Here is the epilogue for "Masters of Their Fates." It's my take on how Jed and Abbey resolved their issues with his handling of his health to make it to the couple we see in "A Good Day." Jed's age has been a debate for the entire series. As usual AS and the other writers don't always worry about consistency in the timeline. I used a combination of episode clues and chose an age somewhere in the middle of the lower and upper possibilities.
Masters of Their Fates
A West Wing Story
by MAHC
Epilogue: Lest He Be Dissolved
POV: Jed
Spoilers: "Night Five;" "Abu el Banat;" "The Benign Prerogative;" "The Wake Up Call"
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. How I wish –
"This is a world in which each of us, knowing his limitations, knowing the evils of superficiality and the terrors of fatigue, will have to cling to what is close to him, to what he knows, to what he can do, to his friends and his tradition and his love, lest he be dissolved in a universal confusion and know nothing and love nothing."
J. Robert Oppenheimer
The Open Mind
1955
Throughout 37 years of marriage, Jed and Abbey Bartlet had found it neither necessary nor particularly productive to hold back their thoughts from each other, especially during an argument. In the end, one always found out how the other really felt and matters became worse than they would have been with prior candor.
Sometimes, though, he wished she were just a tad less blunt. Maybe she could tap him on the shoulder occasionally in lieu of hitting him over the head with her opinion. Still, he'd rather know where he stood straight off than suffer the irritating sting of sarcastic asides until he figured out she really was pissed.
Tonight, no doubts had been cast – from either side. They were both genuinely angry.
Her greeting had been cordial enough, a pleasant subterfuge to distract him from the more significant development.
"Happy Valentines Day."
He paused with her card in his hand, emotions crossing each other as his brain took in her attire and made the obvious deductions. "Is that what you're wearing to the opera?" He already knew the answer.
"You have a seven a.m. call in the morning. I cancelled the opera."
Really? A strange placidity settled over him, and he recognized it as the proverbial calm before the storm. "The whole opera?" he asked.
"No. Just the part where we give the usher the tickets and – "
"Damn it, Abbey!" Calm over. She wouldn't have to guess how he felt about this. "I can manage my health without you taking my pulse every five minutes!"
They were suffocating him – all of them. Abbey, C.J., Leo. Curtis, even. Despite his efforts to claw his way up for fresh air, he was suffocating.
"Is that what you were doing when you decided to stay up gossiping with the children last night?"
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Since when was conferencing with his staff gossiping? And even if he was, what the hell did it matter? Was his life not his own anymore? He had come back from the attack. He had pushed his limits. He was walking again – and pretty damn well, too. Maybe not quite as briskly as he liked, but not bad.
He shot back that he had been talking with Professor Lessig. She seemed unimpressed, and called him on the sleep, and maybe she had a point, but his mood – and pride – would not allow any concessions.
In his red sweep of anger, it registered that the door between his office and C.J.'s clicked shut. Probably just as well. Not as if his chief of staff had anything else to worry about. Not as if she had kept Britain from bombing Iran. He sure as hell didn't have anything to do with it. How could he when he was asleep?
The red burned white-hot, pounding at his temple, and he couldn't keep it from scorching his tone. "Stop treating me like a child!" he declared, too angry to consider the irony.
Abbey caught it, though. "Then stop acting like one. Where would you be right now if I hadn't gotten you those three hours this morning?"
He stubbornly refused to believe he would be anywhere else except right where he was. He could manage his disease.
As if she had read his thoughts, she snapped, "You wanna manage your disease? Set your limitations and manage it."
Limitations.
Limitations.
God, he hated that word. He was a man unaccustomed to many limitations in life – it was almost impossible to accept that he had any, even now, even after his body had almost completely limited his ability to move on the China trip.
The old voices returned, voices he thought he had purged, or at least relegated to the catacombs of his memory. But they would never truly be gone. He knew that. They were part of what made him. The strongest voice overrode them all, just as it had in childhood. Just as it had for almost 60 years, despite his successes, despite his accomplishments.
"Bartlets don't set limits. Bartlets exceed limits. People who have limits are weak. Bartlets aren't weak. If you're going to be weak, you are not a Bartlet."
Weak. Another loathsome term, a term he had dreaded being applied to him. Dreaded as a child. Dreaded as a young man. Dreaded for the past ten years. And it didn't matter that he was a Ph.D. Didn't matter that he was a Nobel Laureate. Didn't matter that he was a U.S. Congressman. Didn't matter that he was Governor of New Hampshire. Didn't matter that he was the damned President of the United States. None of that mattered if in the end all that was left was limits and weakness.
Didn't matter.
His world was dissolving. His body was dissolving.
Despair swelled up through his throat, and he barely caught it, determined not to succumb yet. Not to show weakness. Even to Abbey. Especially to Abbey.
"C.J. is not a nursemaid," he declared abruptly.
Abbey stopped, looked away from him. To his surprise, she nodded. "I know."
"Don't make her try to be one. I'm 60 years old, Abbey," he said, not adding that they were treating him as if he were 80. "I've wrestled with the Arabs and the Jews and the Chinese – not to mention the United States Congress. I command the most powerful military in the world. I think I have damn well earned the right to decide when I go to bed and when I get up."
She returned his gaze. "You are fifty-eight years old."
"Close enough. Besides, most other fifty-eight year olds are capable of making their own decisions."
Fire burned in the depths of her eyes, a flame he knew well. "How many of them have to decide whether to send men and women into Gaza to risk their lives for world peace? How many work twenty-hour days to make sure North Korea is not about to drop a nuclear bomb on Indonesia? How many of them risk their reputations on bringing together two sworn enemies in spite of everyone else's – even best friends' – warnings? How many push themselves past complete collapse to broker an impossible pact between nations who have been adversaries for decades?"
Her quick breath allowed no response before she plunged back in. "And how many of them have done all this while fighting a disease that is shredding their brains despite everything the very best doctors in the world can do? How many, Jed?"
He stared at her.
"How many?" she insisted.
Her emotion broke through his anger, his own despair. He moved toward her. "Abbey – "
"One! One! How long do you think you can continue like this before your body shuts down again? And this time you might stay in that wheelchair!"
The wheelchair, symbol of his weakness, his limitations. Tucked away in a closet until the day came when he would need it again. Was that what he feared? Was he afraid of not walking, of losing the ability to feed himself, of not being able to make love to his wife? Damn straight, he was. But as horrible as those possibilities were, they weren't the worst. The biggest fear was much more subtle, but much more devastating.
He was afraid of not mattering anymore.
That was what terrified him, the fear that this was his last chance to accomplish something, to make a difference, to enjoy life – to matter. Could she not understand that?
He reached out, but she turned away, so he dropped his hand and sighed. "Abbey, what was accomplished by canceling the opera tonight?"
She took a beat, pursing her lips. "You're really asking?"
"Yeah."
"For a man with a 180 I.Q – Okay. Okay."
Her shoulders squared, like he had seen many times before. He instinctively braced himself, stifling the urge to cross his hands in front of him for protection.
"Maybe I cancelled the opera tonight so that you could go to the opera two years from now, five years from now – ten years from now. Maybe I cancelled the opera because, even though you went to the residence at midnight last night, you didn't get to bed until two, and you were back up at 6:30."
How did she know he hadn't gone to bed until two? He'd have to have a little talk with Curtis about being men.
"Maybe I cancelled the opera because I knew that even with an extra three hours this morning, you would still be out before the second act."
Not fair. He usually lasted well into Act III.
Now her voice wavered and fell to a whisper. She turned back toward the fireplace, forcing him to strain to hear. "And maybe I cancelled the opera because it's Valentines Day and because I knew if we went we might both be too tired to end it like I had hoped to end it."
He took a beat, processing that information. Did she mean – had she planned –
"And how was that?" he asked softly.
A quiet response, so uncharacteristic of her that its impact was that much greater. "With you making love to me."
Well. Okay. Time to re-evaluate the disappointment of missing the opera.
He stepped behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and thanked God when he felt her relax against him instead of pull away. The tension of the room had broken abruptly. "Is that so?"
"That is so," she confirmed, turning in his arms and sliding her right hand tenderly over his jaw.
He was more than happy to fall into the lighter mood. "Well, I'll have to consult a physician to see if that – activity – is in my best interest – "
"I happen to know one." Her hand fell to undo the top button of her suit coat.
"Yeah?"
"And she assures me it is definitely in your best interest." The second button opened. Then the third.
He swallowed hard.
"This doesn't change the fact that you stayed up too late last night," she scolded, but the anger was gone from her tone.
"No," he agreed, catching a breath as her jacket dropped to the floor. A flush swept across his chest, heat rising past his collar and up his face.
"No gossiping with the children tonight." The skirt followed.
He felt his heart pounding in time with other areas. "No gossiping. And I certainly don't see any children in here."
Now she stood in black bra and panties, her body still firm, still incredibly sexy. With just a few steps, she had brought herself to him and draped her arms around his neck.
"You are the master of your fate, Jed Bartlet. You understand that, right?"
"Can I be your master tonight?" he leered.
"I'm serious."
"Me, too."
"Jed – "
"Abbey, can we – can we just have this time now? I promise I'll talk all you want later, but you've got me – "
A wicked grin curved her lips as she rotated her hips into his.
"Abbey," he groaned, unable to keep from arching up against her. "I'm not gonna last much longer, and we're still in the Oval Office."
"See, I know why you got that Nobel Prize. Nothing gets past Josiah Bartlet." Her teeth tugged at his lower lip while her right hand slid beneath his hip to grind them together.
He ached, a pulsing, delicious ache, one he had been afraid he might never feel again. But there it was, just as intense as always, just as insistent, just as incredible. She ground against him harder, her tongue licking at his earlobe, her left hand unbuttoning his shirt until she could slip inside and play with the hair on his chest. He loved it when she did that. He loved the tugs, easy when they had just begun, but firmer, harder as they became more involved.
"Ab-bey – " Too close. He was too close and he didn't want to end it that way. "We can't – not here – "
Her mouth slowed long enough to remind him, "We did this very thing only two weeks ago, Jethro. You didn't have any problems with our venue then."
True. But he had alerted C.J. and she had made sure they wouldn't be interrupted. Now, anyone could walk in on them.
But that thought evaporated with the sensation of her fingers working to tug down his zipper, which was easier said than done with the material straining so hard against the fabric. After a moment of concerted effort, the metal gave, and she slipped inside to grip him through his boxers. Suddenly, he wouldn't have cared if Haffley and the leadership waltzed in – except that they'd better not expect any bipartisanship with this act.
She dragged him to the couch, the same one they had used in the impromptu celebration of his standing two weeks before. No time – and no need – for seduction. She'd had him at "Happy Valentines Day." His fingers pulled her panties down. Her hands tore at his pants, shoving them just far enough past his hips to liberate his eager erection. He kissed his way down her body, intending to lead her to climax first before he joined them, but she shook her head and urged him back up.
"Now, Jed. Can't wait tonight."
Give the lady what she wants.
And he did, moving over her and positioning himself at her entrance. She was ready for him, her excitement making his path smooth and swift. The intense burst of sensation drew her name from his lips in a torturous gasp.
Deficit.
Campaign finance reform.
Minimum wage.
Nuclear waste.
His brain grabbed at anything to stem the dangerous surge at his groin, anything to stop the rising waves from crashing too soon. It was the image of Haffley's smug face when he thought he had won the budget battle that finally did it, bringing him back from the edge enough to fall into a manageable pace.
She writhed beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he thrust inside her, grunting in rhythm with her gasps. Their last encounter had been gentle and slow. This one was hard and fast. He tried to savor the feel of sinking into her heat and pulling back out, over and over. He fought to slow down enough that she would be there with him, that they would climax together, but the more she moaned, the harder he found both himself and his ability to hold back.
"Who's your master?" he asked playfully, not at all confident about his ability to command control over his own body at the moment, much less hers.
But she groaned and dutifully replied, "You. Only you."
Her hands clawed at his shirt, tearing at the remaining buttons until they popped in random directions, and tossing the ripped garment to the floor. There was some confusion here over who was master of whom. Worked for him either way.
Her breasts pressed against his chest with each deep push. Somewhere just this side of conscious thought, he heard the door click again and for a moment considered if it was even possible to break away from her. But her hips jerked up and her legs squeezed him and he felt the first frantic convulsions of her inner muscles around his throbbing shaft. And the door was forgotten.
"Jed!" she cried out. "Oh, yes!"
He pumped harder, reached a hand between them to add to her pleasure. She groaned, her head thrown back, her hands clutching his shoulders so tightly that he knew he would have marks there tomorrow. With her release, his movements accelerated, hotter, slicker, and she was still arching against him when he felt the first agonizing pulses shoot through his pounding body and explode at her center. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. He was locked in place, his muscles spasming with each violent spurt, all concentrated on where he burned inside her, again and again until he surrendered to sheer sensory overload and collapsed onto her. He thought for a moment that his heart had stopped as well, and decided if this was the way he died, God was truly merciful.
The first thing he noticed when his thoughts focused again was the feel of his wife's skilled hands running up and down his back. The second thing was that neither of them wore much of the clothing they had started the evening in. The third thing was the deliberate and familiar ticking of the clock. And the fourth was a soft, but steady knock, from the other side of the door.
Oh, hell.
He had to move, had to lift himself from her and at least pull his pants back up before C.J. or Leo or Debbie or whoever the hell was about to get fired came in.
"Abbey?"
"Hmm?" It was almost a purr. He grinned in both pleasure and pride.
"Hey, Sweet Cheeks."
"Hmm."
With a groan, he tried to pull away, but her legs tightened around him. "Not yet," she whispered. "Stay a little longer."
"You're gonna have to give me a few minutes on that longer part."
"Jed – "
"Well, okay. I'll just tell C.J. to step back outside until – "
He landed with a thunk on the carpet, wincing and grinning at the same time. It took her only a couple of seconds to gather her clothes in front of her, then another second to realize they were still alone.
"Jackass," she accused, but the tone remained gentle.
Grasping the edge of the table for leverage, he pulled himself back onto the couch, tugged up his trousers, and shifted to fasten them. "Seriously, there's someone at the door, Abbey."
"Oh, God," she breathed. "Wait, let me – "
"I'm not gonna open it, Hot Pants," he assured her, "until you're dressed. You think I want some security oaf ogling my wife, who is, by the way, more sexy and beautiful with each passing day."
Leaning over, he slid his lips up her neck as she struggled with the jacket top. "Jed!"
"Mmm. They won't come in unless – "
More banging. More urgent.
Well, maybe they would.
"What?" he yelled, hoping that the harshness of his tone sent a clear message.
"Mister President?"
Ron Butterfield. What the hell was he still doing on duty this time of night? Oh God, please don't let there be a crisis. Not tonight.
Through the door, the agent called, "Is everything all right, sir?"
Okay, no crisis. At least not one he needed to worry about. He smirked. Ron was no dummy. Jed guessed he owed his security head for standing guard.
"Oh yeah!" he called. "Everything is very all right!"
Abbey slapped his arm. "You don't have to sound so proud. I'm sure it didn't take him long to figure out what was going on in here."
"Especially since I think he peeked earlier, anyway."
She paled. "Oh my God. Jed, do you think he – "
"Abbey, even if he didn't, how soundproof do you figure these walls are?"
Her face flushed even redder than it already was. "Oh God."
"Yes, sir," the reply came. "By the way, sir, the perimeter is secure, if you need – more time." Even through the solemn tone, both the President and First Lady heard the amusement. "I'll just be – out here."
"Oh God," Abbey groaned again.
"Hey, Babe," he soothed, lying back against the couch arm and pulling her to rest between his legs. "It's not like we haven't been caught before." Too true. And he really could not have cared less.
"Well, that makes me feel much better."
"I thought it would."
They lay quietly, bodies melting into the satisfaction of physical fulfillment, but after a few minutes, her fingers played more nervously through the hair on his chest, her foot fidgeted against his shin. Regular sighs lifted her body away from him, then back down.
Finally, he asked, "What?"
"What?"
"What is it?"
She hesitated, then asked, "What is what?"
"Something's bothering you, Abbey. What is it?"
She took another moment, probably pondering whether to ruin the moment with whatever weighed on her mind. One more sigh signaled her decision. "What else do you want to do, Jed?" she mumbled against his chest. "What is so important that you would risk your health, your future? What else is left? Haven't you done enough?"
Haven't you done enough?
A conversation from four years before returned to him, spinning his mind away from her and back to that evening. A conversation in a dark room, lighted only by a fire and a warm lamp. A conversation on the fifth night out of five nights of sleeplessness. A conversation that freed him as much as it clamped down his chains even tighter.
"They keep moving the goalposts on you."
He had given Stanley a look in that dark room, had held back how close the psychiatrist had hit to home.
"Get A's, good college, Latin honors, get into the London School of Economics, get a good teaching job, Ivy League school, tenure, now you gotta publish, now you gotta go to Stockholm – "
"It's not good for a person to keep setting goals?" He was being defensive, he knew, but he could not concede more at the time.
"It probably is," Stanley allowed, "but it's tricky for someone who's still trying to get his father to stop hitting him."
Bingo. He wouldn't admit it then, but Stanley had been square on the mark.
"This is a hell of a curve you get graded on now. Lincoln freed the slaves and won the Civil War. 'Thank you, next! And what will you be singing for us today, Mister Bartlet?"
What indeed. What was next? What could be next for a President who was running out of time, both professionally and personally?
Deep down he knew he would never escape the need for just one more victory, just one more accomplishment. And was that really bad? Wasn't it good to have goals? But what would his goal be when he no longer commanded the power of the presidency? What good could he do?
The fear returned, dimming the brightness their lovemaking had brought. She might keep him alive, but what kind of contributions could he make if his body turned to jello and his brain softened to mush? What the hell kind of accomplishment would that be?
Taking a deep breath, he let his fingers thread through her hair, let his lips kiss the top of her head. Time for the truth. Time for his real confession.
"Abbey, what's the point of keeping me alive if I can't – if I can't contribute anymore? If I can't – if we can't – why would you want – why would you want me like that?"
He stopped, his own words slapping him in the face.
No syringe in the nightstand. It'll get ugly, and that's that.
He had just contradicted his own argument, just made the case for that syringe when the time came. And now he looked down at her and saw that they shared the thought.
The words came out with a bluntness he had not intended, but they settled on the bedrock of his fear: a life not worth living. One look at the pain that creased her brow, however, sliced a blade of regret through his conscience. That had cut – and it wasn't completely fair to her, but she had to know how he felt, had to realize why he was still pushing so hard to keep going.
No syringe in the nightstand, but maybe if he gave it all he had now, his body would take care of that problem by itself. Was that what he had been doing, trying to push his body to such limits that he wouldn't have to worry about that syringe? That Abbey wouldn't have to make the decision? Better to go out early and whole than linger in part.
"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do?" she asked, sitting halfway up, amazement sketched on her face. "I'm a doctor, Jed, remember? I know what MS can do. I know what might be ahead of us. But I also know that medicine is making advances every day. I know that if you take steps now, you can prolong that quality of life, maybe not even reach the point when – when you – when I – even have to think about – " She faltered, broke off for a moment, then composed herself. "That's what I want, Jed. Can't you see that?"
He wished he could believe all that she was saying, but he knew the odds. "I can't not do my job, Abbey. It could be – it could be all I have left."
She laughed, a harsh sound with no humor. "Well, thanks – "
"You know what I mean."
"I don't. I really don't, Jed."
"'Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." The words left his lips without conscious thought, as startling to him as they were to her. They both let them hover between them for a moment before Abbey finally pushed herself up completely and looked back down at him, her eyes holding his.
"I don't want to take you away from what you were meant to be, Jed. I told Leo once that I wanted to help you be as good a president as you are a man."
He stared at her, wondering when that conversation had occurred.
"And you are a good man, Josiah Bartlet. You are the best man I know."
Roiling emotions kept him from responding. What could he say to that, anyway?
"You have put your heart and soul into this job – this country – for the past seven years."
He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand to stop him. "And I know you're going to continue to put your heart and soul into it until Arnie Vinick or Bingo Bob or that other guy drags you off the stage January twentieth."
The vision brought both humor and pain. They might just have to drag him off at that.
"I'm not asking you not to do your job. I'm asking – " Now the sob caught in her throat. "I'm asking you to leave a little of that heart and soul for me. This is not a life sentence – thank God. They're gonna free you in a year, and I'm gonna be there to walk through the gates with you. And you're gonna WALK through them, if I have anything to do with it. Do you hear me?"
There was no other response than, "Yes, ma'am." He gave it.
"Listen to me, Josiah," she commanded, taking both of his hands in hers.
Well, he had no choice now. Whenever she called him Josiah –
"For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, 'till death do us part." The tears that hadn't fallen yet that evening pooled in her eyes now. "You're stuck with me and I'm telling you right now that you had better do your damnedest to hang around for a long time. You're gonna get pissed at me because I'll tell you when you need to rest. You're gonna dread seeing me coming because I'm gonna be bringing healthy food, or a cane. Your staff is gonna want you to do something and I'm gonna be there saying no."
"You're gonna get over this exac – this episode. And you're gonna be all right again. And you're gonna finish out your term as President. And we're gonna go back to New Hampshire and enjoy a hard-earned retirement, and travel, and keep grandkids – and make love on the kitchen table if we want."
Okay, that sounded pretty good.
"Because the world is not finished with you, yet, Josiah Bartlet. I'm not finished with you, yet. And I can't do all that stuff by myself, Jackass. Do you get that?"
He nodded, not daring to contradict her.
She leaned down and kissed him softly. "I told you that you are master of your fate. But if I have to take the swing shift occasionally I'm gonna do it, because I'm just selfish like that."
Another nod.
"So here's the deal: I won't interfere with your job anymore."
"And?" There had to be more.
There was. "You'll come to bed at a reasonable hour."
"Okay."
"And get at least seven hours of sleep each night."
"I'll try – "
"And get at least seven hours of sleep each night," she repeated, more firmly this time.
"Okay."
"And put your feet up on the Oval Office couch – "
"With you?"
A glare. " – at least twice a day."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Now his turn. "And you will let C.J. be a chief of staff and not a babysitter."
She drew a breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and nodded. "I will."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"All right."
With a final sniff, she lay back down in his arms, and they listened to the clock and their heartbeats for several minutes. He was close to nodding off when her quiet voice pulled him back. It was the voice of the coquette, the voice that never failed to fan the coals that always smoldered inside him for her.
"It's Valentines Day."
"It is."
"My parents aren't home."
He smiled, catching on immediately. They had played this game before. "No?"
"I have some candy in my room."
His reaction was evident to both of them. "Yeah?"
"Wanna come up?"
Oh, he already was. "Sure your dad won't mind?"
She shrugged. "He trusts me."
"Sucker."
"What did you call me?"
She was evil, indeed. He told her so.
"You have a problem with that?"
Not at all. "I'm cool."
"Well, I think I can promise that you won't be cool for long."
His gulp was audible. She always kept her promises.
"Who's gonna be master this time?"
He heard the smirk in her voice. "Depends on what tie you pick out."
Oh yeah.
With effort, he calmed his body enough to provide at least a semblance of dignity. As they made their way through the gauntlet of secret service agents – who all seemed to be finding other places to look – he clung to the other promises she had made.
That he was going to recover from this episode. That he was going to finish out his term. That they were going back to New Hampshire and enjoy a hard-earned retirement, and travel, and keep grandkids – and make love on the kitchen table if they wanted.
That he was master of his fate.
And that the world was not finished with Josiah Bartlet.
Because he was certainly was not finished with the world.
