Masters of Their Fates
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Part Three: Great Nature's Second Course
POV: C.J. Cregg
Spoilers: "Election Night;" "The Wake Up Call"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. How I wish –
"Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast."
William Shakespeare
Macbeth
Act II, Scene 2
"O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse!"
C.J. Cregg closed her eyes and tried to block the taunting – and progressively irritating – quote that she couldn't purge from her head. She wasn't sure where she had learned that, Senior Honors English perhaps, but it picked at her muddled brain, tempting, mocking. Mr. Middleton would probably be shocked that she remembered something he had attempted to instill into her 17-year-old attention span. Maybe it had once been a bonus question on a final exam. Now, it was a tortured phrase, a wisp of memory that bullied her body so deprived of that very balm.
Sleep.
Or lack thereof.
The catalyst for this entire damn mess.
They all seemed to be concentrated on trying to clear time for the President to rest – assuming Abbey could make him – but Jed Bartlet was not the only one afflicted with the effects of too few REM cycles. C.J. glanced at her watch – 6:10 p.m. – then blinked gritty eyes, trying not to dwell on the overpowering realization that she was functioning – or not functioning – on three hours of sleep in the past 36. Of course, the President had not fared much better, and he was in no position to – well, not to fare better.
But he was the President, and she was the chief of staff, and there were certain things that sometimes had to wait while they did their jobs. Sleep was often one of those things – despite the First Lady's increasingly formidable pressure.
She had bucked Abbey already, had stood her ground – with no little amount of trepidation. "It's not a medical decision," she had contended to the First Lady's point that she wasn't a doctor. "It's a question as to whether the leader of this country needs to be informed about something that puts the country's citizens in jeopardy." On a roll, she added that Abbey would have to deal directly with the President about personal matters – like not managing his disease. Surprisingly, it had made some sort of impact.
Maybe it was easier for the couple to pass along messages through others. Maybe it had kept the inevitable confrontation in front of them just a little while longer. But C.J. had known it would come eventually. And she had known it would be a doozie when it did.
And it was.
It was no secret to anyone in the White House – probably in the country – that Jed and Abbey Bartlet were passionate. They were passionate about their children; they were passionate about each other; they were passionate about their responsibilities to their fellow human beings. They were passionate when they loved – and they were passionate when they fought.
Dear Lord, were they passionate when they fought.
C.J. winced as she fell back in her chair. Closing the door between her office and the Oval had not helped much. The voices drove right through the inadequate wood. Voices filled with anger, with frustration – with fear.
She heard anger in both, frustration in the President's – and fear in Abbey's.
It had started pleasantly enough a few moments before. After the chief of staff had almost redeemed herself with him by assuring him that in the future she would wake him whenever necessary – MS not a factor – she had still not been able to keep the gentle admonishment from her lips.
"You need to take care of yourself because there are going to be mornings when I'm gonna have to wake you at three a.m." Then she had wished him good night.
A curt "night" had been his only response before he had retreated to the Oval Office, leaving the doors between them open, allowing her the treat – or so she first thought – of eavesdropping on his conversation with the First Lady.
"Happy Valentine's Day," Abbey had greeted. Good. They needed this moment, this intimacy. C.J. hoped this was a harbinger for a well-deserved evening of romantic passion – and then later, of course, sleep.
His voice a mixture of hope and wariness, the President asked, "Is that what you're wearing to the opera?"
Not good. Apparently, the First Lady wasn't yet dressed for their night on the town.
"You have a seven a.m. call in the morning. I cancelled the opera."
Really not good. She knew he had been looking forward to their evening, to his chance to escape from his prison – perhaps the most luxurious prison in the world, but a prison, nevertheless.
Still, his response made a stab at lightness. "The whole opera?"
She came back in kind, and C.J. held onto the hope that maybe things would be all right after all. "No. Just the part where we give the usher the tickers and – "
"Damn it, Abbey," he snapped. Then again, maybe not. "I can manage my health without you taking my pulse every five minutes."
"Is that what you were doing when you decided to stay up gossiping with the children last night!"
Children? She should probably take offense at that.
"I was talking to Professor Lessig!"
"Oh, shove it, Jed. It's my disease, it's my health, I can handle it' – the hell you can! You think you can run this country on four and a half hours of sleep with MS? You're out of your mind!"
That was when she had clicked the latch shut. Not that it did a bit of good.
"Stop treating me like a child!"
"Then stop acting like one. Where would you be right now if I hadn't gotten you those three hours this morning? You wanna manage your disease? Set your limitations and you manage it. You think I want to speak to you like a teenager staying out after curfew?"
Now the Chief of Staff sat, hunched over her desk, trying vainly to block the harsh words being flung behind the door. They were painful, but C.J. knew they were necessary. This conversation should have happened weeks before, perhaps even years.
Having had the chance to observe the situation for several weeks, she could sympathize with both sides. The President had to take care of himself. Not just for the country, but for him – for them all. She wasn't ready to give him up, either. Still, Abbey had to know that he was the President. He did have an obligation to the country – the world. And sometimes he was the only one who could make the call, he was the one they had to wake at 3:00 a.m., even if he hadn't gotten to bed until midnight the evening before. Regardless of her personal feelings, she had to let him go, to be the man he needed to be.
She had tried to tell them both that, in her own way. Didn't seem to have worked – until now.
The problem had started 24 hours earlier, with what she had thought to be a rather innocuous conversation with the President about opera and Valentines Day. The weeks had brought hope to them all. He had improved significantly since the devastating attack on the way to China. He ignored the cane his doctor had advised using, claimed he felt fine. His spring had come back, at least when he knew people were watching. His humor had returned, and that damned wheelchair had been thrust to the back of a closet, hopefully for a very, very long time. To the casual observer, the President seemed almost back to normal.
But C.J. Cregg was anything but a casual observer. She knew things others didn't. She knew that when he thought she wasn't looking he allowed a grimace at a quick turn, gave in to a slight limp after a long morning, let his hand swipe wearily across his forehead during a briefing break. She saw the indications, she knew he was fighting his own body every minute of the day. And it tore her up to do not what she wanted, but what he wanted. To let him be President. To let him make the decisions about his health, even if they could all see the toll the job had begun to take.
But he wasn't the only factor here. In fact, he wasn't even the most prevalent factor. When it became clear that her husband would not see to his own health, Abigail Bartlet had taken it upon herself to make sure he ate right, took his medicine, and got more than his usual five hours per night of sleep to insure him the rest he needed to meet the impossible demands of his office – demands that men even in the best of health found burdensome and wearing.
That evening, with the First Lady out of town, that responsibility fell to C.J., a responsibility that challenged her more than all the intricate international negotiations in diplomacy ever could. But things had started out well. He teased her about grabbing Toby and heading out on the town. She still grinned at that mental image.
"Come on. The old lady's out of town," he pushed, only a little serious.
"The old lady'll have my head if I don't get you to bed in the next half hour," C.J. reminded.
"Yeah," he sighed, her reality washing away his enthusiasm. Damn, she hated being the chaperone when Abbey was away.
She jumped to pump the tone back up, reminding him about his big date.
"I actually convinced her to let me out of the house for Valentines Day," he said, the petulance not quite overwhelming the pleasure.
"You're taking her to the opera?" She knew he was.
"Verdi's Otello. Romantic, huh?"
She had observed the First Couple enough over the years to know that they could make anything romantic when they were together. "Isn't that the one where the guy kills his wife?"
He gave her a patented Jed Bartlet glare over his glasses. "It's in Italian. I'm hoping she won't notice."
She smiled, but the banter was over, the evening done. He bid her good night.
As she returned the wish, she couldn't help but remind him to get some rest, considering too late that he probably didn't want to hear that from her yet another time.
His irritated "yeah" confirmed it. But she returned to her office victorious. At only 8:00 p.m. he was headed to the residence for a solid evening of sleep. He would feel better. The First Lady would feel better. All would be well. It took her a moment to register the new voices approaching.
" – pulled the section on executive power?"
"Replaced it with his own. The old constitutional bait and switch."
She turned to see Toby and another man in her doorway. Hopefully, they were just passing through. An early evening for the President could mean an early evening for her, and those were few and far between these days.
"Hello."
Toby smiled – well as much as Toby could smile. "C.J. Cregg, I'd like you to meet Professor Lawrence Lessig."
"Hi."
"He's a constitutional writer. He's helping the folks from Belarus writer their constitution."
He looked like a constitutional writer – or maybe a nuclear physicist. The sudden thought shot through her that if the President knew such an intriguing character was in the building –
"C.J., do you have a copy of the BLS mass layoff report I can read in the residence – "
Too late. She rose automatically at the entrance of her commander in chief. "Sir – "
"Good evening, Mister President," Toby greeted.
The President assessed the room in once glance. "Am I interrupting?"
Was it possible for the President of the United States to interrupt anything?
Toby introduced his constitutional writer and C.J. cringed. The President knew of this guy. They would never get out of there.
"The future of ideas?" he asked, that familiar spark of interest sharpening his tone. "That Lawrence Lessig?"
"He's here to help with the Belarus constitution," Toby supplied helpfully. Damn him. "He also helped with the Georgian constitution."
The President grinned delightedly and waved a hand. "Founding father for hire. Have quill will travel!"
She was doomed now.
Lessig was charmed. "No, no. No, no. The Belarusians will be the founding fathers. I'm more of a midwife."
"Well," the President returned, clearly in his element, "it's God's work if you can help us bring some stability to that mess."
Her glare had finally reached Toby, and he made a vain attempt to intervene. "Professor, maybe we should – "
C.J. stepped in, too. "Sir – "
But the President ignored their pointed hints, turning instead to Lessig. "Where do you start a document of that importance?"
"I like to begin with a series of conceptual questions and then proceed – "
Moving quickly to gain their attention, C.J. said, "Excuse me, Professor Lessig. I'm sorry. This sounds fascinating, but the President really needs to get – "
"Oh, I think we can spare five minutes to discuss the roots of democracy. That is, if the professor has the time."
She sighed. Like he wouldn't.
Sure enough, the constitutional scholar looked enamored. "It would be an honor, sir."
"Come then!" the President invited, obviously delighted at both the intellectual opportunity and the chance to ditch his curfew. "Let us sit as men do and discuss important things."
No, no. Let us not.
But she knew when she was whipped. Tonight the President had her. Tomorrow would be the First Lady's turn. With a resigned sigh, she tossed her papers on the desk and dragged herself toward the Oval.
Almost three torturous hours later they finally broke up, having endured a ten-part lecture on the future of democracy in Belarus. At least she had already instructed Margaret to push the President's wake-up call back to 8:30. He might be furious, but he had played his hand. It was Abbey's deal, now.
When Lessig finally left, she herded him toward the residence. "Sir, you really do need to get to bed. The First Lady will have my head."
"Your head, right?" he smirked, revived by the erudite conversation, despite the late hour. "See, that doesn't bother me so much since it's not my head."
"We go down together, compadre," she promised.
"Traitor."
"God bless the man who first invented sleep." It was another quote she couldn't place.
But he could, of course. "'So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.' John Godfrey Saxe. Early Rising."
"Has anyone ever told you that you are a geek?" she wondered.
He paused and eyed her. "But an adored and respected geek, right?"
"Yes, sir." Yes, indeed, sir.
"Damn straight."
"Sir – "
The mischief dropped abruptly from his tone. "I know. I know. Sleep." But as he strolled out the doors to the colonnade, she heard his voice float back. "Now, blessings light on him that first invented this same sleep! It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot – "
She breathed a sigh that he was finally on his way to bed, and tried not to stumble too much on the way to her car, too tired to go outside, turn around three times and spit to guarantee an uneventful night.
Calls at 3:45 a.m. were never good. No one called to tell her they had won the lottery, or just finished a great book – or met a guy in a bar. No, it was always bad news. And this time was no different. The actual caller was, as usual, the White House operator. The message was from Kate Harper. A commercial United Britannia flight to New Delhi carrying mostly French and British passengers, but also six Americans, had gone off radar after drifting into Iranian airspace. It was time to wake up some people.
But should the President be one of them? In the past, they wouldn't have thought twice about calling him. But now –
Her first instinct was yes. He needed to know. He needed to decide. He needed to act. But the solemn warnings lingered, the voice of Abbey Bartlet still ringing in her brain. "The President must have more than five hours sleep if he is going to function. His body cannot continue to work if he doesn't get enough rest. No interruptions until he has at least eight good hours. None."
None.
But what if –
None.
So she didn't wake him. Not at first. Then, after a call to Abbey, not later, either.
It was her game, at least for a few hours. Throughout the course of the early morning, they had determined that it was possible Iran mistook the jetliner for a U.S. spy plane, but nothing had been confirmed. Prime Minister Grady was not in the mood to consider negotiations. Kate suggested, not too subtly, that the President liked to be notified when the Prime Minister overreacted, which she tended to do often, but C.J. decided not to take the hint.
When they received evidence that two Iranian jets had intercepted the flight, she realized it was time. Finally. He would know. He would be told.
He would be furious.
Clothed, and having shaken off the rude intrusion into his bedroom after another night of too little sleep, the President of the United States strode toward the Oval, Kate and C.J. in tow, irate at the situation, still not realizing that C.J had been dealing with it for several hours already.
"Damn! We were just making progress with the Iranians. Grady gets revved up and starts quoting Churchill. If she gets aggressive, Iran gets defensive, this thing's going to spiral! I need to talk her down. Let's get her on the phone!"
Okay, this would not be good on several levels.
They drew up short at the television outside his office, stopped by the vision of an angry Prime Minister declaring that the move was a barbaric, monstrous crime committed against Great Britain, against Europe, against the United States, and again humanity. She claimed that there could be absolutely no justification.
Shit.
The President took a beat, hands shoved deep into his pockets, then noted archly, "Well, I guess I'll have to wait until she's off camera."
Double shit.
She had not awakened him. She had let him sleep because Abbey said so. And maybe Abbey had been right. At least at that point. Maybe even later. Maybe he couldn't have talked the Prime Minister down. Maybe he would have made her even madder. But maybe, just maybe, in the past seven years he had established, as he said, influence with his fellow world leaders. Maybe his diplomacy, his reasoning, could have diffused the situation.
Maybe this man who had brought together the Jews and Arabs, this man who had linked China and the U.S. – maybe this man could have calmed an over-reactive prime minister.
But she would never know, because she let him sleep. While the world jumped about wondering if Britain was about to nuke Iran and start a Holy War to end all Holy Wars, the President of the United States slept. Because Abbey said so. Because the Chief of Staff didn't make the decision on her own.
And now both of them were furious with her.
In the end, it was her brainstorm that alleviated the crisis, giving the Ayatollah an acceptable egress from the situation and the British the apology they demanded. But that was only the international intrigue. The domestic situation in the residence remained unresolved. And there was not a damn thing she could do about that.
Pulled from her thoughts back to the present, she realized suddenly that the voices from the Oval had softened, that the strong tones and sharp comebacks had faded to whispers. Had they simply worn themselves out? Had they given up? Had Abbey killed him. Or maybe he had killed Abbey?
She hadn't started the argument, but she had been the catalyst to bring them together at that time, and if they had finally crossed lines they shouldn't have crossed, it would be on her head.
Quietly, she slipped to her door and eased it open, seeing that his door had been closed. It would take only a small peek to reassure her. If they were talking reasonably again, she could certainly sleep better that night. A slight crack, just enough to make sure things were all right – to confirm that Abbey didn't need help.
The door moved forward enough for her to catch a glimpse of the room. Abbey had moved away from the fireplace. In fact, she didn't see them at all –
It took her a moment to register the scene before her. Then another moment to decide what to do. Then a last moment, to flush and close the door hastily. Nope. Abbey did not need help. Not at all.
Well, at least they weren't fighting anymore.
The image was not one completely unknown to her. She had walked in on the demonstrative couple on at least two other occasions, but they had not been quite so – involved before. And they had not been in the Oval Office, although C.J. knew of at least one other time recently when a similar situation almost certainly had occurred. She wondered how many times that room had been the site of previous encounters, decided she didn't want to know. She considered suggesting they take their party to the residence, but it would have necessitated re-entering the room, and that was definitely out of the question.
"Hey."
She couldn't help the flinch as she spun around to find Leo, a bit startled by her reaction, standing in the doorway.
"Sorry," he said, and she heard the question.
"No. I'm – it's just – I was headed out."
He inclined his head toward the Oval. "He okay?"
The flush deepened, despite her efforts to subdue it. "Yeah, I think so." Oh yeah.
"Abbey nixed the opera, huh?"
"Yeah."
"He was looking forward to it." Leo shook his head in sympathy with his best friend.
C.J. pursed her lips. "Somehow I don't think he's going to miss it."
"No?
"There's a – private aria being conducted even as we speak."
The former chief of staff frowned in confusion.
She jerked her chin to the right. "Private. Aria. Oval."
"C.J. – "
"Abbey's in there. With him."
He winced, completely missing her smash-you-over-the-head hints. "Geez, she's not giving him too hard of a time, is she?"
C.J. couldn't help the smirk. He had laid the line out for her perfectly. "Oh, I think she's giving him a very hard time."
Leo moved toward the door. "Maybe I should – "
"No!" How could someone so smart be so dumb? "The President," she emphasized carefully, "is in the Oval Office with the First Lady. Alone. By themselves. On Valentines Day. With the door closed."
Ah. Comprehension at last.
"In the Oval?" Leo asked, slightly aghast.
"In the Oval," she confirmed. "Does it matter?"
He smiled then. "Nope." Then his smile widened. "Not at all."
C.J. let her own smile show. "I didn't think so, either," she confessed, noting, as she did every time she saw him now, how much more relaxed the former chief of staff appeared. Reduced stress looked good on him.
After a moment, he shifted. "So, Ms. Chief of Staff, got big plans for tonight?"
"Re-runs of Murphy Brown on Nick at Night."
Leo seemed to consider that. "Well, I'm not sure I can top that, but I'm willing to spring for Chinese take-out."
After pondering the offer momentarily, she shrugged. Why not? "Sure. Hang on." Not like the President would be needing her the rest of the evening.
She stepped outside her office and around the wall to the agents stationed by Debbie Fiderer's desk. "Hey, guys," she called, flicking her thumb toward the closed door. "Barbecuing alert."
If there was surprise, amusement, or any kind of judgment at all, it didn't show on the stoic faces. A simple nod conveyed complete understanding. Been there, done that.
"You're a shrewd girl, Claudia," Leo greeted at her return.
With a smirk, she replied, "I had a shrewd teacher, Leopold."
She threw a final glance at the closed door that protected her boss, that allowed him this moment, and left her wish that the evening would be what he had hoped for, even without the opera – and that he and Abbey had established some understanding between them in regard to his job and his health. And that she could get back to being just the chief of staff.
She paused, looking again toward the closed door. He needed the sleep, but there were other things more important – more healing, even. Connection, both physical and emotional.
"O sleep, O gentle sleep. Nature's soft nurse!"
C.J. smiled fondly. Judging from the distinct sounds of pleasure she would pretend she hadn't heard seeping through her door, she bet sleep would not be a problem for the President tonight.
Not at all.
"'God bless the man who first invented sleep!'
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I."
John Godfrey Saxe (1816-1887)
Early Rising
"Now, blessing light on him that first invented this same sleep! It covers a man all over, thoughts and all, like a cloak; it is meat for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for the cold, and cold for the hot. It is the current coin that purchases all the pleasures of the world cheap, and the balance that sets the king and the shepherd, the fool and the wise man, even."
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1547-1616)
Don Quixote, Part II, Chapter 68
"O sleep, O gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse! How have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?"
William Shakespeare
King Henry IV
Part II, Act III, Scene 1
