This part is from Jed's POV and is set during and after "Faith Based Initiative." You may think it odd that I have a quote from Richard Nixon, but it fit well, and I figured if anyone went through a crisis, it was Nixon.

Masters of Their Fates

A West Wing Story Trilogy

By MAHC

Part Two: Edge of the Precipice

Post-Ep for "Faith Based Initiative"

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "The State Dinner;" "The Crackpots and These Women;" "ITSOTG;" "Shibboleth;" "AISTTC;" "Faith Based Initiative"

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. But if wishing were so –

"So you are lean and mean and resourceful and you continue to walk on the edge of the precipice because over the years you have become fascinated by how close you can walk without losing your balance."

Richard M. Nixon

1979

Balance.

Jed Bartlet had always enjoyed balance. He liked the balance in nature. He liked the balance in government – even if it meant the executive branch had to share power with the other two. He liked the balance of a good pen. He liked the balance of a precision knife. Charlie had even teased him about liking to balance his checkbook – and other people's checkbooks—just for fun. And for almost 60 years he had enjoyed physical balance, as well, had taken for granted the ease with which the human body adjusted to every minute move it made.

Until now. Until China. Until his own muscles and nerves turned on him and robbed him of that once-effortless ability. Temporary, the doctors had said, and he hung onto that promise. But his patience was thinning rapidly.

Now he sat in the Oval Office, staring at the chair across from him, the one Wilkinson had sat in. He had told Wilkinson about the balance, had confessed that he had tried thinking it back.

"But it's difficult," he had said, "because it's not a static thing. Once it's gone, it's hard to imagine having it back again, and it's disheartening to realize that thinking just isn't gonna get it done. You just have to trust that you're gonna happen on it again."

And he didn't like anything he had to just "happen on."

Wilkinson had listened, didn't seem to understand the analogy of physical balance and the balance of marriage in its emerging states. But he had been able to persuade the congressman that he would, indeed, veto the budget if the Sanctity of Marriage Act was not removed. Regardless of his own personal view of marriage being between a man and a woman, he did not believe it was the business of the U.S. Government to dictate those boundaries. In the end, Wilkinson had deferred. The irony was that he really thought he had been doing something to help his President – to balance what he wanted with what the Party expected.

He shifted his eyes away from the chair, wondering if this was what he could expect for the rest of his term. Holding court like a distant king while C.J. ushered in those few chosen who were significant enough – or complicated enough – for his attention.

Sighing, he thought about standing again, tried to envision himself on his feet in front of his desk, forced the image to burn into the darkness behind his eyes. But he didn't weave action to the thought. Not yet. He wasn't ready to fail – or fall – again. Balance still eluded him, danced out of his reach, out of his control.

He wasn't supposed to be in the Oval in the first place, was there only because C.J. and Toby hadn't been able to figure out Wilkinson's misplaced assistance. Only because they were able to catch him in a rare moment removed from Abbey's hovering. Only because he would have agreed to just about anything to get the hell out of the damned residence and back into the world.

Of course, Abbey had not been thrilled.

"This gonna be your idea of resting?" she had scolded when she walked into the bedroom to find him dressing for his trek downstairs.

His assurance that he would be only a few minutes didn't pacify her. Nor did the importance of removing the Sanctity of Marriage Act from the budget.

"I was hoping for at least an international crisis."

She went on, telling him things he already knew, cautioning him to "hold the fish loosely," which he didn't quite understand, but figured it was best just not to respond. But as they argued, a cold rush of reality flowed over him, commanding his attention with its ferocity. Her words faded into gibberish as he sat, staring at his legs, stunned at the sudden comprehension.

"I wanna put my pants on," he mumbled, ashamed and bemused at the same time.

"What?" He wondered if she really hadn't heard him, or if she needed a beat to consider how to respond.

"I can't put my pants on."

I can't put my pants on. The admission sawed straight into his heart. That Montana-sized ego, squashed to Rhode Island proportions.

A pause. A realization. "Oh. Okay."

To her credit, the scolding was abandoned in the face of practicality. Any pity she might have felt was mercifully hidden as she bent to help. Grimacing, he threw an arm around her and used the bedpost to lend leverage to their attempt. In the sweep of despair, a line from something he had read long ago flitted through his mind, all too fitting.

"'How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.'"

He had intended for it to be light, but couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice as she tugged the pants to his waist. "So this is why they make you take vows."

Now she did look at him, and the fear and pain in her eyes almost undid what little control he had left over his emotions. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, to absolve her of any responsibility in this mess, to free her to go her way, to live her life without the albatross around her beautiful and undeserving neck.

But he couldn't, because he needed her. God, how he needed her.

Maybe it was the agony in his own eyes, but she broke out of her moment and flipped back a reply that failed miserably in its attempt at nonchalance. "Yup. This is why."

They collapsed back onto the bed, her hand bracing against his chest for another beat before she dropped it. But just as easily, she let her head drop onto his shoulder and allowed him the satisfaction of comforting her, of feeling for a few precious seconds like the man he used to be. He slid a hand beneath her chin and lifted her face, touching her mouth with his in a soft kiss. It was a silent apology – for the present, for the future, for whatever she wanted it to be for. Her lips moved on his, the tenderness of the past moment mixing poignantly with the passion of the present one.

Reluctantly, he broke it, knowing it couldn't lead anywhere, not yet. He prayed it would one day, though, was willing to plead with God that they not lose that – not yet.

"Abbey – "

But she touched his lips with her fingers. "Shh. You have a budget to get passed. Just – not long, Jed. Okay?"

He nodded, willing to promise anything at the moment, and leaned against the post as she pushed the wheelchair to the side of the bed.

"Abbey, I have the crutches – "

"For when you get down there, not on the way. You'd be too exhausted to say hello if – "

"Yeah." As he lowered himself into the chair, he couldn't stop the frustration that cut into her words.

"Jed – "

"I said yeah. Can I at least have the crutches to take?" It was abrupt, he knew, but the emotion wouldn't back off.

Silently, she placed them in his lap and stepped to the door to motion for Curtis. He waited, balancing the aluminum poles across his body.

Balance.

In the Oval, he stared again at the chair across from him, the one Wilkinson had sat in, the one Josh had stood next to.

Balance.

He used to have it in his staff, used to be secure in the wide range of personalities and ideas brought to him by the brightest and best. Sam, the innocent; Josh, the idealist; Toby, the conscience; C.J., the realist; Leo, the practitioner. They had balanced each other, had given him balance. But now – just like his own body – that balance had been upset. The innocent was gone; the practitioner changed; the realist overwhelmed by reality.

And now the idealist had just told him he was deserting.

No, that wasn't fair. Josh wasn't deserting – exactly. Jed couldn't blame him, really, for wanting to move into his future, for needing to grasp the energy of the campaign. Lord knew his own energy had all but evaporated. Who wanted to hang around for the lethargic final death throes of the Bartlet Administration when he could birth a new political life?

It did warm him some to hear the pain in Josh's voice when he told him. "Sir, I never imagined that I would be having this conversation."

He sighed at the memory of that discussion and rested his chin on a fist. Maybe he should have seen it coming.

But he hadn't, and Josh was leaving.

And the President of the United States couldn't stand by himself.

So this was the way it would be. This was his life from now on. Negotiating for tidbits of time to do his job – to be a man.

"Sir?"

Shaking himself from the maudlin thoughts, he turned toward the door. Debbie Fiderer had stuck her head in enough to get his attention.

"Toby to see you."

He lifted his chin and shifted in the chair, straightening his vest and assuming the countenance of the office. No need to let Toby witness his depression. The boy had enough of his own.

"Good evening, Mister President," he greeted formally, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat. Not a good sign. Jed braced himself.

"Mister President," the communications chief began, shifting his eyes, then looking directly at his boss. "I know that Josh came in earlier and – well, I want you to know that – I thought you needed to know that it's – it's been the greatest privilege of my life to serve you."

Jed swallowed, his heart sinking with the words. Damn. Not Toby, too. But he managed to drag in a breath and nodded.

"Yeah. Okay." What the hell could he say to that? "I – I understand that you feel – I know that perhaps it's time, but I will – lament the loss of your counsel – "

But instead of regret, or sadness, or even impatience, confusion darkened the younger man's face. "Sir?"

Sighing, he tried again, wishing if they were all going to leave they would just do it together so he didn't feel as if he were being dismembered limb by limb. "It's hard to let the future pass – "

"No, sir," Toby interrupted, almost frantically, taking a step toward him.

Jed stopped, confused himself now. "What?"

"I don't think you – Mister President – " He laughed now, that laugh that was more disbelief than humor. "Sir, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving like Josh – I'm not going anywhere."

The intensity of the relief was unexpected, and he allowed a bit of it to show in his tight smile. "I see." Thank God.

Now the hurt on that solemn face sent a wave of guilt through him. "We've had our moments, Toby," he reminded gently.

"We have, sir, but I have never – I will never betray you, Mister President."

Despite his crusty surface, Toby had always been the most passionate of his staff. Jed knew that from the beginning. The depth of his declaration struck deep in the President's heart. He smiled. "Is that what you think Josh has done?"

Toby looked away, his silence a clear answer. Damn right.

"It was time for Josh to move on," Jed allowed graciously, hoping he wouldn't be pressed to repeat that too often. In truth, Josh's exit had cut, even if he understood and agreed with the staffer's choice.

But Toby shook his head, unconvinced. "No sir. Josh wasn't finished. Not for another year."

Jed sighed, not sure how he should respond.

"Mister President, my job is not finished. Your job is not finished. We have a whole year to go."

"Toby – "

"And I serve at the pleasure of the President."

And with a curt nod that betrayed his own emotions, the writer left his president to ponder the whirlwind events alone.

Jed felt the burn of tears in his eyes, pushed back the lump that rose in his throat. Toby the Conscience was still there, reminding him once again not to let his demons shout down the better angels in his brain, challenging him to live up to the expectations, to be worthy of the sacrifices these people had made for him. Toby was still there. C.J. was still there. Leo was still there.

And he was still there. At that point, wheelchair and crutches be damned, he vowed to himself that he would not acquiesce to the internal invaders of his sanity – or the external ones.

He looked around the room, realized he was alone. No Abbey to scold. No C.J. to hover. Now was the time for mind over matter. Now was the time to think his balance back, to put action to his will.

Abbey would have laughed at him – right before she killed him.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed up against the chair, taking his weight as much on his arms as possible. When he felt he could, he thrust his hands into the forearm crutches and drew a deep breath. The Resolute Desk waited in the distance, looking much farther away than it ever had before, across a sea of carpet, across the massive Presidential Seal. One step at a time, he told himself. That was the only way to do it, one step at a time.

The first one was almost the last. His legs screamed sharp jolts of pain with each move. But he could not stop, would not stop. The next step was just as hard, maybe harder since he had already experienced the agony of that first one. But the third one came anyway, and the fourth after that. He was like a palsy victim, stumbling with painstaking success. Sweat ran down his face, his hair scattered wildly, but he was almost there, only steps away.

Then the smooth, cool wood stretched beneath his fingers, and the power of that desk replenished his need. Extracting his arms from the crutches, he leaned the poles against the front and braced his hands on the surface. Slowly, he straightened, extended his arms, and lifted his hands, keeping them spread in case his body decided he had done enough for one day.

But it didn't. Somehow, he was standing. No crutches, no bracing, no support except his own two legs. He swayed, a warning that he was only at the beginning of this victory, but he stood. Triumph shot through his nerves, satisfaction buzzed across his skin.

Balance.

The horrified – and familiar – gasp from behind him almost destroyed it.

"What the hell are you doing?" she cried, and he grabbed onto the desk to keep from falling.

"God, Abbey, you scared the hell out of me."

"Me?" she snapped, rushing to his side and not caring that her voice must have carried into the hallway. "What do you think you did to me? And I repeat, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm standing," he announced simply, regaining his balance.

The fact stopped her cold. After looking him up and down, her tone softened. "I see that."

"I'm standing." And then he did more than that – he turned.

Her arms went up instinctively, and he wondered if she actually thought she could catch him if he did fall. But he didn't care. He was balanced. Holding out his arms, he motioned for her to step into his embrace. For a moment, she hesitated, biting her lip, weighing the consequences, but finally she moved, easing her body close to his, careful not to upset his newly-won stability.

He kissed her, held her tighter against him, the confidence growing by the second as he realized the involuntary compensations of his body were working again.

"Thank God," Abbey whispered at his ear.

Thank God, indeed. He had already done so silently.

They stood that way for several minutes, enjoying the feel of holding each other again. He let his eyes close and concentrated on the way her breasts pushed into his chest, the way her hips fit snugly against his. To his surprise – and relief – the sensations brought about a familiar response. He grinned into her hair, wondering how long it would take her to notice.

"Well, hello, Jethro." Not long. "Not only are your standing erect – "

"It's all in the inspiration," he offered.

But as she pulled back, she frowned. "Don't even think about it, Jed. It's much too soon."

"Why not?" he wondered.

The frown deepened. "Well, you could – you might – "

"I might – "

"We just shouldn't. "

"But we could," he said, almost as a question. "Right?"

"We could," she confirmed, unable to keep herself from sliding a hand between them and caressing him.

He groaned and let his lips trail down her neck to the spot she never could resist. He wasn't playing fair, hadn't intended to.

"Ahh – Jed, stop. We really can't – "

"You said we could – "

"I said we shouldn't – "

Holding her against his shoulder, he tried not to sound too desperate. "Abbey, I need some successes here. A little positive reinforcement to keep my spirits up – so to speak."

He felt her sigh in his arms. "You are shameless."

"Admittedly."

Pulling back just enough to stare up at him, she gritted her teeth and shook her head, and he saw that she had come to a decision. "It's a long walk to the Residence."

He grinned. "You know, I haven't entirely been wasting my time in here the past few years."

"No?"

"No. I've figured out how to close the curtains."

She tried to fight it, he could tell, but eventually that wicked smile curved her mouth and that was all he needed. In the space of under a minute, Debbie, the agents, and C.J had been notified that he should not be interrupted for the next thirty minutes under penalty of death. He figured he was overestimating the time needed, given how many weeks it had been since they had sex, and how anxious he was, but there was no reason to take a chance.

Besides, the shock on his chief of staff's face was almost worth the trouble of walking over to tell her. And Abbey had been surprised to discover that he had, indeed, found out how to close the drapes.

Although not the fieriest love-making they had ever had, the ensuing encounter had been tender, and loving, and more than satisfying for both of them – and provided an ego-stroking bonus of having surpassed his original time estimate by a good fifteen minutes. Abbey declared that he would be insufferable for the next few days. She was probably right.

Bodies still damp, and still mostly clothed, they lay entwined on the couch, Abbey's delicious curves molding to him, her head on his chest. He groaned as his muscles protested their treatment. But he wouldn't have traded comfort for anything else at the moment.

"How ya doin', Babe?" she asked casually, but he heard the edge.

"Excellent." A relatively honest answer, considering.

"Thank you."

The confession came out before he could stop it. "I was afraid that I couldn't – "

She rose up over him. "Stop. You did, didn't you? I told you before, you've got lotsa nights, remember? Just because you have one episode – "

"I thought you said this was an exacerbation," he reminded.

"I don't like that word."

"Me either."

"This doesn't mean you're back to normal, you understand."

"I didn't know I was normal to begin with," he grinned.

"Good point."

She eased back against him and sighed. "You have to pace yourself, Jed."

"I thought I paced myself pretty well a few minutes ago."

"You know what I mean."

He did, but it wasn't nearly as fun talking about that.

They lay there another few minutes, contemplating how long they had before someone was bold enough – or foolish enough – to check on them. When their privacy remained unchallenged, he decided that maybe things were improving in more ways than one.

"Josh is leaving," he said into the silence, letting his fingers thread through her hair.

If it was a surprise, she didn't show it. "Yeah."

"Will, Donna, Josh. They're dropping like flies. If things keep on, I'll be driving myself to the Capitol January 20."

"We could hitchhike," she offered, her own hands toying with the hair on his chest. "Or maybe Vinick will send a car for us."

"You think it's gonna be Vinick?"

"Who else would it be?"

He gave her a half-shrug. "Josh thinks Santos."

"Do you?"

"Who knows?" That was the truth. He really had no idea at this point, didn't see anyone in the field that struck him as being more than the "lesser of who cares."

"He's no Jed Bartlet," she said, surprising him with passion in her voice.

After a moment, he confessed, "Who is?"

She ignored his self-deprecation, reached up and pushed her fingers through the damp hair that scattered over his forehead. "You could have fallen."

"I was right next to the desk," he countered.

"So you could crack your head on the way down."

He thought about arguing, considered telling her that he'd rather go out like that than slowly disintegrate in front of the entire world. But the visit with Toby, the victory over his balance – and the unexpected nibble of barbecue – fortified him.

"You're right."

She rose again. "What?"

"I said, 'You're right'."

Her hand went to his forehead.

"Abbey – "

"Just checking," she teased.

From the other side of the door that went into the outer office, a pointed – and loud – throat-clearing gave them their signal. No one could call Debbie Fiderer subtle.

"Guess our time's up," he said, as she groaned and threw her legs over his body until they touched the carpet.

"Guess so. You think you can – do you feel like you can stand?"

At the moment, he felt like he could leap, but he merely nodded and eased his own legs to the floor, giving himself a few moments to gather the necessary strength.

"You want the crutches?"

He shook his head and pushed up from the couch, using one hand to hang on to the side table until his muscles convinced him they could handle the request. Then he straightened and stood. Abbey helped him with his pants again, and this time it was considerably more enjoyable. As she buttoned his shirt, he took a deep breath of satisfaction. Sweat slid down his face, hair fell over his eyes. He probably looked quite un-presidential, but he could not have cared less. He was balanced again – physically, politically, emotionally.

He was balanced.

And he was damned if he would let it go so easily again.