force One, could they?

Steeling himself, he started to push up, but the iron rod of agony that thrust through his ribs dissuaded him – as well as at least three sets of hands holding him down.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

"Bomb?" he choked, needing to know, desperate to know. If they were still on Air Force One they must have gotten the bomb diffused – or off.

Then another thought occurred to him – a strange, twisting thought that weaved its way through his swimming head. Maybe there never was a bomb. Maybe he was right earlier. Maybe he had hallucinated this terrible scenario in the throes of an MS episode. That could explain why he was flat on his back. Dear God, had he collapsed in front of Hu Jintao? Or worse – in front of the entire world on international television?

Horror flashed through him at the possibility, and he bent forward to rise again, to get some answers into his muddled brain.

"Josiah Bartlet! Holy Mother, you are the most stubborn man – "

Yeah, she was mad. Even without his wife's scolding, though, he would have abandoned his impulsive move, realizing now that the very real burn across his ribs and the throbbing at his temple, and a new ache in his shoulder gave evidence that he hadn't imagined it at all. Gasping, he dropped back onto the bed, his fall broken once more by gentle hands that helped ease him down.

"You know you scared the hell out of us already," another voice scolded. "No need to keep doing it."

He barely turned his head toward the sound. Man, Leo looked terrified. Thank God he was okay.

"We thought – we thought you were dead." The pain in that growling voice was clear.

"The world thought you were dead," Abbey added, and even though her tone was light, he heard the underlying strain. "Fox News announced it before our people could issue a statement on your condition."

Fox News? Ah, that was almost worth almost dying. He wondered if they were able to squelch their glee long enough to make the report. Served them right for being so eager. C.J. would have a field day with that.

He would have chuckled if it didn't hurt so much. "Mark Twain," he mumbled.

The reference was enough. His best friend and wife both smiled, albeit weakly. "Yeah."

But there was something he had to know, something they couldn't protect him from any longer. "Charlie – " he asked again, an even more poignant ache swelling in his heart with the memory of what the young man had done. It had been real, and that meant that Charlie had –

He caught the exchange of glances between Leo and Abbey, the hesitation in their movement, and the ache sharpened to a stab. No! Please, no! Not Charlie. Not – his son.

But the chief of staff didn't offer any comforting words; his wife didn't lay her hand against his face in consolation. Instead, they both stepped back from his vision, making way for a new body to fill the space. A familiar face. A face he didn't think he would see again.

A renewed burst of energy captured him, and he reached with the arm that didn't hurt to grasp the shoulder of his bodyman – of his son. "Charlie!"

The grin he received was bright, pleased, and just as emotional as his own. "Sir."

Oh God. Keep it together. He clenched his teeth until his head hurt again. "I thought – I thought you were – "

"You and me both, sir."

Then he noticed the crutches under the young man's arms, the dark stitches across his brow. "Charlie?"

"I'm fine, sir. A few cuts and bruises."

"A fractured tibia," Abbey added from behind him.

"What – "

Leo stepped in again. "Mister Young, here, took it upon himself to remove the explosive from the airplane."

"But – it blew up – I remember – " It was his last memory from the plane, the fear of knowing what Charlie had done, the terrible ripping of the outer skin – and then he remembered nothing until he woke up – wherever he was.

"He got halfway down the steps and threw it as hard as he could," Leo explained.

"The throw put me off balance and I fell the rest of the way down the stairs," Charlie added sheepishly. "That's how I broke my leg."

"But, apparently, the walls of the steps protected him enough from the blast."

Jed Bartlet gritted his teeth to keep the tears from pushing forward, from embarrassing himself. "What did I – tell you about – makin' sacrifices, son?"

Charlie shook his head, his eyes gleaming with something that looked, to Jed, a little too much like hero worship. "Due respect, sir, but I think that's the pot calling the kettle black," he accused.

Touche. "Yeah, well." It was the best he could manage.

But he couldn't hold onto the moment, couldn't keep the joy before him against the black tunnel that narrowed his vision and drew him back down into the darkness. He heard his wife tell him it was okay to go back to sleep. Nice to have permission. Besides, he wasn't going anywhere far away. He'd be back in a little while. He'd always come back to her – one way or another. It was has last coherent thought for some time.

Later

Exact Location and Time Still Unknown

The next intelligible thought Jed Bartlet had was that the human body was certainly capable of producing an amazing amount of pain. He had come to that conclusion after attempting to fill his lungs with a deep, satisfying breath. That attempt had been abruptly abandoned with the streak of fire that tore through his ribs. Yes, an amazing amount of pain.

"Shit."

"Yeah, he's awake."

"Abbey?" He opened his eyes. This time it was easier.

"You finally decide to join us, Jethro?" she asked, the sharp words softened by her gentle tone.

He stared at her for a moment, took in the disheveled hair, the haggard circles under her eyes, the complete lack of make up. God, she was beautiful. Not that he ever forgot, but the realization sometimes took his breath – and breath was something he apparently didn't have in abundance at the moment.

She leaned over and placed a kiss on his forehead, out of habit brushing the skin with her hand, even though she wore no lipstick to leave her mark. "How ya' doin'?"

"Been better," he admitted, letting his gaze slip past her to rest on the others in the room.

Leo stood there, smiling goofily at him, his own appearance uncharacteristically rumpled. Toby peeked over Leo's left shoulder, his face still hanging and solemn, but his eyes betraying him with their bright spark. A slight man leaned in next to Abbey, his dark hair and eyes identifying him as possibly being the oriental speaker of earlier – how much earlier? An hour? A day?

"Are we – still in China?" he asked, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible.

The slight man spoke. "You are at the Xian Gaoxin Hospital, Mister President," he offered. "I am Doctor Xiao Zenchuan. I am chief of thoracic surgery here."

"My wife's – a thoracic surgeon," he shared, thinking too late that it was probably a superfluous remark.

The doctor smiled, his eyes kind. "Yes, sir. I know. We have already had some enlightening conversations."

"About thoracic – surgery, right? Not about me." Fat chance.

A shrug. "Well, about both. Your thoracic surgery, in particular."

He should have known. Okay, time to figure out just what the hell was going on. "Abbey – "

She brushed his cheek, and the love in her eyes almost overwhelmed him. "You need to rest, Jed. There's time enough to – "

But there wasn't time. Not anymore. He struggled for an easy breath. Didn't find one. "Abigail – "

"You can do this later," she insisted firmly.

With effort, he summoned what little strength he had left. "Abigail Ann – "

A surprised scowl drew her brow down. He rarely resorted to her middle name. "My God, you are bossy."

Ah. He had her. "Now."

With an exasperated sigh, which wasn't so exasperated really, she nodded. "All right, Rambo, you asked for it. You have five fractured ribs, three broken completely through. One of them pieced your lung and collapsed it. It was necessary to do a thoracostomy to take the air out from around it and re-inflate it."

Well, he did ask. And that certainly explained the anvil. He winced at the flicker of pain that crossed her face. Something occurred to him. "Who did the – "

"I did it."

Oh hell. I'm sorry, Abbey. I'm so sorry.

He couldn't even imagine what that was like, couldn't envision what she must have gone through. If it had been Abbey that needed – well, he was pretty sure he would have been too frantic to do anything but beat the hell out of whoever had done that to her.

"Damn fool," she whispered, cupping his chin in her hand.

"But your fool?" he asked, tilting his head down to kiss her palm.

"My fool," she assured him, eyes bright. God, he loved her.

Then she cleared her throat, lowered her hand, and continued in a normal tone. "You also have a rather deep laceration above your temple – fourteen stitches – and a dislocated shoulder."

Ouch. Yes, he seemed to remember the blinding pain from a rather barbaric procedure to pop it back in place. All right. Screwdriver through the head was now explained, too.

"All in all, Mister President," the Chinese doctor offered, "you are a very fortunate man."

Depended on how you looked at it, he figured, bracing himself for another breath. "What about – "

Doctor Zenchuan squinted, but Abbey knew. "Not bad," she told him, catching his hand again in hers, as if she couldn't keep from touching him. "We've pumped you full of prednisone and amazingly there are only mild signs of an episode. If you follow orders and do what you're told – "

"Where's the – fun in that?" he asked, smiling at her. Thank God for small favors. "Still gotta – redeem myself from that – Inaugural record."

Her blush was his reward.

Leo shot them both a look that said he didn't know exactly what they were talking about, but he knew them well enough to guess at the general topic. "Mister President – "

"I'll be – good, Leo," he promised. Didn't have much choice anyway. It occurred to him then that he really had no idea what time it was – or what day for that matter. "How long have – I been out?"

The Chinese doctor answered. "You arrived at our facility approximately thirteen hours ago, Mister President. In that time you have had surgery to repair your ribs and your lung, as well as resetting your dislocated shoulder and stitching your head wound."

That all? "I thought – Abbey fixed my – shoulder." He looked to her for confirmation.

She grimaced. "The first time. The bomb blast threw you against the bulkhead and popped it out again. This time with much more ligament damage."

Great. An unpleasant sensation began to build in his chest, one that felt dangerously like a cough. No way that could be pleasant in his present condition. He swallowed and tried to suppress it. "So it's what – Thursday? Friday?"

"Thursday, sir," Leo supplied. "Six-thirty in the evening. Beijing time, anyway."

Almost twenty hours since they boarded the plane. How much had happened in that time? His brain spun with things that should have been done. The stock exchange. National security –

"How many others?" he asked abruptly as the thought came to him. The urge to cough grew stronger. He clamped down on it.

Leo sighed. That couldn't be good. "Five agents dead, Mister President. All but three of the terrorists were killed either by agents on the plane or by the special forces involved in the rescue."

Five agents. Please not – "Ron?"

"He's okay. Took one in the shoulder, but he's gonna be fine."

Thank God. Thank God.

Then the cough was there, forcing its way up through a tattered lung and beneath battered ribs. Weak as it was, it ripped across his torso as if it were tearing him in half. He gasped and coughed and groaned all at once, trying to sit to make the movement more productive. Instantly, doctors, nurses, a best friend, and a wife surrounded him.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

Doctor Zenchuan held his shoulders as gently as he could. "Mister President, it's okay. You go ahead and cough. Your lungs need it. They need to clear of any fluids that are collecting. Pneumonia is very dangerous in your situation."

"I know it hurts, Babe," Abbey was adding. "You're going to have to do it, anyway. We were going to get you up later to start, but you've always have been precocious."

Funny. But not nearly as funny when Zenchuan popped him in the upper back with his fist.

"What – the – "

"To break loose the congestion," he explained. "I know it is unpleasant."

Unpleasant? "You Chinese – have a way – with understatement," he noted, when he could speak.

"Nah," Zenchuan admitted. "I learned that at Johns Hopkins during my residency."

Johns Hopkins? Well, that explained quite a bit.

They helped him lie back, but made it clear that this would be a regular thing until they felt he was free of danger from pneumonia.

"At least I – have something to – look forward to," he mused, hoping his gift for sarcasm got through to all of them.

"You sleep now, Jed," Abbey ordered, laying her hand on his forehead. "The rest will keep."

The rest? What did she mean the rest? But they must have slipped him something through the IV because his eyes wouldn't stay open and his body started to sink down into the mattress, to melt beneath him. Just a few minutes. Just a few –

Xian Gaoxin Hospital

Beijing

9:05 a.m. Friday

Beijing Time

"See? You did well. Just lie back."

Did well? He had just coughed his lungs up, had probably pulled all of his stitches out, and had most certainly re-broken every single rib. He did well?

Abbey must have read his expression. He hoped so. "I know it hurts, Jed, but the coughing is very important."

"The back – pounding, too. That's – necessary?"

"Yes." Her tone was the one she used on the girls when they balked at orders. No balking here.

"I think you just – like beating up on me – and saying it's a medical – procedure."

But she just smiled. "I've done other things to you we called 'medical procedures,'" she reminded with just enough of a leer on her face to let him know what things she was talking about.

Oh boy. If he could just breathe, he would jump her right there. "You make – house calls, Doctor Bartlet?" he leered back.

"I seem to remember several house calls on the kitchen table at Manchester – "

"Okay, I'm gonna stop you right there." The amused, but mildly panicked, voice came from the door.

Jed looked around his wife to see the crimson face of his best friend. "Leo! Come in and – save me from this – sadist."

"Too much information, sir," he assured. "And I've eaten on that table before, please remember."

"Me, too," Jed returned, and was delighted to see Abbey's face flush to match Leo's.

"Oh, God," she groaned. "Do something with him, quick," she begged.

"How about a little television?" Leo offered, only too eager to leave their heated banter to them. He clicked the switch on the new set they had brought in just for the President. Jed wondered if anyone else in the hospital had such an accommodation.

"Something on – we need to see?" he asked. Please don't let it be Buffoon Bob's press conference.

Leo's only answer was to surf until he found CNN International. A familiar face filled the screen. Jed smiled. C.J. looked great, as usual.

They had joined the press briefing at the beginning. C.J. was wrapping up a quick report on the President's condition, noting that he was fully conscious and recovering as expected from his injuries, also adding that he was grateful to the Chinese doctors and nurses at Xian Gaoxin Hospital for their skill and care.

"Nice touch," Jed said.

Leo shrugged. "I figured you were grateful."

"C.J.!" The first question came from The Washington Post correspondent. Perfect! Jed was already grinning.

"Mark."

"C.J., what is the White House's response to Fox News' premature declaration of the President's death?"

The press secretary cocked her head, as she did when she had them in her hand, and smiled. "Mark, you know, the President himself gave me the perfect answer when he found out about their little – faux pas."

"And that was?"

"You ever read Mark Twain?"

Most of the reporters there cracked a smile. A few new ones frowned in puzzlement. C.J. leaned on the podium in companionable informality and clued them in.

"In 1896, when it was reported that Mark Twain had died, someone contacted his family for a comment, and to his understandable surprise, Twain himself supplied the quote: 'Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.'"

She straightened now and looked out at her audience, jaw firm, eyes sharp. "President Bartlet is alive and relatively well and recovering in Xian. He is being briefed daily on the various issues he always deals with. As soon as he is able, he will return to the United States to continue his recovery. We are anticipating that return will be within the week."

The rest of the questions, predictably, included speculation that there would be complications from the MS, but C.J. was honestly able to put their fears to rest – this time, anyway, Jed thought. This time.

"Well, that was fun," Leo decided, clicking off the television. "I know C.J. was looking forward to it. Fox has already taken quite a beating from its own industry. Nice to have the other guys on the ropes for once."

Something C.J. said stuck with the President, though. "So, when do I get – out of here and back home?" he asked Abbey. "C.J. said within – the week. I feel fine."

Abbey raised a brow.

"Okay. I feel better, anyway. When – can we go back?"

There was that exchange again, that look that passed between two people who loved him, who would protect him, who would apparently keep him there longer than he wanted to be.

"Uh, first, Mister President," Leo started, "there's the matter of the plane itself."

Good point. He had forgotten about that. The plane with the hole in the fuselage. Probably not quite ready for flight just yet. "What about the other – "

"Yeah. 29000 is on its way. Should be here this evening."

Okay. Now they were in business. "Great. We head out – tonight, then?"

"No," Abbey said.

"What do you – mean, no? I've gotta get – back to – "

"Jed, you've had a collapsed lung. It is inadvisable to fly after suffering that particular injury."

"What do you mean? How am I – supposed to get home – if I don't fly?" That was ridiculous. They could be careful, right? It had something to do with pressure, probably. Maybe they could increase the cabin pressure, or decrease it. Whatever they needed to do.

"Abbey, I'm not – staying here. I have a country – to run – "

"You can't go home, yet," she insisted. "It's not medically sound."

He felt the anger flush through him. She was telling him he had to stay in China? Was she crazy?

He was in too much pain to give diplomacy a shot. The impatience bled through every word. "There is no way – I am staying – "

But he wasn't the only one mad. His wife's face reddened, as well, and she stepped toward him, tears of anger – of fear, maybe – shimmering in her eyes. "Look, Jackass, do you realize how close you came to dying? Do you know how many people worked to save your life – including one of the terrorists who almost killed you in the first place? Do you have any idea how terrifying it was to cut you open right there on the floor of that cabin and stick a tube into your chest so you wouldn't die?"

She was trembling now, the tears running freely down her face. His felt his own slide from his eyes, and then she was in his arms, and he forgot about going home, ignored the pain the weight of her body caused. He needed her and she needed him, and he wasn't about to screw that up any more than he already had.

"I'm sorry, Abbey. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry," he murmured over and over into her hair.

When they both were able to regain a little control, she pulled back. "Damn you, Josiah Bartlet. If you had died on that plane, I would never have forgiven you."

He smiled. "I don't doubt it. Thank you for not letting me."

Her kiss was soft, tender, but so full of love that it was almost painful. She held his face in her hands, let her lips taste his as if she had been afraid she never would again. He realized that was exactly what she had feared. When the kiss ended, they were both startled by an uneasy throat clearing at the door.

Abbey slid off the bed so they both could greet the intruder. To Jed's surprise, Hu Jintao stood, dark eyes down in deference to their blatant display of affection. Taboo in Chinese custom. Well, he didn't give a damn anymore.

"I apologize, Mister President," he offered, raising his head. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to Abbey. "And to you, Doctor Bartlet."

The First Lady of the United States stared at him for a moment, her jaw slack. Her husband had about the same expression. "Ah, thank you, Mister President," she finally returned.

The Chinese leader moved forward. "How are you feeling, Mister President?" he asked.

Still a little shaken from Abbey's kiss and from the unexpected deference to his wife, Jed took a breath, winced, and returned, "Better, thank you. How are you doing?"

"Considering that citizens of my own country tried to kill me and the President of the United States, I am doing all right."

"Considering," Jed agreed.

"I have come to make you an offer, Mister President," he said, without further small talk.

"An offer? What kind – of offer?"

"I want to offer you accommodations at my palace for as long as you may need them."

Another stunning announcement. Jed turned to give Abbey a startled glance, but she merely smiled back knowingly. He suddenly remembered her words yesterday just before he fell asleep.

The rest will keep. Was this the rest?

Not exactly sure what the motive was – except guilt, maybe – he hesitated. "Well, that is certainly – generous, Mister President, but – "

"It is the least I can do. The physicians at this facility inform me that it is unwise to travel by air too soon after undergoing what you have undergone. You will, of course, not want to stay here the entire time. My home is your home."

My palace is your palace.

After contemplating the offer for a minute, the President of the United States pursed his lips and said, "Well, since I have a little time to kill – ah, sorry bad choice of colloquialisms. Since I have some time, perhaps we could use it productively."

The suggestion was not very subtle. Hu Jintao watched his counterpart carefully, waiting almost a full minute before responding. "Perhaps, Mister President, we could revisit the points you brought up earlier this week."

"Points?" Was he hearing right? Was Hu Jintao offering –

"The points you made about healthcare, the environment, and – North Korea."

Now he knew his jaw was hanging open. The Chinese president had just offered to resume talks that had been dead and buried two days earlier. The Chinese president just reopened the summit.

For a moment, anyway, the pain that filled his chest was replaced by hope. Maybe he couldn't bring freedom to this land, but he just needed one opportunity to show those who would that there was a chance, a hope. Maybe this was the opportunity – in the midst of unthinkable terror and tragedy – this was the opportunity.

Tilting at windmills? Maybe. He had done it in the Middle East. With the cooperation of Hu Jintao, maybe China was ready for some tilting, for some 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.

As he nodded at the Chinese president, Abbey moved to his side and took his hand, grinning. Yes, there was hope. There had to be hope.

How could he believe any differently?

"The report of my death has been greatly exaggerated."

Mark Twain

1896