A/N: Yet another one of my pointless author notes in the making right here.
To all the people who read these, kudos, because they must be incredibly
boring. Glad you liked C.J. and Josh. Ah...Josh and his docile tone.
Unfortunately, that's the last we're going to be inside of Josh's mind for
a while. Darn. Thanks for your support again as I grovel in front of you.
And now...for all of you who asked for it (Shadowesque13, you know who you are!) a President Bartlet chapter!
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President Jed Barlet's POV
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I probably shouldn't have worked the rope-line that night. If I hadn't then everything would have been all right, and I would have been settling down to my softball game. But I had to work the rope-line. Of course, none of this self-blame was going through my head at the moment. I had just gotten shot at. But right now I was back in the car with Ron and a few other guys. Worry was eating me up. Was Zoey all right? Was Leo all right? Were Josh, Sam, Toby, and CJ all right? Was Charlie all right? Were any members of the crowd killed back there? Sometimes I hate my job. It has too much responsibility in it.
When the shots were fired, the Secret Service converged on me. I was slightly confused as to what was going on. I knew that shots were being fired, but my brain wasn't quick enough to grasp the enormity of what was happening. They pulled me backwards into the car. At the time, I might have felt a tiny bite of pain, but I didn't notice it. No, the pain didn't set in until much later. It was the panic that I found to be the major emotion.
Where was Zoey? When could I talk to her? I demanded to know this from Ron. Normally, I try to be very civil to Ron Butterfield and the rest of the Secret Service agents. After all, its their job to protect me and my family with their lives. But my little girl had just been shot at? Didn't these people get it? I had to talk to Zoey!
The sirens of the hastily assembled motorcade rang out as I argued with Ron. "Is Zoey all right? Get her again."
"She wasn't hit sir," Ron began to say, but I interrupted him.
"Get her on the radio right now!" I demanded. This was my family damn it! No one messes with my family!
"Sir, she can't talk on the radio," Ron said with an infinitely patient look on his face.
"Why can't she talk?" I asked in sudden confusion. The radios that the Secret Service used were secure, private lines. No one could hack into them. Why couldn't I talk to Zoey?
"She's vomiting in the back of the car sir," Ron said with the patient look again. I turned around to look at the limousine behind us. My baby was throwing up and I couldn't comfort her? Never mind that Abbey was better for the vomiting of our children; I couldn't even see my youngest daughter? What good was being President if you couldn't protect your own family? "It happens sir," Ron explained.
"Why is she vomiting?" I asked. The concern for Zoey had pumped up the adrenaline in my body once more. That was the slight coppery taste I had in the back of my throat. It was the adrenaline.
"It happens sir," Ron said once more. "She might be in shock; she might've gotten an elbow in the stomach-"
"Is Gina with her?" I interrupted him yet again. Gina had truly been a good find. She had alerted us all, and saved Zoey's life, if not more.
"Gina put her in the car-"
"She's not with her?" I clarified.
"She's got two other agents in the car sir, she's got Mike and Fred. They're gonna have her back at the White House-"
"Why isn't Gina in the car with her?" I demanded. I know that it was rude to interrupt, and my father would've slapped me up and down Main Street for interrupting so many times, but I couldn't help it. When it's your children that's under fire you'll understand. The only other time I had felt this concerned about my family was when Elizabeth called me to tell me about Annie getting the Raggedy Ann doll with the knife stuck through its throat.
"Gina put Zoey in the car, and then stayed behind to wait for the ID agent. Mr. President, please." Ron's voice carried the slightest hint of begging in it. It was this tone that finally convinced me to settle down and wait until we got to the White House to talk to my daughter.
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. The copper taste was becoming more pronounced. I should calm down. Abbey would have my head if she found out that I was getting worked up like this. "Is anyone dead back there?" I asked in a defeated tone, slumping up against the seat. It's horrible to feel that helpless. I panted. There was starting to be a bit of pain now. Maybe Ron or one of the other guys had bruised something when they put me in the car.
"We don't know. We don't think so." Ron moved his hand, and I saw that it was clumsily wrapped with a white bandage. Also that blood was leaking out of it.
"What happened your hand?" I asked, thought the answer was fairly obvious. A wave of gratitude swept over me. He had gotten shot to save me! It's wonderful to have people who are willing to do that for you. I think he gets paid to do that, but that's beside the point.
"I got hit," he said. Amazingly, there was irritation in the way that he said that. He was angry at himself because he got shot? Unbelievable.
"Oh God," I moaned. "Coop, turn around!" I ordered. "We gotta go to the hospital!" Ron tried to argue with me. "We're going to the hospital!" I snapped. There was no way that he was going to sit around and bleed while I was checked over at the White House. Self-sacrificing is one thing, but outright stupidity is another.
"I have to put you inside the White House Mr. President. This isn't something we discuss," he said firmly. Irritation blazed within me into one of my irrational angers that Abbey was always talking about. To hell with procedure! Procedure said that right now I should be at home, in bed, watching my damn softball game! Obviously, there was no procedure tonight!
"This is-my daughter is throwing up in the car behind us. You're losing blood by the liter, not to mention how many broken bones you've got in your hand," it was getting minorly difficult to breathe and the coppery taste was so strong that I could almost spit it out, "but let's make sure I'm tucked in bed before we-"
"Mr. President?" Ron interrupted with sudden concern. He yanked my head forward and started patting me down. Something wet dribbled out of my mouth. He felt around my side where the pain was, and then brought his hand back. It was red with blood. So I'd been shot! That was the reason for the pain! "GW! Move! Move! Move!" Ron roared.
The limo spun in the opposite direction and took off down the road again. The rest of the ride was a big blur in my mind. Ron kept on reassuring me that everything was going to be all right. He called the hospital and talked to some nurse. I was feeling cranky enough to yell something at her, but I didn't. I found that once you knew about the pain, the pain became more...well...painful. I just sat with my head against the back seat and tried to focus on what Ron was saying, although it didn't make much sense. When we got to the emergency room the doctors hustled me onto a stretcher and into the doors. Everything was moving incredibly fast. I guess that's one upside to being President. You get into the emergency room very quickly. Like Josh said, people will be unhappy when they find out that someone killed the President. The doctors were talking above me.
"He's been shot in the abdomen; visible entry and exit wounds," one said. Another was shouting out my blood pressure and pulse. The main doctor came.
"Mr. President, I'm Dr. Keller, I'm the main trauma surgeon on duty. The exit wound is a good indication, we like your vital signs," he said in an annoying chirpy voice. I stared daggers at him.
"I swear to God that if I don't speak to my daughter in the five minutes I'm going to attack someone," I growled as they wheeled me down the hall.
"She's on her way," Ron said. he was walking behind us and holding his hand up in the air to help the blood clot. Amazingly, no one had noticed this fact.
"This guy's got about seven broken bones in his hand, if someone wants to give him an aspirin or something," I said grumpily. I spent over a year giving orders. I'm used to be sarcastic, grumpy and giving orders. Getting shot wasn't going to change that.
They wheeled me into the pre-op room. "We're just going to get you stabilized," one of the doctors informed. Important concerns came to my mind.
"I need you to wait as long as possible before giving me the anesthesia," I said, hoping that these people would listen to me. Doctors are notoriously bad at listening to the concerns of my patients. At least the doctors that I've come into contact with, which has mainly been Abbey. "I need to speak to Leo McGarry before you give me the anesthesia," I said again.
"He's on his way as well sir." Ron is so helpful. And no one's helped his hand yet.
"I need to ask you a few questions sir," one of the nurses said. "Do you have any medical conditions?"
My heart froze. I couldn't tell the room full of people that I had MS, but I couldn't keep it a secret either. Where was Abbey when you needed her? I decided to stall for time.
"Well...I've been shot," I said weakly. I tried to pass the statement off with a winning smile.
The nurse was not amused.
And now...for all of you who asked for it (Shadowesque13, you know who you are!) a President Bartlet chapter!
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President Jed Barlet's POV
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I probably shouldn't have worked the rope-line that night. If I hadn't then everything would have been all right, and I would have been settling down to my softball game. But I had to work the rope-line. Of course, none of this self-blame was going through my head at the moment. I had just gotten shot at. But right now I was back in the car with Ron and a few other guys. Worry was eating me up. Was Zoey all right? Was Leo all right? Were Josh, Sam, Toby, and CJ all right? Was Charlie all right? Were any members of the crowd killed back there? Sometimes I hate my job. It has too much responsibility in it.
When the shots were fired, the Secret Service converged on me. I was slightly confused as to what was going on. I knew that shots were being fired, but my brain wasn't quick enough to grasp the enormity of what was happening. They pulled me backwards into the car. At the time, I might have felt a tiny bite of pain, but I didn't notice it. No, the pain didn't set in until much later. It was the panic that I found to be the major emotion.
Where was Zoey? When could I talk to her? I demanded to know this from Ron. Normally, I try to be very civil to Ron Butterfield and the rest of the Secret Service agents. After all, its their job to protect me and my family with their lives. But my little girl had just been shot at? Didn't these people get it? I had to talk to Zoey!
The sirens of the hastily assembled motorcade rang out as I argued with Ron. "Is Zoey all right? Get her again."
"She wasn't hit sir," Ron began to say, but I interrupted him.
"Get her on the radio right now!" I demanded. This was my family damn it! No one messes with my family!
"Sir, she can't talk on the radio," Ron said with an infinitely patient look on his face.
"Why can't she talk?" I asked in sudden confusion. The radios that the Secret Service used were secure, private lines. No one could hack into them. Why couldn't I talk to Zoey?
"She's vomiting in the back of the car sir," Ron said with the patient look again. I turned around to look at the limousine behind us. My baby was throwing up and I couldn't comfort her? Never mind that Abbey was better for the vomiting of our children; I couldn't even see my youngest daughter? What good was being President if you couldn't protect your own family? "It happens sir," Ron explained.
"Why is she vomiting?" I asked. The concern for Zoey had pumped up the adrenaline in my body once more. That was the slight coppery taste I had in the back of my throat. It was the adrenaline.
"It happens sir," Ron said once more. "She might be in shock; she might've gotten an elbow in the stomach-"
"Is Gina with her?" I interrupted him yet again. Gina had truly been a good find. She had alerted us all, and saved Zoey's life, if not more.
"Gina put her in the car-"
"She's not with her?" I clarified.
"She's got two other agents in the car sir, she's got Mike and Fred. They're gonna have her back at the White House-"
"Why isn't Gina in the car with her?" I demanded. I know that it was rude to interrupt, and my father would've slapped me up and down Main Street for interrupting so many times, but I couldn't help it. When it's your children that's under fire you'll understand. The only other time I had felt this concerned about my family was when Elizabeth called me to tell me about Annie getting the Raggedy Ann doll with the knife stuck through its throat.
"Gina put Zoey in the car, and then stayed behind to wait for the ID agent. Mr. President, please." Ron's voice carried the slightest hint of begging in it. It was this tone that finally convinced me to settle down and wait until we got to the White House to talk to my daughter.
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. The copper taste was becoming more pronounced. I should calm down. Abbey would have my head if she found out that I was getting worked up like this. "Is anyone dead back there?" I asked in a defeated tone, slumping up against the seat. It's horrible to feel that helpless. I panted. There was starting to be a bit of pain now. Maybe Ron or one of the other guys had bruised something when they put me in the car.
"We don't know. We don't think so." Ron moved his hand, and I saw that it was clumsily wrapped with a white bandage. Also that blood was leaking out of it.
"What happened your hand?" I asked, thought the answer was fairly obvious. A wave of gratitude swept over me. He had gotten shot to save me! It's wonderful to have people who are willing to do that for you. I think he gets paid to do that, but that's beside the point.
"I got hit," he said. Amazingly, there was irritation in the way that he said that. He was angry at himself because he got shot? Unbelievable.
"Oh God," I moaned. "Coop, turn around!" I ordered. "We gotta go to the hospital!" Ron tried to argue with me. "We're going to the hospital!" I snapped. There was no way that he was going to sit around and bleed while I was checked over at the White House. Self-sacrificing is one thing, but outright stupidity is another.
"I have to put you inside the White House Mr. President. This isn't something we discuss," he said firmly. Irritation blazed within me into one of my irrational angers that Abbey was always talking about. To hell with procedure! Procedure said that right now I should be at home, in bed, watching my damn softball game! Obviously, there was no procedure tonight!
"This is-my daughter is throwing up in the car behind us. You're losing blood by the liter, not to mention how many broken bones you've got in your hand," it was getting minorly difficult to breathe and the coppery taste was so strong that I could almost spit it out, "but let's make sure I'm tucked in bed before we-"
"Mr. President?" Ron interrupted with sudden concern. He yanked my head forward and started patting me down. Something wet dribbled out of my mouth. He felt around my side where the pain was, and then brought his hand back. It was red with blood. So I'd been shot! That was the reason for the pain! "GW! Move! Move! Move!" Ron roared.
The limo spun in the opposite direction and took off down the road again. The rest of the ride was a big blur in my mind. Ron kept on reassuring me that everything was going to be all right. He called the hospital and talked to some nurse. I was feeling cranky enough to yell something at her, but I didn't. I found that once you knew about the pain, the pain became more...well...painful. I just sat with my head against the back seat and tried to focus on what Ron was saying, although it didn't make much sense. When we got to the emergency room the doctors hustled me onto a stretcher and into the doors. Everything was moving incredibly fast. I guess that's one upside to being President. You get into the emergency room very quickly. Like Josh said, people will be unhappy when they find out that someone killed the President. The doctors were talking above me.
"He's been shot in the abdomen; visible entry and exit wounds," one said. Another was shouting out my blood pressure and pulse. The main doctor came.
"Mr. President, I'm Dr. Keller, I'm the main trauma surgeon on duty. The exit wound is a good indication, we like your vital signs," he said in an annoying chirpy voice. I stared daggers at him.
"I swear to God that if I don't speak to my daughter in the five minutes I'm going to attack someone," I growled as they wheeled me down the hall.
"She's on her way," Ron said. he was walking behind us and holding his hand up in the air to help the blood clot. Amazingly, no one had noticed this fact.
"This guy's got about seven broken bones in his hand, if someone wants to give him an aspirin or something," I said grumpily. I spent over a year giving orders. I'm used to be sarcastic, grumpy and giving orders. Getting shot wasn't going to change that.
They wheeled me into the pre-op room. "We're just going to get you stabilized," one of the doctors informed. Important concerns came to my mind.
"I need you to wait as long as possible before giving me the anesthesia," I said, hoping that these people would listen to me. Doctors are notoriously bad at listening to the concerns of my patients. At least the doctors that I've come into contact with, which has mainly been Abbey. "I need to speak to Leo McGarry before you give me the anesthesia," I said again.
"He's on his way as well sir." Ron is so helpful. And no one's helped his hand yet.
"I need to ask you a few questions sir," one of the nurses said. "Do you have any medical conditions?"
My heart froze. I couldn't tell the room full of people that I had MS, but I couldn't keep it a secret either. Where was Abbey when you needed her? I decided to stall for time.
"Well...I've been shot," I said weakly. I tried to pass the statement off with a winning smile.
The nurse was not amused.