Farther off from Heaven

By

Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part Two

“Damn, I kicked up an ant hill this time.” As observations go, Bartlet had made better and with far more penetrating acumen. Still, there was a great deal to be said for plain speaking.

The Secret Service had shifted into high gear. Not the ultimate level, but pretty damn close. Letting out a slow breath and keeping an eye on yet another pair of extremely agitated agents hurrying past, he realized that while his latest escapade had been worth it - onions and all - his timing sucked. The current level of anxiety being displayed by his well-armed and somewhat combustible chaperons wasn’t going to help him achieve his latest objective easily.

He wanted, no, he needed to find Abbey.

There was any number of ways the President could go about locating his wife. It was simplicity itself. All he had to do was ask. Unfortunately, asking meant being seen and he wasn’t quite ready to be seen as yet. Right now he was on a mission and as far as he was concerned the job, the country and the world could take a flying leap.

A quick survey of the ballroom assured Bartlet that Abbey was no longer in attendance. The search didn’t take him long, it never did. He’d always been able to pick her out of a crowd, instantaneously focusing on her to the exclusion of all else. He knew the ability annoyed her, especially since she couldn’t duplicate it with any degree of accuracy. When asked how, he’d simply smiled enigmatically and told her, “Magic.”

That smug comment usually earned him a playful wallop on the arm and an indulgent laugh. He missed that, her laughter and spirited amusement. The good Lord knew he hadn’t given her much to be amused about recently. Defying common sense, it was a talent he seemed to be developing of late, excluding her and ignoring the warning signs. Even more than he, she’d been pulling away; hiding behind walls he’d helped her build.

He had no one to blame but himself.

‘I love you very much.’ Damn, but that had been lame. Bartlet shook his head, suddenly vulnerable in the face of his own stupidity. How could he have missed it? Thirty-four years of marriage and he still managed to trip over his own folly when it came to the woman he loved.

It was obvious now that Abbey had been waiting for something more and, as usual, he’d failed her. It was becoming routine.

Frowning, he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away from the disappointing scene. Even without the guest of honor, the party was still going strong. ‘Hell, why not?’ he thought with some heat. It was the White House. While those few friends and family members in attendance truly did respect the occasion, the rest were there merely to see and be seen; the art of bureaucratic kiss ass and politics at its worst.

A shadow of annoyance crossed Bartlet’s face and he clenched his jaw, stifling the muttered curse he was on the verge of uttering. It would have been a dead giveaway. Any language at this point would only draw attention to himself, and so far his luck had been holding.

At the other end of the corridor he caught sight of Donna being efficiently escorted by two forbidding agents into the drawing room. Scowling and biting back yet another curse, he didn’t have to guess who was waiting for her inside. The executive absence had been noted. Leo and the bloodhounds were on the chase and, with the cornering and capture of his somewhat plastered partner in crime, they were getting far too close for comfort.

He was running out of time. Knowing Donna, she’d keep them confused, but not for long. Leo McGarry, especially in the menacing frame of mind experience told him his oldest friend was probably cultivating to the exclusion of all else, would have her sobered in short order. And if Ron Butterfield were in there as well...

“Better her than me,” Bartlet risked muttering, the cynicism of that remark pricking at his conscience. His lips thinned with guilt-inspired irritation. The poor girl deserved better than that. Being raked over the coals was paltry reward for her innocent kindness and befuddled compassion.

His movements deliberately casual, Bartlet turned on his heel and moved off in the opposite direction. Beating his conscience into submission, he decided that atonement and Donna were just going to have to wait in line, along with Leo and everyone else. Right now there was only one person he wanted to find.

Finding her was the trick.

Taking the nearest side corridor, he found himself alone. For the moment anyway. The current level of activity dictated that wouldn’t last unless he could find some safer ground and his wife. Not really paying attention to his direction, he soon found himself wandering into the pressroom. Empty of course. The news tonight was elsewhere.

Starting to feel depressed, Bartlet stared at the empty chairs, and then let his gaze travel to the seal prominently displayed behind the podium. Fat lot of good hiding behind that damn thing had done him. Exhaustion enveloped him as he tried to concentrate, to ignore the ache that had started to creep up his lower back. The muscles in his right thigh were beginning to protest as well.

Abbey would have told him he was pushing it, that he didn’t know when to quit.

Bartlet laughed shortly, dropping wearily into one of the chairs. Lately, neither one of them had known when to quit, when to cry pax and be done with it. Rubbing his eyes, he had to honestly admit he was the worse culprit when it came to that particular failing. He didn’t know when to quit. Absently running his hand along his leg, he could feel the rough edges of the scar beneath the fabric.

With a shiver of vivid recollection, he relived the crash. Stanley would tell him he should remember, not relive, but he couldn’t help it. The terror and helplessness of not knowing when or where the next blow would fall. The darkness of the wreck and the howl of the storm screaming outside. Of being lost.

Of being locked in a box.

Pressing both hands over his eyes, he drove the memories away. This wasn’t working, nor was it helping. That event was over. In the hospital afterwards and during the weeks following, he and Abbey had been so close to a resolution, but then it had slipped away. As it always seemed to these days. Nothing would hold.

Tilting his head back, he blinked and listened as the sound of hurried footsteps passed by outside. Nobody looked into the room, probably already had. Bartlet smiled thinly. If any of them had grown up with his father, they’d have known exactly how to find him, where to look. With that man, you learned how to hide, to gather those few moments of peace when you could.

Hiding, it would seem, was something he had become very good at. A pity the one person he had been hiding from was nowhere to be found. And whose fault was that? Weary of the internal argument, Bartlet pushed the thought aside. Blame no longer had any place. All that remained was resolution.

If he could find it.

From behind him, he heard the sound of more footsteps, this time approaching. Without looking back, Bartlet sensed someone enter the room, cautiously drawing near. He closed his eyes, grimacing. He’d run out of time, they’d found him.

“Congratulations,” he growled with a sarcastic drawl, angry and determined not to make it easy on whomever it was. Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t the agent’s fault, but he was tired. Sick and tired of the interruptions. “You’ve found me. Do you get a prize?”

Leaning back, he insolently lifted his feet up onto the back of the chair in front and muttered sullenly, “What’s next?”

~ooOoo~

Whatever else you might say about the place, it was almost impossible to fault the quality of White House hospitality. The Scotch was truly excellent, thus making it an even greater shame that Lord Marbury couldn't indulge to the degree he would have liked. Despite his reputation, he was far too experienced a diplomat to allow himself to actually become drunk at an occasion such as this. Birthday party or no, this room contained almost as many potentially offendable political personages as any world summit. He was the British ambassador after all.

No, pleasantly mellow might be acceptable - more than acceptable from what he could observe - but caution advised against any serious imbibing, especially in the wake of his get-together with Toby Ziegler earlier.

Both of them had rather drowned their sorrows at their mutually distasteful errand, but it had proved a surprisingly pleasant meeting in the end. An understanding, if not a solution, had been reached and Marbury had found himself even enjoying the company of the laconic Communications Director. To his credit, the man had excellent taste in whiskey as well as a keen understanding of literary history.

However, that shared appreciation was the cause of his present relative abstinence. Even if he hadn't been aware of his position, he wouldn’t for the world have risked embarrassing the Bartlets in any way. Both had more than enough to contend with at the moment without also having to deal with old friends creating diplomatic incidents.

Fortunately, years of practice had left him with a higher tolerance to alcohol than most, and an ability to retain a certain dignity of manner and speech even when pretty far along. There was still some leeway for enjoyment.

Marbury brightened at the thought. Besides, he had already put in a considerable amount of work earlier this evening, which surely deserved some reward. Abbey had certainly seemed a little more focused when she had left him. Now it was up to Josiah to work it out for himself when she caught up with him.

Marbury wished the man the best of luck and fervently hoped that he would be able to deliver. Abigail Bartlet was not in a mood to be put off or be deflected by any poorly timed displays of humor. Still, if Bartlet's mood earlier had been any indication, the humor shouldn't be a problem. It had almost been possible to see the black dog crouched on the President's shoulder.

The ambassador sighed heavily at the thought. Josiah had always been a man who felt intensely. Depression did not sit well on him. The quiet, introverted, almost invisible man it produced was a nearly unrecognizable contrast to his normally animated persona. Marbury much preferred the latter. That man was never less than interesting to be around, even electrifying at times. The other personality by contrast was oddly troubling. He had always wondered where his sunny, quick-tempered friend had developed a capacity for such deep melancholy.

Of course, in such a close marriage, any schism was grounds for depression. Normally, the Englishman did not consider himself marriage counselor material, but he had felt unable to simply stand to one side. What were friends for after all if not to meddle, and maybe point out a few uncomfortable truths?

The fact that neither of the First Couple had reappeared in the ballroom was grounds for hope that they had finally managed to find each other and have that talk. Marbury scanned the crowd to confirm their absence, and then looked again.

Something was up.

The other guests didn't seem to have noticed, but Marbury had served as diplomatic representative and trouble-shooter for Her Majesty's government to some of the more tense and trigger-happy areas of the globe, including India. Long exposure had made him sensitive to any change or heightening in the security levels around him, even when the force in question was as discreet as the US Secret Service was being at present.

Still, low-key as it may have been, there was no mistaking those particular symptoms. Every agent in sight was on full alert, eyes darting everywhere and in constant communion with their palm mikes and each other. More were threading their way around and in and out of the room, moving at a purposeful and swift pace. The air of strained concentration was practically visible, once you knew what to look for.

Cautiously, Marbury withdrew behind a convenient potted palm to assess the situation. There was definitely a problem and not a minor one either. It was hard to see what could possibly go wrong at a White House party, but then these agents were at the very top of their field. They did not flap without due cause, and a flap, albeit it a very restrained and controlled one, was unquestionably what Marbury's trained instincts told him he was witnessing now. And the US Secret Service only ever went into a panic over one man.

He rather suspected the conversation between Josiah and Abbey was about to be rudely interrupted. And after all that intricate spadework, too. Damn! What the devil could possibly be wrong?

This required some thought, and a new strategy. If the First Couple had indeed been interrupted he might have to have a plan in place to get them talking again. Marbury regarded the glass in his hand thoughtfully. He might not be drunk, but he had to admit he had some time ago passed the point of razor sharp awareness. Some fresh air might help.

He managed to negotiate the palm successfully, and made his way across to the French windows. A grim-faced agent opened them for him, and giving the man a suitably vacuous smile of thanks Marbury stepped out onto the deserted terrace with a sigh of relief.

Frowning in thought, he meandered across to lean on the railing overlooking the lawn. Looking down, he noticed with a slight spasm of irritation that he wasn't quite as alone as he had hoped.

A lonely figure - female, he noted with profound delight - was sitting hunched on the steps leading down to the lawn; elbows on her knees and chin cradled in her hands. The very picture of dejection. Marbury squinted in the moonlight. The figure shifted slightly and unleashed a deep sigh that seemed to rise from somewhere around her ankles.

The ambassador's eyes widened in recognition. "Ms. Moss, is it not?" he called.

Donna jumped violently, one awkwardly folded leg shooting out and almost tipping her onto the step beneath. "Lord John! I mean, Lord Marbury... I mean, Mr. Ambassador…" Mentally wincing, she settled for, "Good evening, sir. How are you?"

"Very well indeed, thank you." The British ambassador jumped lightly down the steps and settled down beside her. "This evening has turned out to be surprisingly productive. And enjoyable." He smiled encouragingly at her and waved his glass for emphasis. "You on the other hand don't seem to be having quite such a good time, if your demeanor is any indication."

Donna sighed and wrapped her arms around her knees. "I swear, I'm never getting drunk again."

"Oh, don't say that," her companion chided. "Sometimes it's the only thing that makes the occasion bearable. Speaking personally, I've had some of my most interesting and memorable conversations while under the influence."

"Yeah, me too," Donna muttered. She unleashed another gusting sigh. "Right now, the only difference between me and Josh is that I at least admit that I can't hold my drink."

"Say something you shouldn’t have?" Seeing the spasm of anguish cross his companion's face, Marbury leaned towards her sympathetically. "Want to talk about it? I'm actually quite a good listener. And I've always enjoyed our conversations."

Donna looked at him. In her current depressed and still slightly befuddled state, she had a very low resistance to the idea of a sympathetic listener. Besides, he was dreamy. And goodness, that accent…

She blurted it out, "I lost the President."

"You mean you can't contact him? Well, I'm sure if the matter is urgent, one of the agents will tell you where he is."

Donna shook her head despondently. "No, you don't understand. I lost the President. And Ron Butterfield is being really nice about it, but he needs to find him, and Leo's mad and worried, and Josh is going to make my life a living hell for this…"

"I beg your pardon?" Marbury blinked. Somehow he hadn't been expecting that. Although, if true, it would go some way towards explaining the observations that had sent him out on to the terrace in the first place. "If you don't mind my asking, how is it possible …"

"I don't know." Prior to this evening, and the rumors notwithstanding, Donna would have bet it wasn't possible. Just her luck to be the only witness when Bartlet pulled off something she and everyone else could have sworn would be impossible to achieve under the eagle eye of Ron Butterfield and his agents.

Now regretting those last two drinks, Marbury struggled to come to grips with the situation. "You mean, nobody knows where he is? At all?" When Donna nodded, he muttered, "Oh, dear." Trying to bring his own slightly intoxicated senses to bear, he asked carefully, "But you say that you lost him?"

"I didn't exactly lose him …"

"Lose who?"

Donna jumped again, this time clutching at her companion's arm to save herself as the voice boomed out from overhead, its tones suspiciously slurred.

"Ms. Cregg!" Marbury disentangled his arm and managed to unfold his lanky limbs with a degree of grace. He greeted the newcomer gallantly, "My dear lady! You look even more glowing than usual tonight."

"Positively alight," Toby Ziegler remarked dryly, blowing gently on the end of his cigar and placing his other hand under the Press Secretary's elbow to help her negotiate the steps. "We thought some fresh air might help. Might help both of us," he amended hastily as CJ glared at him.

CJ drew her arm away with exaggerated and careful dignity. "I am no more drunk than you are," she declaimed and deliberately turned to bestow a smile on the ambassador. "Lord Marbury, how nice to see you. It's always a sincere pleasure to meet with a true gentleman."

Behind her, Ziegler rolled his eyes. "CJ, I'm going to do you the credit of assuming you'd never perpetrate a sentence structure like that while sober."

"Toby, you're as much of a pain in the ass drunk as sober," his colleague said heatedly.

"Thank you."

"At least I have an excuse!"

"The First Lady made you?"

"Yes! I mean, she said we were going to go get drunk. That's practically the same as an executive order!"

"Tell me about it," Donna sighed dejectedly. "I actually was under executive order. At least, I think it counts as an executive order. If he gives it, it has to be, right?"

"The President ordered you to come get drunk with us?" CJ asked confusedly. There was no mistaking who Donna meant by he, just the how and the why.

"No! That was the First Lady. I mean later."

"The President ordered you to come get drunk with him afterwards?" Ziegler's eyebrows arched.

"NO!"

Marbury tried to be helpful. "Donna is afraid that she is responsible for having lost the President."

"I'm sorry?" CJ and Ziegler spoke in perfect tandem, then turned to glare at one another.

Donna was starting to feel that she would be repeating the story of this night's events for the rest of her natural life. At least the constant repetition was starting to sober her up. A little. "When I say I lost him, I mean…"

"Lost who?"

Donna moaned and let her forehead thump against her up drawn knees as Sam Seaborn emerged into the light at the foot of the steps. This time it was CJ who jumped and nearly went over backwards, before Ziegler made a grab for her arm.

"Sam?" Holding onto a still wobbly CJ, the Communications Director squinted down at his deputy. "What are you doing out here? Clearing your head as well?"

"Oh, I haven't been drinking. I was just working on the first draft of the President's opening speech for the nuclear disarmament conference and decided to stretch my legs."

Seaborn mounted the steps, apparently unable to resist the pull of gravitational attraction that a huddle of any of the senior staff always seemed to generate. "Say, does anyone know what's going on? The agents seem very jumpy tonight. I've been challenged five times so far."

"I'm not sure," Ziegler answered dryly. "But if Donna has indeed managed to lose the President, I can well imagine a certain level of agitation."

"You lost the President?" Seaborn regarded the huddled lump of human misery before him in surprise. "Really? I mean, really, really lost him? How’d you do that? And what were you doing with him in the first place?"

"It wasn't exactly my fault!" Donna defended herself. "I mean, I couldn't help him overhearing me, and it is his house so I couldn't really say no. And he was the one who wanted to go somewhere private, and I thought Ainsley's office would be isolated enough. But he lost the agents, not me. I don't know how he did that." She sighed, dropping her head back onto her knees. “And he did seem to enjoy it…"

"Uh, Donna…" Sobering rapidly, and thanking a for once benign fate that no members of the press corps were anywhere within earshot, CJ tried to interrupt. "Please tell me what you're talking about, and let it not be what it sounds like."

"What?" Donna blinked in confusion and looked up at the faces surrounding her.

Marbury merely looked slightly bemused. Ziegler's expression could be best described as inscrutable, but he was giving his cigar tip an undue amount of attention. CJ seemed to have achieved spontaneous sobriety and to be finding it an unpleasant experience, while Seaborn's features showed a slowly dawning horror… and betrayal. Puzzled she stared at him. She hadn't seen that particular expression on his face since he found out his father...

"Oh!" As the sudden realization swept over her, she blushed right up to the roots of her hair. Embarrassed and enraged that they could even think that of her, of either of them, she blurted out, "For heaven's sake, guys! It was a pizza!"

"A... pizza?" Ziegler repeated carefully, taking a deep, calming drag on his cigar.

CJ huffed out an equally deep breath of relief.

Marbury continued to give the conversation his confused attention, apparently in hopes that a coherent explanation had to emerge soon. He was fairly certain the law of averages was on his side.

Seaborn simply stood there, blinking and staring.

"Yes!" Irritation was lending brevity to Donna's narrative style. "A pizza! I got a craving. I ordered one. The President heard me and voted himself in. I couldn't exactly refuse and I don’t have veto power. Besides, he looked like he needed cheering up. We needed somewhere private for him, so I suggested Ainsley's office. He managed to ditch his detail - don't ask me how - and we ate and talked and drank. Well, I drank," she amended ruefully. "He didn't really. He was driving. But we talked. It was actually rather nice," she concluded wistfully.

And it had been, until she had put her foot in it again. Not that he seemed to have held it against her. Still, she doubted he would be inviting her to a tête-à-tête again anytime soon. Which was a pity. Donna had truly enjoyed the experience once the initial panic had subsided. Her partner in crime had proved very pleasant company, an entertaining conversationalist and a kindly, even charming companion. Still, he had landed her in this present mess.

"You gave the President pizza?" Seaborn's mood had lightened wonderfully during the course of these revelations, and he now seemed to find them vastly amusing. "Donna, do you have a death wish? You know Mrs. Bartlet won't allow him anything like that. Remember that dressing-down Agent Wilkes got when the President persuaded him to sneak him a hamburger?"

"It was an executive order!" The response was practically a wail. Nobody in the White House, including the President, fancied being on the receiving end of the First Lady's wrath, especially on the subject of the Chief Executive's health.

"That's what Agent Wilkes said." Seaborn was enjoying himself far too much. He had been on the receiving end of Abigail Bartlet's wrath on more than one occasion, and didn't see why anyone else should be spared the experience. "Cholesterol, Donna. Something the First Lady firmly believes the President should have no contact with whatever, despite his best efforts to thwart her. And you know how she feels about being thwarted."

“Agent Wilkes sure as hell found out,” CJ said, shaking her head sadly at the memory. “He got thwarted but good. The poor guy.”

Donna moaned again, desperately wishing herself somewhere, anywhere, but here.

"Sam," Ziegler interrupted. "Much as I hate to interrupt you when you're torturing Donna, I would still like to know what all this has to do with her losing the President." He glanced down at the pitifully miserable young woman. "From the level of security alertness Sam has observed, I take it he really is missing?"

"Yes." Dejection was evident in every line of Donna's body. "I left him in Ainsley's office, but when Ron Butterfield sent someone to check, he was gone. And nobody else has seen him since."

Ziegler scowled at that revelation, chewing unhappily on his cigar.

"Don’t worry, Toby." Seaborn waved a dismissive hand. "It's not like he hasn't shaken his detail before. Besides, he's still in the White House. What could happen?"

"Very little, to be sure." Marbury rose to his feet and shook the creases out of his trousers. "Nevertheless, I detected a considerable level of agitation among the agents before I came out here. Above and beyond what I might expect if the President had merely slipped away for a few minutes during a social event. They seemed positively harried."

"Leo's pretty frantic too," Donna said anxiously. "Not just annoyed - downright angry and anxious. And Ron as well. He was very sweet to me, but he was really serious about how important it was to find the President quickly."

Ziegler almost bit through what was left of his cigar. “Ron Butterfield was... sweet?”

“That’s... spooky,” CJ observed with a dramatic shiver.

“Whoa,” was all Seaborn had to offer.

Marbury glanced quickly between their stunned faces and decided, quite sagely he thought, that one of the signs of the approaching apocalypse had come about.

"I saw Nancy McNally talking to Leo at one point," CJ said abruptly, still trying to wrap her inebriated mind around the concept of a sweet Butterfield. "She didn't look very happy either. Situation Room, do you think?"

"No." Marbury shook his head. "Speaking as one who has witnessed more than his fair share of security measures, I'd say this is slightly more serious. The emphasis seems to be not only on locating the President, but actually securing him."

"He's right." Seaborn's manner had grown serious. "I noticed the activity when I was out walking. It's low-key, but pretty intense. I thought someone had hopped the fence at first, but I don’t think it's that. They usually have that kind of situation under control in minutes, and if not...” His voice trailed off and he shrugged helplessly, “Well then, there's nothing low-key about any Secret Service activity. It's not that, but it is something."

"Like what?" CJ was becoming exasperated, and more than a little anxious. If this activity were noticed by any of the guests, she would be facing a rabid press corps before morning.

Ziegler, who had been standing in a grimly contemplative silence, stirred. "I've just had an unpleasant thought," he said quietly. "Isn't the NTSB report due about now?"

"On Marine One? Yes, but..." Seaborn broke off and regarded his boss with disbelief. "Oh, no. You can't be serious!" When Ziegler made no move to disclaim, the younger man burst out passionately, "It isn't possible!"

"What?" Donna's alarm peaked as Marbury shook his head in dismay and CJ paled and sank down beside her on the steps.

Clearly distressed, Ziegler rubbed his forehead and then ran his hand across his beard. "The only reason I can think of for this kind of security is if the accident report... wasn't." At Donna's blank look he forced himself to put the unthinkable into words. "The crashing of Marine One may not have been an accident."

Donna froze with shock. "You don't really believe that?" When Ziegler shrugged helplessly, she appealed to the others. "That can't be it! That would mean that someone was trying to...” She trailed off.

It was at that point Donnatella Moss got sober real quick. "And I've lost the President!" she wailed.

Everybody, including Marbury, winced at the sound.

"Don't worry, Donna, that's not the explanation." Seaborn's declaration was equal parts belief and an unwillingness to even entertain the dreadful possibility. "You'll see. It's probably just a crisis in the Situation Room, as CJ said. They'll have found the President by now and everything will be back to normal."

"I suppose we'll just have to wait until someone decides to brief us on what the exact problem is." The Press Secretary rose to her feet reluctantly. Her mission now, besides figuring out what to tell the press when the time came, was finding some coffee.

Lots of coffee.

Ziegler scowled at the end of his cigar, which had perversely decided to go out. “We may never know exactly what. We’re none of us exactly in the loop.”

“Josh is,” Donna muttered gloomily.

“Like that’s going to help us.” CJ patted the woman sympathetically on the shoulder. Some things in life simply weren’t meant to be endured.

"Or we can try to find out."

Everybody turned to Marbury, equally stunned by his confident declaration.

The British ambassador beamed at his gaping companions. Springing to the top of the steps, he pivoted dramatically to face them. "I've always found that when you wish to discover the exact state of play it pays to go direct to the horse's mouth. Tell me, does anyone know where I can find Agent Butterfield?"

~ooOoo~

“What’s next?” The question was asked in a sweetly courteous yet somehow patronizing tone. There was a familiar challenge in it as well. “That all depends, Jethro. What’s my prize?”

“Abbey!” Startled, Bartlet jerked round in his seat. Both feet slipped off the back of the chair in front of him. One foot safely hit the floor with a loud thump. Not quite so lucky, his right ankle slipped into the gap between the chair backs. Twisted by his incautious action, half-healed muscles set about protesting violently.

Lurching forward and grabbing at his trapped leg, Bartlet sucked in his breath and couldn’t quite stifle a grunt of pain. Hell, at this point he felt more than entitled to a bit of vocal drama. He couldn’t help but sourly regard the whole farce as the perfect accompaniment to the truly lousy luck he’d had all evening.

“For Heaven’s sake, Jed!” Abbey hurried to his aid and firmly pushed him back into the chair before he could do any more damage. And she knew he would, too. Some things in life were a predetermined certainty. “Hold still!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bartlet acquiesced meekly through clenched teeth. Meek seemed a good attitude choice at this point. There was an odd glint in her eye and he couldn’t quite figure if his wife was in ‘doctor’ mode or ‘slap my husband around and knock him silly’ mode.

Carefully lifting his leg and ankle from between the gap, Abbey gently lowered it to the floor. Crouching down, she looked up into his face. His eyes were tightly closed and a muscle was twitching in his rigid jaw. One hand was convulsively clenching and unclenching as it lay on the affected limb. Concern and aggravation fought with the surge of overwhelming affection that engulfed her. The klutz had managed to do another number on his leg.

She laid her hand on his, trying to calm him. “Jed?”

He shook his head, unable to answer.

“Talk to me.”

“Cramp,” Bartlet barely managed to get it out.

Abbey couldn’t help the sigh of affectionate exasperation that escaped her lips. With sure hands, she began to massage his upper thigh, felt his muscles tense expectantly under her touch. What else could she have expected? He’d done it again, innocently finding his way out of the doghouse.

“I swear to God, you do this on purpose,” she muttered fondly, more than a bit of accusation in her tone.

“Oh, yeah. Sure, why not? All part of my Machiavellian plan. Break a few bones, lose some blood, cripple myself,” Bartlet responded, voice heavy with sarcasm. The cramp was receding, giving him some respite. Opening his eyes, a perverse twinge of guilt made him ask, “What do I get if I jump off a cliff?”

“You go splat.” Abbey glared up at him. “And that’s not funny.”

“It’s not?”

“Not even close.”

“And I try so hard.”

“Try harder.” Given the surly mood he was clearly in, she knew that if given half a chance, he would. She could hear his uneven breathing beginning to settle and the powerful muscle under her hands relax. Finishing her ministrations, she accused a bit hotly, “I told you to stay off it as much as possible tonight, not play tag with your detail.”

It didn’t take three decades of marriage to recognize the flicker of adolescent guilt she saw as he averted his eyes. Glancing up at the two men of her own detail hovering uneasily in the background, she shook her head and murmured softly, “Your timing sucks, Jed.” So much for their quiet, stolen moment. No doubt, they’d already tattled to Butterfield, he in turn to McGarry, and when the irate Chief of Staff came running...

The resulting mental picture was not a pretty one.

Abbey scowled fiercely when her husband had the audacity to laugh. “It’s not funny!” She slapped at his arm. “Why am I not surprised you didn’t listen to me?”

“Do I ever listen?” A wry smile twisted his lips at her protest and the halfhearted wallop. It hadn’t been up to her usual standards, but it was a start. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and tentatively asked, “Why do you even bother?”

“An over developed sense of responsibility, I suppose.” The question troubled her deeply. This despondency was so unlike him. She studied his face, the exhaustion clearly painted in tense lines across his features. The accident, the India trip, and then China; he was only human. And as much as he would deny it, he had his limits. “When was the last time you sat down and relaxed?”

Bartlet snorted derisively. “Super Tuesday.”

“Funny.”

“Really?”

“No.” Abbey shook her head at the childish disappointment in his voice. And he was trying so hard. Gesturing to her two chaperons, she told him gently, “We need to get you to bed.”

“We?” Bartlet opened his eyes and tilted his head back. Seeing her shadows approaching, albeit somewhat cautiously, he scowled darkly. “Oh, yeah. We.” A stubborn look set on his face and he muttered petulantly, “I’m not going to bed.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Are we gonna make me?”

“Are you up for a fight?”

“Ahhh. And there it is. The sound byte and magic word. Fight.” Leaning forward, he turned in his chair and stopped both men in their tracks with a cold, hard eyed stare. Satisfied they had got the first part of his message, he gave them the second part and commanded softly, “Get out.”

Unsure and brought to a totally unexpected crossroads, the two men exchanged uneasy glances. Bartlet could see them mentally reviewing their operations manual. Shuffling his feet, one man began to lift his hand, clearly intent on getting a higher ruling.

“No, no. Don’t do that,” Bartlet stopped him, smiling benignly like he was dealing with a temperamental child. Two of them, in fact. “Don’t check with Butterfield, don’t look at each other. Look at me. I’m making the rather broad assumption here that you know who I am?”

In stunned unison, both men nodded.

“Very good, boys. I had begun to wonder. Now, I will repeat this only once, so listen carefully and take whatever notes you feel necessary.” His velvet tones, edged with steel, rose in volume and he roared, “Get out!”

Watching them trip over themselves in their haste to escape, the President of the United States couldn’t help but feel a touch of vindictive satisfaction. They may have only been doing their jobs, but he’d just got a bit of his own back and it felt good.

“There,” he said, turning to his wife and giving her a supremely smug look. “We are gone. Fight's over before it’s even begun.”

“You’re a bully, Jed.”

“I’m the President.”

“Do you think I actually need to be reminded?” There was acid in her voice for a moment. Then Abbey looked at him again, seeing the exhaustion both mental and physical. Now was not the time. She softened her voice. “You need to rest.”

“Practicing medicine without a license?” It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Wincing, he muttered, “Shit.”

“Nice one, jackass.”

One corner of his mouth twisted upwards, hinting at a bit of self-mockery. “At least I’m a jackass again.”

Abbey smiled sadly in return, alarmed though by the weary melancholy she heard in his voice. It was so wrong. He was slipping away from her again. Reaching up, she brushed her hand across his cheek. “Did you ever stop?” she asked lightly, trying to bring him back.

“I honestly can’t remember anymore.” Capturing her hand, he pulled her to her feet. “Sit down, Abbey.”

“Jed, this is not the time or the place,” she protested, resisting his pull. She wanted so much to talk to him, but was suddenly afraid. For the first time, she couldn’t place his mood, where he was coming from. She knew what she wanted from him, what she wanted to hear. It was the cost that now worried her.

And he looked so very tired. “Your timing, as always, leaves a great deal to be desired.”

“So what else is new?” He pulled her roughly into the chair next to him, remotely satisfied at the shocked look on her face his uncharacteristic action caused. “I’ve been waiting for the right time. We’ve been waiting. Hell, the entire White House has been waiting for the right time.” He smiled sadly at the irony and continued with heavy sarcasm, “The White House. That should have been our first clue. It’ll never come. There’ll never be a right time and we haven’t exactly been subtle choosing what few battlegrounds we’ve been allowed.”

“You can’t have a good fight with an audience.” It was an ugly truth, but a grim truth nevertheless. The price paid for public service and, as much as she hated to admit it, nobody’s fault. Thinking about what happened upstairs with the girls, Abbey further acknowledged a bit guiltily, “And some of us have been less subtle than others.”

“They noticed.”

“You think?”

“Not lately.”

“Now there’s a sound byte,” Abbey snapped, finding that a small spark of her anger remained. He had brought them to this state. Thinking and listening were two things he hadn’t been doing well of late. She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her. “When exactly did that epiphany occur to you?”

“Abbey, don’t. My words this time, please?” Bartlet tightened his hold on her hand. She was about to go over the edge and he didn’t want that. Not that he didn’t deserve a good tongue lashing, but he needed her listening, not ranting. “I don’t want to fight. God knows I don’t deserve it, but right now, here at this moment, I would very much like to be a little closer to Heaven. Is that too much to ask?”

“Heaven?” Abbey whispered, realizing that his last plea had not been to her, but to the one person who always listened. He never begged the Divine. This had gone too far. “Jed...”

“Are you still mad at me?”

Only the truth now. Abbey nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Proof of my consistency. I’m nothing if not reliably myopic.”

Abbey rolled her eyes. “Little words, Jed.”

“I like big words.” He laughed at her reaction. An exasperated Abbey was a far more delightful prospect than an angry one. On safer ground, he paused for a moment, then continued slowly, searching for the one thing that had eluded him for so long. “That’s my problem. I keep looking for the big words when little ones would so easily serve. One little word in particular.” Bartlet lowered his voice, almost afraid to ask, “Why, Abbey? Why did you do it?”

“It was my choice.” She wasn’t expecting this, had come prepared to drag him kicking and screaming into the verbal arena. It left her feeling vulnerable and she didn’t like it. Abbey saw his face crumple at that answer and was forced to admit she was doing what she’d been so long accusing him of. Taking the easy way out.

It wasn’t fair to either of them, not now when they had come so far. “No, that was too easy. You deserve better.”

Bartlet laughed ruefully. “I do?”

“Sometimes.” Abbey realized then that a line had been crossed, both for her and for him. Comfortable now, she teased, “A reward for your dogged consistency.”

He laughed outright at that. It was a wonderful sound, rich and free; too long missing from her world. His arm slipped around the back of her chair, coming down lightly to pull her closer. Released from anger and recrimination, Abbey leaned into his embrace. Feeling him relax, she repeated his question, “Why, Jed?”

“It’s a little word.”

“Because I was proud of you,” she said hesitantly, dropping her chin to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The strong beat gave her the courage to continue. “Because when all is said and done, it was my choice. It always has been. Nothing I do or say is going to change that, and I wouldn’t want it to.”

Bartlet brought his other arm around to encircle her, drawing her closer. “No?” he whispered into her hair. He’d been afraid to ask that question. Now he found himself dreading the answer.

This time Abbey’s wallop had a bit more force behind it. Pounding his chest, she berated him, “You’re a complete idiot if you thought I would.”

“Hmmm.” Relaxing further, conscious of a sense of place and satisfaction he’d long been missing, Bartlet observed dryly, “My polls are improving. I’ve been downgraded from jackass to idiot.”

“My idiot.”

Blinking, surprised at the fierceness of her tone, he asked somewhat incredulously, “That’s something to be proud of?”

“Don’t you ever doubt it.” But he did. She could hear it in his voice. Her husband was still waiting, still wanting more. “Why isn’t such a little word, Jed. There’s a lifetime of answers.”

“Or a lifetime of excuses.”

“Excuses?” Abbey smiled at that. She couldn’t help it. Marbury had been right. She was as human as the next person. He’d left himself wide open. Slyly and without rancor she said, “I love you very much.”

Abbey felt him stiffen, attempt to pull away and for a moment she felt she’d gone too far. Words could be weapons and she hadn’t meant those particular words to leave him cut and bleeding. She wrapped her arms around him tighter, holding him close. He wasn’t going to get away, not this time.

Bartlet was silent for a long while, then asked quietly, fearfully, “Is that enough?”

“It was enough...” She reached up and framed his face with gentle, loving hands. “...that thirty-four years ago I said yes.”

“For better or for worse?” He said the words tentatively, as if testing the very idea that he could have been worth the effort.

“Never for worse.”

His searching gaze met hers and his heart turned over. His breath caught in his throat. It was there, in her eyes. Small words, Jed. Small and simple. With that realization went the burden, and the guilt.

Hand behind her head, Bartlet pulled her closer. She didn’t resist. Unsure, he pressed his lips to hers, caressing rather than demanding. The moment was brief, but telling. Drawing back, he brushed his thumb across her cheek, capturing the single, precious tear that had fallen. It wasn’t the first, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Of that, he knew his consistency was assured.

There was only one last thing left to do.

“Abbey?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Abbey didn’t know how long she’d been waiting for those simple words. Months? Years? It no longer mattered. He’d said them, and she hadn’t had to pry them out of him with a surgeon’s skill. Not only had he said them, but he’d meant them. Heart and soul, she could see it in his eyes.

Her husband was watching her intently, waiting. Abbey almost laughed. There he was again; the rumpled black tux, bow tie askew, blue eyes troubled and unsure. The little boy lost was back again. How could she resist him?

Why bother even trying? Besides, he deserved a suitable reward for improving his communication skills.