A/N: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all.

Chapter XI – Presidential Meeting

A fortnight passed away. The time ticked by with ever increasing speed. CJ began to hide her feelings more – her worry and her massive internal conflict. Burying one's self in work at the White House was hardly an effort, and at first it is always hard to notice. On the outside, she had regained her composure. Danny still looked at her with eyes that stripped her down, he saw through the mask, but there was precious little he could say or do, the way it worked these days, she had to come to him; he felt that those days too were over.

The pen in her hand fell to the desk. The weight that told you it was a good pen made the sound all the louder. It was hard to comprehend that a man she barely knew could possibly consume her thoughts and if she were being honest, her heart too. There was an undeniable connection, but in her mind she felt anger towards the man who made her feel this way – what right did he have to invade her life like this? How could he leave her so heartlessly and then expect her to welcome him back with open arms? It finally dawned upon her as she reached for the pen again, that she was making a huge assumption: why did she even expect that he would want that? 'Damnit Simon Donovan, I was so over you!' the whisper to no one was a cry in vain. She recalled for a moment her careless romp with Marco. Even then, deep down it had been the presence of her secret service man – her man – that she had really wanted. Kidding herself that Marco's body had granted herself freedom had been a terrible, terrible lie. It was midnight; Toby had told her to go home three hours ago.

Slipping from the Residence wasn't difficult. Meeting Ron and Leo was normal, even for the time of night. The hard bit was knowing what was coming, apprehension was thick in the air during the car ride. There were no flashing lights; it was not a Presidential limousine. There had been some dark nights Jed Bartlett had spent as President of the United States, and something in his bones told him this might be another to add to the list.

The wind was blustery at Andrew's; the rain was thin in the lights that floodlit the night air. A military carrier in desert colours landed smoothly, the aircraft taxied to a smooth halt. The engines cut, the lack of their deafening noise left the air still. At the back of the plane, a ramp lowered. Men in the now familiar formal white Ephari military dress piled out smartly and formed a parameter a few feet from the plane.

President Bartlett surveyed the scene from the distance agreed, Leo stood at his right shoulder, watching in ambivalence. It was intimidating to the extent that it was very much in the Roman military style; beyond his exit from the plane, their Caesar was to be shielded completely, hidden from view. The Presidential Secret Service detail and a troop of US Marines stood by noting every move of the foreign military group. The meeting should have been an historic event, but without the Press present and the meeting-taking place at the dead of night, it felt ominous and somehow underhand. The newly elected Ephari President was a man preceded by his formidable reputation as a military leader, a man ruthless with his enemies, yet compassionate to his people; a man who now held great power in the Middle East.

The decision to come to America may have, under any other circumstance, alarmed Bartlett. Why would a newly elected President of a nation recently freed from the white population come running so quickly to American soil? Surely he would stir up controversy and unbelief in his people; he had only just survived an assassination attempt, to be seen to leave would have lost him face dramatically.

Following the advance group, a further mass of white, this time speckled with peacock blue made their journey down the ramp. Usually, according to Ephari custom, a standard bearer would have led the way with their majestic flag. This was no official visit, but there was still a flag present; it was folded and held in the hands of their leader. In the midst of the pack, there was their cargo. Four Generals, men who were old in their years, carried a white military field stretcher; it was the greatest sign of honour.

The formation advanced towards the welcome party slowly, the soldiers marched with formal elegance. The Marines stood ready. Ron Butterfield found his hand resting nervously on his weapon. The atmosphere was one of expectation and fear.

The terrific contrast of white and black and blue reached the Westerners. The Ephari troops stopped and broke formation, leaving their leader in the centre of a tight semi-circle, still with his bodyguards on either side. President ben-Kurah advanced forward. The men in blue stayed back and the President stood alone for the first time, he was in a distinctly different black uniform. It was that of mourning. He walked forward purposefully, his frame moving elegantly. As he got closer, the stretcher borne by the four old looking men came into view, but they stood fast.

As he stopped a foot from Jed Bartlett, the Ephari President spoke; his voice was deep and thick, typical of his countrymen:

"Mister President, it is an honour to have an audience with you." He extended a large hand to his American counterpart.

"And with you Mister President, I must admit, this is an unexpected opportunity."

"You wonder why I can leave my country so soon?"

"Yes." Bartlett was stern and firm, establishing his authority on his home soil.

"To return to you a man of honour." The Ephari raised his right hand and the stretcher-bearers advanced in a slow military march, taking care over their cargo. The body on the white canvas was brought to him. Jeremiah turned away and kissed the right hand of the man who had saved his life. Jeremiah laid the folded flag over the chest of the man. There was a silent moment, Bartlett thought he heard a prayer being whispered in the Ephari tongue. Was it a body or a man on the stretcher Jed wondered, anxious at the answer to his question.

"He is alive Mister President." The Epahri spoke slowly and surely. The sigh was never intended on being that loud, but Jed could not help himself. "I have come only to deliver him back to you. He has served his duty to my country: and to me. It is with a sad heart, Mr President that I must return him like this, but there is medical care he requires that although we owe, my country cannot yet provide him with it." He paused, "And while I wait for fuel, we could speak, face to face, as men." There was something noble about the Ephari, he was graceful yet firm. He had been fighting all his life for his country, and when he got it, the honour to a foreigner was priority enough to take him, however briefly, away from it.

"Certainly, I would appreciate that. We have a medical unit standing by as you requested, I can have them come over."

"Yes, thank you sir. For Simon, that would be most kind." The Ephari's voice suddenly softened upon the mention of the name, simultaneously, Jed felt a lump in his throat, it really was Simon Donovan; he was home.

"He's a good man."

"He is a man of his word Mr. President. As am I, and I give you my word that there will be changes for Ephar."

"Yes sir, I don't doubt that." The men smiled at one another, the anxiety lifted.

The leaders spoke in the freely falling mist of rain. Meanwhile, Ron directed the ambulance. Simon Donovan was ceremoniously loaded into the vehicle. Ron beamed uncharacteristically down into the face of a man he once knew. The face had changed, his skin was dark and there were deeper lines, but his eyes: his eyes still burned that steely bright blue. The bulge of bandaging under Simon's tunic was noticeable; his shoulder looked out of line and it was clear why he had returned from Ephar: to have re-constructive surgery. Ron couldn't think of anything to say, he was overjoyed inside that he was back alive, but there was a strange pang of guilt as he looked at the man's broken body in front of him. Before an oxygen mask could be placed over his mouth, Simon got a feeble hold on his boss' arm:

"How is she?" His voice was thick, an overtone of the Ephari language hung on his words, making them hard to distinguish. Ron didn't have to ask to know of whom he was talking about, and he was glad.

"She's OK Donovan, she's fine." He repeated it, sighing and nodding to himself as he perched opposite, wringing his hands together.

"Do you think?" Simon had to catch his breath; Ron replaced the mask over his nose and mouth. After a few steady breaths, he nudged the plastic away. "...she remembers me?" Ron looked serious:

"I think she will." Simon hid his fear under the mask of his changed appearance.

"She won't want to." He reasoned, letting his eyes fall away.

"Simon!" For a moment, Ron considered that he might be right; the pain he'd seen in CJ's eyes, maybe she didn't want to remember, maybe she didn't fancy the emotional roller-coaster she would no doubt embark on if she took this path. His gut got the better of him: "I think you're wrong." The grey blue eyes looked hard at him. They were searching for a thread of truth, and they found reels of it.

"She know?" He groaned, the pain flaring up from his recent movement. Ron closed his eyes, not sure of the reaction he was bout to get.

"Yeah. She knows you were there."

"You?"

"I knew you were hurt..." His voice was hushed, trying to justify his actions, but before his thoughts could get too deep, there was a commotion outside. Ron sprung to his feet, gun drawn and advanced out into the rain.

"Get the hell off me dammit!" yelled a short New Yorker as he was held up in the air by a group of four Secret Service agents. Ron stood and marvelled at the scene, the smart boots of the detective were kicking around in the as he screamed obscenities at them.

"It's ok, let him go." Ron stood stern faced as he holstered his weapon.

"How is he?" The little man gasped as he strode closer.

"Fine, how did you know?"

"I had my ear to the ground, Agent Butterfield." Ron looked at him suspiciously, he hated to think his security had been so slack as to let some detective in... then he remembered; this wasn't just any old detective.

"He's doing really well."

"Have you told her he's here?" Ron's expression told him not. Ferdinand hung his head, his heart had grown heavy watching her since he found out Simon had gone. CJ Cregg hadn't been the same woman he'd met in New York all that time ago; she was sad, lonely and simply less vibrant.

"You have to tell her, Ron." The taller man leant down to speak into his ear, his voice guttural but quiet.

"I think he should have surgery first, he's doing well, but I think a meeting with her might flip him. There was damage to his diaphragm and lungs, his heart has been under a lot of strain – he might not deal with the stress."

"I think it's nothing to the stress if you don't even tell her, and you can bet your ass if you don't, I will." Miles threatened with his cell, he relented at Ron's blank expression. "Can I see him?"

Ferdinand stepped up into the back of the ambulance. The appearance of his best friend startled him briefly. The skin, the hair, the beard...

"Hi there, trouble." Simon smiled. "You didn't tell me you were gone you good for nothing damned..." he stopped himself.

"Sorry." Came the whispered reply.

"Damn right you should be. Anthony is looking forward to seeing you." Simon raised his eyebrows; he thought the kid would hate him. "I told him, he's in my car, probably wrecking the damn thing right now."

That flipped his stomach. Anthony was there to see him. It took his mind briefly off of CJ Cregg. He had left his little brother with nothing but a phone number. "I'm gonna go get him, now you sit tight. It's something you need to do. Tonight." Simon weakly nodded his head and the detective skipped off to retrieve the boy, who had already escaped the car and was being held by Ron himself.

Starring into the chest of the President's head Agent, Anthony took a deep breath. He really wanted to give his Big Brother a huge great smack in the face for leaving him. Anger that Ferdinand had spent a year and a half getting the better of suddenly welled up. He clenched his fists. Just then, the calmingly sarcastic voice he'd come to like quashed his ill feeling in an instant.

"I'll arrest your punk ass for assault you know." Anthony laughed at himself before taking the last few steps past Ron, into the Ambulance.

"He thinks I'm gonna hit you some." The young man said, taking in the sight of the man he had thought invincible; Simon as he pushed the mask away.

"I wouldn't... blame you." He rasps.

"Well, I'll wait till some time when you're not all broken, then you can beat my ass for givin' Miles such a hard time." Simon did his best to raise his eyebrows, "Well not that hard – but you know how I get, and with you leavin' 'n all." Simon felt guilt squeeze his chest tight.

"I'm... sorry Anthony." It was an effort, but the words came out clearly. Anthony looked upset for about a second before letting the grin return to his face:

"So what's up with that beard, I mean aren't you, like a bit old for that – you look real freaky." The smile that washed over Simon temporarily relieved his physical pain. Anthony had accepted him back; it was the first step to normality.

"Traditional." Simon croaked.

"You know, shouldn't talk, you sound bad. I'm riding to the hospital with you. I can chew your ear off all the way."

"Miles... taught you?" Sarcasm didn't escape him even in this state.

"Yeah, with him you don't get a word in edgeways if you don't get there first." Ron bounced into the vehicle, Ferdinand called after him that he'd follow. The doors were shut and with sirens and flashing lights, they were off. Simon drifted off to the incessant talking just as Miles knew he would, it was the sweetest sounding lullaby he had heard in many, many months.

TBC-