The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

James Shirley: 1596 - 1666

The Residence, several hours later...

"If this were anyone other than the President of the United States, Robert, would we even be having this discussion?"

Abigail Bartlet ceased her pacing and glared challengingly at her colleague. He didn't answer her. How could he? Abandoning pretense, she threw her arms into the air and continued her frustrated quartering of the room.

Hackett shifted uneasily in his seat, rubbing his eyes and looking everywhere but at the agitated pacing of the First Lady. "Probably not."

An answer he knew would give neither one of them any satisfaction. He grimaced at the thought. There was no way the leader of the free world could be considered a normal patient. A human being with all the faults and frailties that went with the condition, but with so many other considerations tagged on that the humanity was nearly lost in the deluge.

To make matters worse, they were having this conversation in the President's private study while the Chief of Staff had his private meeting with the man in question. The door on that particular dialogue was closed. Even the First Lady's considerable powers of intimidation had been unable to stop it, not when – again - the man in question refused the advice and council of his wife and chief physician.

Needless to say, both the man's official physician, and his wife and personal physician - Hackett wasn't about to remove that title from Abigail Bartlet - weren't at all happy with that situation. But there wasn't much even their combined protests, medical or otherwise, could do about it.

Josiah Bartlett was the President of the United States. The art and intrigue of government didn't end because some nameless enemy had tried to maim and assassinate its head. Any and all considerations a healer might have for their patient were colored by that consequence and its attending problems.

Problems that only seemed to multiply. It was at times like this that Rear Admiral Robert Hackett seriously considered retirement and a nice, safe and mundane general practice. A few screaming, runny-nosed two-year-olds had never seemed more attractive.

"I'd have been a great deal happier with a few more tests," Hackett muttered, a bit of frustrated anger finding its way through his usual easy-going facade. "There's an open MRI in the basement. I can't see why Agent Butterfield would object to that."

"Ron wasn't the one who objected," Abbey sighed with exasperation.

Hackett understood her frustration, shared it and knew full well who had objected. Given the executive source of those objections, no reason had been provided to explain the negative. Even the respected naval and military tradition of physician override had been stomped on by that adamant and supremely stubborn will.

Still, he wasn't about to give up that easily. "At least we'd have known for certain."

Abbey smiled at her colleague with profound gratitude, finally giving in to the long hours of worried exhaustion and dropping into a chair opposite the uniformed medic. We. Such a simple word, but his including her in the equation meant more to her than she could possibly say. "You know as well as I do that there's no certainty with MS, Robert. Months, years, it doesn't matter how long he's been clinically inactive. Any tests are going to show the same thing."

"More lesions."

"It doesn't stop with a relapse announcing its presence."

Hackett could be as stubborn as his patient. "We'd know," he insisted.

A look of tired sadness passed across Abbey's features. She looked across at Hackett and held his concerned gaze. "He knows."

"So do you." And there, Hackett knew, lay the ultimate problem. Healer or not, Abigail Bartlet couldn't distance herself from the patient. "He won't change his mind?"

Abbey's short laugh was choked.

"Okay then," Hackett sighed. So much for that idea. Standing up, he straightened his uniform jacket and offered her a gentle smile. "Without the President's cooperation there's nothing more we can do."

"The jury is still out on that." Abbey's eyes narrowed. She had a few options unavailable to her colleague.

"I can imagine." Hackett replied dryly, fairly certain a new White House legend was in the making. "You going to be okay? A few hours’ sleep wouldn't hurt."

"I'll sleep when he does."

And he hadn't slept, that she knew. Jed had caught a few snatches after his initial collapse. Not enough before the comings and goings of his staff, the Joint Chiefs, Nancy McNally and God only knew who else, all desperate to spin what had happened into some semblance of order, had invaded the Residence. Despite her strongest objections, Abbey hadn't been able to stop it.

"Ma'am, relapse or not, you're going to need your rest to keep up with him."

Abbey tilted her head, looking up at the tall naval medic with a tired, indulgent smile. "You're becoming quite the mother hen, Robert."

Hackett's sense of humor took over and he chuckled. "Perhaps Ron and Leo will let me join. Their club can't be all that exclusive."

"It's not." Abbey spoke softly, caught between a laugh of her own at the mental image and the sob she'd been holding back all day.

"Abbey..."

"When he does, Robert," she said firmly, eyes flashing and countering Hackett's unspoken concern. Then her gaze softened. "That doesn't stop you though."

A snort was the only answer Hackett had for that suggestion.

This time Abbey did laugh.

It was a sound Hackett had wanted to hear, however strained. Events may be out of their control; their patient may be out of their control, but not this. They could agree on that. With an inquiring nod and her waved consent, he took his leave of the First Lady. He hoped she did sleep. Tomorrow would see the showdown with the President continue, and she, of all of them, was going to need her energies.

Watching him leave, Abbey couldn't help the feeling of abandonment that came over her. With Hackett gone, if only for the evening, it left her alone with her husband's stubborn will. And his staff wasn't helping, not even Leo. That had surprised her. The Chief of Staff’s concern had given way to an almost cold, frightening determination. She'd lost an ally and couldn't quite figure out how or why.

Jed certainly wasn't listening to reason and, when Leo was done, he had another meeting, probably another after that. Then another. Come hell or high water, the government would continue.

Screw the government. "Jackass," she muttered.

Goodness, but was she back to that again?

One of the myriad Secret Service agents standing guard poked his head into the study. "Ma'am?"

Abbey looked up, startled out of her thoughts. "Yes?"

"You asked to be informed when Mr. McGarry had left?"

Lips tightening, Abbey nodded. "He's gone?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you."

A curt nod and the agent withdrew.

Good! With a long, exhausted sigh, Abbey stood up, wincing at the pop of fatigued muscles and joints. It wasn't over yet. With Leo out of the way, however temporarily, she might be able to talk some sense into her asinine husband. It was a vain hope, but she was going to try. Glancing at the clock on the wall, a quick calculation figured she had a few minutes at best before the next wave of staffers hit him broadside.

A few minutes to get in a few shots of her own.

Ron Butterfield didn't bother to look back when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The quiet warning that came through on his earpiece, that yet another staffer in a seemingly unending and unstoppable wave was about to arrive, was also unnecessary. He knew who it was. Even the plush carpeting couldn't muffle the distinct belligerence and tenacity of the man's stride. The deduction and conclusion were both obvious.

Damn! Leo had warned him. It wasn't anything Butterfield hadn't expected; the man was the Communications Director. Ziegler needed to know. But still, a little more time to brace himself for the inevitable onslaught of protests would have been nice. Considering how everyone, including himself, had spent the last few hours scrambling for some sort of safe-ground, he should have known better. Nothing from here on was going to be easy.

Head turned to one side, he leaned his free shoulder against the sill, keeping his other with the weapon harness and gun clear. The window he was staring out was at the end of the corridor, but still gave him a clear view of the bedroom door. It was really a nice view. The sun was setting, the day almost over.

The footsteps halted. A tight smile lifted one corner of Butterfield's mouth. The man was good. He could make even coming to a halt sound combative. Crossing his arms, one hand unconsciously brushing against the gun beneath his jacket and checking its set, he didn't look up.

Clearing his throat, Toby Ziegler fired off the first salvo. "He still in there?"

He was asking about McGarry. And the President. A quick glance down the long corridor at the closed door, the still tense agents stationed outside, and Butterfield nodded in curt reply. Best to keep this simple, hold the unnecessary words at the bare minimum.

"Why aren't you in there with them?"

Butterfield shrugged. "I said what I needed to say."

"Apparently not enough."

"You've got issues?"

"I've got issues."

Eyes narrowing, Butterfield turned away from the deepening reds of the sunset and gave his interrogator a calculating look. Brave man, but two could play this game. "Then why aren't you in there?"

"I wasn't invited." Ziegler scowled. He was damn sure he knew why, too.

"Go figure." Given the fireworks he had overheard when Leo first broached his plan to the Communications Director, Butterfield had a pretty good idea why as well.

Ziegler shoved his hands into his pockets. "You agree with this?"

"Nope."

"Then I ask again, with all due respect and keenly, painfully aware that you carry a loaded firearm and know how to use it..."

Butterfield smiled. Not even the most foolish of observers - and Ziegler was in no way foolish  - would have considered it friendly or encouraging.

Still, the Communications Director didn't let it deter him in the least. "...may I, respectfully, ask why you are not in there stopping it?"

There it was. The sound byte. Shaking his head, Butterfield let out a disgusted huff. He was hanging around the staffers too much. The politicalese was contagious. He frowned, eyes level under drawn brows. It was a rhetorical question.

The man already knew why. "You know the answer to that."

Ziegler's shoulders slumped and he looked away. He knew. "Yeah," he grumbled, admitting the truth sullenly if not graciously. "It's not good, Ron."

"Yeah." For the first time, Butterfield relaxed. Ziegler had made his point and left it at that. As conversations go, this one was right up the Secret Service Agent's alley. No wasted words or oxygen. Just the way he liked it.

"He's wired."

"Leo?"

Wrinkling his nose and scowling, Ziegler nodded.

"We're all wired, Toby."

"Not like him. You think I've got issues?"

That was a topic Butterfield didn't feel at all comfortable discussing. There were already too many layers to this mess without adding more. "It's not our place."

Rolling his eyes, Ziegler laughed shortly. "Well, gee, Ron. Where were you and your sage advice when I needed it?"

"If you'd curb those sadomasochistic tendencies of yours..."

Ziegler winced, cutting him off with a waved hand. That barb had struck a little too close to home. "What are the odds?" he asked, just a hint of self-mockery in his tone.

"With you? Slim to none."

"Will the President go for it?"

Nodding, not trusting himself to speak, Butterfield turned away.

It was all the answer Ziegler needed. "Damn."

"Yeah." Really, Butterfield was finding this whole exchange refreshingly direct and brief. Ziegler had a head on his shoulders and knew how to use it.

Down the corridor, the bedroom door opened and McGarry stepped out. A quiet word with the agents stationed outside and his searching gaze found Butterfield. His expression went a bit congested when he saw Ziegler, then quickly cleared. With a deliberately casual stride, he approached.

Butterfield stepped away from the window, clasping both hands behind his back. Face carefully composed, he waited.

Taking up the agent's vacated position at the window, Ziegler turned away and focused his gaze on the fading light of the sunset, the reds creeping slowly across the manicured lawn. His imagination, still fueled by the horrors of what he'd seen and heard earlier, saw only the spread of blood in the crimson display.

"It's a go," McGarry announced.

Butterfield scowled. "He agreed?"

"He understands the risks."

"No, he doesn't." Ziegler turned away from the window, shrugging past a startled Butterfield and giving McGarry the full extent of his considerable displeasure. "Not all of it. How could he? When most of his advisors don't even know?"

"Don't start with me, Toby," McGarry warned him, stopping just short of snarling. He didn't need this, not again and certainly not now. It was hard enough keeping himself focused without Toby helping. "We don't have time for you to pick this apart in your usual inimical style."

"Get used to it, Leo."

"You'll brief C.J." It was a command and another warning to end it, now.

As usual, Ziegler chose to ignore it. "No."

Butterfield winced.

Blinking, McGarry was taken unawares by that curt reply. He'd given Toby a great deal of leeway over the years, but not for this, and certainly not now. Eyes narrowing, he struggled to keep his voice even. "Toby..."

"I said no, Leo. You started this, you finish it. I want no part of it. I've had my say."

"It's your job."

Not generally privy to these discussions, even Butterfield knew enough of the White House personality dynamics to understand that was the wrong thing to say to Toby Ziegler.

"I'm a senior advisor!" Ziegler snarled, fairly bristling with indignation. "Where was I given the chance to exercise my job on this? Can you answer that? I don't remember getting an invite for that particular meeting. Hell, you've kept your own deputy out of the loop!"

He didn't give a fuming McGarry a chance to answer, waving his hand towards the bedroom door. "The President listens to you... listened to you," he amended shortly, knowing he was riding the thin red line on this. It was familiar territory. "You make C.J. listen. I'll pick up the pieces."

Down the corridor, the agents on guard looked up at the raised voices, regarding the trio suspiciously.

Butterfield waved them off.

Without giving McGarry a chance to respond, Ziegler turned abruptly on his heel and strode off, somehow managing to stomp rather convincingly through the thick carpet. "You'd better be there when he does, Ron," he called back over his shoulder to the grim Secret Service Agent. "Compared to C.J. on a tear, I'm a cake-walk."

A muffled curse was Butterfield's answer to that. A smaller, more reluctant part of his mind had to grudgingly admit the man knew how to make one hell of a dramatic exit.

McGarry was just a bit more vocal, and louder. "Damn it!" He turned to Butterfield, glaring as he demanded coldly, "You got anything else to add? 'Cause now's the time to give whatever objections you have left some air."

Butterfield's head snapped round at that, first incredulous at the question, then his expression stilled. Something indefinable, dangerous and lethal entered the gaze he leveled at the Chief of Staff. He took an abrupt step towards him, hand raised and one adamant finger held up for emphasis. "Get this straight, Leo..."

Startled, McGarry took an involuntary step backwards.

"...I don't like this. You know that. I've had my say. You're playing with fire; we both are. But remember this," his finger stabbed forcefully into McGarry's chest, forcing him back another step. "With or without the President's consent, I can call this off. My call. Not his, not yours. Don't forget that."

McGarry could only stand there, unable to offer up any rebuttal to that threat. Or was it a threat? He wondered briefly if the relief he'd felt at the agent's outburst should be accompanied by guilt. He had started this, over Butterfield's protests and reluctant agreement, but the game was his.

Stepping back, Butterfield adjusted his suit and the set of his firearm. Hand to his earpiece, his listened for a moment, then said calmly, "There’s another staff meeting with the President in twenty minutes. Your people are already gathering at the gates." He smiled thinly. "I don't think Toby'll be there."

"The gates." McGarry laughed shortly, bitterly. "The gates have already been breached, Ron."

Butterfield's eyes narrowed. "That's the only reason I'm going along with this."

Abbey slipped quietly into the darkened bedroom. The only light came from a lamp beside the bed. Leo must have dimmed the main lights on his way out. She would have appreciated the gesture more if she hadn't known that the senior staff was due to descend en masse within a very short time. A meeting called by Jed; it would hopefully be the last in a day that had already contained far too many such meetings for a man who had been forced to conduct all of them from his sickbed. 

"Abbey," he had said tiredly earlier, "I have to do this. Whatever happened here today, it didn't change that. Only made things more urgent. And there are certain things only the President can do. You know that."

Oh, she knew that all right. Knew it painfully well. No matter what personal catastrophes descended upon the man, the duty of the office remained - taking precedence over all else, including health... and family.

That last had been painfully demonstrated when a grim and intense McGarry had returned, and she and Hackett had been forced to withdraw from the field, their adversary not yet vanquished. The fact that they had been dismissed so that an even more deadly enemy might be engaged, one with a human form, had done nothing for the temper of either physician. 'First, do no harm' might be a fundamental tenet of the medical profession, but it helped immeasurably if the patient would actually listen.

Walking softly up to the bed, she studied the offender in question. The glow of the lamplight softened the stark outlines and hues of abrasions and contusions, lending a false color to his features. His eyes were closed and his breathing soft, with only a faint pucker between his brows to betray the ever constant discomfort.

About to sink into the chair beside the bed, Abbey impulsively settled instead on the mattress next to her husband, careful to do nothing to jar the injured limb that still rested on a pillow, the white of the bandages blending with the crisp linen in the half-light.

"Mmm..." Her husband stirred and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met and his lips curled slightly at the corners. He raised his good hand and Abbey captured it, squeezing his fingers gently with silent affection.

"How do you feel?"

"Not too bad." Bartlet's voice was low and slightly slurred by sleep and fatigue. "The hand is throbbing a bit, but it's, y'know, a clean pain? I can cope with that. Other than that, just a bit achy all over, like flu."

Abbey leaned forward, still holding his hand, to gently brush back the rebellious fringe and rest her hand on his forehead. He flinched at her touch and felt warm, but not seriously so. It was only to be expected after all, given the type of wounds. Infection; not yet a cause for concern and she sincerely doubted Hackett would ever allow it to reach that point.

The Admiral was coming by in the morning to examine and clean the injuries, check for any further signs of danger. She hadn't told Jed that yet, hadn't felt in the mood to listen to his complaining at having to go through all that again. When it came to being poked and prodded, the most powerful man in the free world could be such a child.

And she loved him for it.

"Tired?" she asked.

"Mmm, hmm." Bartlet barely stifled a yawn and grinned up at his wife wryly. He had a fair idea what was coming next.

"You should be sleeping, Jed. In fact, you should have been sleeping for hours. Leo's had his say..."

At the mention of the Chief of Staff, Bartlet's head dropped as if he suddenly couldn't bear to meet his wife's gaze.

Focused on her goal and driven by concern, Abbey didn't notice.  "...and you can afford to put the others off until tomorrow. They'll understand."

"No." Bartlet's voice was soft with understanding, but his words were firm. "We need to meet with the staff, Abbey. I can't finish for the night without doing that. This has thrown them, badly. The explosion, the attack was bad enough, but now with my thing..." He trailed off, not quite sure she was even listening or agreed, but needing to say it anyway. "They've spent the last year coping with the fallout from that, and the doomsday scenarios in case it happened again. Well, now it has happened again and their imaginations and fears are running riot. We need to reassure them."

"And you think their seeing you like this will help?" Abbey almost flinched at her own words, but forced herself to meet her husband's startled, hurt regard steadily. "Jed, I should bring you a mirror. You look awful."

"I always said doctors should be motivational speakers," the President muttered with mock severity, an indulgent glint in his eye. "Thanks for that, sweetheart. My fragile ego feels so much better now."

"Somehow, I think your ego will survive."

"Yeah." Bartlet tugged lightly on his wife's hand. "Seriously though, Abbey. So will the rest of me. All of this -" he indicated his face and slightly raised the wrapped left hand from its pillow, only to lower it again with a chagrined grunt of pain,  "- will mend. The staff will see that, need to understand that." He adopted his best cajoling tone, slowly rubbing his thumb in lazy circles across her palm. "It will only be for a few minutes. Then that's it for tonight, I promise."

His face fell slightly as he studied his wife's unyielding expression. Disappointed that his gentle teasing with her hand wasn't providing half the distraction he'd hoped it would, he tried another tact. "Abbey? Please. I... I just want to see them, speak to them."

Abbey sat back, startled by the note of almost desperate entreaty in that last appeal, the pleading expression in his eyes. Feeling mystified at the strength of emotion behind the words, she nodded wordlessly, ruthlessly crushing down the little tendril of apprehension that once again attempted to coil upwards around her heart.

"Thank you." The words were almost a sigh, and husband and wife sat together in silence for a few moments, basking in the reassurance of each other's presence.

The President finally broke the silence. "They should be here in a few minutes."

"I suppose I should straighten up in here a little." Abbey's eyes wandered vacantly around the bedroom. "Put on a few lights."

"Yeah." Her husband shifted painfully. "Abbey, how are the girls?"

Abbey couldn't help the short, rueful laugh that escaped. "Well, the senior staff aren't the only ones in need of reassurance."

Bartlet flinched guiltily. "You spoke to them?"

"I got off the phone with Liz a little while ago. She's worried, but calm and trying to keep Annie from seeing some of the more sensational news reports. Zoey called immediately after." Abbey took a deep breath as she remembered her youngest daughter's tearful, half-hysterical voice. "She's taking it pretty badly, Jed. It's too much like Rosslyn for her."

"I'm just glad she didn't have to see it this time." Bartlet's head was bent, his voice subdued.

"So am I."

Mother and father joined together in a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks that at least on this occasion none of their children had had to endure the spectacle of their father assaulted and wounded.

Her vision still clouded by the memory of that old event, Abbey said, "Zoey wanted to come here."

"What?" Bartlet's voice was sharp. "You explained to her, right? She should stay away. I don't want any of our family here just now." Neither a fool nor one to relish losing battles, he hadn't even tried to open up the subject of sending his wife off to safety. "Not until we have some answers. Did Charlie..."

"Relax." Abbey spoke soothingly. No sense letting him get worked up over nothing. She was trying to get him to relax, not rewire him for another emotional waltz. "Charlie's with her. I spoke to him myself. He'll take care of her, make sure she stays put."

"Good." Bartlet hesitated, then had to ask, the word dragging out reluctantly as if he half-feared the answer. "Ellie?"

Abbey winced slightly. So much for getting him to relax. "I couldn't raise her on her cellphone, so I spoke to her detail. They pulled her out of class. Gave her the news." 'What little there was of it anyway,' but she didn't say that aloud.

"She hasn't called?"

"Not yet." Abbey grimaced at the expression of disappointment and resignation that flowed across her husband's features and could not suppress a brief spasm of irritation at her middle daughter.

There had been no return call and Abbey couldn't quite relieve herself of some of that burden. She hadn't called back either, following up on the original reports and broken snatches of information she knew were all Ellie would receive from her agents. Brushing her fingers gently along the line of her husband's jaw - one of the few spots not covered with stitches or cuts - she could only ruefully admit she'd had a few other things on her mind.

A poor excuse, but all Abbey had. She'd try again later; fix it as best she could.

"Okay." Frowning, Bartlet abruptly turned his face away from his wife's trailing fingers. Pulling himself together, he smiled wanly. "It's not that I don't want them here, you know," he said suddenly.

Abbey squeezed his fingers, felt his hand twitch beneath her touch. "I know, Jed."

"It's just, with everything that's happening, I'm afraid that being near me might put them in danger right now." Bartlet felt as if he were strangling on the words. That he should be the cause of his children being in danger, that his very proximity might spell a threat to them...

He raised a woebegone face to his wife. "I really wish I could see them right now, talk to them. Before..."

"Before what, Jed?"

Bartlet shrugged away the question. It was easier, safer than trying to explain. "Nothing. I've just come to realize there's so many things I want to say to them, to tell them."

"You still have lots of time for that." Abbey spoke reassuringly.

"Yeah." Bartlet's voice was almost inaudible and his chin dropped down onto his chest.

Concerned and, if she were quite honest with herself, just a little frightened, Abbey watched him. Even allowing for the awful events of that dreadful morning, this air of resignation was so unlike him. Normally Jed would be spitting fire, gathering up his energies, however depleted, for the fight and filled with a righteous rage.

But not this time. This time he seemed to be withdrawing, from her and from his surroundings, retreating to a place she did not understand and where she felt ill equipped to follow. Something had changed, and she wished with all her being that she knew just what that was.

At a loss to know what to say, she settled for that physical contact that was so much a part of their private communion and comfortingly ran her hand up and down his forearm...

Only to watch with startled surprise as her husband twisted away from her with a low hiss of pain.

"Jed?" Alarmed, she kept the worry from her voice by sheer effort of will.

Bartlet looked slightly startled himself. "Man, for a second that hurt! Almost like my skin was on fire." Taking a deep, calming breath, he let it out in an unsteady laugh. "Guess that explosion jarred me around a bit more than I thought." Giving his wife an accusing glare, tempered with loving humor, he added, "Or my doctors did."

"Mmm." Abbey regarded him with narrowed eyes, puzzled by his reaction. It could be just after effects from the explosion - the impact must have been considerable, given how close he had been to the seat of the blast - but she felt strangely uneasy. She didn't bother to give his sly accusation the dignity of a second thought. Something, though, was scratching at the back of her mind...

The sudden thrill of the telephone effectively derailed her train of thought, and she scowled as Jed released her hand and with a tired sigh stretched out towards the receiver and picked it up.

"Hello? Yes."  He caught her eye and shrugged apologetically, mouthing, 'the NSA'.

Only one among many. The phone hadn't stopped ringing all day. Resignedly, Abbey rose and began picking up clothes and generally restoring order to the room. No doubt the stewards would see to the cleaning later, but right now it gave her something to do. Domesticity was far too underrated. The staff should be here in a few moments anyway. After a while, her attention drifted back to the one-sided conversation going on in the background.

"I know, Nancy, but..." Bartlet paused for a moment and listened before trying again.  "Leo said..." He winced and held the receiver away from his ear as tinny and faint but unmistakably enraged tones issued loudly from the earpiece. Cautiously, he drew it back towards him.

"Yes, as strategies go, it's not the ideal one, but Nancy, at least it's a plan." The receiver squawked indignantly some more. Bartlet rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. But at least we'll be doing something. It's worth a try. Nancy... Nancy, don't make me remind you who I am... Listen, I appreciate your sentiments, but I really think this might be worth considering. Yes. Now let me talk to Leo for a second, will you?"

After a momentary pause, in tones of gentle amusement, he said, "Almost talked you out of it, did she? Save some of your energy, you've still got C.J. to deal with. She's next."

Bartlet pulled the phone away from his ear again. This time the agitated voice on the other end had the nerve to issue a few scathing comments not normally issued to or in the presence of the President.

He chuckled softly anyway, though the sound was tired.

Abbey's fascinated and unashamed attempts at eavesdropping were thwarted by a discreet knock on the door. Hurrying to answer, she admitted a visibly uneasy Sam Seaborn and Joshua Lyman to the room, followed closely and just as nervously by C.J. Cregg.

Abbey shared a quick smile with the Press Secretary, reading the unspoken message of concern and affection. She nodded graciously to all three - it was their constant interruption to the rest her husband so badly needed, not their silent support and understanding that she resented. She took a brief moment to puzzle over the absence of Toby Ziegler and indicated that they should follow her towards the bed.

She was about to shut the door when a fourth presence made himself known. As silent as always, Ron Butterfield stood there, grimly waiting for her permission to enter. That troubled Abbey, that he would, even by implication, give her the yeah or nay on whether or not he would be included. Not that any denial on her part would exclude him should he be determined to join what she'd already decided was a waste of what little was left of her husband's time and energy.

Inclining her head politely, although the implied graciousness was forced, she waved him in. She didn't want him here, his presence was a reminder of failures and pain, but in truth she really had no choice. Why he was here, Abbey would leave for later.

Butterfield gave her a curt nod, and then stationed himself along the back wall. As usual, he faded, disappearing into the background. But not before the senior staff, each in turn, gave him a nervous, suspicious glance of inquiry.

He ignored them.

The President was still on the phone. "I know, Leo. But I trusted your judgment when you first brought this to me. I still do."  He paused, waving his gathering advisors closer. "We already know about the consequences... I know. Do it anyway. You going to be there much longer? Well, the staff is here now. As soon as you're finished with Nancy and..." - he gave a quick, shuttered glance at the group gathering at the foot of the bed- "...whatever, or she leaves anything worth salvaging of your carcass, get your ass over here. Okay?"

Dropping the receiver back on the rest and avoiding Abbey's accusing glare, he smiled and nodded at his senior advisors. "Hello, thanks for coming."

The senior staff gathered in a tight little huddle at the foot of the bed.  Bartlet studied them for a moment and almost smiled. They looked so worried and, while hardly what could be defined as professional, it was quite sweet and touching.

"How are you, Mr. President?" Seaborn's youthful features were furrowed with anxiety and his eyes continued to drift with reluctant fascination towards the hand resting atop the pillows.

“Fine, thanks, Sam." Bartlet attempted to wriggle the exposed tips of his heavily abraded fingers in illustration and winced slightly. "Well, actually, I've been better. But I got off really lightly, all things considered."

"If you say so, sir." Lyman didn't sound nearly so convinced. He looked even more frazzled and rumpled than usual, the shock of brown hair standing almost straight up, as if he had been clutching it in both hands. "Pardon my saying so, but if those are light injuries then I'd hate to see what would have happened if you'd still been holding the thing."

"Yeah." Bartlet considered his hand for a moment. An involuntary shudder at the memory passed through his frame. "Thank God for Fitz."

"Yes, Mr. President." The Deputy Chief of Staff felt his distress rise at the strained weariness of his Chief Executive's tones. Darting a glance at C.J., he saw the Press Secretary studying the man lying before them, taking in the mutilation, the tight, strained planes of the familiar face and the unmistakable air of general, exhausted infirmity.

Her pale features mirrored his own dismay and also a certain brittle emotion just barely contained. He recognized it, had seen it take open possession of this woman he thought of as a sister in a time that was all too recent. Grief, and a sense of loss.

The First Lady came around the foot of the bed, returning to her husband's side. As she brushed by C.J., she gently touched the younger woman on the arm. They exchanged a brief glance, comfort and sympathy communicated and shared.

C.J. blinked, and then gratefully nodded her appreciation to the other woman, who had so much to deal with herself right now, yet could still spare time and concern for a friend.

Abbey sank into the chair on her husband's right side and once again slipped her hand into his. He tensed, but then squeezed gently and she affectionately rested her other hand on his forearm, only to remove it with a frown as he grimaced slightly at the contact. She drew back, gently and carefully releasing his hand, a blooming anxiety creasing her forehead.

Catching her husband's eye, Abbey smiled softly to erase the signs of growing worry and silently withdrew across the room, settling into a chair near the silent and glowering Butterfield, who had taken up his station near the door. Allowing her husband this moment with his staff, his extended family. It was so like him to be concerned about them, and not himself. Maddening and familiar, but she couldn't find it in herself to fault him for the sentiment.

Lyman had observed the silent exchange between the two ladies, and now the subtle flinch the President had given at his wife's touch. He felt his anger flare. Their President had been hurt! Right before their eyes; and now even his wife had to second-guess every movement for fear of bringing further pain to someone she loved. The fury built and swelled, demanding a target.

"Sir, what are we doing?"

At Bartlet's quizzical and slightly startled stare, Lyman flushed and got his voice back under control. "I'm sorry, Mr. President." He took a deep breath. "Sir, we've been dancing around what happened all day, trying to keep a lid on the rumors without actually saying anything. We need to give the press something concrete and soon. But, more than that, we need to know what..."

He broke off, struggling to find the words to convey the outrage he felt. "Sir, you were attacked. Right here in your home. In front of us, and none of us could stop it. We want to, we need to..." he couldn't finish the sentence.

"To know what's been done to find those responsible," a quiet, troubled voice finished for him. Sam Seaborn's handsome face was flushed with a similar anger. "Mr. President, we want to help."

Bartlet glanced at Abbey, who smiled in reply, visibly touched at the show of support and affection from the three young people before them. He felt a slight twinge of guilt.  Surely he could just tell them? But... no. Now was not the time. Later perhaps...

Observing their eager, protective expressions and remembering what Leo had told him of his interview with a certain surly Communications Director, plus a presently even less sunny Security Chief glowering in the background, he felt himself cravenly grateful that Leo had insisted it was better to wait.

His Chief of Staff had pointed out that they would not be kept in the dark for long. "And you'll forgive me," he had said dryly, "if after the day I've had, I don't want to be screamed at by all three of them simultaneously. Toby was bad enough, and I suspect C.J. will be even worse."

Given such an irresistible target, the President hadn't been able to resist poking gently at his Chief of Staff's equanimity. "You only suspect? C.J.?"

Leo's acid response hadn't disappointed him and he warmed at the memory. Then that memory chilled.

C.J. The guilt bloomed as he met the concerned gaze of his Press Secretary. She would be the next to be informed, when Leo primed her tomorrow morning. Primed. He felt his mouth twitch as his unfortunate sense of humor got the better of him. It was an apposite word. Leo would probably feel like he was trying to handle unstable gunpowder on the morrow. It was his own fault. His strategy insisted that C.J.'s role be a major one. She would be the beater, flushing out the prey.

Still, executive authority or no, Bartlet was glad he wasn't going to have to handle that conversation.

Not that the respect due to executive authority had saved him from getting bawled out by the NSA, and rather unfairly he thought. It had been Leo's idea, even if he had signed off on it, weary and feeling an almost fatalistic desire to push events to a head. He wondered how long it would be before Fitzwallace called in on his turn to question the Presidential sanity.

Best to get this over with before he did, or Abbey took over completely. From the look in her eye he knew her patience was rapidly running out.

"I called you all here to talk about what happened this morning."

"Aren't we going to wait for Toby, sir?" Seaborn seemed slightly embarrassed to be drawing attention to his supervisor's presumed tardiness.

The President stirred uncomfortably and an expression the staffers, although not his wife, would have hesitated to describe as shifty flitted over his features. "No... no," he cleared his throat. "Leo told me that he's already briefed Toby. He didn't see any need to drag him back up here; besides, he has work to do, on a number of fronts. I agreed." He had agreed.

'And the last thing we need here and now is an outraged Toby anyway,' he thought with no little sarcasm. The day of reckoning on that confrontation couldn't be postponed forever. 'My implied authority barely held him in check; I just don't have the energy to deal with the entire senior staff.  Much easier to present them with a fait accompli.'

Fait accompli. He'd said much the same thing to his uncharacteristically flustered Chief of Staff when he had called to inform him that Toby would most likely not be in on this briefing, for whatever reasons. Bartlet had a pretty good idea what those reasons were and somewhere, deep down, he agreed.

Everybody was right, and nobody was wrong.

The lengthy, Presidential silence was being noticed.

Ignoring their puzzled expressions and his own misgivings, he ploughed on.

"About what happened today; don't worry about it." Bartlet half-grinned at the trio of dropped jaws facing him, tilting his head to wink his amusement at his wife, who rolled her eyes in admonishment from her seat next to Ron. What he saw dance across his chief bodyguard's face he wasn't about to try and put a name to.

"Well, maybe I could have phrased that slightly better..." Maybe he could have. So far nobody seemed to be accepting the sentiment in the spirit it was given. Sighing, he tried again, "Look, I want you to know that we have it in hand. The Secret Service has spent the better part of the day crawling all over my office; the FBI analysts are putting the note that was found through just about every forensic test imaginable. The Security Council is investigating our intelligence on any and all possible suspects. We'll have a name, soon."

"Sir?" C.J.'s voice remained troubled. "The note worries me. I know we're not releasing that detail to the press, but the wording..."  She bit her lip. "Sir, the perceived motive for this attack, Leo gave it to us at the briefing yesterday - Russia, the nuclear inspections and their threat to the Red Mafia's black market. It made a kind of sense. The accident with Marine One, it was so subtle, so careful. But what happened this morning wasn't. What's changed? And the note, it was almost... forgive me, Mr. President, but terrorists rarely take a personal interest in their targets. The wording of that note, the private knowledge, it seemed more like a stalker."

Maybe not the best choice of words. A collective breath seemed to be held and C.J. found herself the unwanted center of attention.

Her own innate dryness asserted itself in an attempt to relieve the tension, and she added, "Speaking from personal experience, you understand?"

Bartlet regarded her with genuine admiration. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Butterfield straightening in his chair. The unflappable Security Chief was looking distinctly edgy, and no wonder. He'd lost one of his own to that stalker, if indirectly, and had nearly lost...

With an almost physical effort, the President shook away those thoughts. Best not to think of that right now.

Bartlet shrugged and spoke matter-of-factly, "Yeah.  Well, the FBI and the Secret Service would seem to agree with you there. Honestly, C.J. we don't fully know or understand what's changed. But I do know this." His gaze hardened. "We're not going to be able to hide this morning's events as easily as we did the NTSB report. So, if we can't hide, we're going to come out with guns blazing. We're going to reassure the country, and let the world know that the United States is not going to take this lying down.  In pursuit of this... individual, we will use every available means at our disposal."

He broke off as the bedroom door opened again to admit Leo McGarry. He raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry. McGarry nodded shortly and tilted his head towards C.J., his message clear.  Bartlet's mouth twisted slightly, then he curtly nodded in reply. Refusing to meet anyone else's questioning gaze, his old friend stood there for a moment, regarding him with a troubled expression. Then McGarry quietly slipped back out through the door, without a word or a backward glance to the unasked questions his immediate staff hadn't the courage to voice.

Gaining silent permission from his President and charge, Butterfield rose and followed him, closing the door with a soft click.

The spell broken, Bartlet took a deep breath and carefully avoided Abbey's quizzical expression, returning his attention to the three people before him. "As part of this pursuit, we will release a formal statement in the morning. C.J., Leo and Ron will brief you on the details and strategy for that. We're also going to continue to push forward in our demands for greater nuclear controls. To that end, Toby is going to be working with me on a statement for release in a few days’ time."

He reached down inside and somehow managed to summon the energy to smile encouragingly at the young people. "We're going to hit these people where it hurts, in their bank balance. And generally make life a little less comfortable for them."

"Yes, sir!" Lyman sounded genuinely enthused. The Deputy Chief of Staff always enjoyed a good scrap, even managed to win a few on occasion. "We'll show them what it means to take on this White House."

"Mmm." Bartlet could feel himself sinking deeper into weariness, unable to match his subordinate's energy. Maybe because he knew it wasn't that simple. The obfuscation never seemed to end. "Sam, I'm guessing Toby is going to want some input from you on the speech, in view of your preliminary work for Helsinki."

"On it, Mr. President." Seaborn's tones were filled with confidence, and he was jotting rapid notes on one of his ever-present notepads.

"Of course." The President now glanced at his Press Secretary, seeing the same desire for action and a good fight beginning to bloom. "C.J., you will in effect be leading the charge in this campaign. I hope..."

"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. President." C.J.'s tones left no doubt of that.

"I appreciate that." Now came the hard part. She had to believe this. "C.J., I want you to know that the strategy Leo will outline to you has my full support and approval. I just want to make that clear. You need have no doubts on that score." Bartlet felt his tones verging perilously close to entreaty.

Across the room, he saw his wife's head raise in confusion. C.J.'s forehead pinched in bewilderment. "I understand, sir," she said slowly, her tones declaring that she didn't, not fully. 

Bartlet rubbed his forehead, feeling the headache and the tension building. Too tired. He was coming dangerously close to making revelations he had no business disclosing just yet. And yet these people were more than colleagues. He felt himself giving in to the impulse to offer them something of himself. Before the opportunity might be lost forever.

"I just... I want to let you all know how very much I appreciate the hard work and support you've given me. You've given me more than that.  Not only loyalty, but your friendship as well.  I can't let this day pass without letting you know how much that has meant to me, how it has lightened the burdens of this office."

His companions regarded him with sober faces. They were warmed by the evident sincerity of the sentiments their President had expressed, but the vaguely elegiac nature of the speech was not lost on them. With a rising coldness, each reflected on what had almost been lost this day. Might still be lost, and the damage already sustained.

"Sir?" Lyman's voice was soft. "How do you feel? Will it be... will you be all right?"

Aware that he had cast a pall over the gathering, the President summoned his most reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, Josh. I have excellent doctors."

"Yes." McGarry's deputy wrung his hands in anxiety, then realizing how ridiculous that looked, stuffed them into his pockets. "Sir, the relapse. How bad is it?"

Bartlet shifted awkwardly. "Well, it's a relapse, Josh. That's never good. In view of the year we've had, it's lousy from a whole range of viewpoints."

"Yes, sir." Lyman exhaled a nervous snort of laughter. It was a PR nightmare for sure.  The embodiment of their greatest dread since the initial revelation. But sometimes politics weren't everything. "But, you will be all right, won't you?"

Bartlet looked helplessly at their entreating faces. Once, just once, it would be nice to be able to offer a solid reassurance. But he knew that option didn't hold. He had lost his ability to sell glib reassurances on this topic. No one was buying. Bartlet scowled. They would turn to just about anyone else for an opinion rather than ask him for his judgment on the state of his own body.

Sure enough, the staffers rotated their heads as Abbey leaned forward and spoke from her rear vantage. "We're not sure yet. There are no quick answers with MS. For now, the President's..." - deliberately, she chose the emphasis of office rather than family - "...relapse seems to be following its usual pattern. We're hoping recovery won't be protracted, but we can't promise that with any degree of reassurance. What he needs to do most right now is to rest."

The faint tone of reproach that leached into her final words was probably accidental, but the others picked up on it and began to edge away from the bed. Certain signals, when given by the First Lady, were a matter of course.

"We should let you sleep, sir." Seaborn was flustered. "It's been a long day."

"I guess," Bartlet spoke ruefully and again adjusted his position, unable to find a comfortable angle. "Listen," he halted them as they began to turn away, his wife moving to meet them at the door. "I want to let you know we can handle this. What happened today seems hard to believe, but we'll weather it, and this whole crisis. I'm just sorry you didn't have more time to deal with it."

"That's okay, sir." Lyman tried to be reassuring. He didn't feel very successful. "I guess we all kind of sensed that something was wrong for sometime now. All the extra security for one thing."

"Hard to miss, wasn't it?" Even now, the President's tone showed some irritation at the suffocating security of recent months, and no doubt for some time still to come. He couldn't help grinning though. "You guys seemed to be doing your best to help Ron out too, with all that hovering. What did you think you were going to do?  Play amateur secret agent if anything went down?"

"Oh, that wasn't why we were hovering." Seaborn, still lingering near the foot of the bed as if reluctant to leave his Chief Executive's presence, spoke absently.

"I'm sorry?"

The Deputy Communications Director suddenly flushed up to the roots of his hair and began to stammer.  "I... I meant..."

"You meant?" The President's tone was becoming a little testy. "Then just why has my entire senior staff been fluttering around me like demented mother hens for the last several weeks?"

"Well, you see...” Seaborn glanced at his colleagues desperately. They carefully avoided his eye. No life ring there, or the prospect of one either. Callously abandoned to sink or swim alone, the Deputy Communications Director opted for the desperate choice of candor, never safe idea when dealing with a politician. "We didn't know about the security threat, sir. Not for sure. We were worried because... because you looked so crappy lately. We were afraid you might fall ill."

Bartlet regarded his youngest senior staffer wonderingly. "Crappy?" he repeated weakly, unable to muster a suitable comeback.

By the door Abbey looked both frustrated and amused.

"Yes, sir." Seaborn swallowed miserably. "Sorry sir, but... you really did."

Bartlet waved the apology aside somewhat numbly. Hell, it wasn't as if he could offer a convincing refutation right now anyway, not when his own wife had so lovingly informed him that he looked awful. Only slightly better than crappy. Where was the dignity in that?

"Never mind, forget it. Oh," Bartlet looked up, smiling gamely if not convincingly. "I may not appreciate the phrasing, but I do appreciate the thought."

"Thank you, sir." Seaborn looked relieved and stepped away from his colleagues, moving slightly closer to the President, feeling an obscure need to atone somehow. "Anything I can do for you before we go?"

"Just toss me that pillow at the foot of the bed." Bartlet began to hitch himself up awkwardly, not an easy task with one hand throbbing painfully at the slightest movement. "I need to change position, sit up for a while.  My back is starting to kill me."

"Here you go, sir." Seaborn slid the pillow behind the President. As the man struggled to sit up, he impulsively reached out to grasp Bartlet's shoulder. "Let me help you..."

He snatched his hand back as if burned when the President twisted away with a strangled gasp. "Sir? Oh, God! I'm sorry!" He desperately willed the shake from his voice, even as Lyman, C.J. and Abbey rushed to the bed. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

Bartlet raised his own hand to his shoulder, probing tentatively, a puzzled and slightly anxious expression on his face. "No, Sam. Sorry to have scared you. No harm done. I guess..." His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Everyone waited in tense expectation for his next words.

"I guess I'm still a little sore all over." Bartlet looked up and smiled cautiously. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Plainly unconvinced, and with anxieties renewed but reacting to the clear tone of executive dismissal, the staffers murmured their goodbyes and turned to leave the President with his wife.

"C.J.?" the President called.

Pulled up just short of the door, the Press Secretary allowed Seaborn and Lyman to pass her before turning back towards the bed. "Sir?"

"Could I talk to you for a minute?" Alone, the President's tone and expression clearly conveyed.

Confused C.J. glanced at the First Lady, almost as if to ask permission. Abbey seemed taken aback, and the concern and irritation were writ clear upon her features. Suspicion was there as well, but something passed between her and her husband.

Whatever it was, Abbey sighed her frustration and yielded.

"Okay, but only for a few minutes," she said warningly, and there was no doubt who she was warning. "Then, so help me, Jed you are going to get some sleep. No more meetings."

"Thanks, Abbey." Her husband followed her with his eyes as she crossed the room. Only when the door closed on her, did he direct his gaze back to his Press Secretary. "C.J., come sit down, would you?"

Abbey heard the door click shut behind her, but it didn't really register on her mind.

It was only her imagination it had to be. She was reading too much into a simple reaction from a man who only hours before had nearly lost some fingers, if not his hand, to an explosion. Abbey remembered the aftermath with a shiver of vivid recollection. He was bruised and battered, probably in areas his doctors weren't even aware of. And knowing Jed, he wouldn't tell them if he were.

Recoiling from an inadvertent touch in the wrong place was only to be expected, right? It was the simplest explanation.

The man was hurting.

The man was her husband.

Abbey couldn't help it. It may not be anything, but she found little consolation in that reminder.

Her musings were interrupted by a cautious, male voice.

"Ma'am?"

It was the evening shift, so the man who was tentatively requesting her attention was not her Head of Detail, Emil Torres. This man's obvious unease was much the same, though. Abbey was used to the agents approaching her with extreme caution. However, this time there was something else in the man's voice that gave her pause. "Yes, Henry?"

He perked up a bit at his name, eyes brightening and losing a bit of that hunted quality. It never failed. When the President couldn't get it right, it was a serious treat when his wife did. Still, he shuffled uncomfortably, hand to his earpiece. "We have a situation."

"A situation?" She tried to keep her fragile control. Please, God. Not another one.

"No, ma'am, nothing like that," Vaughn quickly reassured her. He hadn't missed the flash of anxiety. Quickly getting to the point, he explained, "Your daughter just blew through gate security. She's on her way to the Residence."

"My daughter?" Abbey experienced a surge of mixed emotions. She'd had this out with Jed already. This was supposed to have been handled. A mother's fury quickly won out over the shocked frustration. "Zoey! Damn it! Charlie was supposed to keep her..."

Vaughn winced. Yep, that had set her off. "Not Zoey, ma'am."

"Not Zoey?" Abbey hesitated, blinking with bafflement. Baffled wasn't a state of mind she enjoyed. "Elizabeth?"

 "No, ma'am, it's..."

"MOTHER!"

Caught off guard by the sheer unexpected volume of the bellow, Abbey jumped. With some satisfaction, she saw Vaughn jump as well, and felt just a little better at being taken by surprise.

She gave the poor agent a side-long glance of utter surprise and dead-panned, "Ellie?"

Vaughn nodded and sighed. "Ellie, ma'am."

"Oh, dear."

The First Couple's middle daughter blasted through the door, leaving a trail of confusion in her considerable wake. Watching her leave the agents scattered behind her, Abbey's astonishment was genuine. Of all her children, Eleanor was the last she would have expected to see so flushed and angry, so ready and willing for a confrontation.

She was looking for a fight, and Abbey had a pretty good idea about what.

"How could he do this?" Ellie didn't bother with any preamble, brushing past a clearly startled Vaughn and confronting her mother. "I don't count?"

"Eleanor!" Abbey's voice cracked like a whip. It wasn't a tone she'd had use on this daughter, ever. Ellie was usually so subdued and quiet. This spitfire, eyes flashing, body-language screaming defiance and fury was a surprise she could have done without. "Lower your voice - now."

Ellie knew better than to argue with her mother when she used that tone of voice. However, lowering her volume levels was the only concession she made to the parental order. "How could he do this?" she repeated, the anger in her voice barely bridled.

"He is your father, young lady, and he did what he thought was best." Oh, yes. Abbey knew exactly what had set her middle daughter off.

"They," a furious toss of her head included Vaughn in that growled statement, "told me Dad ordered them, he ordered them, to keep me away!"

Vaughn shuffled his feet - a bad habit he really needed to stop, but one most of the First Lady's agents had acquired - and mutely appealed to the lady in question for a quick, merciful release.

Taking pity on him, Abbey inclined her head towards the door. "A bit late, but thanks for the warning, Henry. I'll take it from here."

His relief more than apparent, Vaughn made his rather hasty escape. He raised his hand, giving the rest of the agents the quick heads-up that the situation, for the moment, was under control.

Ellie continued to confront her mother; hardening her heart by reinforcing the enraged barriers she'd been building brick by brick all day. That much she could control and hold on to. The hurt she couldn't control. "He didn't want to see me."

"Oh, no. Not that." Is that what she thought? How could she? Abbey reached out and framed her daughter's face with her hands, felt and saw the hurt. "He would never do that."

"But..."

"Listen to me. He kept you all away, for your own safety." And he would have sent his wife away as well, if he'd thought he could get away with it. To Jed's credit, he hadn't even tried. Not that Abbey had given him the opportunity.

Ellie's eyes were bordered with tears she refused to let fall. "Even Zoey?" she sniffed, dropping her gaze from her mother's, trying to hide the hurt.

Abbey saw it anyway. "You know better than that."

"Bet she didn't stay away." The hurt was now colored with something else.

"Yes, she did." Jealousy? Was that what she was hearing? Brushing her hand gently across her daughter's cheek, Abbey took her hands and led her to the sofa. Thankfully, Ellie didn't protest as they sat down. "Your father sent Charlie to sit on her."

Ellie blinked, then shook her head with a harsh laugh. "Sneaky."

"That's your father."

Her father. Some of the bricks she'd so carefully laid began to crumble. "Got Charlie out, too, didn't he?"

Abbey squeezed her daughter's hands. "If he could have emptied the White House, he would have."

Another brick shattered. "Even you?"

Her own feelings on that subject were too raw to discuss. Thickly, Abbey answered, "I didn't give him the opportunity to try."

"Really?" Ellie tried to hold on to the anger, to keep the hurt. It wasn't easy. She could feel her throat closing up, the tears she'd been desperately fighting escape and run hotly down her cheeks. "I saw the news, Mom. The reports... I tried to listen, to call, but I couldn't get through..."

Abbey winced, wondering which poor staffer had borne the brunt of Ellie's rage. Guilt was there, too. Jed had been the center of her attention; she hadn't a chance to spare a thought for her children. After that first, abortive attempt, she'd staffed it out.

No wonder Ellie was furious.

"Nobody would tell me anything. Nothing, not one word. And you weren't there."

There was no mistaking the accusation there, the implied abandonment. "They didn't know anything." She didn't know anything. Abbey opened her mouth, trying to explain, but Ellie didn't let her.

"Then those... people came, wouldn't let me come."

"The agents were just following orders." Up until that moment Abbey had no idea a simple little word like people could be uttered with such vindictive enthusiasm, especially by Ellie.

"He's my father!" The last brick crumbled into dust.

Abbey stared at her daughter, could find no words to give her. My husband, she wanted to say, but couldn't. It was a shared pain.

Ellie stared back, looking for something in her mother's eyes, she wasn't sure what. Disappointed, she realized that maybe a little bit of everything was what she was looking for. Her mother had always seemed to have all the answers before. Added to her disappointment was a feeling of guilt. This was her father. Her father...

And she was angry with him.

"Mom?" Another tear rolled down her cheek.

A flash of wild grief ripped through her and Abbey drew her troubled daughter into her arms. She felt her relax and give in to the quiet sobs she'd been fighting. She'd never understood why Ellie and her father clashed the way they did. They were so different.

Yet so much alike. Perhaps that was part of the answer. Abbey swallowed and bit back her own tears. She'd thought she'd cried herself out, given the fear and grief its due. Never had she been more wrong.

Mother and daughter clung to each other, conscious only of their own fears and the relief given by simple, familiar comfort. For one, long timeless moment, it was all they needed.

Somewhat nervously, the Press Secretary sank gracefully into the bedside chair that had been vacated by the First Lady.  "Sir?"

"I just wanted to say thank you." Sinking back against the pillows, Bartlet regarded his companion anxiously. "For your caring. The concern all of you have shown to me. I appreciate it, and I know Abbey was touched as well. It means a lot to me, to us."

C.J. blushed slightly. "Sir, you mean a lot to us. I just wish there was more we could do to help." She smiled at him and was heartened to see that same warmth reflected back.

"Trust me, C.J. You guys always help." His mood darkened slightly then. "Anyway, there will be plenty for everyone to do tomorrow." He regarded her almost apologetically. "That press conference is gonna be tough."

"I can handle it, sir."

"I know you can. There is none better at what you do. But it may not be pleasant."   Bartlet's expression had shifted to outright concern. "I know your job has demanded that you do and say things you didn't agree with before now. I want you to know that everything you will say at that briefing tomorrow actually has a purpose  - a strategy that I personally agreed to, whatever you may think of it."

C.J. felt herself stiffen in renewed apprehension. "Sir, this is the second time you've reassured me about whatever Leo is going to brief me on. May I ask, what exactly is the nature of this strategy that you so clearly expect me to dislike?"

It is physically impossible for a nearly supine man to shuffle his feet guiltily, but Bartlet managed to convey just that impression. "Never mind, C.J. Leo will be going over it with you." Feeling rather ashamed of his own cowardice, he added, "Just don't kill him, okay?"

"If you say so, sir," C.J replied blankly, not one whit reassured.

"Fine." Clearly eager to move on, Bartlet cleared his throat as he came to the real reason he had asked her to remain. "So... how are you doing?"

"Me, sir?" The surprised tones declared that, whatever C.J. had been expecting next, it hadn't been an enquiry about her own well-being. Unable to help the slight lilt of amusement, she cocked an eyebrow at her disheveled companion. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

"Seriously." Bartlet for once refused to be drawn. "This has to be especially hard on you, in light of recent events. And don't tell me they're not dwelling on your mind. Because that little bit of insight into my own problem earlier would indicate otherwise."

“Sir, really, I'm fine." C.J. could not repress the warmth she felt, nor did she really try. That, after all that had happened, he could still think of how it might affect her... "I certainly came out of that better than you have out of this."

"Maybe, but it was frightening at the time." Bartlet was not asking, but stating a fact; as if he were quite certain what emotions such circumstances would invoke.

C.J. supposed that if anyone would know, it was he.

"And it was responsible for you meeting Simon."

The Press Secretary continued to hold his gaze, even as she felt the treacherous film forming over her vision. "No!" she told herself fiercely. "None of that. Not here and not now. I don't care how horrendous a day it's been." A couple of blinks and a swallow, and she was back in control. "I don't actually regret having met him, sir."

"No, I don't suppose you do." The President was silent for a moment. "C.J.", he continued gently. "I was so sorry about what happened."

"It was a tragedy, a stupid mischance." C.J. swallowed again. "Simon was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens so often. It doesn't make it any better, of course. And I felt so sorry for his family and their loss."

"What about yourself?" Bartlet was still gentle, but insistent. "You lost..."

"A friend." C.J. interrupted, not quite sure why he was taking this depressing path. "Thank you for your thoughts, and concern, Mr. President. But I don't want to over-dramatize anything. I lost someone I had known a short time and had come to like and admire. Simon's family lost a son and a brother. Their grief comes from years of companionship and knowledge." She studied her hands, struggling to find the right words. "I honestly don't consider I have the right to feel my grief outweighs theirs. Simon and I, we liked each other enough to consider the possibility of spending time together in the future, but we hadn't even gone on one date yet. What I lost was..."

"A future possibility." The President's voice was soft. "That is a real loss in itself, C.J.  To never have the opportunity to explore what might have been."

C.J. ducked her head suddenly, feeling the emotion well. How did he do that, read her so well? He wasn't quite old enough, of course, and she'd only known him, what, five years now? But at times it was almost like being with her father, before the Alzheimer's had caused him to drift away from her. Her father would have offered exactly the same kind of gentle comfort, coupled with an insight born of both love and truly knowing her, that could sweep aside all barriers and protestations, forcing her to face her true feelings.

For a moment she sat there, both drowning in the memories of Simon and of that awful, awkward interview with Ron Butterfield, and soaking up a sensation of deep consolation and understanding that she had never thought to feel outside her parents' presence.

Looking at the man lying before her, she felt a sudden surge of affection. He could never replace her father, had never tried to, but she knew in that moment that the blind terror of that day at Rosslyn had not come merely from the breaching of their defenses, or the attack on the very personification of their national identity.

It had been far more personal than that, a bone-weakening sense of an almost insupportable loss barely averted. She had felt it and knew all her colleagues had too. To lose this man would be almost as devastating as losing her own father, never mind that she had only known him a few years. Those few years were crammed with enough joys, triumphs, rages, griefs and tragedies to fill a lifetime of experience.

And that was his very point, she realized suddenly. You didn't have to be family, didn't have to have years of shared experience behind you in order to feel the right to grieve.

"It's just that... he really was prepared to risk his life to protect me. Before he even knew me." She swallowed painfully. "I'm so glad that wasn't why he died though. Because of me. I couldn't have borne that."

"Yes, that can be very hard to bear." The President's voice was carefully neutral.

Drawing back, Abbey took a deep breath and smiled. "So how'd you escape?" she asked, brushing one of the last tears from Ellie's reddened face with a hand that trembled only slightly. Her own face, she knew, looked no better.

Ellie laughed, surprised she could find the strength to do so. "I just... ran. You'd think they'd be faster. You know, running alongside limos like they do."

"You had the element of surprise."

"Yeah," Ellie sniffed, the last of her grief and anger disappearing as she remembered. "Nobody expected that from me. So quiet, so mousy..."

"Ellie," Abbey warned her sternly. That was a subject they really didn't need to get into right now.

"I made it to my car, and then..." She broke off, her face clouding.

"And what?" Abbey's eyes narrowed with concerned suspicion. Ellie looked like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"One of them caught me; he was quicker than the others, I guess. I don't know who, I wasn't really thinking..." Ellie paused, rubbing her right elbow and wincing. "I just... reacted."

Abbey sat back and added up the clues. Her daughter was here, having run the gauntlet and accomplished an escape of truly epic proportions. She was looking guilty as charged and rubbing an obviously still painful elbow. Was that a trace of blood on her sleeve? Either of her other daughters and she wouldn't have had to ask.

Ellie she had to ask. "What did you do?"

Looking away from her mother's gentle though insistent gaze, an unwelcome blush crept into Ellie's tear-stained cheeks. She wasn't sure - a diagnosis from the act and not the result wasn't all that easy - but still... "I think I broke someone's nose."

Abbey's confusion was only momentary. Then she sighed. Fighting back a laugh she knew bordered on the hysterical, this was after all Eleanor admitting to the act, she called out, "Henry!"

Agent Vaughn poked a cautious head into the room. "Ma'am?"

"Could you come in for a moment, please?"

Please? Not good. Stopping himself just short of asking, "Really? Must I?" Vaughn stepped in and shut the door.

Not really knowing how to ask this, the First Lady regarded the obviously uncomfortable agent for a moment, then stated calmly, "My daughter informs me that when she... escaped," - really, there was no other word for it when dealing with the Secret Service - "there may have been an... altercation." Nice word that, suited what may have happened perfectly. Abbey rather liked it.

Vaughn liked it, too, but for different reasons. Giving the fidgeting First Daughter an apologetic look, he replied matter-of-factly, "There was."

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ellie lowered her head, hair falling across her face.

Rubbing her eyes, Abbey asked, "Anything broken? A nose perhaps?" She patted her daughter on the shoulder. "Lift your head up, dear, and face the music."

"You sound like Dad, Mom." Still, she lifted her head with a small smile.

Abbey thought about that for a moment. "I'm not at all sure that's a compliment."

"It is," Ellie told her softly.

Now Vaughn was fidgeting and - Damn! But he was really going to have to work on that - shuffling his feet again.

"The nose, Henry?" Abbey prompted patiently. "Broken?"

"No, ma'am." Vaughn answered with obvious relief. He'd already got the reports, along with the frantic hollering of the agents Ellie had left behind. "Agent Haefy just somehow managed to get in the way of her elbow. Nothing broken. Just... squished." He smiled reassuringly at Ellie Bartlet and earned one in return. "Luckily Miss Bartlet doesn't know a thing about follow-through."

Abbey's brows rose. "Follow-through?"

Vaughn shuffled. "Yes, ma'am."

For the first time, Ellie gave out with a genuine laugh.

Quelling that bit of youthful enthusiasm with a stern look, Abbey said, "Give him our apologies, Henry. Ellie..." she took her daughter's hand and squeezed gently, "...will offer her own in due time."

Vaughn shook his head. "It's not necessary, ma'am." When the First Lady chuckled softly at that and momentarily looked away, he broke with procedure a bit and gave Ellie Bartlet a quick wink, earning a grateful smile in return.

Hoping his job here, for the moment, was done, Vaughn asked, "Will that be all, ma’am?” He could hope, couldn't he?

"Stay for a moment, will you, Henry?"

No such luck. Nodding, Vaughn stepped back against the far wall. Still here and not, he turned off the presence of the two women and faded into the background.

Abbey turned her attention back to her daughter, pleased to see some composure back in her features. A bit of normal color had returned to her cheeks, although her eyes were still red.

No less red than her own. That wasn't going to change anytime soon. Abbey knew that, even if her daughter didn't. As the image of her husband focused in her mind, the deliberate blankness in his eyes and the aura of resignation that had covered him, a realization struck her. She couldn't fix the broader picture.

But she could fix this.

"Go in and see him," she told Ellie.

Ellie blinked, looked over at the silent agent. Was she allowed? "Mom?"

"Go." Abbey stood, lifting her daughter's hands and forcing her to stand. "Wake him up."

"He'll bark."

"He's always barking. You should know by now he doesn't bite."

A soft, gentle huff was Ellie's only response.

"Much," Abbey amended. "Just bark back. He needs it, especially from you."

"You sure?" Still skeptical, Ellie couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. The question she'd wanted to ask, been afraid to ask, burst from her lips. "I mean, he's gonna be okay, right?"

Vaughn was only human. His head turned imperceptibly, gaze focused on the First Lady.

Abbey felt his eyes on her. There was more than concern for his charge in that hardly noticeable tilt of his head and look. It was mirrored in the regard of her daughter, only amplified. She simply didn’t have the answers, so she could only reply tiredly, "Baby, I don't know. Too much has happened...."

"It's okay, Mom." Ellie didn't really need to hear the words. She and her sisters had lived with so much, starting long before her father had taken charge of the Oval Office. She was a med student. She also knew how very few answers multiple sclerosis provided its victims.

Assassins and bombs sure as hell didn't help. Ellie looked at the closed bedroom door, then back at her mother. A shy smile lit her face. "Bark, huh."

"Bark."

"Woof," Ellie muttered. Straightening her shoulders, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks, she opened the door and stepped in.

For a brief moment, the voices inside could be heard. As the door closed, they abruptly cut off. No familiar, rich voice raised in protest. Not yet anyway, if ever. Abbey didn't know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

Vaughn took the opportunity to point out, "Miss Cregg is still in there."

"Not for long," Abbey smiled sweetly, glancing at her watch. Knowing C.J. as she did, she gave the woman only a minute or two to endure the strained beginnings of the father/daughter dispute before making her hasty exodus.

Now to take care of some of the minor details.

C.J. glanced at the President in surprise at that quietly issued statement, and then had a wave of sudden revelation so sharp that she felt herself flush in mortification. "Oh! I'm sorry sir. I never thought..."

"What? You believed I never think about that?" Bartlet's tone was joshing, but there was just a hint of hurt in the eyes.

"No. Well..." C.J. struggled to give form to the just conceived thought. "I suppose that we just never really thought about it at all, sir. The guards are so much a part of your existence, wherever you go, we just take them for granted. I suppose we thought you did too." She looked at him with regret. "I am sorry."

"I don't think I ever did that." Bartlet spoke slowly, gently rolling his injured limb on the pillow. The motion seemed to ease the ever-present throbbing. "It was always there, at the back of my mind. Then Rosslyn pretty much pushed it right up front and center. I've always admired Ron, but what he did that day..."

Regarding his own hand again, he looked up. "If that bullet had done any more damage to his hand, he might never have gotten back full use of it, might have been forced to retire. And I've always wondered where that bullet might have ended up, if he hadn't been all over me so fast." He couldn't repress a low chuckle. "And after all that, he still felt guilty, can you believe it?"

C.J. smiled, feeling herself get a little teary. "I think I can, sir."

"I mean, he was bleeding all over the seat, had to be in a hell of a lot of pain. Had me jabbering on at him and he still wasn't thinking of anything but his job. I scared him, though." Bartlet's grin dimmed a little. "Scared myself a bit, too."

"Yes, sir." Between the President and Josh, the senior staff had been considerably more than a bit scared that night. The Secret Service too, for all its professionalism, C.J. reflected. She wondered what Simon had been doing that night... after the shots had died away.

Looking back up, she noted she wasn't the only one lost in thought. Examining the very tips of his fingers, where they peeked from the wrapping, the President gingerly brushed against the nails with his thumb. Despite his doctors' best efforts, blood remained encrusted beneath them.

Unaware of her regard, Bartlet's expression darkened still further, caught up in memories.  The feeling of blood drying under his nails, of horribly wet and sticky hair beneath his fingers, of being pinned down, closed in and unable to help; himself or anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, he broke from his introspection and rejoined his companion, who was regarding him with quiet empathy. "You just never really think about it until the reality is shoved in your face. I'd never truly forgotten, but Rosslyn brought it home.  Since then, I've prayed every day that Ron would be as bad as it got."

The President laughed bitterly. "Guess I was kidding myself."

C.J. felt desperately sorry for him at that moment. "Marine One?" she inquired gently.

"Yeah." The grimace she received in reply could not even charitably be declared a smile.  "Five people died there because of me, C.J. Five. One so close to me I could touch him, did touch him, and I couldn't do a damn thing to help, couldn't even help myself." He looked up at her seriously. "I'm so sorry that we lost Simon. But I'm selfishly glad that it wasn't in a way that risked you as well, or that left you feeling a burden of personal responsibility."

Okay, those tears were definitely threatening now. "Thank you, sir. I just wish..."

"Yeah." The President gave her that warm smile that reminded her again of family. "Me, too."

C.J. smiled back tremulously, but with increasing warmth, trying to project the caring, the affection that protocol would not permit to be expressed aloud.

The soft sound of the door latch caused her to begin to turn, expecting that Abbey had finally returned to possibly sedate her intractable patient. The frozen expression on the President's face stalled her.  Slowly she completed the turn, and felt her eyes widen in recognition and apprehension.

Lost and looking terribly frightened, Eleanor Bartlet stood silently with her back to the door, staring with wide-eyed horror at her father. She looked like she would jump at a shadow, let alone her father's voice.

Her father, the President, stared back, the warmth and understanding of earlier shuttered by something C.J. couldn't quite put a name to. Shock? Confusion? Anger? A combination of all the above, maybe. One thing for certain, C.J. wasn't about to stick around to find out.

Well, this was going to be interesting. The atmosphere of the room became charged. Pursing her lips, avoiding eye contact with either of them, C.J. stood up, trying desperately to disappear. Discretion was the better part of valor and right now, discretion was her only choice. Even the rules of protocol were forgotten, she didn't even dare ask for permission to leave as she quietly, and hopefully invisible, slid towards the door.

Neither father nor daughter paid any attention to her, which suited C.J. just fine.

"Henry?" Abbey asked, glancing once again at her watch.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Can I ask you a favor?" At his slightly constipated expression, Abbey quickly added. "Nothing big, just a bit... out of the ordinary."

The agent nodded. "If I can, ma'am." Since Vaughn was still relatively new to her detail, Emil Torres had warned him that the First Lady had a habit of doing this. With her, the rules tended to get bent quite frequently, if not broken.

"If they run to pattern, and they've been depressingly predictable this evening," the lady in question was saying, watching him carefully, “the Chief of Staff and your boss should be descending on my husband," - for this, she put the emphasis on my - "in about twenty minutes." Oh, yes. They were being very predictable; who needed a watch?

Neither the time frame mentioned nor the pointed emphasis was lost on Vaughn. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stood at attention, head to one side and let his charge finish. There was respect in his posture, as well as understanding. He had a pretty good idea where this was going.

"Would you send them to me, please?" the First Lady asked. Not demanded or ordered, asked.

"Of course, ma'am."

"No problems?" Considering the events of the day, the kicked-up anthill that was the White House and its jumpy occupants, it wasn't something Abbey, even now, felt safe in asking. Jed was her husband, and Ellie's father, but these men had their jobs.

She was sadly aware that everything took a back seat to those considerations.

A suspiciously humorous twist appeared at the corner of Henry Vaughn's mouth. "I didn't say that, ma'am." He shrugged. "But when I tell them that you made the request..."

"Enough, Henry." Abbey held up her hand, bringing that observation to a close. However, a reputation did have its uses. "Thank you."

"Thank you, ma'am." Vaughn actually smiled then. "Can I go know? Set up the barricades? Write my will?"

Abbey laughed, a true outburst of gratitude and relief. "You almost sounded human there, Henry."

"I did? Really?" The Secret Service Agent shook his head as he opened the door. "Gotta work at that."

The door closed behind him.

Looking again at her watch, Abbey counted the seconds. Predictability did have certain advantages. You just had to know how to use your aces properly.

Sure enough, the bedroom door opened and C.J. Cregg quietly stepped out. Shutting the door, she leaned against the frame, let out a very long, deep sigh, and gave the smiling First Lady a narrow look. "Abbey?"

One elegant brow rose and Abbey countered simply, "C.J.?"

The Press Secretary smiled. Oh, yes. She had definitely planned that timely little interruption. "You're a conundrum, you know that?"

"Maddening, isn't it?"

"Sneaky."

"Of course."

"Is it just me, or is there going to be fireworks in there?" C.J. glanced at the door.

"I hope so, C.J." Abbey spoke softly, dropping on to the sofa and rubbing eyes burned dry from tears and fatigue. "I hope so."

As C.J. Cregg hastily - and with a quickness and obvious relief that bordered on the comic - left the room, Ellie found herself falling into old, familiar patterns. She was alone with her father. Holding close to the wall, she dropped her head, refusing to look at him. As always, she felt her hair fall across her face. Unsure of herself, it was easier than trying to bridge the emotional gap between them. Being out of sight and out of mind always was with him.

Hiding from her father.

She could feel him studying her with a curious, almost sad intensity. Ellie heard the rustle and creak of the bed as he shifted, a soft grunt of pain at the ill-considered movement. Waiting for him to say something, anything, she was almost disappointed when he didn't.

This wasn't going to work. She shouldn't have come. Whatever her mother had planned or hoped for - and Ellie understoodher well enough to know she'd something up her sleeve - hit a blank wall. Whatever she'd hoped for, wasn't going to happen either. The urge to leave, to escape, became almost unbearable.

A mocking voice inside her wondered why. Why are you doing this? Look at him, girl! He's your father! Listening to the internal gibes, she found her anger again. Anger at the world, the person who did this and a God who would allow it to happen.

The silence between them lengthened, fueled by her own fears and insecurities.

Not this time. Tossing her head defiantly, flinging her hair out of her eyes, Ellie looked up. She observed him lying propped up on the bed through lowered lashes. A phone lay next to him and papers were scattered across the covers. Even now, he wouldn't quit. Oddly, looking down on him she found herself at an advantage.

An advantage she didn't want, not like this. The courage it gave her was false.

He continued to say nothing. Not a good sign. Ellie almost bolted at that point.

The med student took over. He was pale, the cuts across his cheeks and lower chin standing out starkly against that ashen background. Only an effort of will kept her from gasping aloud at the sight of the closed wound that slashed across one eyelid. So very close.

Too close.

A few stitches showed through the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow. The graying stubble on his chin did little to hide the angry wounds. Clinically, she observed that they'd done a good job on that; the scaring would be minimal, but he was still going to have fun shaving for a good while to come.

Or her mother was. Ellie almost laughed at that. She knew her parents; at times it was almost embarrassing. They both would have fun with that.

Still, he said nothing.

Elevated on several pillows beside him was his left hand. Poking out through the bandages she counted one thumb and four fingers. All there. Ellie had heard the reports; the snatches of information that had slipped from her agents before she'd made her frantic break. They'd slipped up there. That had been what had set off her panic, the need to see for herself, to speak with him. The broken snatches of speculation from the TV reporters and the radio in her car hadn't helped. Without answers, they'd kept repeating the same thing over and over again till she'd wanted to scream.

There had been an explosion in the Oval Office. Her father's office.

Her father. Who was still not saying anything. His steady regard could have burned holes through casehardened steel. The scream of frustration building just at the back of her throat was definitely becoming an option.

His eyes searched her face, reaching into her thoughts and feelings like he always did. Hiding had never really worked with him and right now Ellie couldn't think of why she'd ever really tried.

Now, if he would only say something, they could get this show on the road.

No such luck. Her father continued to... stare at her, waiting. For what? To her vast annoyance, Ellie felt herself starting to blush. That was new. Was he trying to embarrass her? If that was his plan, he was doing a pretty good job. The alternative, that he was just too far down the emotional scale to even work up the energy for a good, righteous tear, frightened her more than the first reports of what had happened.

Knowing her father, Ellie was putting her money on the former. At least, she hoped she was right. Anything else was too awful to contemplate.

She swallowed and squared her shoulders. Not this time. He wasn't going to get away with it. If he wouldn't say anything, start the ball rolling, she would. What was it her mother had said? Wake him up? That she had trusted her with this gave wings to her courage. Love did the rest.

"Woof, Dad," she blurted, scarcely aware of her own voice. Had she just said that?

Apparently she had. Her father's brows arched and he inquired coolly, "Woof?"

"Woof." Ellie repeated, fighting the urge to drop her gaze. It would have set him off, maybe, but not the way she wanted. The familiar, rich tones she'd grown up with sounded so tired, harsh and grating, resigned. There was no fight, no fire or fury. Just a blank, exhausted withdrawal.

For the first time she understood her mother's fears and added them to her own. Ellie dropped her eyes from his steady regard, focusing her gaze on the bed stand. Looking anywhere but at him kept her from losing what little determination she'd managed to salvage. A glint of simple gold sparkled on the table corner. Her eyes widened. His wedding ring. Because of the swelling, they’d had to take it off.

Her breath caught in her throat. More than anything, that undeniable and dreadful sight gave the reality a fearful clarity. Never in her life could she recall her father without that precious band on his finger.

"What are you doing here?"

That voice, full of a depth and authority she both feared and loved, snapped Ellie back to the present at hand.

"Isn't it obvious?" she replied, proud that no hint of a stammer cracked her facade. There was the question. Ratcheting up her courage, surprised she could actually find it, Ellie shrugged with forced nonchalance and moved towards the bed and her father. Each step made the next easier.

Bartlet's eyes followed his middle daughter, calculating. "Eleanor..."

"I'm defying you, Dad." Oh, that was good. Eleanor. She'd got that much at least. Multiple syllables from him were a clear indication of parental wrath. Good! This was getting easier by the minute. She carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. "Willfully and with malice aforethought disregarding your executive orders, violating goodness knows how many traffic laws, probably burning out my clutch in the process and..."

"My orders..."

"Your orders," - Ellie wasn't about to let him finish that statement. She knew where it would take them and it wasn't her path of choice at the moment - "were to keep me away. Is that what you wanted?"

When crossed, Ellie knew her father's temper was formidable. Frightening sometimes in its intensity. She waited for the flare, the familiar growl. It never came.

A long, drawn-out breath. "What I wanted was to keep you safe."

"Safe? Not knowing anything? No calls, nothing? Just those agents you've hung all over me scrambling around like chickens with their heads cut off?" Angry now, surprised at her own reactions, Ellie snapped, "It got staffed out, you know that? You couldn't call?"

"I assumed your Mother had called." His tone didn't quite accuse, but the defensive censure was there, a brief spark of parental anger as he waved at the papers scattered across the bed. "I do have a job, you know."

That was weak, not at all like him. The job had never been an excuse. This wasn't a situation Ellie was comfortable with, at all. It was more Zoey's territory than hers. The verbal clashes between her father and his youngest child had become the stuff of family legend. Maybe comparing a few notes with her baby sister before she'd started this might have helped. She had him on the ropes and he wouldn't fight.

She wanted him to fight. The safety of the familiar was all she had left.

Still, Ellie's gaze softened and she reached out. Unsure of what was safe, she dropped her hand on his right shoulder, felt him tense. "Mom had other things on her mind, Dad."

He flinched, subtly pulling away from her touch as best he could within the confines of the bed. "There were reasons." His winced reply lacked any real ring of truth or finality.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously at his unexpected reaction to her touch, Ellie quickly snatched her hand back. He wasn't denying her, it was something else. Maybe she should have asked her mother exactly what his injuries had been before barging in here. She hadn't felt any bandages under the pajama top, but there may have been secondary bruising. Maybe...

"There are always reasons, Dad." Clasping her hands in her lap, she asked reasonably, "Why not try giving me a few?" She was rather proud of the strength in that question, the quaver she kept out of her voice.

This wasn't as hard as she'd thought it would be.

"Reasons?" The President regarded his middle daughter with open astonishment, not the least of which was inspired by her uncharacteristic defiance. Truthfully, tired as he was, he was beginning to enjoy it.

Raising his bandaged hand, he managed to wiggle a few fingers. "How's that old saying go? 'Here's five good reasons'? Besides, aside from the fact that I can issue a few executive orders..."

Ellie laughed. She couldn't help it. He was trying so hard. Sarcasm? Not quite sure it was a good thing or not, Ellie also detected a thawing in his voice. Maybe she'd taken the right tact on this after all. It was certainly proving to be educational, a side to her father she'd never seen before.

Or maybe she just hadn't been looking close enough.

Bartlet's eyes had narrowed. "Are you laughing at me, young lady?"

Ellie raised her hand to her breast, blinking her eyes with patently false innocence. "Would I dare?" Would she? Goodness, but she was. An interesting turn of events and one she found heady to the extreme.

"I'm your father."

"True." Ellie smiled. He was actually sulking just a bit.

"You should have listened."

"Don't you mean obeyed?"

One brow rose with elegant sarcasm. "There's a difference?"

"Depends on who's doing the defining. I'm not going to fight with you, Dad." Her smile faded and she regarded her father with all seriousness. It hurt to see him lying there, not quite broken but so very close. He'd never truly dominated her, not willfully. But still, he'd intimidated just a bit and she found she missed it.

She missed the fire. Time for that wake up call. "I'm a grown woman, Dad. I make my own decisions." Ellie paused, letting that first sink in before adding firmly, "I decided to come home."

"This isn't home." Bartlet's head fell back against the pillows, closing his eyes. "And it isn't safe."

"Yeah," Ellie muttered, unable to argue with that. Taking his good hand, she tried to bring him back from the tired resignation so apparent in his voice. She felt him stiffen at her touch, almost anticipatory. "It isn't home, but it's where I belong."

She gently squeezed his hand.

Wincing, her father wasn't quite able to prevent a hiss as he jerked his hand out of her grasp.

Shocked, Ellie almost jumped off the bed. Restraining herself, she stammered, "I'm sorry... I should've asked..."

"It's nothing." He forced a laugh, flexing his fingers to show no harm had been done. "Between your mother and Hackett, I think I ended up with more bruises and contusions than what I started with."

Ellie regarded him suspiciously. That was twice. Shoulder? Hand? She knew her mother could get carried away and maybe, just maybe, navy doctors were a bit rougher than most. But neither Admiral Hackett nor her mother were that rough.

"Dad?" He still hadn't opened his eyes, wouldn't meet her concerned gaze. She wanted to look into them, find out what he was hiding. That he was the one doing the hiding was a terrible irony she didn't at all enjoy.

"Why did you come?" he asked quietly, almost fearfully.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the threatening tears. Their last argument, one among many he'd won and she'd lost, flashed through Ellie's mind. She'd thought they'd found resolution there, if not balance. A good movie, a few laughs, and what he'd said... it had almost broken her heart.

Understanding, just a little perhaps, she forced her suspicions to the back of her mind and told him softly in a broken whisper, "All I have to do is come home, remember?" She didn't fight it this time, dropping her head and letting her hair fall across her face.

Old habits die hard.

"Hey." The voice had the familiar ring of authority again.

Ellie sniffed. "Yeah?"

"Lift your head up so I can see you."

Not quite a bark, but close enough. Ellie blinked and looked up, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

With his good arm he drew her into his embrace, holding her tightly as only a father knew how. The only way he knew how. It had been a long time coming and right now it was all he really needed, all he wanted.

Again, before succumbing to the safety of that strong embrace, Ellie felt the subtle recoil in his muscles. An involuntary shudder that quickly passed. Maybe he felt her own reaction to that, or not, but he tightened his hold, giving her no chance to question or escape.

Not that she really wanted to.

The phone rang.

This time, Ellie did jump.

Her father growled something bordering on unintelligible but quite probably foul.

Wiping her eyes, Ellie managed a short laugh. "I'm not exactly a minor, but do you think Mom would approve of you using language like that in front of me?"

Bartlet's laugh was honest, if not up to his usual standards. "What she doesn't know..." he grimaced and let the rest trail off, brushing a thumb across her cheek. "You won't tell her, will you?"

The phone rang again.

This time Ellie's muttered curse wouldn't have passed either parent's approval. Before her father could protest - and ask the ridiculous question of where she'd learned it, as if he didn't know already - she said, "You've a job."

"So it would seem. I've been hit by my National Security Advisor already. It's probably Fitzwallace, getting his licks in," Bartlet muttered. Giving his daughter a profoundly apologetic look, eyes clouded with something Ellie couldn't quite put her finger on, he asked, "You gonna stick around?"

"Feel like trying to order me to leave?"

"Not at the moment."

"Then I'll be here." No, they weren't quite finished. He was hiding something, or at the very least not admitting to it. She needed to talk to her mother. "I'll hang with Mom."

The phone almost sounded furious at this point.

"Damn it!"

Ellie laughed. "Tame, Dad. Way tame."

"Stick around, you'll hear worse."

"I intend to." Ellie got up, watching him carefully as the bed shifted a bit from the weight. He winced, a little, but no more than expected. Right? "Oh, and you're probably going to get billed for something."

"Something?" Ignoring the phone for a moment - after all, whoever was on the other end had to wait on him, not the other way round - Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "Traffic tickets?" Considering her timing, she'd had to have blown through a good set of laws on her way down.

"Hospital bills," Ellie responded lightly, hand on the door and opening it a crack. She may have just been a beginner at this, but her father wasn't the only master of timing in this family. "Nose, maybe not broken, but definitely squished."

"Nose?"

"One of the agents got in the way of my elbow." She was going to have to thank Agent Vaughn for that one. It was worth it to see the look on his face as she pulled the door shut behind her.

His full-hearted though subdued laughter was even better. Ellie caught that just as the door closed. Then the ring of the phone again. The word uttered at that point was definitely one her mother wouldn't have approved of, or her father if he stopped to think about it.

Ellie chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. The whole confrontation hadn't been what she'd prepared for or expected, but she felt some good had come of it. The mouse had roared, surprisingly, and she wasn't quite finished yet. She'd woken him up, maybe just a little. For now, it was all circumstance would allow her.

It was time to really talk to her mother.

Abbey sat on the couch, quietly watching her daughter with concern as the younger woman took a deep breath, rubbing a shaky hand across her eyes to erase the tears. She'd hoped for something more, the sounds of raised voices, her husband's wakened ire as he berated his daughter for her stubborn disobedience. His stubborn and bullheaded thunder would have been a blessing, if not entirely logical. He rarely was when it came to his daughters, probably overcompensation for being the only male in a female dominated household.

Ellie stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, staring off into space before slowly walking across the room and stopping in front of her mother. She looked down at her, not quite sure what to say or do.

Extending her hand, Abbey laced her fingers through her daughter's and drew her down on to the cushions beside her. Gathering her into her arms, she held her snugly, rocking slowly back and forth. The motion was as old as motherhood and gave them both a comfort far beyond its simple, profound beginnings.

Parental hugs were at a dire premium this evening and Ellie accepted this one no less gratefully than she had the first. Both were precious and she couldn't quite stop the frightening thought that one or the other might someday not be there.

Head on her mother's shoulder, Ellie spoke tentatively, "It's bad, Mom."

Abbey nodded. "I know."

"The fatigue?"

"Constant," Abbey replied, dispirited. "Long before this happened."

"There's more."

"You're an expert on multiple sclerosis now?"

The med student's choked laugh was bitter. "You are?"

"Circumstances," - there was that awful word again, one Abbey had truly begun to hate, heart and soul - "have forced it on us both. You would choose the medical profession."

"You needed the help."

"Is that your only reason?" Abbey asked quietly.

Ellie froze for a moment, unable to voice her thoughts. Her reasons were many and varied, not the least of which was a deep, abiding pride in her mother's own accomplishments. There was another though, fiercer and darker.

"He did," she replied in a broken whisper.

She felt her mother shudder as she drew in a sharp breath. Her hold tightened almost desperately and Ellie responded in kind.

A nearly suffocating sensation tightening her throat, Ellie pulled back from that reassuring embrace, looking her mother in the eye. For both of her parents, she'd learned and forced herself, more so than her sisters, to confront the reality of her father's condition. Touch and movement, it all added up. Holding her mother's gaze, watching for a telling reaction, she said the one word that had been hiding like a demon at the back of her mind.

Saying it, she prayed she was wrong. "Dysesthesia."

Abbey went very still. "You touched him?"

All Ellie could do was nod. She wasn't asked what her father's reaction had been. The grief-stricken realization she saw on her mother's face was all the proof she needed that the older woman, the doctor, already knew.

Ellie was shocked when her mother's eyes suddenly filled with a fierce, enraged spark. She could only stare, tongue tied, as that fury which could rival her father's quickly spread across her features.

Surprise siphoned the blood from her face and she dropped her head. Bewildered, Ellie fought to control her own churning emotions. Along with the anger, she'd seen something else that had finally confirmed her worst suspicions.

Fear.

The sound of her mother's voice broke the strained silence and Ellie cautiously lifted her head.

"Damn them." Abbey's tones were cold and exact.

"Mom?" Ellie didn't know how to respond to that. Damn who?

Abbey surged angrily to her feet, followed closely by her startled daughter.

"Henry!" The First Lady's shouted summons carried easily through the closed door.

Vaughn was inside on the double, expression concerned and wary. With only slightly less carrying power and authority than her husband's, when the First Lady bellowed people listened. Observing her enraged demeanor, barely under control, he let his own settle back into a professional mask.

Something had hit the fan. "Ma'am?"

Hands on her hips, Abbey regarded her bodyguard with a decidedly chilly intensity. He didn't flinch. Good for him. "Made out your will, Henry?"

Vaughn blinked. She was furious. Not the most promising of openings when dealing with this woman. "Ma'am?"

"Mom?" Ellie wasn't any more in the know than the poor agent.

Abbey ignored them both. "Where are they?"

Mask cracking, Vaughn exchanged a confused glance with the First Lady’s daughter. Her helpless shrug didn't help matters any.

"Your boss and the Chief of Staff," Abbey replied to the unasked question, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes dangerously. "Since this whole nightmare began," - and the beginning had been months ago. This day's events had only been the latest in an ever-growing line of attempts and political fiasco  - "those two have been joined at the hip. Where one goes, the other follows. The only council they've given or taken lately has been to each other," she spat the words out almost contemptuously. That was about to end. "Where are they?"

It was a demand, not a request. Technically, the First Lady could demand nothing of the Secret Service. Not bothering to quibble about technicalities, Vaughn lifted his hand and spoke quietly into his transceiver. The response, as always, was instantaneous.

"They're in Mr. McGarry's office, ma'am."

"Thank you." Abbey said gratefully, meaning every word. She relaxed slightly. "About your will..."

Vaughn frowned. "Am I going to need it?"

"You might."

"I was afraid of that." Vaughn sighed, glancing at the closed bedroom door. Emil Torres, the First Lady's detail leader, had warned him about this. It wasn't the first time and it wasn't going to be the last. "Nobody gets in, ma'am?"

"You're learning." Abbey actually smiled. Not long ago, she'd made herself a promise not to be quite so predictable. Apparently, that particular failing had its uses. "Any problems with that?"

"No, ma'am. I'll coordinate with the President's detail, make a few calls." He shrugged and added in an off-the-cuff tone he didn't exactly feel, "Besides, if you've got Agent Butterfield in a head lock, who are they going to complain to?"

"Please," Ellie muttered, only half-joking. She knew her mother. "Don't give her any ideas."

"It's not a bad idea." Abbey turned to her daughter, the small amusement fading from her eyes as she regarded her with searching gravity. "You're back-up, young lady."

"Me?" Ellie squeaked.

"Her?" Vaughn didn't quite squeak, but he came close.

"Both of you." Abbey was already headed towards the door, galvanized by a furious determination that wouldn't be denied. Not this time. Two men in particular were going to catch the brunt of it.

The door actually slammed behind her.

"That's not good," Ellie observed with some trepidation. "Mom's not a door slammer."

"Nope," Vaughn agreed. You learned a few things in this job. "Your father's a door slammer, though."

"Oh, yeah," Ellie muttered with a fond sigh. And she had just admitted that to a total stranger. A blush flashed across her cheeks and she colored fiercely. "So," she stammered weakly, changing the subject. "Now what?"

"Miss?"

Miss? She supposed that was better than ma'am. "About that elbow thing..."

"Agent Haefy'll be fine, miss. Seriously. For all you throw a mean elbow, there was no permanent damage done."

"That's not saying a whole hell of a lot."

The corner of Vaughn's lip twitched suspiciously.

Ellie caught it and despite the evening's emotional upheaval, felt herself smiling shyly in return. "Follow-through, huh?"

"We'll work on it."

"You did good," McGarry told Butterfield, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Hauling C.J. back like you did."

Butterfield didn't bother dignifying that with an answer. C.J. Cregg's reaction to what she'd been told to do tomorrow morning had been no more or less than what he'd expected. Toby Ziegler had almost seemed tame by comparison.

"It was the truth," was the only response he felt safe giving the Chief of Staff.

McGarry snorted. "The truth isn't exactly at a premium right now, Ron." From behind the safety of his desk, he eyed the tall Secret Service Agent warily. "You having second thoughts?"

"Second thoughts, thirds, fourths..." He turned a cool gaze on McGarry. "It's my job to second-guess fate, Leo, and we're tempting the hell out of it."

"Give me an alternative, and I'll take it."

Butterfield said nothing.

"I thought as much."

"You're getting way too good at pushing my buttons, Leo."

Taking the implied rebuke in stride, McGarry smiled thinly. "Scary thought, isn't it?" He ignored the responding growl that one earned him. Leaning back in his chair, he stared up at the ceiling. "I hear Eleanor Bartlet gave your people a run for their money."

Butterfield winced. Not one of the United States Secret Service’s most shining moments. "She... surprised them." It was the only excuse he would allow the agents in question.

"She put on quite a show at the front gate."

Stopping himself just short of an exasperated groan, Butterfield snarled, "Lucky for you there were no press in sight. Would've made for some interesting pictures."

"The nose?" Maybe he was more drained by events than he'd originally thought. There was a certain reckless disregard to safety in the way he was picking at Ron's armor. A dangerous form of entertainment at best.

Sort of like poking a hungry lion with a very short stick.

"Heard about that, did you?"

"Most of the White House has." McGarry shrugged, hiding a smile. Yep. Ron was definitely not amused. Why he was finding this so much fun, he had no idea. The thought occurred to him that maybe it was because his usual sparring partner wasn't available. "News travels fast."

"Too fast," Butterfield muttered.

"Broken?" McGarry asked innocently.

"Messily rearranged, but not broken."

McGarry tsked sympathetically. "Nick Haefy, wasn't it?"

"Buttons, Leo." The warning was dangerously close to that familiar, low growl.

"I like pushing buttons."

"I am not the President."

"For the moment, you'll have to do." McGarry stirred uneasily in his chair, remembering his last meeting with the President, his oldest friend. It was becoming harder and harder to separate the two.

"Do it, Leo." He'd said. At the time, McGarry hadn't been sure if that was determination in his voice, or pained exhaustion. "You'll brief C.J.?"

"You understand the possible consequences?"

The question had been empty rhetoric. How could he, when his closest advisor couldn't even tell him? It was a game, one they couldn't afford to lose, and the stakes were beyond counting.

"Do it." And that was that. Executive decision made. "Inform the Chairman and the NSA. They need to be in the loop."

Maybe he did understand. If so, McGarry wished with all his heart that the President would please explain it to him. He had started this, and he would have sold his soul at that point to see how it would end.

If it would ever end.

"Leo?"

McGarry blinked, snapped out of his darker musings by the concern in Butterfield's voice. "I'm here."

"You had me worried there for a minute."

"Just for a minute, right?"

In spite of himself, Butterfield chuckled.

McGarry joined in, finding some small relief in the action. However little it was, the day and its events needed it. As verbal sparring partners go, Ron wasn't so half bad an opponent.

A commotion from the outer office, one raised voice in particular, carried through to the occupants within. Both men exchanged similar knowing and cornered glances.

Butterfield's brows rose in surprise. Everyone in the White House knew that voice. There'd been no warning traffic about her coming on his transceiver. Yet another hole that needed to be plugged. He had a pretty good idea who had put the lid on that warning.

Still, he had to cautiously ask, "Is that...?"

"It is." McGarry stared at the main door to his office, then gave the door to the Oval Office a wary glance. He quickly dismissed that idea. Despite Margaret's obvious delaying tactics - like that would work for long - Abigail Bartlet would have absolutely no compunction about following her prey in there.

And from the sound of her voice, McGarry knew that she was on the hunt, and who her intended target was. Hell, he was getting used to it.

"I think the First Lady is about to make an entrance," McGarry observed dryly.

"Damn," Butterfield swore with honest sincerity and admiration. "Good timing, though. She's almost as good as her husband."

"Who do you think taught him?"

"Now that's a scary thought."

In the grandest manner, the lady in question made her entrance. The door didn't quite slam open, but it came close. She stood there, giving both men the full brunt of her angry glare.

Margaret, hovering nervously over the shorter woman's shoulder, gave her boss a frightened yet still poignantly apologetic glance. "Leo, the First Lady..."

"Yeah, yeah." McGarry stood up and waved her off, making a mental note to give his long-suffering secretary a raise. God knows she'd earned it. "I can see that she's here, Margaret."

"You can? Really?" The sarcasm was thick and, to Margaret's mind, not entirely unwarranted. "I was afraid you wouldn't notice."

"You'd best leave, Margaret," Abbey told her gently but firmly, never once taking her eyes off the two men. "You can't be here for this."

Margaret hadn't really thought she would be, but the polite dismissal from the First Lady gave her the means to depart with not only dignity but also hide intact. One last silent communication with the Chief of Staff, a quick nod promising no interruptions of any kind, and she left, pulling the door shut behind her.

Whatever was about to happen was not going to be pretty.

Wisdom had little to do with the wary caution that Leo McGarry and Ron Butterfield offered the glowering First Lady. Given the day's events, the depths to which she'd been taken, they'd both expected this. Accusations, recriminations and the demand for answers. Love made little allowance for political power and the rules of state.

McGarry saw something disturbing replace the smoldering look in her eye. There was more to this than a wife's well-founded fears and concerns. Alarmed at what he saw, his own emotions bottomed out and he demanded, "Abbey, what happened?"

"What happened?" Defiance was there, challenge as well. She pretended to not understand the surprise that flashed across the features of her husband's oldest friend. "Somebody tried to kill him, Leo."

McGarry couldn't rally quick enough to offer more than, "Abbey..." before she ran right over his protests.

"And the rest of you," - she included the grimly silent Butterfield in that accusation - "are finishing the job."

"They failed, ma'am." Butterfield had stiffened as though she had struck him. The fault had been his, nobody else's. "It won't happen again."

"Won't it? Your sterling track record to date is not at all reassuring. No -" Abbey met their gazes head on, shutting them both down and finding a perverse pleasure in the fact that neither of these accomplished men could hold her stare for long. "I don't want to hear it. No more excuses, no more lies..."

McGarry's spine went rigid at that last word and he exchanged a guilty, sidelong glance with Butterfield. The blank, emotionless expression on the man's face did little to reassure him.

Abbey didn't notice, or chose not to. "...it stops here. Now. You two are going to listen to me and by God, if I don't hear the right words after I've had my say, I'm leaving. And if you don't think he'll follow..."

"Nobody is leaving, Abbey," McGarry snapped, a sudden chill frosting the edges of his words. This had gone too far. "Please, calm down. Threats won't accomplish anything."

"I'm not making threats, Leo. I'm taking him home." She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. "Try and stop me."

McGarry jerked back, knocking his chair and sending it sliding into the back wall with thud that rattled the shelves. She wasn't threatening, wasn't making an empty gesture of misdirected rage and frustration. He had to fight a battle of personal restraint not to ask her why.

He knew why. With a shaky, defeated hand he reached back and pulled up his chair, collapsing onto it with suddenly weak knees.

Abbey saw that, the raw grief etched on his face, and she relented, just a little. He understood, some of it at least. Some of her anger towards him disappeared at that point. Her heart squeezed with anguish as she remembered how much this man did care for her husband.

"You can't do that, ma'am," Butterfield said softly, his calm voice shattering the brittle silence that had settled across the office like a dark shroud. "It isn't safe."

"Safe?" Turning the full force of her re-ignited fury on him, defying him to try and contradict her, Abbey snapped, "Don't you dare use that word. Not here. Not now. Safe?" her choked laugh was bitter. "Was he safe on Marine One? Was he safe in his own office? Please, tell me because I'm confused, how do you define the word safe?"

A muscle twitched convulsively in Butterfield's tightened jaw. There was more to this than met the eye. "What are you afraid of, ma'am?"

"You. All of you."

Mercifully, McGarry managed to keep his face blank. It was the best he could do. The hurt and betrayal lay naked in her eyes. The anguish, the fear she was radiating was almost physical in its intensity.

But still, cowardice perhaps, he didn't ask why. Not yet.

Butterfield carefully assessed the depth of her anger, the anxiety and sheer heartache underlying it all. He wasn't indifferent to her or her fears. In many ways he shared them, and it wasn't just his job. Dredged up from somewhere beyond logic and reason, he realized that he had become involved. There was no way back, not anymore.

He asked what he knew Leo McGarry couldn't. "What happened?"

Such a simple question. Abbey's throat was raw from shouts and protests she couldn't utter. She wanted to scream, to lay into them with all fury and indignation she could muster. What happened?

"I can't touch him." She forced the words out, the calm, even tone only a thin facade over her churning emotions. "His daughter can't touch him. Do you want to know why? You did ask why, didn't you?"

Frozen in limbo where decision and action was impossible, McGarry wavered, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. An effort of will and he asked, "Why?"

Abbey blinked, momentarily thrown off balance, almost surprised that he had spoken at all. "Don't you know everything, Leo? You and your people have done such a wonderful job educating the public about MS, covered all the conceivable bases, I'm surprised you can't guess."

"I won't guess, Abbey." Not about him. He looked away.

Butterfield stared at his feet. He didn't shuffle; he hadn't quite picked up that bad habit yet.

"No, you won't." Abbey glared first at one man, then the other. Then it was gone, the fury, the righteous indignation she'd so wanted to fling at them, defeated by their helplessness. A helplessness she shared. "You can't possibly understand it all. I don't and I have lived with it. This... thing, it changes, is different for every patient, every victim. Symptoms, new and old, come and go without warning. Ellie saw it. I saw it."

"I can't touch him." She paused, gathering her determination, making sure that this time they'd listen. She could care less if they understood. "Dysesthesia. That is your why. A symptom common to many MS sufferers, but until now, not to him."

Half in anticipation, half in dread, McGarry asked, "What does it mean?"

"It means the slightest touch to the skin, gentle or otherwise, is distorted. The nerve pathways misfire. It can feel like a fierce burn, or an electric shock. Sometimes it goes away," she drew in a deep breath and despite her fears felt a hot, awful joy at the shock on both men's faces "sometimes it doesn't."

"Oh, God." McGarry closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in despair. "It's progressing?"

"Maybe. I can't say. Only time will tell. You want him to heal? To be the man you need him to be? Then let him go home, to rest. Not Camp David, not the Residence, not any of your damn safe houses." Abandoning all pretenses to civility, not that she'd really tried in the first place; she forced her lips into a stiff, false smile. "I'm taking him home. I leave it to you two to work out the details."

Ultimatum given, Abigail Bartlet didn't give them a chance to respond. If she did, it would have been her undoing. With stiff dignity, she opened the door and left, leaving them to work out the solution to their problems. Her problems were only beginning.

This time, she didn't slam the door. Her point had already been made.

Ron Butterfield stirred as the door shut, almost shaking himself out of a numb shock he found unfamiliar. This was not in the books. "I'll get the ball rolling," he said softly. "We can leave in the morning."

McGarry looked at him in surprise. "You agree?"

"Yes, I do." He shrugged, trying not to reveal the frustrated anger threatening to escape his iron control. "Manchester, here, it doesn't matter. The lady's right. Our definition of safe is painfully relative. They got into the Oval Office, Leo. What difference does it make where he is?"

"Where," McGarry muttered, running a shaky hand across his face. "You think we should call it off?"

"Like I said, it's all relative. Here, there, the reaction will be the same. Location won't mitigate the circumstances." Butterfield's expression became calculating. "Truthfully, Manchester is the better of the two options. Smaller, tighter. Strangers will stand out more. It'll give them... him - pause."

"Is that enough?"

"It'll have to be, won't it? You've got me playing with fate here, Leo, and she can be a bitch. Besides, if we can't keep him healthy enough to sit in that chair, in that office, what's the good of keeping that chair safe?"

"Shit," McGarry swore hotly. "What the hell have we started?"

Butterfield didn't bother to point out that it wasn't what they had started, but what Leohad started. That he had agreed, let it continue, had little bearing on his conscience. He had a job to do, and damned if he wouldn't do it well.

"I'm still trying to figure that one out," was all he said.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

James Shirley: 1596 - 1666

Friday, the day after: The Press Room

Staring at the crowd of reporters crammed like stale sardines into the Press Room, listening to the steady drone of raised voices and catching a few snatches of heated but totally off-base speculation, C.J. Cregg's thoughts filtered back to another day not long ago. The memory was made all the more bitter by the words being carelessly tossed around by the press. Their voices brought another to mind. His voice; words spoken no less heatedly by a man she held in the deepest regard, but with a meaning she hadn't truly comprehended till now.

The threat of violence had prompted those words. Her stubborn refusal to listen had provoked the President's temper and his adamant insistence.

"I don't care." He'd said, ignoring all her protests to the contrary.

"Sir..."

"I don't care!" He wouldn't listen. He never did when his mind was set firmly on what he believed was right and he felt he had just cause. What followed had staggered her. "You're part of my family, and this thing is happening, and I simply won't permit it... sign the piece of paper."

Family. A completely unfair way to debate. Regardless of how the sentiment had touched her, how could she possibly argue with that? C.J. had reluctantly signed the document, beginning what?

Simon Donovan's face still haunted her; ridiculously serious, smiling and thoughtful, she'd never forget him. How could she? That one brief glimpse of the man's kindness with his little brother, Anthony, was one she could not, would not, banish. The memories were a sad reminder, a what if she'd never know the answer to. Violence had cast its long shadow.

Death had been the result.

"...I simply won't permit it." The President hadn't been able to stop it.

A cold shiver of premonition spread over her as she remembered those words. Death was stalking another person she cared for. Another what if that, if not countered, would end it all.

Watching the reporters gather in their seats, notepads ready and recorders primed for whatever she chose to feed them, C.J. stiffened her resolve. With words, she would beat back that shadow; deny it form and substance. Death wasn't going to win this time.

She would not permit it.

"You ready for this?"

"Ron send you to check up on me?" Snapped out of her musings, C.J. eyed Caro Lindstrom askance, challenging the Secret Service agent to offer up a rebuttal. "Or was it Leo?"

Caro smiled grimly, ignoring the edge in the Press Secretary's voice. "Nope. Wrong on both counts." She kept her voice even. Like C.J., they were all on edge, skating on the thin ice of possibility. Given what Caro knew this briefing was about to begin, she didn't begrudge her a bit of nerves. Couldn't blame the woman, really. A lot was riding on this. "You know what to do. Just thought I'd come watch the show."

"Bread and circuses," C.J. muttered, giving the agitated reporters waiting for her appearance a sour look.

"What?"

"Something the President once told me, how the Romans used to keep the populace happy and content. Toss them a few crumbs, give them a spectacle and nobody sees the truth." She clung to that memory, an ironic smile pulling at one corner of her mouth. The parallels hadn't escaped her. "The balance of blood and state; never take your eyes off the magician's hands. You might miss something."

"That's the point, isn't it?" Caro raked the crowd with a withering glance. "Are they for real? I mean, don't they know how ridiculous they look? How they sound?"

"You do this job as long as I have, you begin to realize the media rarely focuses on their own absurdities." C.J. shrugged with morose resignation, then took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. It was time to begin Leo's show. "Most of them will miss the point."

"And the ones who don't?"

"Won't ask the right questions." Of that, she was certain.

Caro nodded, stepping back to give the Press Secretary some room. The game was about to begin. Butterfield had warned them. Be prepared for anything. The admonition was not unwarranted, but expected. "Go get 'em, girl."

C.J.'s lips tightened grimly. "Damn straight," she growled, and stepped into the arena.

"Found 'em!" His scavenging a success and the illicit bag of chips in hand, Sam Seaborn shoved the desk drawer shut with his hip. Making his way across Toby Ziegler's office, he settled himself comfortably on the couch next to Josh Lyman. "You know, Leo's up to something," he said in a suitably mysterious hushed voice, tearing open the bag.

"Leo's always up to something." Lyman picked up the remote and turned the TV on. Lowering the volume, he gave his friend a wary glance. Sam embarking on a vague tour of emotional and evidential speculation was never good. "Where have you been lately? Give me some of those." He grabbed the bag.

"No, seriously, Josh. He's up to something. Couldn't you feel it? The man's keyed up, wired like I've never seen him before. He wouldn't look at us during the briefing..."

"If you want to call it a briefing," Lyman interrupted with a disgusted snort.

The atmosphere in the Residence last evening had been heavy and strained from the cloud of indecision and... fear hanging over all of them. Lyman didn't like the word, but it was the only one he could find to apply. Even the normally indomitable First Lady had been uncharacteristically silent and grim. Lyman couldn't blame her, not while her husband was lying there with the results of the attack still fresh and painful to behold. Damn, but even the President himself had been... off. The man had been too quiet, too... resigned. Yet another word he didn't like one bit.

Other than the reassurance that he was well and able to continue with his duties, Lyman hadn't any idea why the President had summoned his senior staff in the first place. Nothing had been accomplished, no sure strategy outlined for how they were going to handle or spin this.

A thought occurred to him, one that annoyingly played right into Sam's rather stretched assumptions. Had it perhaps been Leo, reassuring them and himself at the same time? As much as he hated to admit it - and give Sam the satisfaction - there had been another layer to that somber gathering.

Over the years, Lyman had become as astute as any of the other staffers at reading the hidden messages that passed between the President and his Chief of Staff. Sure, they never really knew what those messages were or meant, but they all knew when a pass had been made. Maybe someday they'd all even learn how to interpret them.

Either way, Lyman didn't like it. No more than he liked being out of the loop on this, or listening to Sam play around with the possibilities.

"He wouldn't look at us, Josh," Sam was insisting stubbornly, snatching the bag back and stuffing a chip into his mouth.

"Considering his mood, you wanted him to single you out for attention? Make direct eye contact? You got a death wish?"

Seaborn blinked. He was right. That sort of attention wasn't something any of the senior staff sought out from Leo McGarry, at least not deliberately. And considering his and Josh's track record with the man lately, definitely not something either one of them needed a repeat performance on. The resulting ego burns were worse than the nastiest case of road-rash and stung just as badly.

Still, he did have a point and was going to make it whether his friend liked it or not. "Well, no. Not really. I mean... you know what I mean. Don't dodge the issue, Josh."

"Yeah. Issues." Lyman rubbed his eyes tiredly, giving Sam that small bit of acknowledgment. Maybe just a tiny bit of support would shut him up. "Issues abound and let's just pretend you do have one."

"Yeah, I do."

"So?"

"So what?"

Lyman resisted the urge to throw a cushion at him. "You started this."

Searching through the bag for the perfect chip, Seaborn ignored him for a moment. Finding one, he held it up for further, intense scrutiny and muttered, "Toby wasn't there."

"Maybe Toby had a thing."

"One I wouldn't know about?"

Lyman gave his cohort a long, steady look and grabbed the bag. Maybe taking away the brain food would get him off this track.

"Okay." So much for that idea. Ziegler's poker face was legendary. If he did know something, no amount of observation or pestering would pry it out of him. Seaborn had tried and failed on any number of occasions. He preferred the road-rash. Disappointed at having that point skewered by questionable logic, Seaborn sullenly ate the perfect chip and hungrily eyed the bag now in Josh's hands. "We'll let that one slide."

Smirking, Lyman drawled, "Best do."

"Josh..."

"Sam!" Exasperated, Lyman shoved the bag back into Sam's hands. Taking it away hadn't worked. Maybe keeping his mouth full would. "Nobody knows anything, not for certain. You know as much as I do."

"Did you see Agent Butterfield's face?" Seaborn switched his attack vector. He had high hopes one or the other would get through Josh's defenses.

"Once," Lyman admitted reluctantly. "I tried to avoid any second glances. Not good for my ulcers or my mental health."

"You've got ulcers?" Seaborn let the whole mental issue slide. None of them were really up to par right now.

Repeating that earlier long look, Lyman added a scowl and a cynical lip curl for good measure.

Not deterred in the least, Seaborn persisted doggedly, "He wasn't happy."

"Ron?"

"Yeah."

"When is he ever?"

"Well," Seaborn crunched another chip and thought about it, "There was that time he got to body-slam that intruder..."

"You think he wanted to body-slam someone?"

A long pause and Seaborn said softly, testing the idea, "Maybe Leo?"

"Just another reason for me not to take another look at the man's face."

"So why did they pack Toby off to Manchester with the President?"

Lyman considered taking the bag away from him again. "Sam, what are you fishing for?"

"I don't know!" Seaborn raised his voice, then glanced warily at the closed door. There were a lot of people just outside. Softening his tone a bit, he repeated his earlier charge. "They're up to something."

"I thought you said Leo was up to something?" Lyman pointed out reasonably.

"They all are."

A knock at the door and Donna poked her head in. "What's up, guys?"

Two guilty looks were exchanged and both men stammered in unison, "Nothing."

Laurel and Hardy were back. Her initial impressions confirmed, Donna invited herself in and shut the door. She'd been looking for a sanctuary of her own, some comrades to share a quiet moment with amidst the emotional chaos raging through the bullpen. It looked like she was stuck with these two.

Donna supposed she could have done worse. "You're hiding in Toby's office."

"We wanted to watch C.J.'s briefing," Lyman told her innocently. "Toby has the best TV."

"Toby's TV works," Seaborn added.

"Yeah, right." Donna wasn't fooled by the tandem innocent act. She wasn't that gullible. The evidence was there in Sam's hands. "Toby's got the best munchie stash, too. You're up to something."

Lyman groaned.

Grinning at the backhanded support of his argument, Seaborn patted the seat next to him and invited Donna to sit. Elbowing Josh over to make room and handing her the bag of chips as a peace offering when she sat down, he said, "Somebody sure as hell is."

Rolling his eyes, Lyman leaned across Sam and grabbed the bag from Donna. Giving his assistant a stern warning, he growled, "Don't encourage him, Donna. That's an order."

"You actually follow his orders?" Seaborn asked ingenuously, quickly leaning back and saving his chin from a good crack as Donna angrily reached across his chest and recaptured the chips from her boss. Beneath the crackle of the bag, he heard a simultaneous snort of disdain from both of them.

"I try to humor him," Donna replied with a haughty toss of her head. "It doesn't take much."

Lyman snorted again.

Donna gave him her best 'you're gonna get it later' look and stuffed a handful of chips in her mouth. Chewing away, she dared Josh to respond.

Lyman ducked the look - he was a past champion at it - and had the temerity to wink at her.

Brushing a few stray chips off his lap, Seaborn shook his head. "You two need a referee."

"Or something," his friend grinned.

Even Donna had to acknowledge the hit. Graciously handing Josh the bag, she merely chewed and smiled. Something was certainly what she had planned. It was really a pity neither of these two spin-boys had a clue as to what.

"Hey!" Seaborn made a grab for the munchies as they were passed and missed. Frowning at Josh, he muttered plaintively, " I'm hungry, too."

"Go steal your own bag."

"I did steal that bag."

"Toby's going to hurt you guys when he gets back," Donna pointed out with a wicked little smile. "You know how he is about his starch stash."

Around a mouthful, Lyman offered his best legal rebuttal. "You're eating them, too."

"I'm not holding the bag."

Lyman shoved the bag into Seaborn's startled hands.

Blinking at the evidence now sitting in his hands, Seaborn gave the whole legal issue of possession some rather deep thought before shrugging. "What the hell. I'm hungry." Besides, if they ate the evidence, where was the proof? Then his earlier argument returned to him. "Besides, Toby's up to something."

"Oh, God," Lyman moaned, melodramatically slapping his forehead. "Not again."

"He is!"

"You said Leo..."

Seaborn didn't let him finish. "They're both jumping around like... I dunno, fleas on a griddle."

"Toby's not here, so how do you know he's hopping?" Lyman's face screwed up into a mask of deep, troubled thought. "And isn't that supposed to be a duck on a hot-plate?"

"Why would you want to put a duck on a hot-plate?"

"Why would you want to put a flea on a griddle?"

"Why would you two even be having this conversation?" Donna's beleaguered question was playful, but the underlying meaning was not. How could it be?

Under siege, speculation was all they had and emotions were running high. Nobody had any answers and if those few in the loop had any ideas, they were playing them close. If the ones left out of the know had to turn to the ridiculous to fill in the blanks while they waited, then so be it.

At least it was something.

"The best and the brightest," Donna muttered with a fond shake of her head. She shoved an elbow into Sam's ribs and liberated the chips with a clean jerk, sending more than a few flying. Smiling serenely at his yelp of protest, she observed dryly, "How have you two managed to keep your jobs?"

"Josh has you to clean up after him," Seaborn grinned. "Me, I'm just cute."

Donna rolled her eyes.

Speaking of cleaning up, the Deputy Chief of Staff was eyeing the scattered crumbs now decorating the floor and the couch. Lyman's keen legal mind regarded the mess worriedly.  "That's evidence," he observed unhappily.

“Donna did it,” Seaborn retorted archly, although he wasn't any more pleased than his friend. "Where do they keep the vacuum cleaner?" Best not to have any witnesses other than Donna.

"Both of you, shush." Donna picked up the remote and turned up the volume. "C.J.'s on."

On the screen, C.J. Cregg had stepped up to the podium, standing tall in front of the White House Seal. The chorus of shouts followed soon after, voices demanding and becoming one combined howl.

"C.J.!"

Seeing her enter the room, walking with a measured pace towards the podium, the eager crowd surged to its feet and began to shout at once. Hands were raised, microphones held up as the White House Press Secretary ignored the din and took her place. Individual voices merged into a singular roar. One word, one name became the fevered chant.

"C.J.!"

Leaning both arms against the podium, C.J. let the pack shout themselves out. Faces she'd come to know, people she'd learned to respect over the last three years, stared eagerly at her, demanding attention. Rabid was the only description she could come up with. Animals circling the kill, waiting for their chance at the blood.

Blood. Too much blood and the promise of more. The circus had just begun. C.J. drove the thought away, focusing on the moment. One last, feeble roar gave her the anchor she needed.

"C.J.!"

"That's my name, people. Glad to see some of you are on your toes." She smiled thinly, and then added with no little spite, "And taking your medication. And here I thought I might have to use a tranquilizer on some of you."

The chill in her voice silenced any other demands that might have been made. A few of the reporters exchanged curious, troubled glances. Others simply smiled, more familiar with C.J. Cregg’s style. Either way, the Press Secretary's banter with the press was well known by all; treasured by most and reviled by others. Familiarity was a two-edged sword.

This time, they all recognized that she wasn't joking. Whatever sword was about to be swung, the keen edge was going to cut deeply into any preconceived notions they might have.

Egos were shelved and silence settled across the room.

C.J. let the moment stretch, giving them all a chance to settle. Putting on her spectacles, she glanced at her notes. "Okay, in case you haven't noticed, the lid is off. Shall we begin?" She made her choice and selected her first victim.

Standing up, the reporter began, "C.J., is the White House ready to confirm what happened in the Oval Office yesterday?"

The question was obvious. C.J. and her people had been dodging the issue for the last twenty-four hours, waiting for word from the Chief of Staff, the President and the Secret Service as to exactly what was going to be told to the world. The answer had pleased nobody, least of all C.J.

Staring the reporter down, C.J. paused. Gathering her thoughts, what she'd been briefed with and exactly how to say it, she took a deep breath.

Bread and circuses.

Usedto a far more instant response, the reporter prompted impatiently, "C.J?"

"C.J...."

The day before

"C.J.?" McGarry's brows drew together uncertainly, watching the woman expectantly as she sat on his office couch and read the press briefing notes he'd given her for the umpteenth time. In no small way he was dreading her response. She was being far too contained and her body language was clearly indicative of an imminent eruption.

Giving McGarry no response to his prompt, the Press Secretary continued to stare at the briefing notes in her hand, no longer truly reading them, merely letting the words settle into her thoughts. Her face shifted rapidly from stunned disbelief to a focused anger that had no target.

McGarry settled heavily into his chair, putting his desk squarely between him and the uncharacteristically unpredictable Press Secretary. Then again, maybe he was just letting his tired mind free-associate. C.J. wasn’t that predictable. Knowing what she'd been through the past few months, he should have expected it. "You can do this, right?" he asked carefully. "'Cause if you can't, I can get Toby or Sam to..."

"It's not a question of whether or not I can do this, Leo," C.J. snapped, struggling to maintain her equilibrium. She'd expected facts from Leo, information to feed to the press and keep them, if not her, happy. But this? "The question is whether or not I should."

The last twelve hours had been an exercise in communications juggling she hoped never to repeat. First told by Leo to find something, anything to keep the White House Press Corps from going ballistic, C.J. had then found herself ordered to take a low profile. Until told otherwise, she was to go nowhere near the Press Room, to pass off any and all briefings to the FBI, Secret Service and whatever minor communications flunkies she could get her hands on.

"Stay away from the Press Room, C.J. Low-ball 'em," Leo had told her. "Tell them nothing of any consequence till you hear from me."

She'd low-balled them, done everything in her power to stay out of their way short of hiding in her office closet. If the Chief of Staff hadn't summoned her into his office for this meeting, her closet would have become the sanctuary of choice.

And then he had to lay this on her. Raising her eyes and meeting his gaze, C.J. let him know exactly what she thought about this.

To his credit, McGarry didn't flinch from the silent accusation being tossed his way. Tiredly rubbing his eyes, he sighed, "C.J...."

"Are you insane?!" There, she'd finally said it.

McGarry's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. She was close to the line. "An interesting question."

"Well somebody is!" Snapping the folder closed on the notes, she surged to her feet. Waving the file like a banner, she advanced on the desk and the man seated behind it. "This is a slap in the face!"

"To whom?"

"You know damn well to whom, Leo. And don't start going all grammatically correct on me. It won't work."

"My grammar? Or that?" McGarry asked in as reasonable a tone of voice as he could manage, indicating with a wave of his hand the briefing notes and folder she was about to crumple into an unrecognizable wad.

"This!" The folder had become a weapon. Only the desk kept her from using it like one. "You can take your grammar and stick it..."

"C.J...."

"Don't patronize me, Leo. I've read John Douglas, too. I know what this means, what you're trying to do. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were."

"But you think he is?" There was no mistaking who she meant by he. She couldn't believe the stakes Leo has set up; the bluff, counter-bluff and awful possibilities of the game he was beginning. "I give the press this profile and it sets off the timer on the bomb. How do you expect him to react?"

McGarry smiled thinly. "Badly."

Taken aback by that simple statement, C.J. tried coming at him from another direction. "Whose idea was this?"

"Mine."

Big surprise there. "The President agrees?"

McGarry simply stared her down.

Refusing to be intimidated, C.J. pushed again. "And the FBI? CIA? They're going along with it? What about Toby?"

"They'll do what they're told."

Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't. C.J. wasn't taking any bets. And she had her doubts about Toby. The Communications Director had known this was coming, of that she was in absolutely no doubt. Being conspicuously absent from this meeting, she figured he hadn't wanted to get caught in the crossfire. Her verbal crossfire.

Everyone was doing what they were told. There was no way C.J. could argue with that, not when she knew damn well that Leo had the President backing him up on this. Men! "I know this isn't the original FBI profile, Leo. I've seen it, remember? Oh, sure. You can spin the facts in any direction you want, create whatever picture suits you. But you add in what happened to Marine One, and this picture," she held up the folder, "skews in a whole other direction."

"The press doesn't know what really happened on Marine One."

"But our UNSUB does." C.J. scowled. UNSUB - unknown subject. Unconsciously, she fell into the terms and acronyms used by law enforcement. It provided distance, if not protection from brutal reality. She took a step back, putting a tighter rein on her emotions. Histrionics weren't getting her anywhere. "And you think he doesn't know that we know?"

"Probably."

"Probably?" C.J. stared at him, stunned by his cool response. It wasn't right. "You're stretching the bounds of credulity here. The press aren't idiots. A few are going to at least figure out that we're not telling them the whole truth, bending if not breaking the facts over our knees. The UNSUB may buy it, but some of them won't."

McGarry eyed her speculatively. "If you've got a problem lying to the press..."

"Don't go there, Leo." She wasn't about to let him finish that sentence. "I swear to God, you open up that can again and I'll scream. I'm not lying to them this time. You are lying to them. It's your game. You're pushing the buttons on this guy and I don't think you know exactly what's going to happen."

McGarry's face darkened and he leaned forward. His voice, low and grating, had an ominous tone when he answered, "Oh, I know exactly what's going to happen, C.J."

"Do you really? I'm the one who's going out there and painting a big target on the President and basically inviting the bad guy to come take his best shot." She'd wanted those words to pierce the shell Leo had built around himself, to shatter his cold complacency. Her only reward was a brief flash of intense pain, quickly shuttered. Softening her voice, she asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"We have no choice." McGarry let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair. "We didn't start this."

"But you're determined to finish it."

"By whatever means necessary."

"Whatever means necessary," C.J. repeated softly, sounding out the words like a curse. "Who did this..." she brandished the briefing notes, stopping herself short of sneering, "...profile? It's a great piece of fiction and I'd love to congratulate the author." She couldn't help the sarcasm in her voice. It was all she had left.

"He did." McGarry inclined his head towards the far corner of his office, indicating the quiet figure that had been standing silently in the shadows, observing the argument. "You got issues, take them up with him."

C.J. started, glancing furtively toward the other occupant of the office. She'd forgotten he was there. Not for the first time, she wondered at the man's ability to fade so completely into the background.

Expressionless, Ron Butterfield stepped out of the shadows, offering himself up for any further arguments the Press Secretary might want to make. Being a target wasn’t exactly new to him. McGarry had warned him she'd take this road. Hell, he'd half expected it himself.

Taking a deep breath, C.J. proceeded to give the Chief of White House Security a further piece of her mind. "You did this?"

Butterfield shrugged dismissively. "Yes."

"And you're cool with it?"

There was a long pause, then Butterfield shook his head and replied softly, "No."

"Then why?" C.J. fought to keep the desperation from her voice. She wanted to understand the reasons they were taking this path, and neither man was helping. She expected better from Ron. "You've already got me telling the press part of the truth, what happened yesterday in the Oval. Why not blow the whole thing open, let them know what's really going on?"

"Leo's right. We have no choice."

"There's always a choice."

"Not this time, C.J." For the first time, some of the emotion Butterfield had been holding under tight control broke through the cracks. His temper flared and his voice, though still even, burned with anger. "We tell the whole truth, and the line between crime and politics disappears. This isn't a terrorist making a statement, however empty or desperate. This is a criminal, a thug, someone with nothing more than an eye to his organization's profits. The President has set events in motion that threatens these people's precious status quo. It has become a moral absolute..."

Neither Butterfield nor C.J. saw an unusually quiet McGarry wince at that last phrase. Moral absolutes. He remembered the aftermath the last time those words were uttered. Black and white had become a murky gray.

"...order versus chaos," Butterfield was saying, focused solely on how his words were being received by C.J. and not the Chief of Staff. "Stop or die. That is this man's statement. That is his only goal. We even acknowledge that the threat has been made, who made it and why, and they win. We give them legitimacy and the protection racket goes fully global. Any criminal with a grudge or a dented bank account will feel emboldened to throw their demands into the ring. The art of government is difficult enough as it is in this world of terrorists and madmen without giving common criminals a chance at the plate."

"Wow." The force of his seething reply had taken C.J. off her guard. It was the most words she'd ever heard the taciturn agent string together, even when he had tried to convince her of the danger presented by a single, mentally unbalanced stalker. She hadn't believed him then but now, frighteningly, his argument made a horrible sense.

Still, she had to comment dryly, "You've been hanging around Leo too much there, Ron."

Butterfield's lips twisted, but didn't quite make it to a smile. "Yeah, I know."

McGarry waved his hand. "I'm over here, Ron."

Butterfield huffed softly, one corner of his mouth lifting. Anyone who didn't know the man would have suspected a sneer of disdain.

McGarry knew better.

So did C.J. She turned back to McGarry. "You really want me to do this?"

"Yes."

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I." McGarry's voice was bleak, but determined.

C.J. jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned, finding that Butterfield had moved up silently beside her. There was sympathy in his steady gaze, and something else. "Ron?"

"It has to be done," he told her softly, perhaps trying to convince both her and himself.

Hearing that from anyone else, C.J. would have snapped. From Ron? The choice was made. She nodded. "Okay."

Satisfied, Butterfield squeezed her shoulder gently and stepped back.

McGarry glanced at his watch. "C.J...."

Friday, the Press Room

"...C.J.?"

C.J. blinked and looked down at the upturned faces and calling mouths. Like so many fledglings straining upwards to snatch a juicy morsel - and just about as mindlessly ravenous. She took a deep breath. Time to toss Leo's ball into play. She just hoped for the President's sake that none of his team would fumble the pitch. 

"Okay, the White House is now prepared to corroborate the rumor that an incident occurred in the Oval Office early yesterday morning." She regarded her audience with unusual bitterness. "But given that most of you were up bright and early this morning to see the President off and speculate on his appearance, you already know that, right?"

She swept the crowd with an almost contemptuous gaze, meeting each eye in turn. Most turned away, shuffling papers and notes, or checking recorders that had suddenly developed a fault. A select few held their ground and accepted her implied censure. One brave soul in particular caught C.J.'s eye.

Will Sawyer gave her an almost imperceptible nod, his own gaze sharp and assessing as it met hers. For a moment, C.J. held that look; pondering the circumstances of the reporter's return to a venue he considered a waste of his time and talent. What was he doing back here?

Still, his presence gave her a possible ally among the pool. However oblique that support might be, she accepted it.

Purposely clearing her throat to silence the impatient murmuring that had begun to spread, she continued coolly, "The purpose of this briefing is to acquaint you with the facts of that incident, preferably before some of you get even more carried away than you already did in your initial reports. If we'd left you to your own devices any longer, you'd have declared the President dead." 

Well, that was an unhappy choice of phrase. C.J. could almost see Carol wincing out of the corner of her eye. The assistants were as shaken as their bosses were. They may not know the full, horrible truth - that there seemed to be an enemy within their very gates - but they knew something terrible had already happened, and that this might not even be the worst. The atmosphere all over the White House was as brittle and fragile as spun glass.

The slightly mutinous air of the all-too-briefly-subdued reporters told the Press Secretary that they felt she bore a fair bit of the responsibility for the crazier rumors floating around. The last twenty-four hours had been an insane whirligig of vague, non-committal statements and faceless spokespersons as she and her staff tried to pick up the pieces and cover up the worst of what had happened; waiting on definite orders on how to handle the appalling and foreign situation in which they were now embroiled. 

And the situation hadn't improved. Relief at finally having a game plan had given way to outright dismay at the nature of that plan. Not even Leo McGarry's usual authority and confidence had been sufficient to persuade his Press Secretary and Communications Director. For the first time, the Chief of Staff almost had an outright mutiny on his hands, with C.J. leading the pack. 

Her confidence in Ron Butterfield's judgment, and his commitment to his President's care and well-being, had swayed C.J., but it had taken an assurance of the President's own agreement to this insane strategy to win her unwilling cooperation. 

Hell, Sam and Josh still didn't know the full, insane details. They were about to get the shock of their lives while watching this briefing. The entire West Wing was.

Might as well jump right in. "Yesterday, the President called a 8:00 am meeting of his senior staff in the Oval Office. Shortly after the meeting commenced, the President noticed a chess piece on his desk. We now know this piece was hollowed out to hold a very small quantity of explosive. The explosive trigger was apparently heat sensitive, and it detonated shortly after the President... One moment!" - as she was almost drowned by the frantic chorus from the press - "...the President picked it up. The President sustained minor injuries to the face and left hand, both from the explosive force and from shrapnel when the chess piece fragmented. He also sustained some second-degree burns to the hand from the heat and proximity of the blast."

The Press Secretary took a deep breath as she was almost swamped by the memory of the President sitting there, hands concealing his face and blood streaming everywhere. For a few heart-stopping seconds she had dreaded what she would see when those hands were lowered, and knew she had not been the only one. 

"The President was removed to the Residence, where his wounds were tended to by Admiral Robert Hackett. These wounds have subsequently been deemed to be minor." She almost choked on that half-truth.

Yeah, right! C.J. understood Leo McGarry's strategy in downplaying the effects of the explosion and she knew it could unquestionably have been so much worse. She had glimpsed the initial damage to the man's hand, and then seen the lines of pain still etched on his face last evening.

She forced her outrage back. Minor didn't even begin to cover it.

"I know a lot of you picked up the report of an ambulance being summoned. As it happened, the President's physician was more than satisfied that there was no need on medical grounds to remove him from the White House."

Glancing up, C.J gauged how these revelations were going down. So far, so good. The vast majority of the press corps had their heads down, scribbling away frantically.  Looking around though, she caught slightly puzzled expressions from Steve and Sandy, and a look of outright skepticism from Will. 

Damn!  The first two were White House veterans; no doubt they sensed something a little off about the response to a security disaster of this magnitude. Will Sawyer might be off his usual beat, but the man's career was practically a résumé of the world's hot spots and criminal dens. She had no doubt his investigative radar was screaming at him. 

The Press Secretary drilled all three with a challenging glare, daring them to dispute anything she had just uttered. Both Steve and Sandy obediently dropped their gaze, and C.J. felt her heart oddly lighten at this silent agreement to trust her... for now at least.  Sawyer on the other hand, met her glare for glare. She tried desperately to convey silently her need for him to play along. 

A blink and slightly bemused expression was her only reply. Then he gave her a short nod, as if to say, "We'll take this up later." 

C.J. sighed. Lucky her. 

"C.J.," a voice called from the pack, rising above the ever-present din. "Does the Secret Service have any comment on how such a device made its way into the White House, never mind onto the President's desk?"

"Well Frank, I can tell you the Secret Service is certainly conducting an investigation into that even as we speak. Beyond that, the White House never comments on Secret Service proceed..." 

The Press Secretary found herself drowned out in a chorus of groans and appeals of, "C'mon, C.J.!" 

"Hey, you know the drill, guys!" C.J. snapped. For the love of God, some of them were actually whining! "We've been here before. The Secret Service never comments on ongoing investigations."

'And I was never more grateful for that excuse,' C.J. thought acidly as the grumbling died down to a more manageable level. This cover story already had holes big enough to drive the presidential motorcade through. "And to save you the bother of asking; no, the President is not going to be seeking any resignations over this security breech. It was unfortunate that security glitched, but that happens. The President has the fullest confidence and trust in his security team, and won't be looking for any changes there."

That last part wasn't in her notes, but C.J. was sure President Bartlet would agree with her on that point. Besides, Ron Butterfield and his team deserved this administration's support.

"C.J., what do you know about the explosive and the exact nature of the injuries it caused?"

"The amount of explosive was fairly minute; the exact amount is being held back for identification and control." She waited for the inevitable outburst of protest, but was surprised when it didn't come. Will wonders never cease, but they could actually think before spewing out a question. "Anything more would never have gotten into the White House, never mind the Oval Office. Still, it was enough to totally fragment the container, turning it into shrapnel. Given its common availability, we can tell you the explosive base was Semtex." - the same plastic explosive that the NTSB report had stated was used in the Marine One crash, C.J. recalled grimly.

She deliberately omitted that little detail. No one outside the immediate executive staff and the various security agencies involved knew the truth about Marine One. If the press ever found out, it would blow the lid off a scandal that would make the MS affair seem like a cakewalk. 

Speaking of the MS... C.J. winced as she carefully avoided the eye of one particular member of the press corps. Older, calmer and more dignified than most of his colleagues, he was something of an unknown element to her. The typical White House press briefing usually held no place for his particular field of journalism. But since the health crisis of the previous year, she had found that he and his fellow specialists were becoming an increasingly standard element of her audience.

Finally caught in his steady regard, she resigned herself to getting it over with. "Yes, Lawrence?"

The Times chief medical correspondent rose to his feet. "C.J., you state the President's injuries were 'minor'. I see from the briefing notes that he only sustained small gashes to the face. However..." He squinted at the press release in his hand, "I see a statement that, in addition to the second-degree burning you mentioned, the President also received a dozen stitches to his left hand and that there was considerable tissue trauma. Does Admiral Hackett expect him to regain full use of that hand?"

"Yes, he does." C.J. felt a slight twinge of relief at being able to answer positively. "The Admiral detected no tendon damage. The hand will have to be bound and immobilized for some time, but there is no lasting damage."

"It seems like a remarkably light escape, considering the cause."

"What can I say?" The Press Secretary shrugged, forcing a nonchalance she didn't feel. Her stomach was doing loops just thinking about it. "Fortunately the President had just released hold of the chess piece. We got lucky."

"Indeed. Does the Admiral expect any secondary complications?"

"Not really." C.J. began to relax. "The President may have to undergo some light physiotherapy once the bandages are removed."

"Hmmm." Altman continued to peruse his notes. C.J. was amazed he had been allowed to hold the floor this long. Presumably his colleagues felt he knew what questions to ask better than they did. "Any risk of infection?"

"Some slight risk. It was almost impossible to avoid. The wounds contained a lot of debris. The President has been running a very mild temperature, but his physician is confident that the infection is minor and under control."

"A slight fever?" Altman's brows rose. "And of course, shock as well?"

"Yes," C.J. admitted, suddenly wary.

"So." Altman's gaze suddenly sharpened and he regarded the Press Secretary shrewdly.  "Given the President's medical history, is there any danger of his suffering a relapse of his MS?"

And there it was. Damn. C.J. closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the air in the Press Room fairly crackle with tense expectation. The vultures were circling already.

"Don't lie, don't conceal it," Leo had told her. "We don't want to broadcast the worst - apart from anything else, it doesn't help the strategy - but we can't afford to cover it up, either.  If it comes up, address it.  But you don't have to paint them a road map either."

Well, it was out there now all right. And she was torn. On the one hand, what had been done to the man was an outrage that left her longing to shout her anger and indignation to the world. On the other hand, Leo's plan aside, she was damned if she wanted to give their opponent that kind of satisfaction, of letting him know just how deeply and painfully he had struck home on his target.

She took a deep breath.  There were enough lies and half-truths being flung around this room already. On this, they couldn't afford to obfuscate. Not after the last year. 

"Yes, well..." She looked down at the expectant faces and silently damned them and herself for once again holding this man up to public scrutiny. And consigned to perdition the monster that had driven him down to this. 

"I regret to report that the President did experience a resurgence of his symptoms yesterday, after receiving treatment for his injuries." She gritted her teeth as the press pool once again erupted. "The reason he has departed for Manchester is the perceived need by his physicians for him to take a couple of days to rest and get over the shock of the explosion and his injuries."

"C.J.! Does this explain the President's apparent unsteadiness when boarding Marine One this morning? Has the relapse affected his legs? Can he walk unaided?"

"No, Cheryl. If you'd looked a little more closely as he boarded Marine One this morning, you'd have seen that we had the President mounted on a small hover pad, propelled by the First Lady." C.J. had no compunction about venting her unhappiness by mauling the occasional reporter. The press pool could certainly spare them. "For heaven's sake! You were there, you saw the man. The President's MS can induce numbness and slight weakness in the lower limbs. It does not paralyze him. He was quite able to proceed under his own power."

"C.J., in view of this relapse, what does the White House have to say to the past accusations of Republicans and Governor Ritchie that the President's condition risks making him unfit to govern this country in the near future, and that he should not contest the election? Particularly in light of the fact that his condition has once again been induced by stress."

C.J. glowered down from the podium. After all the man had been through lately, they still had to harp on this?  "Well, Billy, I would remind the Governor that the President has been under a considerable amount of strain lately, from work on both the domestic and foreign fronts. He was also recuperating from previous injuries suffered in a serious air crash," - Oops! She really shouldn't have brought that connection to their attention. 

Scrambling for the save, her temper sparked by the almost contemptuous tones of the original question, C.J.'s voice hardened ruthlessly as she snapped, "If, after all that, the final straw that induced a relapse was an explosion that damn near took off his hand, then I'd say Governor Ritchie need not worry unduly about President Bartlet's ability to handle stress."  

"Furthermore," she continued, really warming to her theme as her mind's eye replayed the picture of the President the previous evening. Bruised, gashed, weary and in pain, with an air of quiet resignation she had found disturbing; yet still alert and shrewd. And caring, concerned about how all this had affected her. "You should know by now that the President has always fully recovered from his rare attacks. There is no evidence the condition may ever affect his cognitive powers. It is well controlled and regulated, and only troubles him in extreme circumstances. Cut us some slack, people! The man was injured!  We've spent the better part of a year educating you people on the realities of MS - not just its myths - and on the President's health. Yet after all that, you still act as if he's going to lose the use of his mind or his limbs every time the topic comes up. Give us a little credit. Give him some credit."

Collecting herself, she said grimly, "We've given you all the information you could possibly need on the President's MS and his course of treatment over the last year. Given that, we just hope you'll report this responsibly and without any hysterical speculation.  Grant the President some ordinary human dignity at least." C.J. heard the bitterness spilling over into her voice and made no attempt to hide it. Let them chew on this. "He's not just the President, he's a man with a chronic medical condition that he's managed to cope with very well in his day to day life. Some acknowledgement of that might be nice."

"Nice," Lyman growled, remembering his own run-ins with a rabid press intent on finding their damn stories, regardless of the harm it might cause. "Since when is the press ever nice?"

"Give me a minute," Seaborn responded dryly to the obviously rhetorical question. Press, reporters, pictures and stories weren't exactly high on his most wanted list. "I might be able to think of one or two rare moments."

"C.J.'s on a roll." In spite of himself, Lyman chuckled at the sight of the gaping reporters. Mouths opening and closing like so many stranded and drowning fish, they were staring at the Press Secretary in comically apparent shock. "One or two of those puppies are going to need therapy after this."

"Rendered mute, reduced to their basic emotional components, ripped asunder and left to wallow in their own personal inadequacies."

"Sam, what has Toby told you about getting carried away with the imagery?"

"If it works."

"She ripped 'em a collective new one, okay?"

"That, too." Seaborn grinned, never more proud of C.J. than he was at this moment. In future, more than a few of those sharks were going to approach the Press Secretary and her den with nervous caution. "There's no way Ritchie can come back on the MS issue now without looking stupid."

"Please," Lyman fervently pleaded to the myriad imps of political insanity. "Let him try."

"With a little help from his friends," Seaborn muttered darkly. He still stung from his so-called friend's backstabbing game with the promo tape. "C.J. won't put up with it, not in the mood she's in."

"C.J. rocks," Donna said quietly, clutching the chip bag in tight, nervous hands.

Something in her voice gave Seaborn pause. Glancing at her with concern, he asked, "You okay, Donna?"

Staring at the screen, she nodded.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

That single worded response only set off more alarm bells. Seaborn exchanged a look with Josh, not at all surprised to see that same concern reflected in his friend's eyes. Donna Moss was not given to monosyllabic responses and she was a terrible poker player. Something was bothering her. "Really, Donna..."

"I'm okay, all right." She cut him off, passing the bag to him with an agitated crackle. "It's just that..." She couldn't find the words.

"What?" Seaborn handed the bag to Josh, his munchie blues forgotten.

In her heart, Donna had been afraid to ask this question. She clenched her hands till the nails bit into her palms. Affection, regard, and fear for a man she held in the highest respect. She wanted the truth. Maybe that was the reason she had sought these two out in the first place. The anxious looks on their faces told her they knew.

"I'm okay," she repeated in a small voice. Swallowing with some difficulty, she found the courage to ask, "Is he going to be okay?"

Lyman opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? It wasn't nearly as clear-cut a picture as C.J. was painting. Remembering the inconclusive events of last evening, he couldn't really give her an answer. He just didn't know, not for certain.

Neither did the Deputy Communications Director.

Slipping his arm around her shoulders, Seaborn pulled her close. A brief moment of uncertainty when he realized this was more naturally Josh's place, but he quickly banished it. He was stuck in the middle and he needed the reassurance as much as she did.

Josh was just going to have to wait his turn.

He rubbed his hand comfortingly along her arm. Remembering what he had seen the night before, a sense of desolation sweeping over him, Seaborn gave her the only answer he could. "I don't know."

He felt her shudder as she drew in a shaky breath.

Lyman cast a helpless gaze towards the ceiling and swore, "Damn."

Subdued and unsure of what yet may come, they all turned grim eyes back to the TV. Whatever else might happen, they and their friends still had to deal with the real world, and the questions yet to be answered.

However much they might want to consign the questioners to perdition's flames.

Taking advantage of the momentary - and slightly stunned - lull, the Press Secretary flicked through her briefing notes, unable to entirely still a grimace of disgust. This press conference was already making her top ten of all time doozies. This next bit, thanks to Leo's machinations, was going to send it right to the top of the list, past the MS revelation and Rosslyn.

"Okay, people. Moving on. The forensics report is still pending, but the FBI and the Secret Service are now prepared to release a profile on our suspect and speculate as to his motive."

"C.J., is it the feeling of the investigators that this attack was politically motivated? And if so, what group might be behind it? Or could it conceivably be personal?"

"The Secret Service is confident that there was a strong personal element to this attack." And that's about as close I'm going to come to the truth for the rest of this briefing. C.J. felt her jaw tighten in distaste for her task. "It was far too haphazard and amateurish an attempt to be the work of professionals. The use of a chess piece, besides being a singularly inefficient vehicle for delivery of the explosive charge, seemed to be a facile attempt at cleverness, demonstrating what is, after all, general knowledge as to the President's personal interests." 

C.J. couldn't help but wonder though if there was any significance to the choice of a piece with such ecclesiastical overtones. Surely not? The President's religious devotion was as well known as his love for chess, or his disdain of golf. But that he had once contemplated a very different career path to politics? Even she had not known that until his almost off-hand, yet engagingly confiding answer to her wearily relayed question during the now distant Portland trip. She had wondered at the time if that confidence was part apology for the amount of executive teasing she had put up with during that flight.

Remembering the mischievous smile he had given her, the way his expression had softened as he spoke of his wife, the Press Secretary suddenly felt her determination harden. This plan of Leo's might be, in her opinion, ill conceived and foolhardy, but it at least afforded her the satisfaction of striking back at their mysterious villain. She could repay, however slightly, some of the indignity he had inflicted. 

Well, she could certainly get on side with that. Somehow, the fact that the 'singularly inefficient' chess piece had in all likelihood never been intended to kill, merely cause hurt, had only increased the staffers' sense of outrage. The sheer, overwhelming arrogance of this man! It would be a pleasure to prick him in return and make him sting.

Her determination strengthened, if not totally reassured, she pointed. "Yes, Sandy."

"C.J., forgive me, but it sounds as if the White House isn't taking what is an extremely serious breech of security very seriously. This is after all the first time a President has actually been injured inside the executive mansion."

"I assure you, the White House is taking this quite seriously." C.J. felt as if she might choke on the words, but managed to continue in a suitably grave but still almost casual manner. "We're also trying to keep this in proportion. The President is the target of cranks and fanatics every day. Just because one unbalanced individual got lucky..."

"Lucky?" Sawyer's dry tones sounded for the first time. 

Glowering over her spectacles, C.J. replied tersely, "Yes, lucky. Lucky in that he managed to penetrate security at all. Lucky in that his pathetic little James Bond effort actually did any damage." 

Sawyer gazed back levelly, before dropping his head to make a brief note on his pad, suspicion evident in every line of his body.

The Press Secretary moved hastily on before he could call her bluff. "Steve."

"C.J., does the Secret Service really believe that a lone individual managed to penetrate White House security in this manner? Are they sure it wasn't some disaffected organization, a conspiracy of some kind?"

"No." C.J. put all the force of her considerable authority behind this denial.  But, oh how I wish it were true. "The actual mechanics of how the chess piece ended up in the Oval Office are still being investigated, but the Secret Service is confident that this is the work of a single person. It's possible he had help, some unwitting associate doing what they thought was an innocent favor for an acquaintance, but we'll find out soon enough."

And she could almost, almost, find it in her to sympathize with that accomplice when Ron Butterfield caught up with him. There had to have been someone on the inside, a truly terrifying thought. It was time to administer another few jabs to their opponent's ego. 

"This plan wasn't particularly well conceived. The elaborate and melodramatic way in which the explosive was delivered - easily worthy of the best comic book traditions - was only equaled by its ineffectiveness. It could and did cause injury, but it was far too small to be likely to result in any fatalities." 

"Any idea as to our incompetent assassin's motive?" Sandy might still be looking a little perplexed at the tone and direction of this briefing, but she had sensed where C.J. seemed to want to steer them and was playing along like a trooper.

C.J. made a mental note to give her and Steve a jump on the next news story as a reward for not pointing out the many holes she was sure they had picked up in this scenario. Will, on the other hand, was starting to look downright restive. Time to administer the coup de grace. 

"Jealousy." The Press Secretary could not suppress a vindictive little smile. See how you like being played with, whoever you are. 

"Jealousy?" Billy's tones sounded almost incredulous.

"Um, hum." C.J. nodded firmly. "Jealousy of the President, his position and influence, his accomplishments and intellect. Coupled with a childish desire to be the center of attention. Basically, he sees himself as the President's intellectual equal and is trying to draw President Bartlet's attention to his own cleverness with elaborate game playing. He probably never intended to actually kill the President; this was just his attempt to challenge someone whom he perceives as offering a threat to his view of his own position as a thinker and an intellectual."

Pausing for effect, C.J. shuffled through her notes. "The profile of our perpetrator paints him as being of unbalanced mind, a sick, inadequate personality with delusions of grandeur." She spoke spitefully, her hatred of their unseen opponent lending strength and vigor to her words. "He is unable to sustain any kind of relationship with the opposite sex and is emotionally underdeveloped. In short, he's more than likely a spoiled child, probably stuck in a mental loop of post-pubescent angst and sexual frustration, attempting to get back at Mommy or Daddy by throwing what amounts to a juvenile hissy fit. The President represents an authority figure for him, one he has to challenge. We really don't consider him to be much of a threat, and the Secret Service is confident of discovering his identity very soon."

The chip bag went flying, scattering its remaining contents across the office as Lyman surged to his feet. "Son of a bitch!"

Donna flinched.

Seaborn was on his feet, grabbing his friend by the arm. "Josh, don't..."

"Why weren't we told?" Shrugging off the restraining hand, Lyman advanced angrily on the TV. Whether his intent was to climb through the screen and throttle C.J. or pound the image into dust, he stopped himself short of both. "Are they insane!"

Waving his hand, trying desperately to get the Deputy Chief of Staff to lower his volume levels, Seaborn glanced nervously at the door. The constant, low murmuring of activity from the bullpen had become ominously quiet. "Stifle it, Josh! There are people out there, and in here..." he paused and looked at Donna sitting lost and frightened on the couch. "Damn!"

Lyman either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore him. "They were up to something. God damn it, they were up to something. When I get my hands on Toby..."

"You know Toby didn't have anything to do with this."

"That's why they packed him off..."

"Josh..." Another glance at Donna, who was getting more frightened by the minute. "Listen to me, will you?"

"I swear to God, Sam..."

"Josh - SHUT UP!!"

Lyman choked, blinking stupidly at Sam's uncharacteristically furious and loud outburst. For the first time, he noticed the lull in activity from the bullpen, then the bewildered, scared figure of his assistant trying desperately to shrink and crawl under one of the cushions.

"Aww, hell." His shoulders slumped. "This ain't good, Sam."

"And you're not making it any better." Having got Lyman's attention, if not his emotional balance back in check, Seaborn thought quickly and demanded harshly, "The file, Josh. Where's the copy of the original FBI report Leo gave us?"

Gathering his thoughts, Lyman stared at him for a moment, and then grimaced. "My desk." He bolted for the door.

"No!" Grabbing his arm, Seaborn hauled him back. The last thing they needed was the bullpen seeing Josh Lyman pelting hell bent for leather for his office, especially after that rather loud outburst. Not good.

Oddly enough, Seaborn seemed to be the only one thinking right now, a rather bizarre turn of events he could have done without. "We need to talk - now, not later." He glanced over at Donna and made a quick decision. "Donna, on Josh's desk there's a folder. It's got FBI, Secret Service and God knows what else stamped all over it..."

"It's probably underneath Bruno's latest excuse for using soft money," Josh muttered, running an agitated hand through his hair.

"Yeah, right." Seaborn didn't even bother to ask why that one was still on the plate. Between Toby and Bruno, the issue had become a well-beaten dead horse. Turning back to Donna, who had risen hastily from her seat, he said calmly, "Find it. Bury it."

"Try the Rose Garden," Lyman growled. "I'll get you a shovel."

Donna nodded, not bothering to ask why. That something had happened these two hadn't known about was clearly apparent. She knew them. They, especially Josh, only got this worked up over something big. That this same something had been a horrible surprise... well, she didn't need a road map.

She raised her eyes, found Sam watching her, a calculating intensity in his regard. Donna shivered involuntarily. She couldn't stop it. What had happened?

He held her gaze for a beat, softening his own and giving her reassurance if not a promise of future answers. The file was a lose end, one Leo - and Seaborn added a few silent curses along with that name - had clearly forgotten about while cooking up this scheme. For the first time, Sam Seaborn really, really would have liked to be wrong.

No such luck. "Find it, Donna, and lose it."

A deep breath and Donna left, blanking her expression and forcing a casual composure as she pulled the door shut behind her.

Staring at his friend's rigid back as he continued to glower at the image of C.J. on the TV screen, Seaborn asked quietly, "Josh?"

"We're gonna have to tell her."

He meant Donna. Nodding, Seaborn agreed. "She deserves it." He didn't bother to point out that their collective performance had made that a certainty.

"Damn right."

"Not that we know all that much."

Lyman snorted with profound disgust, a much quieter alternative to what he really wanted to do and say. Leo McGarry's name was on that list of utterances somewhere, right alongside more than a few choice words and phrases.

Flopping down on to the couch, Seaborn rubbed his eyes. At a loss for words, all he could say was, "Leo's not gonna like it."

Lyman turned away from the TV, giving the Deputy Communications Director the full force of his displeasure and frustration. Pointing out that Sam had been right all along would have been a waste of oxygen. There wouldn't have been any point.

He did give him this though. "Screw Leo."

Seaborn couldn't find it within himself to disagree. He picked up a chip off the cushion and stared at it gloomily. What the hell had been started here? He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, not any more.

"So, what do we do now?"

C.J. paused for breath, feeling both the satisfaction that comes with a good, wounding ranting and also a slight tremor of dread. What had she started? She closed her eyes for a second, praying that McGarry and Butterfield had read this situation right. Please God; just don't let it be my words, here and now, that end up harming him. I couldn't bear that.

The reporters were scribbling so frantically that it was a wonder some were not experiencing writer's cramp. C.J. could see a growing unease in several expressions, though, that mirrored her own. She glanced apprehensively at Sawyer and nearly gasped aloud.

Alone of his colleagues, he had abandoned any attempt to take notes and was sitting there, staring at her with a face in which astonishment and shock were equally blended.  Oh, Lord. C.J. swallowed hard. Of all the reporters present, some more or less than the others, he definitely wasn't buying this. Time to wind this up before the whole elaborate scenario got blown out of the water.

"Okay, people. That's all for now. I'm calling a full lid. The President should be only away for three days before returning to the White House." She bared her teeth in a forbidding smile. "I'm sure that none of you, nor Governor Ritchie, would begrudge the President a few days of uninterrupted rest with the First Lady. He'll be back the day after tomorrow, and will resume his normal duties. Next briefing at 2 pm. See you then."

Ignoring the clamor and appeals, the Press Secretary gathered her notes and swept from the room, passing Carol and Bonnie without a glance. Half expecting to find Lyman and Seaborn lying in wait after that last portion of the press conference, C.J. was relieved to find she had a clear run to her office. Maybe she'd get lucky and have at least a few minutes peace before she was pounced upon.

Either her remaining spin-boys had been too stunned to move fast enough, or they didn't want to risk creating a scene where they could be observed. It wouldn't last. She knew both men had seen the original profile and the fiction she'd just spun for the press and the country hadn't fooled them. The resulting venting on their part was going to be... colorful.

The bullpen was relatively silent for once, staffers standing around in front of the TV screens in perplexed silence. One look at the forbidding visage of the Press Secretary and many hurriedly scurried back to their desks. Not one dared to waylay her in her current mood, and C.J. managed to gain the sanctuary of her office unmolested.

Dropping into her chair, she released a heavy sigh and willed tense muscles to unlock.  Knowing this respite would be only temporary; she removed her spectacles and allowed her head to drop forward into her folded hands.

"Are you insane?!"

C.J. snapped her head back up with a startled shriek as the door to her office flung open and a tall, disheveled figure barged in. "Will!" she squeaked.

He had the effrontery to glare at her.

C.J. grimaced. This was not going to be good.

"Donna?" Bonnie tried to get her attention.

Donna forced a smile and waved, maintaining her momentum through the milling humanity of the bullpen. If she stopped, even for one innocent word, she'd be caught. She could feel them watching her, the un-asked questions hovering in their eyes. Just her luck that the one time Josh couldn't keep his voice down she had to deal with the repercussions.

Not that she really knew anything, but one look in her eyes and they'd know something was up.

Damn! Now she was doing it along with Sam. It was getting worse by the minute.

"Donna?" This time Cathy gave it her best shot.

Ducking that one, Donna made the sanctuary of Josh's office and grabbed for the door. Pulling it open with just a bit more force than necessary, she practically jumped over the threshold and closed it behind her.

Letting out a relieved gust of breath, her gaze quickly found the semi-organized chaos that was Josh Lyman's desk. Only an effort of will kept her eyes from crossing. "Oh, my."

This might not be as easy as Sam had thought. Where was it?

Oh, yeah. "It's probably underneath Bruno's latest excuse for using soft money." Like that was going to help. Further training in the keeping of current affairs and daily memos was clearly in order. If Josh was lucky, she wouldn't have to use aversion therapy and the shock collar.

Starting from the top, Donna began to pull off files, memos, scribbles and doodles. Her brows rose on that last one, a caricature clearly showing Bruno Gianelli being pummeled by an angry mob. It was really quite good. Shaking her head, she slipped it into her pocket, saving it for later. She agreed with the sentiment if not the means, but the teasing ammunition it gave her couldn't be ignored. A girl had to plan ahead for these things.

Then she saw it. A manila folder, really no different from any of the others scattered across the desk. It was what was stamped on it that gave her pause, made her heart jump. Standing out amidst the usual department headers, names and origin codes in bold letters was FBI. Countersigned underneath that was Ron Butterfield's name, followed by his title, Chief of White House Security.

Like she needed to be reminded of that. Not that anyone was really afraid of him, but lately the tall, intimidating Secret Service Agent had crossed over the line into dangerous. Nobody, least of all her, wanted to attract his attention. Direct eye contact with the man, never a sport to be played lightly, had become a matter of simple survival. Guilt would do that to a person.

She reached out her hand to pick it up, then snatched it back, ridiculously afraid of getting burned.

Guilt.

"It's possible he had help, some unwitting associate doing what they thought was an innocent favor for an acquaintance..."

How unwitting could it have been? None of the staffers or assistants was that stupid, not when it came to the safety of the man who occupied the Oval Office. Unwitting didn't even begin to cover it. She couldn't stop herself. The conclusion was obvious. Sam and Josh had known.

Now she did as well.

C.J. had lied.

Biting her lip, she forced herself to pick up the folder. It didn't burn her fingers.

Grabbing an innocuous look-alike folder from the pile, she started to slip the offending official report inside, then paused. Discretion, loyalty, the rules warred within her. Discretion lost out to panicked curiosity, fueled by a primitive need to protect. Loyalty to the administration easily lost out to personal regard and warmth of feeling for a gentle, kind man who deserved so much better.

The rules?

Well, they just got tossed out the window with the rest of the baggage.

She opened the folder and began to read.

Expertly and quickly skimming over the beginnings - a skill Josh's chaotic ramblings on paper had only reinforced over the years - she searched for a keyword, a phrase or statement that might make the lies at the press conference make more sense. She paused frequently, shocked as her fevered searching found one, then another.

Russian Mafia.

Weapons and nuclear controls.

Political viability in the Kremlin and control.

Black market military dealings.

Profit.

Donna's hands began to shake. C.J. had said nothing about this, not one word. She bit back a frightened sob, steadying her hands and forcing herself to read further. Having come this far, she might as well finish it. She'd deal with the repercussions later.

Like she'd deal with Josh later.

Then she found it, the key to what had set Josh and Sam off and made some sort of twisted sense of what Leo McGarry had made C.J. tell the press and the world. Horror fought with outrage at what had been done. Donna didn't remember a whole lot from her psyche-101 classes, who did? But she remembered enough to understand the marked difference in profile and motive, the slap in the face that had just been delivered to a dangerous ego.

Individual Threat Assessment: Summary.

The name on this section indicated that Ron Butterfield had authored it. Who better? She took a deep breath and read, plunging into the nightmare.

Threat Assessment: High.

Emotional triggers and/or psychological aberrations do not motivate this individual. He is calculating, military in his precision and regards any and all actions to be taken as a job to be concluded, with only success to be regarded as the final outcome. Emotionally cold to action, there is no personal connection behind his attempts or his motivations. Only challenge and profit. The President represents both.

However, given the projected age of the individual - late twenties or early thirties - ego may play some small part in that self-same motivation. This is balanced by experience and patience. Challenge equates with success and reward.

Profit and reward? Donna swallowed hard, struggling to maintain her composure. This was wrong. The empty rhetoric of politics was bad enough. Power motivated politicians. Prestige for most, the chance to make a difference for some. But this?

She continued to read. Ron's summary wasn't finished yet.

Probability of Success: High.

"Oh, God." The prayer was out before she could stop it.

With no motivation other than ego and success, this individual will not stop until ordered to do so by his superiors or until his goal is reached. Unless stopped or countered, the eventual success of any attempt is almost certain.

Donna closed her eyes and stopped there. She couldn't read any further. She didn't need to. The horror couldn't have possibly got any worse, but it had. If it had been stated by anyone other than Ron Butterfield, she would have had some sense of doubt. Not now, though. Not after this.

"Donna?"

She jumped, a choked gasp escaping as she turned with a guilty start. Josh was there. She hadn't heard him enter, hadn't even sensed his presence.

Head to one side, he was regarding her with a strange, sad half-smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. Shutting the door, he said, "You just won me my bet with Sam."

"I'm sorry..."

"Donna, don't." Trusting her, he left it at that. He reached out and took the folder from her, staring at it like it was a diseased thing, contaminated by the words within. He shook his head. "I can't believe Leo forgot about this."

Donna didn't have an answer for him. "What do we do?" she asked.

He simply looked at her. For her, he didn't need to spell it out.

Looking back, Donna nodded and solemnly handed him the empty folder she'd originally chosen.

Slipping the report inside, ridiculously relieved that it was at least now partially hidden if not forgotten, Lyman could feel the tension between them increase with an intensity that frightened him. The world didn't know, but somehow he found comfort in the fact that she did.

And she'd won him an easy twenty from Sam. "You did good, Donna," he told her, meaning every word.

Donna blinked warily, and then relaxed just a little. "I did?"

"Yeah."

"I've warned you about freaking me out, Josh."

"Guy's got to get his entertainment where he can." Lyman's soft chuckle contained just enough humor to take some of the sting out.

Despite her fears, Donna felt an awful joy at those words.

Folder in hand, Lyman gallantly held out his arm to his assistant. "Miss Moss," he inquired in his best gentlemanly tones, "Care to accompany me to the Rose Garden? I feel the need to do a little gardening. I think I know where I can find a shovel."

"Of course, Mr. Lyman." Donna took his arm. "However, as much as playing in the dirt appeals to your engaging yet juvenile nature, might I suggest the dead files closet?"

"Yeah, you're really good at losing things in there, aren't you?"

Donna pinched him.

He yelped, more so for effect than actual protest.

Either one suited Donna just fine.

They hadn't lost yet, not by a long shot. The unconventional had long been a hallmark of this White House and their unknown, faceless adversary had absolutely no idea what he was up against. Maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

"Have you all gone totally crazy?"

"How did you get back here so fast?" C.J. craned around Sawyer's lanky frame to see Carol in the doorway, hands half-raised in a gesture of helplessness and slightly breathless to boot. Clearly Sawyer's long legs had outdistanced her assistant in her attempt to head him off. 

"It's amazing how being lied to can lend wings to one's feet." Sawyer was not in a good mood. Of course, he was never anything other than blunt. "Seriously, C.J. What the hell were you trying to sell in there? 'Cause whatever it was, I ain't buying. And more to the point, why?"

His voice was rising steadily. C.J. winced and quietly signaled the apologetic Carol to close the door before the bullpen received any more fuel for the speculation that must even now be running rampant. The assistant discreetly withdrew and C.J knew that no one, not even Sam or Josh, would get anywhere near her door until the Press Secretary had sounded the all clear. 

Gathering her roiling thoughts and emotions, she turned back to her current problem. "Sit down, Will. And calm down. Just where the hell do you get off coming back here and accusing me of lying?"

Sawyer dropped into a chair with a scowl. "I don't know what your motives may be, C.J., but we both know that scenario you spun out there isn't logical. Sure, presidential illnesses and injuries have been downplayed in the past for a variety of reasons. But an actual attack? On the person of the President? Even if it were only a crazy loner holed up in an attic with his cats, the Secret Service would be all over him. They'd treat him seriously, too, even if he'd only written a few notes or lunged at the President in a crowd." 

Sawyer hunched forward in his chair and studied his companion intently. He wasn't at all surprised when C.J. refused to look him in the eye. "So, what's with the casual attitude and the air of his just being an annoying pest?"

"Because that's what he is," C.J. snapped, her nerves beginning to fray. It had been difficult enough to deliver the story with enough pace and firmness to prevent any interrogation of it's weaknesses in the Press Room. But here in close quarters with her intense and suspicious inquisitor, she felt she was in danger of forgetting the lines a mean fate and the Chief of Staff had assigned her in this melodrama. "Will, the President receives numerous death threats on almost a daily basis. It's a fact of life for him. He's not going to get all worked up over every one. Most of them are just a cry for attention or a vain attempt to seek the spotlight."

"Granted." Sawyer was unruffled by her anger. "But then, most of them are pretty pathetic individuals, incapable of designing anything like that device. It may have been small, but it was effective within its limits. It reached it's intended target and caused injury. That sounds like a pretty effective operation to me. Plus, such people usually want to deliver the blow in person and declare their motivation to a listening world. It's all part of that fame-seeking desire you just mentioned. But this..."

Sawyer leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He had her on this one. "It's cold, C.J.  It's clinical. Professional. It smacks of intimidation as much as anything. I've seen attacks like this made on public officials in places like Chechnya" - C.J. somehow managed not to flinch at that - "and other parts of the world where law and order are under siege. This doesn't seem like the work of an unbalanced loner with a grudge. It's more like a conspiracy."

The Press Secretary forced a laugh. Damn, but Sawyer was good. Too good. Damn, damn, damn...  "A conspiracy? Oh, that's good, Will. You think some kind of secret organization has conspired to assassinate the President of the United States? And you say my story is far-fetched? No, listen to me..." as Sawyer tried to interrupt. "In its entire history, do you know how many White House security breaches could be described as the result of a conspiracy rather than a lone individual? Well, I'll tell you. One. Just one. When two Puerto Rican Nationals attempted to shoot their way into Blair House in 1950. They never reached the front door, and Truman wasn't even there at the time."

"So," she said angrily, attempting to bury her own dread, "I suggest you keep your material for that thriller all you journalists seem to write at some point."

Sawyer looked at her sulkily. Damn, but C.J. was good. Too good. Damn, damn, damn... "Even if it wasn't a conspiracy," he said in his best I'm still not buying this tones, "that doesn't explain why you guys aren't showing more concern over this." 

Oh, Will. If you only knew. C.J. swallowed and glanced down, unable for a moment to meet his gaze. "We are taking this seriously. The President was injured, after all. But we're not going to pander to the assailant's ego either. Just because this guy got lucky, we're not going to give him the satisfaction..."

"Satisfaction." Sawyer pounced instantly. "Now there's an interesting choice of words.  What does satisfaction have to do with this? And why does anyone even care?"

"Will..."

"No, C.J. Why? Why are the feelings of this incompetent assassin so important? Why isn't the White House out there breathing fire, slaughter and declaring war on the person who dared assault its Chief Executive? Why, the day after the attempt, is the President's Press Secretary going on air to deliver a highly questionable profile of their alleged suspect?" Sawyer snatched at a book that had been lying on C.J.'s desk and brandished it at her. The title, 'Anatomy of a Motive', danced accusingly in front of C.J.'s eyes. "I've covered more crimes and criminals than you can imagine, worked with law enforcers and criminal psychologists. Hell, I don't need to revise my John Douglas, I've met the man!" 

He dropped the book back onto the desk with evident satisfaction and continued quietly,  "C.J., I'm not an expert in criminal psychology, but I understand just enough to know that the profile you called out in there doesn't fit the person who carried out this attack. It's just too premeditated, too efficient, too daring. I also know that what you did in there was practically an act of provocation, a challenge to this person. A slap-down of the worst kind to his ego. And this isn't the kind of person you can safely play games with. So, what's going on?"

A game. C.J. nearly said the words aloud. A dreadful, terrible game with her as the helpless referee, the one who would have to announce the final results to the world, whatever they might be. Mutely, she raised her head to meet Sawyer's steady scrutiny, completely torn. She couldn't lie to him, not now. He had guessed too much of the lie and she had no heart to continue to perpetrate it to him. But she couldn't tell him the truth, could hardly bear to articulate it to herself. 

Some of her inner desperation must have leaked into her features because Sawyer's gaze suddenly sharpened in evident surprise at the intensity of the emotions he detected. She caught and held his eyes, putting all her fears and anguish into her stare. The plea was there, "Please don't ask me this, not here. I can't do this now." 

Something must have gotten through because Sawyer's expression softened slightly and his gaze fell. "Okay, okay..." The words sighed out so softly she barely heard them. He glanced back up and gave her a crooked smile. She returned it, blinking back the tears she knew were shining in her eyes.

"I'm not sure I'll ever learn to be a good little White House journalist..." - C.J. gave a short bark of laughter at the idea - "...but I'll play it your way for now." Sawyer leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing his ankles. "I guess we'll find out the real game soon enough."

He hesitated as his companion's features suddenly darkened again. Something he'd said? Fiddling with his watchband, he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So... how is he?"

"The President?" Lost in thought, C.J replied automatically, "Not at all badly, considering. The explosion was fairly small..."

"C.J." The interruption was swift and firm.

Startled, she looked up to meet Sawyer's wry expression. 

"I'm not asking as a reporter right now," he told her gently.  "I just wondered how he really was."

Disconcerted, the Press Secretary stammered, "Well, he..."

"Yeah." Sawyer looked down and began to speak quietly. "I guess you're wondering why I'm home again?"

C.J nodded, confused by this apparent non sequitur.

"I'm actually home on leave for health reasons. Oh, I wasn't hurt, " - as his companion made a gesture of concern - "just shaken. The paper thought it would do me good to get out of the field for a while." Sawyer looked up, noting his listener's rapt attention. "I was in our Kabul office when one of my colleagues received a letter. He opened it."

The reporter paused and swallowed, closing his eyes against the memory. "The resulting explosion took off three of his fingers and rendered him unconscious."

C.J. squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing against the bile rising in her throat. The images were there, the sound and fury of the explosion. Her own voice gasping in horror along with the others.

Sawyer continued softly, "I was twelve feet away from him, C.J., and I felt the impact of the explosion like a punch to my whole body. I saw the injuries he sustained, read the medical reports." He waited until her eyes opened and her haunted gaze met his own, both drowning in their own sets of memories. "I know what he means to you. I just want to know - how is he?"

"He...” C.J. shook her head, barely able to articulate around the lump in her throat.  "Will, I wish I could tell you something, but I really don't know..."

"Yeah."

Both sat quietly for a few minutes, then Sawyer stirred, uncrossing his legs and standing up. "Well, I guess I'd better get going." He brandished his briefing notes and grimaced wryly. "After all, I've got a story to write."

C.J. nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.

Sawyer paused. "You know," he said seriously, "if anytime over the next few days you feel you need a friend, not a reporter but a friend... just call?"

The Press Secretary felt the first genuine smile in what seemed like days slowly spreading across her face. "I'll bear that in mind," she said quietly. "And Will?"

Sawyer stopped in the doorway.

 "For me, really, thank you."

"Take care, won't you?" He regarded her with searching gravity. A look of tired sadness passed across his features and he added sincerely, "Give him... my best wishes, okay?"

Emotions that had only received a shallow burial suddenly rose again to the surface and C.J. could only nod. Will Sawyer left, one of the few reporters she'd ever known to truly hold honor above a story. She continued to stare at the empty doorway until Carol cautiously poked her head around the frame.

"C.J?"

"Yeah?" The Press Secretary made an effort to shake off her foreboding and present her usual brisk, professional front.

"Donna just called. Josh wants you to meet with him and Sam, ASAP in his office." Carol shrugged to hide her confusion. She wasn't too sure about this last bit. "She also said something about you bringing a shovel?"

"I'll bet he does," C.J. muttered to the first half. She didn't bother to comment about the second half of the message, or even ask about the shovel. Given her luck, she might actually get an answer. A Josh answer. Not what she needed right now. She sighed heavily. "All right, Carol. Tell him I'll be right there."

The Russian Consulate

"Okay, people. That's all for now. I'm calling a full lid..."

Growling a curse she'd learned from her grandmother, she turned the television off with an angry flick of the wrist. Resisting the urge to fling the remote across her office, she stared at the blank screen, the image of C.J. Cregg still ghosting across her retinas and mind.

Nadia Koslowski, Ambassador for the Commonwealth of Independent States - annoyingly still referred to in the Western and European press as Russia - to the United States of America was not having a good day. Turning her attention back to the ever-growing pile of visa applications, transfer requests and over-all nonsense reports from any number of useless, bureaucratic dead-end departments with nothing better to do than waste paper, she briefly considered turning in her resignation and happily returning to the cold embrace of Mother Russia.

She rubbed her eyes, profoundly irritated at her own mental slip. What was it the American's were so fond of saying? Ah, yes. Screw the Commonwealth of Independent States. It was Russia, pure and simple, ancient and unforgiving with the enduring soul of a peasant. Nothing changed. Call it what you will, give it whatever social or economic designation the current government desired, but that stubborn soul remained the same.

Stubborn. She almost smiled. The list of alternatives was endless; English was good for that sort of thing. Choose obstinate, inflexible, headstrong, pig-headed... contumacious. She was rather fond of that last one, just enough syllables for the mouth and mind to chew on with choleric gratification. Still, they were just words, a silly game.

A pity her superiors, the powers that be in the Kremlin, could not have chosen better words to use before this insanity had come so far. Nadia looked back up at the blank screen. There had been too many lies of omission. A simple admission of possibility would have been enough. More words would have helped, might perhaps have prevented the horrors that had already happened and what might yet still come to pass.

And now this. A key phrase from the White House Press Secretary's statement stuck in her mind.

"...he's more than likely a spoiled child, probably stuck in a mental loop of post-pubescent angst and sexual frustration, attempting to get back at Mommy or Daddy by throwing what amounts to a juvenile hissy fit..."

It was wrong. Overworked and fatigued, she pressed both hands against her aching eyes. What were Bartlet and his people playing at? This... person, whoever he might be - and she knew full well what he was - was in no way a spoiled child.

"Madame Ambassador?"

Nadia looked up, scowling at her secretary's interruption. Another time, another place and she wouldn't have dared to do even that. Aides used to be the common euphemism for a KGB spy. The old guard had liked to keep its collective eye on officials abroad; you never knew who was real and who wasn't. These days it was different. Poorly trained and underpaid reality was all you got.

Nadia sighed with long-suffering resignation. At least the KGB spies had known how to do the job. Efficiency in all things. This one, real or not, needed some serious help. How many different ways could 'I do not want to be disturbed' be interpreted?

"What is it?" Nadia asked shortly. It wouldn't be an appointment; she'd covered those for the day.

"Lord John Marbury is here to see you."

Nadia's day had  just gone from bad to worse. She sat back in her chair, momentarily torn between two unpleasant choices. Let him in, or send him away? The former would have been the simple solution. The later? She knew perfectly well the annoying man would wait in the outer office till the crack of doom. He knew full well she had to leave sometime and there was only one exit to her office.

The cold winters of Mother Russia never looked better.

Resigned to the inevitable, she waved her hand. "Send him in." Considering her last meeting with this man, and what she'd just seen on the television, this one wasn't going to be any better.

No less apprehensive, she stood as the British Ambassador entered her office. Offering him as sincere a smile as she could manage, she greeted him with equally strained veracity, "Lord John. As always, it is a pleasure to see you."

A single, arched eyebrow indicated Marbury's skepticism. "Ever the diplomat, Nadia?"

"One tries."

"And fails." His flat, accusing gaze prolonged the moment, daring her to try and contradict him.

Nadia didn't try. Sighing, she sat back down and indicted a chair. "Please sit, John."

"Not today. As much as I treasure your company," slyly, he put the disparaging emphasis on the word treasure, "I've come only to deliver a message. Several in fact. How you choose to interpret them, or whether you even choose to pass them on, is entirely up to you. Far be it for me to even speculate as to what your job might truly be."

Nadia eyed him suspiciously. The eccentric, tipsy and ever giddy Ambassador had given way to something she'd never seen before, didn't believe could possibly exist given his normally frivolous appearance. No smiles, no jokes or silly asides. This man was lethal.

Cautiously, aware of the trap he'd set for her at their last meeting, Nadia replied, "I do my job to the best of my ability, John. I can only do what I am told."

There! Let him argue with that.

Marbury's eyes narrowed and the utter stillness that settled across the office forced Nadia to rethink her position. Something else was happening here and for the first time she found herself damning her orders and contemplating the unthinkable.

But only for the moment. "Very well. The message?" She had no doubt as to whom the communication was from, and braced herself for the worst.

"Messages, plural, my dear," Marbury smiled, although the humor failed to reach his eyes. "You really must improve your English skills. So many... omissions could have been avoided, changed so much."

Nadia winced. "John..."

Ignoring her obvious discomfort, and quite frankly not at all moved by it, Marbury cut her off and continued evenly, "Simply this: Nothing has changed. The gentleman in question fully intends to continue along the path both have chosen. President Chagarin need have no fears on that account. On Monday, the gentleman will make a formal statement to that effect."

True concern flashed in Nadia's eyes and she asked, "He is well?"

"As well as can be expected."

"Monday?"

Marbury nodded. "There will be a press briefing."

Nadia leaned back in her chair, making no effort to hide her relief. The lies could have changed that, broken a fragile agreement before it had a chance to set into certainty. She couldn't suppress the thought that, considering the blood that had been spilled, none of them deserved the offered laurel. Even now, they were playing the same game, spreading the word through back channels and intermediaries.

Why was the price for peace and stability so high?

Marbury's next words snapped across the room like a gunshot.

"He does not, however, forgive. People died. That is what he holds in highest regard, the unacceptable price for your silence on this matter. No, the gentleman does not forgive." The British Ambassador's voice lowered, hardened mercilessly and he added coldly, "Neither do I."

"He is your friend." That much Nadia was aware of.

"He is... hope. The first I've seen in many a long year."

"Then you understand our position." Please God, she wanted them all to understand.

Inclining his head, Marbury acknowledged her unspoken plea. "Understanding does not condone. You might have trusted to his judgment, and not your cultural paranoia."

"A long cold winter, John." Nadia rubbed her eyes, suddenly tired of words and their often-empty meaning. She didn't believe that phrase now any more than she had when she'd first given it to the American President who had dared to call her country's bluff.

"The winter is over, Nadia." Marbury told her softly, for the first time feeling actual sympathy for the woman and her country's position. "The world will breathe easier when you finally come to realize that."

Waving that off, unwilling to contemplate the slim hope that had so nearly slipped through their fingers, Nadia asked, "You implied a plural message."

"Indeed I did."

When he offered no further elaboration, she prompted him impatiently, "And?"

"Whatever happens, you may rest assured that the events set in motion will continue. With or without the gentleman in question to direct them." It was the first time Marbury had acknowledged that possibility, and he nearly faltered. "However, you will not interfere with what is about to take place. In this instance, you've forfeited any right to offer help or to receive sympathy in return. One way or another, it will end."

"Do nothing, or risk losing it all." With that, Marbury turned sharply on his heel, hand already reaching for the door.

Nadia was too startled by this ultimatum to offer up any objection. Thinking about it, she couldn't help but admit that he was right. What could they offer but more lies?

She could give them this though. Swallowing her pride and her orders, Nadia called out, "Lord Marbury?"

He paused and turned.

"I have a name. Do not ask me how, do not ask me from where. Simply take it and go." She paused. This had come through her own inquiries, not through normal channels. Nobody but she would know. "Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov.”

Marbury's brow rose in surprise, and a hint of the fool returned to his manner. "Goodness me, but that is quite a mouthful."

"He is here, in this country."

The fool disappeared. "The gentleman in question is already aware of that."

Glancing at the silent television, remembering what had been said and the blatant, insulting challenge that had just been issued, Nadia mused aloud, "I had thought as much. You do know what Volkov means in Russian, do you not?"

Hand on the office door Marbury remained silent and waiting.

"Son of the wolf."

Head to one side, Marbury considered that for a moment, and then commented dryly, "How very droll."

Then he left, pulling the door shut behind him with painfully precise civility.

Nadia stared at the closed door for a moment, then sighed and picked up her phone.

The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds,Your heads must come
To the cold tomb
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
James Shirley: 1596 - 1666

The Bartlet Farm: Manchester, New Hampshire

Saturday afternoon

Flipping absently through the channels, Abbey found herself heartily wishing that she hadn't ignored the televised newscasts so thoroughly during the preceding days. But Jed had been so worn out by the time they arrived at the farm that her only concern had been to get him comfortably settled and relaxed. He had slept fitfully on the journey, but at least part of that had been sheer nervous exhaustion, reaction from forcing himself to travel on Marine One for the first time since the accident. 

It had cost him something. She had felt the tension in the stiffened arm under her hand, seen the strain on his face as they approached the waiting aircraft, as if he would actually refuse and bolt. Then, as he had finally boarded... No, she hadn't been surprised that he had managed to find oblivion during the flight, although their companions clearly had been. The looks Leo McGarry and Ron Butterfield exchanged had been filled with equal parts concern and something Abbey hadn't quite been able to put her finger on.

Watching him doze next to her on the sofa, looking as un-presidential as he could possibly get in jeans and sweats, she only knew this...

Jed had been pushed about as far as he could go by the rapid chain of recent events, and Nature had finally stepped in to offer its own shelter from the buffeting of an unfeeling fate. Nearly a day and a half of uninterrupted sleep had done him a world of good. To Abbey's relief, he'd woken this morning alert and renewed. He was home, and she had no regrets about the tongue-lashing she'd given his Chief of Staff to get him there.

The only sour note this morning had been his discomfort, the obvious pain that still emanated from his hand and tightened the too-deep lines across his brow. The battle over the painkillers had been brief, but easily won by his insistent wife. The Tylenol-Codeine combo, whatever his complaints about them making him 'goofy' or the other side-effects, would and did provide him with some much needed relief from the constant throbbing. For all his protests he knew that as well as she did, and with a wry grin had taken them.

They'd managed to make it downstairs to the living room before the medication started to kick in.

And then, gamely watching the television and trying to catch up on the events missed by travel and oblivion, he'd fallen asleep, again. Letting him drift off, Abbey had smiled fondly at that. Jed's reactions to opiates and their affects were as varied as his bottomless knowledge of seemingly inane trivia. He wasn't one of the lucky ones, his system highly sensitive to both the masking affects, the nausea and the dampening qualities inherent in even a mild dose of those drugs. Control was something he never liked losing. That was why he fought and resisted.

Sleepy or goofy, given those choicesAbbey really couldn't blame him for his reluctance. Unfortunately, his sensitivity also made opiate based painkillers the best choice, not only for the trauma-induceddamage to his hand, but his back problems as well. And he had already missed far too many doses. Aside from the lessening of pain, the anti-inflammatory properties of the acetaminophen were part and parcel of the combo.

No less than any one else, though, she hadn't wanted to wake him during the trip or when they'd arrived just to make him take his medicine. She wasn't that cruel and as a healer she knew sleep was what her husband had needed most. Those few moments of wakefulness between Marine One and the limo, then the drive to the farm, had been fleeting. Sleep and rest had been what his body craved, and Abbey had let him have it.

When they arrived, she had practically bundled him into bed and sat with him until she was sure he was resting easily. No fights or protests, Jed had been out the moment his head hit the pillow. Then she'd fallen into oblivion herself, stretched out next to him on the bed. Hence she had missed C.J.'s original briefing, although with no particular feeling of regret. How the White House was spinning the security disaster was of little concern to her.  

TV remote in hand and sound lowered, she was making the attempt to catch up on the endless news cycles now, sitting quietly on the sofa next to her husband. The news was everywhere, on all channels. A security alarm actually within the White House pretty much guaranteed detailed coverage. An alarm that resulted in physical damage to the Chief Executive resulted in reporting that bordered on saturation levels. All the media groups seemed to be filled with excited talking heads, eagerly speculating with varying degrees of plausibility on the motive and implications of what had occurred.

Abbey watched the television absently, fingers playing with the fringe of hair that lay across her husband's forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut. Only the hair. Shewas careful not to touch his skin, to awaken him to a new pain, a pain that threatened to tear her apart. She didn't dare touch him. Drug induced or not, he was as deeply asleep as she had ever known him to be, but one inadvertent touch and she knew the dysesthesia would bring him back to a reality she didn't want to contemplate.

Dear God, she wanted to touch him, to hold him, but she couldn't. Not now.

Abbey withdrew her hand as her husband stirred, eyelids flickering for a moment, and then he sighed. Even after two days, sleep wasn't about to release its hold on him quite yet.

She continued to flip through the channels, all the time waiting for the graceful figure of the White House Press Secretary to flash onto the screen. Her drifting attention was tugged back to the screen by the murmured phrases from the news anchors. Turning up the sound slightly, she was just in time to catch...

"...has expressed concern at the news that the President, in addition to sustaining injuries, has also suffered a relapse of the MS that he revealed himself to be suffering from a year ago. The congressman spoke to reporters shortly after the White House briefing..."

Abbey almost groaned aloud as the pugnacious, perpetually scowling features of Congressman Peter Lillianfield flashed onto the screen. With the morbid, can't-help-looking curiosity of an accident witness, she focused on the television.

"It is a disgrace, after the revelations of the lies and deceptions of the past, that this White House has the effrontery to suggest that the role and office of President can still be fulfilled by Josiah Bartlet. To be President of the United States is to lead the free world.  Our leader has a responsibility to demonstrate to this country and to the world that America is strong, both economically and in terms of defense." Lillianfield's somewhat jowly face shook in self-righteous outrage. "To show that America is strong, we need a strong leader. And what has happened? In this time of international turmoil, when our seat of power has come under attack, when we need to show the world that we are still a power to be reckoned with, where is the leader who should symbolize this national strength? Nowhere to be seen. And why? Because he has collapsed - again.  What kind of message does that send?"

Abbey snapped off the television with an audible snarl. How dare he! Did he have any concept of the strength it took to live with this condition? It mattered little to her that Lillianfield knew nothing of the background to the attacks, or of the exact nature of Jed's recent injuries. Cynically, she couldn't help wondering if it would make much difference even if he had. Lillianfield was the worst kind of partisan that politics had to offer. 

Tossing the remote from her, and resolving for the sake of her blood pressure not to use it again that day, she turned back to her sleeping husband, almost gently brushing her fingers against his stubbled cheek, but pulling herself up just short of actually touching him. So close, but so far. He didn't stir and she sighed in regret. It wasn't going to end any time soon, the battle he was forced to wage every day. There were always enemies, whether snapping jackals like Lillianfield or this new, nameless, deadly adversary. Her only desire was that he be safe. And here, with her.

And too, please God, that she could touch him again, feel his strength as well as see it. Was that too much to ask? Tears welled within her eyes, but she mercilessly fought them back. The renewed anger when she thought of Congressman Lillianfield's callous remarks made it easier. She began to seethe with a mounting rage.

"What'd I do this time?"

He was awake, watching her intently. All Abbey's insecurities came rushing back to grip her. "I'm not angry with you."

"Really?" A mischievous quirk twisted the corners of his mouth.

Abbey rolled her eyes. "There are other things in this world besides you to be angry at."

"I must be slipping." Giving the now mute television a pointed glance, Bartlet picked up the discarded remote and turned it back on. That his wife obviously didn't want him to do so made the conclusion obvious. "Who's the culprit this time?"

"Lillianfield," she admitted with a sigh. Jed would find out sooner or later. The man's partisan ranting was the kind of fodder the news media loved to keep repeating over and over, improving their ratings if not their questionable information coverage.

"That doesn't surprise me."

"It shouldn't surprise me either."

"But it does?"

Abbey laughed shortly. "Thin skinned, I suppose."

Joining her with a slight chuckle of his own, Bartlet tried to blink away the fuzziness that still clouded his mind as he changed the channels. Damn, but he hated the drugs. At least the throbbing in his hand was now tolerable. He wasn't sure it was a fair trade off. "Did I miss C.J.?"

"Many, many times. We both did."

With little else to do with them, Abbey draped her hands in her lap, watching the faces flit across the screen as Jed searched the myriad reports for his Press Secretary. She prayed he didn't come upon the self-righteous ranting of Lillianfield. That he didn't need this morning. Later perhaps, but not now.

Settling on CNN, the President of the United States scowled, his attention riveted on C.J. Cregg's lively and heated performance. He'd no idea how often it had been repeated, could make a pretty good guess, but this was his first time. A quick, searching glance at his wife and he leaned back, closing his eyes. He didn't really need to see. Listening was enough. He already knew what C.J. was going to say.

Abbey didn't, or rather had no idea what was going to be told to the world. She knew some small part of the assassin's reasoning; Jed had been clear enough on that months ago after the NTSB report had revealed the sabotage that had brought down Marine One. She doubted C.J. would go so far as to reveal allthat, but still...

"That's my name, people. Glad to see some of you are on your toes." The Press Secretary's smile was positively feral. "And taking your medication. And here I thought I might have to use a tranquilizer on some of you."

What followed, the intensity of C.J.'s voice, and the barely contained outrage, left the First Lady breathless. The depth of the woman's regard for her husband was so clearly apparent. Abbey found herself responding to that, listening gratefully to the simple gesture of understanding and human caring that was so much a part of the Press Secretary's character. Her feelings were given free reign as she tore into an obviously unprepared press corps.

Cheering her on, Abbey almost forgot to focus on the facts...

Then she began to truly listen, her confusion growing. Glancing over at Jed, she saw his eyes closed, a troubled pucker between his brows. What the hell?

All too soon, it was over...

"Okay, people. That's all for now. I'm calling a full lid..."

Still no reaction from Jed, just a mild grunt of possible satisfaction as he opened his eyes. For a moment, Abbey thought he might say something. He didn't, just changed the channel. Disappointed and not sure why, she could only watch along with him.

The living room television continued to drone with the meaningless monotone of one generic news commentator, then another. He or she was no different or any less colorful than a myriad of clones on other shows endlessly recapping the White House press briefing presented by C.J. Cregg the day before. It was the news cycle that wouldn't quit. But then, considering the subject matter, who could blame them? Explosions in the Oval Office were slightly higher on the news scale than a kitten trapped in a tree.

Still, neither of the two viewers seated on the sofa were paying them or their stations any great attention. They were home and safe, for the moment. The empty rhetoric being offered wasn't in their interest. They already knew the details.

Except, one knew far less than the other.

"Jed?" For a moment, Abbey was afraid he'd fallen asleep again.

"Hmmm?" The sound of his voice was sleepy, relaxed, but Bartlet's mind wasn't.

The President was only partially aware of Abbey's questioning voice, still watching the television, distracted, mind racing. C.J. had done all she'd been told to do, and more. Far more. Unlike his wife, he was more than aware of the implications of the challenge that had just been issued.

And the possible cost, not only to him, personally, but his immediate family as well.

To his wife, whom he hoped had no idea of the lie that had just been perpetrated.

Sitting somewhat stiffly next to him, afraid for the first time in thirty-five years of marriage to even touch him, to get too close, Abbey tried again. "You really need to give that poor woman a raise," she said, deliberately keeping her tone light, waiting for him to offer some sort of comment or explanation of what she had just seen and heard C.J. Cregg deliver to the world.

Something wasn't quite right, didn't fit with what her husband had told her about the assassin's motivations so many, long months ago. What had changed?

What were they up to? And she knew all too well they were led by Leo McGarry. She was sure of that much. This time though, she was going to leave it to Jed to explain. If he would. If he didn't, it still made painfully clear why he'd seemed so resigned of late.

Abbey didn't know whether that should be fuel for her anger, or the fear that had become so much a part of her life.

"A raise? That's Leo's job. He's the details man. I sent him a memo about danger pay... what, years ago." Chuckling softly, content for the moment to let the future take care of itself, Bartletleaned back and slipped his good arm around her. Making sure his still heavily-bandaged hand was out of the way, he drew her closer.

Sadly, he felt her cautious resistance to his pull. There could be any number of reasons for that. Suspicion? She had just cause. Or was it fear? "I think the paperwork's been pending since her second press conference."

"That long?" The touch of his hand, the strength of the arm encircling her, was almost unbearable in its tenderness. She didn't dare respond in kind. If he pulled away in pain and shock, she wasn't sure she could take it. Answers or no, just being here with him, warm, alive and home, was enough.

"Bureaucracy," he said with a decided smirk.

"You just don't like to spend money."

"Oh, I love to spend money. It's getting the pencil pushers to release the purse strings that's a bitch." Ignoring her obvious reluctance, her fear, his hand slipped gently up her arm, bringing her closer.

"Technically, you're a pencil pusher, Jed."

"Bite your tongue," he responded indignantly. "I'm the bane of bureaucratic pencil pushers everywhere."

"You wish." Abbey hesitated, feeling his insistent fingers playing along the back of her neck. Touch. Afraid to hope, afraid of what might happen, she tried again to pull away. "Jed..."

"It's okay," he whispered softly, drawing her head into the hollow of his shoulder. "Apparently a good night's sleep does wonders. It," - and there was little doubt what he meant by it- "went away this morning."

Abbey lifted her head, searching his face. No pain; even the ever-present fatigue seemed gone, for now. Only a sad admission was there. "You knew?"

"I suspected." Bartlet shrugged self-consciously, reluctant, even with her, to discuss the demon that haunted him. Oh, he'd known. He just wished she hadn't. "I'm not quite so blind to my... condition as you think, Abigail. I can read books, sweetheart."

Dropping a kiss on to the top of her head, breathing in her scent and finding strength in a closeness he had feared lost as much as she had, he said softly, "Dysesthesia. Coulda been Lhermitte's, but then I get that ever pleasant and truly exquisite sensation from my back all the time, which we both know predates the... thing by a few decades or so."

Abbey's relief was nearly overwhelming. The thing. He wouldn't say it. But still, one shadow at least was lifted from her heart. Freed from the fear, she desperately held him tighter, touching him, earning a surprised but not displeased grunt from her husband.

"I'm impressed," she said, glorying in the shared moment that she knew both of them had thought lost, possibly forever. This monster, at least for now, was beaten.

"That I knew the words?" He didn't miss the suspicious quaver in her voice.

"That you could pronounce them."

Bartlet laughed. "You're not going to leave my poor ego alone, are you?"

"It's such an easy target." Afraid that she wouldn't be allowed to, or couldn't, do it again and that it was a horrible dream, she touched his face once more. Careful of the cuts and stitches, she cuppedthose familiar and beloved features in her hand. "I thought you'd given in to this hastily planned retreat a little too easily," she accused.

"Did I? A retreat, to my own home?" Retreat. Her choice of words was painfully apt and far too accurate. He reached up and took her hand, turning it over and softly fanning it with his lips. "I must have had an ulterior motive."

She had been prepared to settle back and enjoy the simple feel of his arm around her, but his feather touch sent a surprised, warming shiver through her. Bringing him home had not, in her wildest expectations, included this. This man holding her was a marked contrast to the weary, resigned patient of the night before. The shock and trauma of the explosion was one thing, relatively minor in consideration. The MS?

He had a history of recovering from his episodes rather quickly, but this?

Apparently a marathon run of sleep was vastly underrated.

He had the audacity to grin. "Yeah," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "Ulterior motives."

Taking her chin gently in hand, he tilted her head up.

The smoldering flame, the renewed vitality she saw in his eyes startled her. His searching lips smothered her gasp of surprise. What little was left of Abbey's calm was shattered by the hunger of that hard kiss. There was nothing slow or thoughtful about it, and she was shocked by her own eager response to the demand, the sheer desperation they both shared. Two day's growth of stubble on his chin only made it seem more real, more intense.

Lost, she was... and yet some small, still-rational part of her knew she was forgetting something.She was damn sure of it.

When Abbey felt his hand, where more often than not there were two, move towards...

Oh, yeah. That was it.

Flushed, blood pounding, she reluctantly broke away. He wasn't ready for that! She wasn't sure she was either. "Down, boy."

Abbey didn't fool herself into believing he'd take the first no for an answer. He didn't. Just moved his point of attack. She shivered at the heady sensation of his lips against her neck. He never did fight fair, not that she'd ever really wanted him to. As for what that hand was doing, talented boy...

"Must I?" Bartlet murmured, the first hint of thwarted disappointment in his voice.

"One of us has to see reason," she gasped, capturing that hand, moving it to a much safer, less enticing position. Best to remove all temptation. "Enthusiasm..."

He laughed, but allowed her the field and leaned back, breathing just a touch heavier than usual. Truthfully, his imagination and enthusiasm had got the better of his condition, although at this point he ruefully admitted condition was uncomfortably relative.

"...isn't a substitute for just a few hours’ rest," Abbey finished firmly, no less disappointed than her husband. A few deep breaths got that under control.

"A few hours?" His brows rose incredulously. "I slept all that night, on board Marine One," - all things considered, those three hours had surprised him - "the motorcade to the farm, and all day once we got here. I'm not entirely sure, but I also seem to be missing an entire day. This is Saturday, right?"

Abbey laughed, trailing her fingers up his arm. "It's Saturday."

"Imagine that. A new presidential and personal record," he protested, still hopeful. "It's a promising alternative."

"Not this time." Abbey smiled sadly, spreading her fingers across his chest in a gesture both loving and restraining. His heart rate was fast, excited. So was hers. It was tempting, but... damn! "Later," she promised.

And she knew now there would be a later.

"Damn," he growled, echoing his wife's thoughts.

"Don't get petulant."

He snorted with profound disgust at the unfairness of that statement. "My house. I can do what I want."

"I've heard that one before." At least he would admit, reluctantly, that now was not the time. But still, it was time to put an end to this all together. "Leo's outside," she pointed out gently, watching with a laugh as what was left of his ill-advised enthusiasm soured completely.

"Oh well, now that is one hell of a mood killer." Bartlet sighed, releasing her. With that admission went a bit more of the energy he'd managed to find. She was right. Enthusiasm was a poor substitute. Still, he grinned and said, not too unkindly, "Let him find his own girl."

"Be nice, Jed." Abbey patted him gently on the arm, reveling in the fact that such a simple gesture was no longer beyond her reach. "He won't come in while I'm here."

"You?" He didn't miss the emphasis, or the fact that Leo had a good many other things to concern him at this moment besides a hastily planned vacation. His brows rose suspiciously. "Far be it for me to even speculate on your methods, scary as I know they can be, but how exactly did you get him to agree to this presidential escape?"

"I didn't get him to agree."

"Oh?" This didn't bode well for poor Leo.

"I told him."

Bartlet laughed at the totally smug expression on his wife's face. Given what he'd seen of her mood when she'd informed him about their travel plans, Leo hadn't stood a chance. Neither one of them had. "Thereby leaving him no room for argument. Or me, for that matter."

"You bet your ass, Jethro."

"An interesting challenge." His hand wandered to the area in question. The other, heavily bandaged, went carefully around her neck. There was a little energy left. "And don't call me that."

"You haven't been able to stop me yet."

Impulsively, still desperate for reassurance that she could, she kissed him almost savagely, lingeringly and savoring every moment. She demanded a like response and, as always, he didn't disappoint her. There would be a later and she couldn't deny the spark of excitement, the promise, at the prospect.

Besides, it was an easy way of getting the last word and one of the more entertaining methods of shutting him up. He did have a maddening tendency to talk too much.

Ending it, she sat back and smiled.

Short-circuited and not quite sure where he'd lost control of this situation, Bartlet took a deep, steadying breath. It didn't help. "Now that wasn't fair. Abbey, you can't just..."

"I can and did." Chastely this time, she brushed her lips across his and stood up. He was still too stunned to try and stop her. "Leo, Jed. Talk to him. He's worried."

And that, for now, was all the sympathy Abbey was going to allow her husband's oldest friend. She hadn't forgiven him completely, not yet. That he cared, deeply and without reservation, she wasn't about to argue. They shared that. But he also had his job, and that was where both their considerations clashed. She couldn't care less that Jed was the President.

Leo McGarry couldn't forget it.

"Yeah," Bartlet muttered, expression darkening. Even here, at home, there were things he wasn't allowed to forget. Things that, for the moment, he didn't dare tell his wife. What was left of the mood disappeared completely.

Abbey saw this, realized suddenly that there was more than the normal burden of his office riding on her husband's shoulders and conscience. She wanted to ask, but didn't. It would have ruined the progress they'd already made. From experience she also knew he wouldn't answer. This particular burden was his, and one he would only share reluctantly. She wasn't ready to force him.

As if having someone trying to kill him, for whatever spurious reason, wasn't burden enough.

"I'll send him in," she said softly.

"Must you?" The shadow in his eyes was replaced with a familiar, amorously disappointed plea.

"I must."

"Fine," the President of the United States grumbled. So much for the rest of his afternoon. And it had started so very promisingly. "While you're at it, find Toby for me, will you? Or is he running in fear of your considerable and probably well-deserved wrath as well?"

"Should he be?" And what, exactly, did he think she should be directing her wrath at? Her suspicions only grew.

"I'm beginning to wonder who really rules the White House." He grinned shamelessly. "Bell him for me, will you?"

"Okay." Abbey replied, already on her way out. Easily done - and she had her own reasons now for wanting to corner and bell Toby Ziegler.

Passing Leo and Ron Butterfield in the hallway, Abbey said nothing. Allowing her husband’s oldest friend only a cool, regal nod, she gave him and his tallshadow silent permission to enter. This was her home, not the White House. He was not Chief of Staff here, and without reservation she was letting him know exactly who was going to be calling the shots for the next few days. He owed her that at least.

For Ron Butterfield, who had rarely been outside of shouting distance and eye contact with his charge since they had arrived at the farm, she spared nothing. Having three times as many of his people underfoot was bad enough. Oh, she understood the reasons, she just wondered if they would do any good.

Butterfield's features, carved in granite, showed no expression as the lady of the house walked away without any word. He wasn't looking for redemption, he never did. The job didn't allow it. In this, though, he found himself wishing for some small acknowledgement, accusing or otherwise.

His gaze hooded, the President's chief bodyguard watched the coldly silent First Lady disappear around a corner.

"She saw the briefing?" It wasn't really a question.

McGarry nodded tiredly, wondering at the ridiculous relief he felt. She hadn't confronted them, demanding answers they couldn't give. He ignored the mocking voice inside asking why. He knew why; so did she.

Abigail Bartlet would lower the boom when she was good and ready.

"This doesn't make my job any easier," Butterfield growled. "She has to know."

"She already does."

A muscle in Butterfield's jaw twitched.

McGarry simply sighed heavily and shook his head. There would be nothing from that quarter, not that he'd expected it or truly felt a kind word from Abbey was warranted. Too much had happened, with more to come. He hadn't earned the absolution, not yet. Might not in the foreseeable future. A hand on Butterfield's arm indicated the meeting now to take place was private.

The agent nodded curtly in return, satisfied to stay on the outskirts of this one.

The frustrated flush he saw on Josiah Bartlet's face as he walked in to the living room cracked McGarry's grim facade. The laugh he barely stifled in time. He knew the man, understood the reasons for the high color all too well. The still slightly heavy breathing was a dead giveaway as well. That was one for Abigail. Good for her!

McGarry grinned.

That grin did little to improve the President's foul mood. "You're fired," he growled, knowing exactly what was going through the other man's mind.

"Again?" McGarry chuckled and sat down in a facing chair. His eyes went to the bandaged limb his friend carefully moved to his lap. No obvious wince of pain or evidence of fatigue. Abbey had been right. "You're getting repetitive, sir. Besides, the paperwork from your last executive tantrum hasn't even cleared the out-box hurdle on Charlie's desk yet. Where are you gonna slip this one in?"

"You've been bribing Charlie."

"Yep. Easy enough. You shouldn't have threatened to send him to the Yukon." Reluctantly, silently relieved that the President was clearly on the mend and could play again, McGarry gave up the verbal game and indicated the TV, the Press Secretary once again visible mounting the podium. "You gonna try and get her another raise?"

"Another one? I have just informed my wife that the first hasn't even gone through yet." Bartlet picked up the remote and changed the channel. Another repeat of C.J.'s performance was being recapped. "She went a little further than the original outline you gave me. Or did you change the script?"

"A tentative outline at best. And script changes weren't needed. Performance anxiety is not one of C.J.'s failings." McGarry shrugged uncomfortably. "You know as well I do that the press rarely cooperates. It's a hydra that never sleeps. She played them just right. Aside from delivering the profile, she handled the inevitable... multiple sclerosis questions..." - it took a nearly physical effort to say the words - "...perfectly. This relapse won't be an election issue."

"This one," Bartlet muttered. "And I could care less about reelection right now."

"You should, sir." He so wanted to say Jed, to make that tentative connection begun only... was it only two days before? But he couldn't, not now. Cowardice, perhaps. "It will be an issue, whether you like it or not. Or care."

"And there goes the rest of my warm and fuzzy mood. Can we change the subject?"

"God forbid you should be in any way, shape or form warm and fuzzy."  He laughed, and then allowed the change of subject. He could take a hint. "You do look better, Jed." There! He'd said it.

"Not crappy, huh?" The President didn't seem to notice the use of his name. "I feel better."

"Good, 'cause that incident boarding Marine One..."

"I was already on board, not boarding. Get it right, will you? No cameras," the President protested with a slightly defensive twinkle in his eye. A lack of self-mockery, he knew, wasn't one of his many character failings. Forcing himself to board the helicopter had been hard enough. Hyperventilating while climbing steep stairs wouldn’t have made for a good public image, but he'd managed somehow. Till he'd got on board and stumbled, reaching out instinctively and hitting his injured hand against the back of a chair. That had added insult to injury. One without the other would have served, but both?

Seeing some of the joviality disappear from his friend’s face, McGarry realized that bringing up the incident hadn't quite served the purpose for which it had been intended. "I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "I shouldn't have brought that up.”

“Nah,” the apology was waved off with a self-conscious shrug. "You are bound and determined to drive whatever warm feelings I have left into the proverbial dust, aren't you?" Despite the words, there is no rancor in Bartlet's voice, only a gentle teasing.

Accepting it in kind, McGarry responded, "It's what you pay me for."

"I pay you?"

"Sometimes."

"That's okay then. As long as I'm not taking you for granted." Bartlet looked back at the TV, his expression sobering. "She didn't ask, Leo."

"Sir?"

"Abbey." Congressman Lillianfield's face appeared on the screen, beginning a new round. The President could make a pretty good guess as to what he was about to spew out to an eager press. The vitriol was going to be flying and he suspected Abbey had already caught some small part of it.

Bartlet turned off the television and disgustedly tossed the remote onto the cushion next to him. "She knows, Leo. She has to. That profile doesn't fit what I told her about what happened with Marine One."

"Maybe she forgot," McGarry offered weakly. He hadn't missed the appearance of Lillianfield and the President's pointed refusal to watch. This was an emotional tangle he really didn't want to deal with right now. "She has had a great deal on her mind."

The President gave his chief advisor and best friend a clearly sour and sarcastic look.

McGarry chuckled ruefully. "Okay, bad example." Abigail Bartlet never forgot anything. That was the problem.

"Has she hit you for anything?" The question was asked cautiously.

"No," McGarry shook his head, his reply equally cautious and uncomfortable with the direction this speculation was taking. Even thinking that Abbey would try and corner him was a daunting prospect. "She managed to get me on a few other things, though. Spectacularly so."

"I figured." This time Bartlet did grin at his friend's obvious reluctance to remember or admit to the dressing-down his wife had so obviously given him. "A classic, huh?"

"You have no idea." Or maybe he did. Abbey's righteous anger had been one thing. Her fear had been what convinced McGarry that her demands were warranted. Considering the President's clearly thwarted frustration earlier, she'd been right. Home was a cure for so many ills.

So were other things. He managed to somehow keep the knowing smirk off his face.

Still, he had to ask, "Sir..."

"Leave it, Leo." Determined steel edged Bartlet's voice. He'd no doubts as to what Abbey had hit Leo with, and he didn't want to talk about it. Dysesthesia. Childish, maybe, but it was the way he dealt with his condition. "I'm better, all right? It's bad enough getting knocked back into my chair; I don't need this."

He didn't need any of it, and for a moment McGarry was tempted to not let it go. A friend wouldn't have left it. But this was the President, and he had, however obliquely, beengiven an order. Grimly, letting the other man know that in future it would not be shelved, he nodded.

Bartlet accepted his agreement, and the implied promise, with narrowed eyes. He knew full well it would come up again. Leo McGarry was nothing if not tenacious. "John delivered my message?"

"His Lordship was more than happy to oblige," McGarry replied dryly. "No doubt he managed to embellish the simple text into something totally unrecognizable to someone who speaks English as a second language."

"Be nice, Leo," the President chided his advisor gently. "He has his uses. Any response from the Russians?"

"Not as yet. Given their blatant omission of certain important facts, they're probably nearly comatose with relief that you're still even talking to them, let alone sending Lord Fauntleroy..."

"Leo..." The warning was stern.

"...his Lordship," McGarry corrected with a barely stifled sneer, "to reassure them. My guess is they're waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Speaking of shoes, how did you handle Josh and the others over this?"

McGarry winced. "I didn't."

"Leo..." There was kind censure in his voice.

"I didn't handle that well," McGarry allowed a little censure of his own to come out in the rebuke. Events had gone by too quickly to allow for sentiment. "Abbey didn't give me much of a chance to cover that base."

"You mean I didn't, don't you?"

McGarry didn't dare answer.

Letting that subject go, Bartlet leaned his head back, closing his eyes against a growing throb in his hand. The painkillers were already beginning to wear off. Abbey had once told him that tolerance and sensitivity went hand in hand. Rather than increase the doses or their frequency, he'd often had to do without and he wondered dryly why he even bothered in the first place. "We've shaken the tree. I suppose now we just wait to see what falls out of it?"

"If anything falls out of it."

"You're such an optimist, Leo."

 "Now you're just being insulting."

"I'm home." Bartlet shot his friend a knowing glance and grinned at that; not at all surprised that he actually meant it. "You've no idea how... inspiring that can be."

Inspiration came in many forms. McGarry's face split into one of his own, rare full-blown smiles. The President was back and ready to take on the world again. Nothing else mattered. Perhaps that bit of good news would be enough to bring Josh and the others around.

"Home, Leo, not the White House," the President was saying. "The security and safety distinction is not lost on me." Bartlet's satisfied grin faded and his expression became serious, darker.

So did McGarry's. Reality had an ugly way of doing that lately.

Home or not, there were still shadows to be battled. Bartlet leaned forward, careful of his injured hand, eyeing his friend shrewdly and ready to get some work done before Abbey returned and chased his chief advisor away. 

"Get Ron in here, and you two can explain it to me all over again. Oh, and it would be nice if one or both of you could give me a name. Call it an idiosyncrasy of mine, but I find when someone's trying to kill me, I'd like a face and a name to go with it. We need that name, Leo. Or this whole exercise may well prove pointless."

McGarry nodded grimly. Idiosyncrasy or not, he wouldn't mind it either. It was going to be a long day.

Toby Ziegler would be the first to admit he was a master at getting to the truth. A less kind observer would say his tenacious persistence in getting to that elusive truth simply overwhelmed the object of his pursuit into surrender through the power of sheer nuisance. No less honest with himself than he was with his colleagues, he'd agree with that assessment on all counts. It always worked for him, so why change?

A pity he couldn't apply that same obstinacy and stubborn persistence to his own thoughts and motivations. Taking a deep drag off his cigar, he leaned against the front porch railing and stared across the lawn. Beyond the near dozen black Suburbans lining the drive, beyond the two-pair teams of heavily armed Secret Service Agents patrolling the grounds clear to the nearesttree-line a half-mile away, and beyond the much nearer wooden stock fence were...

Cows. Lots of cows. Too many cows. He could hear them, and he could smell them. The smell was really what he couldn't get past. It pervaded everything. He exhaled, observing the creatures narrowly and with profound disgust through the cloud of smoke. The aroma of the cigar he liked. It spoke of refinement and civilization.

Ziegler didn't like the cows. They represented everything depressingly rural. And really, it didn't help a person to think with their constant... mooing. He scowled. It really chafed that the malodorous beasts had forced him, a consummate writer and master of words, to even think the word mooing. That just added insult to injury. Why would anyone in their right mind want to live near bovines?

And what, he asked himself for the umpteenth time, was he doing here being irritated - more so than usual, he had to grudgingly admit - by the aforementioned bovines? Seeing how just about everything in existence irritated him in one way or another, his fixation on the cows worried him.

Chewing on the end of his cigar, Ziegler came right back to the same cud he'd been ruminating over since he had arrived at the Bartlet farm. He rolled his eyes. Damn it! The infernal beasts had invaded his store of precious verbs and nouns! This was getting out of hand, but it still didn't change or distract him from the only sour answer he'd managed to come up with all afternoon.

What was he doing here?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Ziegler knew he'd been tagged as superfluous escort for the simple reason that Leo McGarry didn't dare leave him behind at the White House to stew in his own juices. With the Communications Director being more bellicose than usual, the Chief of Staff couldn't risk having him tip off the press, the staffing bullpen, the interns, the messengers and the occasional senior rep that he wasn't happy.

Okay. Ziegler scowled and puffed cheerlessly on the cigar. Let's be honest. Less happy than usual. He had to admit that Leo, however misguided he thought the man to be, had a point. This wasn't a poker game; this wasn't a political argument with a recalcitrant congressman. This wasn't business as usual. Knowing what he did, there was no way Ziegler could hide that fact, cover up his displeasure, especially after C.J. dropped the bomb.

That bomb had hit with a resounding success. Ziegler couldn't deny the fact that C.J. Cregg knew her job, could play the press corps with consummate skill and panache. Even Will Sawyer hadn't been able to shake her, and he had clearly suspected something wasn't right. Steve and Sandy had been the same.

C.J. had played them all, maintaining her cool and mauling a few reporters in the process. He didn't begrudge her that, a part of him cheering her on as he had watched her leave the messy remains of their inanity in her considerable wake. Oh, yeah, she'd played their game. Played...

This wasn't a game. Why did it seem he was the only one to realize that? Ziegler couldn't believe they'd actually done it, and by they he included himself in the team count. He hadn't succeeded in stopping it, not when the President himself agreed with it. A small, optimistic part of his mind had hoped that they wouldn't go through with it, that his arguments to the contrary had got through somehow. He should have known better. No, this wasn't a poker game, but the stakes...

Another unhappy puff on his rapidly shrinking cigar. The stakes were horrifying. From somewhere, and it was a thought that truly terrified him, came the reluctant realization that they truly had no other choice. The new millennium had added a new, darker and evil player to the field of international politics, one who didn't play by the known rules.

They were making up the rules as they went along.

Totally unconcerned with these world-shaking considerations, a cow mooed.

Ziegler snorted through a cloud of aromatic smoke. Now there was a commentary worthy of serious consideration.

"This isn't the White House, Toby. You can smoke inside."

Rather proud of himself that he didn't bolt like a guilty thief from that familiar voice, another thick cloud of smoke was Ziegler's only response. Ridiculously, all he could focus on was the cows and their constant mooing. It had gone beyond irritating into almost contemptuous.

Or maybe he was just giving them way too much credit.

Abbey truly hadn't expected anything more, not from this man. Laughing softly, she followed his glum, scowling line of sight. She should have known. The poor urbanite... "Inside, there are no cows."

He laughed shortly in return. "Am I that obvious?"

"Among other things." Joining him at the rail, Abbey marveled again at his subtle wit. True, a darker variety than she was used to, but reliable in its own way. And somehow, at this moment, comforting. "I saw C.J.'s briefing."

Another scowl puckered Ziegler's brow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So?"

Abbey waited a beat, and then shook her head. The man was priceless. How could she be angry with him? Easy... "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Is there something going on?" Ziegler was rapidly running out of cigar and excuses.

"Nice try, Toby. Let me put it this way, then you can try again." Abbey waved away the smoke, watching Toby carefully, looking for the cracks. Oh, he would try to evade, to dance around the issue with some cranky sophism. She wasn't about to let him. "You're not talking to Leo, Leo's not talking to you. Normally not something to cause undue concern. However, add in the fact that you are avoiding everyone, including your nominal employer..."

Ziegler's brows rose. "Nominal?"

Abbey smiled sweetly, though little humor lit her eyes. She wanted a target, something to lash out against. Still, was that a smile hidden beneath his beard? "Got you on that one, didn't I?"

A nervous shuffle. "Ma'am..."

"You've never been one to hide your displeasure or go out of your way to avoid voicing it."

A deeper, troubled scowl. "Ma'am..."

"And while Ron Butterfield has been standing formidable guard and beenfar... grimmer than usual, if that can possibly be believed, the threat of his denial or displeasure wouldn't stop you."

The cigar became his only refuge. Ziegler took a deep drag. By the time he was done inhaling, he was seeing stars. Maybe if he passed out...

Abbey bit back a curse. Of all the players in this drama, Toby seemed to be her only ally, however reluctant. It was getting him to talk that was a pain. She suppressed her growing fury at his apparent indifference. It was just a mask.

She was tired of masks. "What did they do to piss you off, Toby? And before you answer, be aware I include my husband in that lovely, ever entertaining and frustrating group."

He couldn't hold his breath or the lungful of smoke any longer. "Lovely..." he choked out, coughing. "Entertaining?"

"They do try." Once again and with a disapproving glare, she waved away the smoke. "That's a bad habit, Toby."

"I have lots of bad habits."

"Hiding from the truth isn't one of them. Your painfully direct honesty is one of your better qualities, and the one I admire the most. Don't hide it from me."

Ziegler blinked, not quite confused but damn close. He couldn't recall a more backhanded compliment, especially from her. How the hell was he supposed to respond? "Ma'am..." he paused, staring at the glowing tip of his cigar. The ember was a good metaphor for what might happen if he didn't answer.

But if he did? For the first time, he looked directly into the First Lady's searching gaze. A suggestion of annoyance hovered in those eyes, and something else. A protective fury fueled by suspicion. She already knew, he could see that, and was just waiting for him to confirm it. Ziegler visibly deflated, giving up. Fear, concern, anger had no place here.

Only the truth. "Ma'am... Abbey," - he owed her that, at least - "the respect and regard in which I hold the President... your husband," he saw her start at that, realizing with some surprise that she was grateful he had referred to the man and not the office, "is only slightly more than the same respect in which I hold you."

Abbey was too startled by his laurel to offer any question or objection. There wasn't a hint of mockery in his tone. "Is that a proper sentence?" she asked, caught off guard, and not for the first time, by this unpredictable man.

"Probably not," Ziegler admitted with a rueful smile, flicking a long ash over the railing. "I'm working under duress here."

"What's going on, Toby?" She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. It was so easy to find the anger again, to let her fury have free reign. "I want answers."

The glowing ember was very close to his fingers. Staring at it, Ziegler realized he might probably get burned and said softly. "You already know."

"The press conference." Abbey sighed heavily, the simple admission threatening to shatter her fragile control. She wanted to shout, to scream her denial to the world. There it was. She'd only needed him to confirm it. Nobody else would have. "That profile doesn't fit with what Jed told me."

"I figured he'd said something, when the NTSB report..."

"Let's not rehash old details," Abbey interrupted, cutting him off impatiently. Having her suspicions given grounds was one thing. That left only this. "What the hell are they doing?"

"I've been asking myself the same question for the last two days." Ziegler gave up on his sputtering cigar and snubbed it out, dropping the remains onto the lawn below. Leaning both arms against the rail, he said, "As much as I hate it, as much as the sheer obstinacy of the decision scares the hell out of me, I've really only been able to come up with one answer."

"They had no choice." Abbey stared over the porch rail. The ember of Ziegler's cigar was still glowing weakly. It hadn't quite given up the fight. Neither had she. "I imagine they loaded you down with excuses, though."

"Leo loaded me down." Ziegler snorted, not quite allowing himself the bitter laugh he really wanted. The indignation and anger still simmered below the surface. "Ron just added the kicker. I wasn't allowed to advise your husband on this."

"You might have talked him out of it." Her husband? She regarded her companion with somber curiosity. What was going on here? "They couldn't risk that."

Ziegler sighed, a poor imitation of his usual huffs. "And I'm not sure they weren't correct. I'm not sure of anything anymore. Even Ron..."

"Another one of my clues. The man's about ready to eat his own liver." Abbey stepped closer, her earlier condemnations and suspicions still there, but allayed by this man's troubled and sincere concern. "What do they expect to happen now? I'm no psychologist, but that... profile was a blatant insult. Poor C.J." - and she had no doubts that the Press Secretary was as unhappy as her colleague - "stopped just short of giving our suspecta royal bird."

"I'm surprised she didn't."

"Would you have?"

"I think I'd have been a bit more... colorful."

Abbey laughed, a sad, but still genuine sound of shared frustration and concern. Assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness, she felt a swell of pain that was beyond tears. But the loneliness, the despair of being left out was driven away by the soft chuckle of the man standing next to her. He did understand.

That chuckle surprised Ziegler, that he could find anything even grimly humorous in any of this. Still, it helped, a little. He stared across the manicured lawnand through the dividing fence at a cow.

The cow stared back, chewing its cud, and mooed.

Ignoring yet another commentary, Ziegler said softly, "What's gonna happen? Nothing, everything." He huffed with profound disgust, both at himself and the overly curious bovine. His voice began to rise, the fury beginning to boil over. "Legitimacy. That was the excuse. Criminals, politics, the line between the two being blurred - as if it wasn't blurred beyond all recognition already. Who cares about legitimacy? About lines? We should be telling the world, not hiding behind what ifs and maybes."

Touching his arm, Abbey tried to calm him down, to bring him back from the brink. Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been this righteous outrage. That was supposed to have been hers alone. And while she agreed with him, she'd been a party enough to the game, if only on the outskirts, to recognize the twisted reasoning.

So did Toby, and he didn't like it one bit. His outrage went beyond loyalty into something else, a faith in her husband that stunned and touched her deeply. It cooled her own churning emotions.

"Toby, they're right," she was forced to concede, confronting her own fears. "I hate to admit it, to even consider the implications, but the sad truth is that they can't allow even a suggestion that any criminal could reach that high and become even a nominal player on the international scene."

Staring at the hand on his arm, Ziegler admitted softly, "I hadn't expected you to understand, or to condone."

"Oh, I don't condone, not by a long shot. And I only partially understand."

"They've staked him out, Abbey," Ziegler spat the words almost contemptuously. "Using him to draw out the tiger."

"A Judas Goat." Clenching her teeth, Abbey was now beyond furious. And he had agreed, explaining so much of what she'd seen and heard. Jed had known.

Each assessed the other's anger, finding an unexpected solace in the stark recognition.

"They've made this personal, Abbey. This isn't the Sicilian mob; they're not even European in their thinking. It's older, colder..." He winced at the inadvertent rhyme, then gathered himself. "Face is everything to this man. Money and profit has become secondary. Whatever reasons he may have started this with have been tossed out the proverbial window. We may not have had any choice, but now he doesn't either. It's become a matter of pride, not just profit."

Ziegler's eyes were bleak. " No more threats, no more hints. He has to succeed now. "

Abbey shivered, her thoughts racing. The price for that success? "My husband's life."

Ziegler looked directly into her eyes, placing his hand over the one still on his arm, her tense fingers digging into his flesh through the coat sleeve. "A man I consider a friend. You want to know something?"

Abbey didn't dare answer. She could only take his hand into hers and hold it tightly in silence.

"I could care less about the office, about the assumption of responsibility for legitimate concerns and fears. Moral or amoral, I don't care, not anymore. They are afraid of him, of what he represents and the power of his office to destroy them. Fine, if you want legitimacy, that's at least a cruel sort of honesty."

"Toby..."

He didn't hear her, didn't want to stop. He needed to say this, to have the one person who mattered listen. "Abbey, I don't care about the President anymore, just the man, and that scares me. I once told him that in a battle between a President's demons and his better angels, for the first time in a long while we had a fair fight." He laughed bitterly. "A fair fight. The Russian mafia consists of ex Special Forces, Spetsnaz, KGB, you name it. For what? Money. That's all they care about. Bottom line, they want to be paid. How do you fight that? There's nothing fair about this. The demons, the monsters, have come out from underneath the bed, and I don't know how to fight them, can't see how they can be fought..." he took a deep breath, finishing on the exhale, "...to protect him."

Ziegler swallowed hard, fighting to stifle the anger, the fear of ultimate failure. "Where are the angels, Abbey?" he asked, his words like gall on his tongue. "I haven't seen them yet."

"Right here, Toby." Abbey had nothing more to give him. She'd already run so much of what he'd said through her own mind and come up with no answers. But to know that someone else thought the same thing? It was worth more than Toby would give himself credit for.

She said the only thing she could, an attitude she'd lived with for so long it was almost habit. She was all too familiar with monsters and their ilk, when they could be fought and when they couldn't. "We work with what we've got, Toby, the cards we're dealt."

"We've got a lousy hand."

"Then we draw another one."

"Aces and eights, Abbey." Ziegler sighed sadly. "How long before we draw a dead man's hand?"

For a moment, shocked silence was the only response to his ill-advised question. He couldn't believe he'd actually voiced it aloud, to this woman. It went beyond cruel into the very territory Toby Ziegler detested. The unthinking, emotionless automaton so many accused him of being. He was far from it; he wanted her to know that.

Abbey already did, smiling gently to indicate her understanding. His honesty deserved that.

"I trust that Ron and his people can keep that from happening." That had been hard to say, but she knew it was yet another truth. Whatever might happen, could still happen, she had to trust in that stalwart's grim determination.

Slipping her arm into Toby’s,Abbey drew him away from the rail, leading him back towards the house. She'd got what she'd wanted, and so much more. The fury was still there, but at the moment, she couldn't be entirely sure if ignorance wasn't exactly bliss. At least now she had something to focus on, a target. Several in fact. That Jed was now included in that group didn't surprise her in the least.

It was better than nothing. To protect others, he would allow the tiger to stalk and hunt its sole target and disregard any others. No innocent bystanders were going to get hurt, not if he could help it. She couldn't blame him for that, not really. That kind of stubborn nobility, she could not fight.

She just didn't like it.

Suspiciously, morbidly expecting something more, Zeigler tried to hang back from her insistent pull. "Is that it?" he asked warily.

"What else can we do, Toby? Rant? Rave against cruel, unfeeling fate?" She patted his arm comfortingly. A nervous Toby, while not unusual, was still irresistible to a mother's instincts, especially now. "I can think of a better thing to do."

Ziegler opened his mouth to ask, and then closed it. He knew the answer, and smiled sadly. "Pray."

"He, at least, always listens."

"Yeah."

A cow mooed.

Ziegler scowled, glancing back with disgust over his shoulder at the snide commentary. "Do they have to do that?"

"What?"

"Moo!"

"They're cows, Toby. It's what they do."

"Couldn't you like, train them not to?"

Abbey shook her head. "You poor city boy."

"Damn right." Following her lead, feeling strangely purged and renewed, he let her direct him back into the house. A thought occurred to him. "I'm hungry."

"When was the last time you had something other than nicotine and smoke?"

He thought about it, did a few quick calculations. "Thursday."

"Food, Toby. For the mind and the body." One of the ever-present agents stepped aside as they entered thefoyer. Abbey didn't give him a second thought. She was getting used to them. Toby on the other hand... "I think a late lunch would do us both some good."

Ziegler's dour expression brightened and yet another thought struck him. "Got any steak?"

Abbey laughed, cheered by the dour, often-antagonistic man beside her. While validation of her suspicions had been her original goal, she'd come away with much more. Considering the source, the realization surprised her.

She had an ally in the game. Against whom? Any and all comers.

The West Wing, Saturday evening...

The door to the Deputy Chief of Staff's office flew open with a familiar, overly dramatic flair. The accompanying bellow of enthusiastic greeting wasn't really necessary as an identifier, nor did it provide sufficient warning to its victim.

"Joshua!"

Joshua Lyman jumped, jamming his knee painfully against the underside of his desk. Not exactly the first time that had ever happened. Wincing, he glared accusingly at the flamboyant British Ambassador, then leaned to one side and spied Donna waving cheekily at him from around the tall man's shoulder.

"Thanks for the heads up, Donna," he drawled with no little sarcasm, rubbing his knee. Another beauty of a bruise was in the making. Considering her regular performance rating, wearing padding was becoming a serious consideration. "A little warning, next time, maybe? Just once?"

"He's a force of nature, Josh. What can I do?" She grinned at Marbury. "Besides, how could I improve on that entrance?"

"Indeed." Marbury bowed gracefully and deliberately towards the Deputy Chief of Staff's assistant, giving her an equally cheeky wink. His smile was warm. "Performance and presentation are everything, young lady."

That smile... Donna melted, just a little.

Lyman groaned and banged his head against the desk, knocking a stack of papers off balance with his elbowand scattering them. He couldn't win for losing. Now he was trapped. He pretty much blamed Leo for the whole thing.

Giving Donna one last devastating smile, Marbury shut the door. Privacy insured, he turned back towards Lyman. His expression stilled and grew serious. The young man looked driven and flustered, nearly buried under a weight that was not entirely represented by the scattered files, memos and folders attempting to escape the sanctuary of his overloaded desk.

Marbury understood the underlying empathic burden. Becoming emotionally involved was a danger they all shared. However, age and a cynicism born from years of cold, hard reality allowed him to shoulder and distance that weight with a practiced ease he often found monumentally depressing. The ability only grew with experience. The world was a harsh teacher, never one to allow for human sentiment.

Josh Lyman was not yet quite so skilled a practitioner. One day, he would be. Lord John Marbury found that the most depressing thought of all.

Noting the sudden silence, Lyman lifted his head and observed the tall, eccentric man warily. Again, he blamed Leo. ‘What did he know?’ Or rather, ‘What had Leo told him?’ And last but not least, ‘What can he be told?’

Some of his thoughts must have been clearly evident on his face. One corner of Marbury's mouth twisted upwards as he set his briefcase on the harried Deputy Chief of Staff's desk, shoving aside a few additional folders. Opening it, he relieved some of Lyman's anxiety and said, "Leo has deigned to include me, against his better judgment, no doubt..."

"No doubt," Lyman muttered, catching a sheaf of papers before they could hit the floor. Leo's desk never looked like this, so why did his? He blamed Donna.

"...and made use of my meager skills."

"Meager?" Lyman forced back a surge of resentment. The target was Leo McGarry. Why hadn't he been told?

Another flashing smile. "A uniquely humble turn of phrase when applied to myself." He eyed the paperwork attempting to escape the young man's grasp askance. "The President has indeed vacated the premises for a well-earned rest?"

"Yeah."

"Taking his ever-present and remarkably skilled Chief of Staff with him?"

"Yeah." Where was this going? Lyman opened a drawer and shoved the armful of papers inside. He'd get to them later. Besides, Donna would have told him if they were important, right?

"Leaving you in charge of the White House?" Elegantly composed, Marbury pulled a thick folder from his briefcase. For fear of prying eyes and listening ears, this had to be done quickly. "And possibly the fate of the free world?"

Well, when you put it that way... "That bothers you?"

"Terrifies me, actually."

Lyman blinked slowly for a moment, then grinned. "Good." His tone wasn't the least bit apologetic.

Regarding him with open amusement, Marbury laughed softly, jovially. The art of diplomacy had many a strange turn, and he knew them all. Using them was second nature. Already the young man looked slightly less flustered and more relaxed.

A pity he had to spoil it. Declining Lyman's waved offer of a seat, all too aware of the time factor, he asked, "The President?" A wealth of inquiry was included in that one word.

"Better," Lyman admitted freely, for the first time curiously noticing the folder the British Ambassador had removed from his briefcase. The British Ambassador playing courier? "Leo called this afternoon. The President woke up this morning after nearly two full days of sleep. We're stunned."

"And the world didn't come crashing down around our ears?"

"Weird, huh? He probably half expected it to." That phone call had been the highlight of a truly dismal day. Good news these days was rare. Lyman smiled warmly at the memory. "He's remarkably better." His grin became sly. "The word frisky was used, in a context I tried very hard not to let my imagination get too carried away with."

Marbury's own grin broadened.

"A problem you don't seem to be having."

"When Gerald uses the word frisky in the same sentence as Josiah Bartlet, one has no choice but to let lurid and suggestive imagination have free reign." Humor aside, Marbury's relief was genuine. All would be well. "That is indeed good news. Thank you."

A wry but indulgent glint was in the Ambassador's eyes as he observed the embarrassed shifting of Gerald's deputy.

Lyman shrugged, growing ever more uncomfortable under the Ambassador's searching gaze. He nodded towards the file. "You have something for us?"

"A great many things." Marbury handed him the folder. "Courtesy of Nadia Koslowski."

Accepting it with a frown, Lyman stared at the blank, manila cover, emotions in turmoil. "Leo..." He couldn't finish the question, but the thought refused to be stilled. Trust wasn't exactly at a premium right now.

"Requested my aid in this matter. A... message was delivered. Nothing more. That..." He indicated the folder, "...was an unexpected bonus, a lead as I believe your law enforcement officials refer to it."

"Leo requested you?" There was resentment in his voice and Lyman made no attempt to hide it. Why hadn't he been told? Or asked? The questions continued to burn, to demand an answer.

"This was handled quickly, Joshua, perhaps far too quickly," Marbury explained, sensing some of the young man's bitterness and anger. Youth confronted with the cynicism of age and dire expediency. Leo McGarry had not handled this well. "Diplomacy is a cloak that can hide so very much. I don't raise flags. You would have."

Lyman couldn't argue with that. Still, it hurt and he wasn't sure why. "I was left out of the loop."

"Only temporarily."

"You saw the press briefing?" Changing the subject seemed to help, if only a little.

"Miss Cregg was magnificent, a truly exceptional performance. A pity the reasons may never see the light of questionable day."

"What are they trying to do?"

"They are trying to bait a very dangerous predator." The British Ambassador's mercurial eyes sharpened, watching Lyman keenly. "You understand why, don't you?"

"Yeah." Lyman slumped in his chair, still holding on tothe file. He wondered briefly if he was going to have to find a place to bury this one as well. "Government shouldn't work like this. It's... sick." Somewhere, he heard the echo of Toby Ziegler, casting his own protests into the lap of cruel fate.

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Joshua. It's the price you pay for conviction."

"For President Bartlet's conviction."

"And yours. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Or you?"

Marbury's chuckle was harsh, leaden with hidden meaning. "My own convictions have little or no bearing on the matter. Wasn't it your own second president who once said there are two kinds of people in this sad world? Those with conviction, and those who acquire the convictions of others?"

"John Adams," Lyman muttered, running his thumb along the edge of the folder. He didn't want to open it.

"A brilliant man, given very little credit by history for his achievements." Marbury looked at his watch, and then picked up his briefcase, preparing to leave. "We have, both of us, Joshua, acquired certain convictions that require the sacrifice of the known for the unknown."

"Not like this." Lyman's mouth dipped into an even deeper frown, his expression taut and derisive. "You can argue the criminality of politics all you want, but this is a nightmare. What, we're supposed to allow thugs at the bargaining table now? Let them dictate policy and our futures? Is that the argument?"

"You can also argue the criminality of diplomacy, for the same reasons," Marbury added, smiling benignly as if dealing with a temperamental child. In a sense he was. The wider, darker under-world had landed in this young man's lap with a frighteningly cold certainty. "However, it can have its uses, especially when coupled with a reluctant conscience. Not everything is lost to the pragmatism of the moment."

"Ambassador Koslowski's?" Lyman looked again at the folder, given a sudden hope by that one word; conscience. It was about time somebody over there, given what the President had offered them and the price he had already paid, had shown evidence of one. "What did she give us?"

"A name, through her own considerable sources. Please," Marbury held up his hand, forestalling the inevitable questions. "Don't ask how, where or why. Just accept it. As you can well imagine, she would prefer that any acknowledgement of this... gift, be kept to yourselves. Honesty, coupled with conscience, has a price she is not willing to pay."

"She did good, then."

Marbury nodded solemnly, giving Nadia Koslowski that much acknowledgment; however late to the party she may have come. "The rest is from my own not inconsiderable sources. A face and a history to go with the name."

Turning to leave, Marbury was reaching for the door handle when he paused, reluctant to end it there. Something more needed to be said. Over his shoulder, he offered almost casually, "I leave it to you to see that the information is given to those who can use it to best effect. Quickly, Joshua," he added, no trace of frivolity or humor to hide the darker meaning behind his urging.

Lyman's heart jumped, his relief short-lived. "It can get worse?" All things considered, a silly question, but one his fevered imagination had to ask.

"Much worse." There was a faint tremor in Marbury's voice, emotion finding its way through his hardened diplomatic barriers.

Lyman had no trouble labeling it as fear. He remained silent, staring at the Ambassador's back and waiting. There was more, there had to be.

"I hesitate to use this word, Joshua. I think you can understand why. Too often it is a mask for the banal, a catchall term for those who have not the courage or the certitude to confront their own failings, to find the true meaning behind a human motive. To do anything else would point an accusing finger at their own complicity, their own moral deficiency and mortality. Take it outside the known, give it something bigger and beyond, and the responsibility is no longer yours."

His hand tightened on the door handle, knuckles white with the strain. "Do you know the word?"

Lyman knew the word, could no longer deny it. One word, but with it a wealth of meaning that went far beyond logic and reason. Still, he didn't say it. He couldn't. His throat had locked and wouldn't allow him to utter it.

Marbury didn't need to see the young man's face to sense his understanding and reluctance. Yet another pin of his worldview had been knocked out from under him. Here, Marbury would take out another. "Leo and his cohorts may have miscalculated, badly. They baited a human predator and may well have found something else, a child of the cold war and the new century, driven by demons of our own making, our own indifference. Victory was not enough. Mercy and succor towards our former adversaries might have seen this demon still-born."

A deep breath, and Marbury finished in a voice nearly a hushed whisper. "Or it might not have. Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov is evil, Joshua. Please, for all our sakes, make sure the President understands this."

Having said the word, given a name to the hunter, Lord John Marbury quietly left.

Staring at the folder, Lyman felt an extraordinary void where once there had been fear. Evil. There was power in that word, barely controlled and coiled like a serpent around the future. Whatever stakes had been laid on the table had been cleared, swallowed by a voracious abyss that knew no humanity, no soul.

He opened the folder and read.

"Aww, shit." What else was there to do? "DONNA!" he bellowed.

It was astart.

The Bartlet Farm: Manchester, New Hampshire

Sunday Morning

Abbey felt a mild streak of irritation course through her. She was warm, comfortable... and had a ridiculous craving for hot cocoa. It was only a few minutes since she had snapped awake with a finality that pretty much guaranteed that no amount of determined burrowing back under the eiderdown would recall her to sleep any time soon. 

Raising her head, she squinted at the luminous dial of the bedside clock. Still not yet five a.m.  Great, just great. The first morning in weeks that she had an opportunity for a truly lazy sleep-in, and here she was, wide-awake. And hungry, don't forget hungry. Well, she could fix that.

Hitching up cautiously on one elbow, Abbey regarded her still sleeping companion with gentle anxiety. Their bedroom was dimly illuminated by the glow of the Secret Service floodlights on the outside lawns - something she knew the property's owner had never gotten used to - and she used it to study her husband. 

The lighting wasn't bothering Jed for once, not even when combined with the fact that his injured hand had obliged him to sleep on his back instead of curled on his side as was his habit, with his wife usually drawn into the hollow thus created. He was sleeping peacefully, breathing deep and slow, his left arm still propped awkwardly on the pillow she had wedged under it last night. He clearly hadn't moved at all, still chasing the exhaustion that had weighted on him in recent times. 

Leaning forward, Abbey gently brushed her lips against his cheek, feeling the roughness of both stubble and the scabs that were had formed over the many small abrasions there. Still warm, but not overly so. The slight infection might be making the wicked wound in his palm all the more aching and sensitive to the slightest jarring, but it was showing no danger of spiking into a fever.

Abbey allowed herself a satisfied smile. Robert Hackett had done a good job there, and had insisted the dressings be changed every day until the irritation had fully subsided. Jed had predictably objected to the somewhat time-consuming precaution, but had been firmly quashed by the quelling glares of both his wife and his official attending physician. Hackett had even gone so far as to caution his executive patient against accidentally jolting the injury or otherwise doing anything to undo his good work. His President had not been impressed, and their obvious amusement at his indignation hadn't helped. Jed's near legendary clumsiness was simply too reflexive a joke to pass up, even in these circumstances. Still, the injury was more than sore enough for him to take their recommendation seriously, especially after that rap he had given it while boarding Marine One. 

The First Lady frowned slightly in concentration as she delicately patted at a droplet of blood on her husband's lower lip. The tiny cuts tended to keep reopening as his lips cracked and dried, especially at night when it was cooler. Jed rolled his head slightly at her touch and sighed gently, but didn't wake.

Abbey deposited the tissue, and automatically smoothed back his hair, before raising the eiderdown and sliding out of the bed, careful not to let the trapped heat escape. Tucking the covers back around Jed, she shoved her feet into her slippers, slid into a bathrobe and cautiously opened the bedroom door.

In the hallway outside, two agents snapped to startled alertness. Abbey grimaced irritably; unable to control the slight jump their swift response gave her. "At ease, guys. I'm just going down to the kitchen for a while. I'll be back soon. The President's still asleep."

"Yes, ma'am." 

Abbey nodded to the agent - Paulson, wasn't it? She was finding it harder to keep track of the numerous new agents Butterfield had brought on to her husband's detail. She had barely taken two steps down the corridor before she heard the agent muttering into his palm communicator and found herself rolling her eyes in anticipation. Sure enough, by the time she reached the foot of the back staircase, she found Agent Vaughn standing there, waiting for her. 

"Henry." The First Lady's tone and nod were perfectly civil, but there was a definite snap in her eyes.

Agent Vaughn caught it and his slight smile of greeting to his protectee began to slip. He made a hasty grab and fumble and managed to plaster it back in place. "Ma'am." When she said nothing but continued to just stand there and look at him, he found himself wilting under the relentless regard. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Our instructions are to keep track of all members of the house party, especially you and the President, at all times. Orders," he added hopefully, falling back on the old reliable excuse of underlings throughout history. 

"I see." Abbey tilted her head to one side. "Well, Henry, I'm just going into the kitchen, through that door there." She pointed across the narrow hallway. "Think you'll be able to keep track of me in there from all the way over here?"

Agent Vaughn considered the question cautiously. He didn't particularly fancy crowding the First Lady, and all he really had to know was where she was. Besides, discretion was the better part of valor... and the Secret Service prided itself on its discretion. "I'll just be right here if you need me, ma'am," he said blandly, settling into an upright chair at the foot of the staircase. 

Abbey's lips curled up in an irrepressible grin. "Good boy." She might be more than happy in the current circumstances for Jed to have a couple of agents treading on his heels even while moving about his own house, but that didn't mean she felt like putting up with a similar level of stalking. 

It said a great deal for the sense of heightened awareness and danger projected by the Secret Service activity that the sight of a crack of light under the kitchen door actually gave Abbey pause. But logic quickly convinced her that Vaughn would not be sitting so calmly behind her if the presence in the kitchen constituted any kind of threat. Curious to know who else was afoot this early in the morning, she gently eased the door open and slid inside. 

At first glance, the room appeared deserted. Then a slight scuffling noise emerged from behind the island in the center of the kitchen. Rounding the end, Abbey raised a quizzical eyebrow at the cotton-clad legs that were all that could be seen of her unwitting companion as he foraged deep into the cupboard beneath the counter top.

"Can I help you there, Toby?"

A muffled snort of alarm and a truly resounding thud were her response, as Ziegler jerked automatically upright, his head impacting with the underside of the island, causing the jars and pots to vibrate. 

Abbey could not contain a slight smirk of satisfaction. Teach him to go rooting around in her kitchen. Automatic professional reflexes made her inquire however, "You okay, Toby?"

"Mrs. Bartlet... Abbey." Ziegler's voice became less muffled - or no more so than usual -as he cautiously backed out of the cupboard and straightened up. "Yes, yes. I'm fine."

Seeing him tenderly cup the back of his cranium, Abbey felt a slight niggle of guilt. She had seen Jed do the same thing often enough, had been the cause of it on more than one occasion, but Toby lacked the slightprotection offered by her husband's thick thatch of hair. "You're sure?"

Ziegler gave his skull a tentative prod and winced. "Fine, I assure you. My dignity may take a little longer but, once my heart ceases to do the Macarena, I suspect I'll survive."

Abbey couldn't help grinning again. She had always gotten along particularly well with Toby Ziegler, a fact that surprised those familiar with the blunt, frank nature they both shared. "Yeah, I'm sorry. It was sort of an irresistible moment."

"Quite," Ziegler said dryly. 

"So?"

"So...?"

"So, what are you doing up?" Abbey took in her companion's neat slacks and dress shirt and added, "To say nothing of fully dressed."

Ziegler did his usual self-conscious head-roll. "I couldn't sleep. I though I might come down and get something."

"Fully dressed?" Abbey watched her companion squirm uncomfortably for a second before realization dawned. "Toby Ziegler, are you telling me you're embarrassed to be seen by your friends wandering around in your pajamas?" 

"No!" That didn't sound convincing, even to Ziegler's ears. He shrugged unhappily. "There are all these agents standing around everywhere, with their guns and communicators and body armor. They make me feel..."

"Underdressed?" Abbey grinned wickedly. "So you decided to put on some body armor of your own?"

Ziegler cocked his head ruefully and ran his hand over his forehead. "Something like that."

"Okay." Abbey moved past him towards the refrigerator. "I was going to make cocoa. Want to join me? I'll even toss in marshmallows."

"Yes."  Ziegler leaned in towards the cupboard again. "I was actually going to make some for myself anyway."

"Toby?" Abbey waved a can at him that she had reached down from an overhead shelf. "I've got the cocoa mix here. What are you looking for?"

Ziegler barely spared the can a glance. "I was looking for the kind where you put the water in and microwave. That kind, you have to boil milk and stuff."

"Well, it'll be a long search, mister. This is the only kind we have."

Ziegler slowly straightened up with a dismayed expression. "The only kind? Seriously? But that's..."

"That's...?"

"A lot of hard work just for some hot chocolate."

Abbey shook her head authoritatively. "You can't make proper cocoa with water and a microwave." And when did I start channeling Jed? "You need to heat milk in a pan - heat, not boil. And the cocoa powder should be whisked in to get the proper froth."

"Heat milk?" Ziegler was watching the preparations with what appeared to be mild panic. "Froth?"

"Oh for Heaven's sake, Toby!" Abbey slammed the saucepan down on the gas ring in exasperation. "Don't be such a male stereotype. You went to college, didn't you? And you live alone. How do you survive?"

"By eating out - a lot." Ziegler watched his hostess for a moment. "You know, my way you don't have to do quite so much washing up just to get a simple cup of cocoa."

"Toby?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Shut up, come over here and learn." Abbey pointed sternly with the whisk in her hand. "As God is my witness, you are going to learn the rudiments of how to cope in a kitchen before this weekend is over."

"Yes, ma'am."  Ziegler trailed glumly over to her side.

The sound of the door whispering closed had been almost at the edge of hearing, barely enough to stir the sleeper. In the end, it was the sense of absence that succeeded in rousing him past the early stages of awareness. Still more than half asleep, Bartlet stretched out his arm, searching automatically for his companion. His groping hand found only an empty space, still heated from her body. Abbey hadn't been gone long then.

Bartlet began to roll onto his right side; instinctively curling himself into the warm hollow his wife had left in their bed. 

"God damn it!" 

The incautious movement had dragged his bound left hand off the supporting pillow, dropping it down to impact against the point of his hip. Now wide awake, Bartlet continued to swear quietly through clenched teeth, waiting for the flare of agony to subside, as well as the lights dancing in front of his vision.

His hand felt almost unbearably hot and tender under the wrappings, but Abbey had assured him that the infection was contained. Some discomfort was inevitable while it ran its course, and her husband was damned if he was going to voice any complaints or mention feeling discomfort in her hearing. She would probably insist that the lengthy, tedious and honestly painful process of bandaging and cleansing be carried out several times a day if he did, and having to go through that every morning was bad enough.

Bartlet's glance strayed to the bottle of painkillers on the bed stand, the glass of water next to it. All ready for use. He clenched his jaw. Not today! He had better things to do this morning than sleep or descend into goofy.

Wriggling up into a half-sitting position on the pillows, Bartlet glanced towards the windows, outlined in the glow of the floodlights. Still dark, but the gray darkness that suggested dawn was close by. He squinted at the clock. Five a.m., not too far off the time when a reluctant, whimsical Charlie would normally be trying to prod his boss into action for a new day.

It had taken the body-man some time to realize that while his Chief Executive might only sleep for a relative short period each night, this did not mean that he was an enthusiastic and energetic early riser. The President knew his job all too often made it difficult for him to retire early and he could never seem to settle once he finally managed to reach his bed. He was as grumpy and tenacious a pillow hugger in the mornings as any teenager who had been convinced the previous evening that they could keep going on just a few hours' sleep. 

Bartlet sighed, and raised his right hand to rub at his eyes, then swore softly again. The cuts on his face were healing well, but he kept forgetting about his eyelids and the scratches there stung like blazes when scrubbed. Mindful now, he cautiously ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips and grimaced at the metallic taste. Still, those cuts would heal eventually as well. They weren't too sore either, except for the brief twinge when one would split open anew.

Suddenly restless, the President threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.  Abbey might kill him, but he'd been out of action for several days now. It was about time he began to catch up. Leo McGarry was sure to have brought a thick wad of briefing memos and files with him - he never moved without them. And he always used his old friend's study when staying at Manchester. 

Bartlet grinned. With a bit of luck, he could be safely ensconced and getting back up to speed before anyone with the power to send him back to bed caught up with him. 

Hauling off his pajama top, he slid into a shirt and cautiously inserted his mummified hand into the sleeve of the sweatshirt he had been wearing the previous day. The jeans he reluctantly passed over. Yesterday, he had had Abbey's amused and teasing assistance, but there was no way he could haul the denim on with just one hand, or not without spending more time in undignified wriggling than he felt was worth it. He managed to awkwardly fasten a pair of dress slacks instead and slipped his feet into loafers. Then, feeling the increased confidence that being fully dressed offers, especially when your main opponent is almost definitely still in her robe, the President opened his bedroom door.

"Morning, fellas." Bartlet reflexively tightened his grasp on the doorknob as the two agents swung around to face him a little too abruptly. They mustn't have heard him moving around inside. He guessed he should have turned on the light, but the floodlights had provided enough illumination, and he simply hadn't bothered.

"Mr. President." Agent Paulson had recovered his professional sang-froid. "Pardon us, sir. The First Lady said you were still asleep."

"I was when she left. Do you know where she is?"

"Mrs. Bartlet left about fifteen minutes ago, sir. She said she was going to the kitchen."

"Okay." Bartlet jerked his head towards the other side of the upper landing. "I'll be in the study when she comes back."

"Yes, sir."

The President nodded and moved across the hall, only to feel the two agents falling into step behind him. Mildly exasperated, he pivoted on his heel, almost bumping into his escort. "Fellas?  What are you doing?"

"Sir?" Seeing that this answer plainly wasn't going to cut it, Agent Stevens said helpfully "Agent Butterfield's instructions are that two agents never be more than twenty feet from you at any time."

Bartlet breathed out heavily through his nose and counted to ten, in Latin. It didn't help.  They did have their job to do, and he was truly grateful for their vigilance on his behalf, but still... "I appreciate that, Agent. But I'm only going across the landing. And, at a rough guess, my desk is only ten feet from the door. I'd say you're okay, where you are."

The two agents gazed at their Commander in Chief politely but implacably. Nobody blinked. Finally, the President heaved a heavy sigh. 

"Fine, suit yourselves." He felt the agents once again falling into step behind him as he reached the study door. Turning, he gave them a quick wink to show there were no hard feelings before firmly closing the door on them. Butterfield's paranoia hadn't yet reached the levels of demanding that he actually have the agents in the room with him at all times, and he wasn't going to accede that last measure of privacy until he was forced to.

Switching on the lamp just inside the door, Bartlet crossed the gently lit room to the big bay window looking out across the brilliantly lit lawns, with the shadowy figures of the Secret Service occasionally visible moving around the house. At this time of the morning, he would normally be able to see the sky starting to fade to a lighter shade of gray, and maybe a thin ribbon of red outlining the top of the tree line, some half a mile distant.

Now however, the security lights managed to turn the darkness beyond their perimeter even blacker, and the trees were merely a deeper band of black against the shadowed sky.  Bartlet felt a slight depression weighing on him at the sight, and determinedly shook it off, abruptly turning away.

His desk was set at right angles to the corner of the large window, and he slid into the seat, switching on the lamp and grinning slightly at the large stack of folders set to the side of the blotter. His Chief of Staff had run true to form. 

The President picked up the first and winced; a departmental memo from the Pentagon about defense spending. He could never remember what half the weaponry listed was supposed to do, or why. Only that somebody wanted him to find the money for it. Sighing, he rooted out the spectacles that he had for once remembered to stuff into his shirt pocket and opened the file.

He was only half way down the first listing of appropriations, and already beginning to feel cranky at the military jargon, when the phone rang. Only half wondering who could be ringing the study extension at this ungodly hour - the White House very swiftly had taught its present incumbent that there was no such thing as time off - Bartlet laid the file flat on the desk and scooped up the receiver in his hand. 

"Hello?" he said absently, continuing to run his eye down the page before him. Instead of Leo, who had a maddening tendency to lecture, maybe he could get Sam to translate for him. That was one option...

The voice at the other end didn't fully register at first - then the clipped, precise tones penetrated. Bartlet slowly straightened and removed his spectacles - as much in dawning tribute to the significance of the accent with its overtones of Eastern Europe as to the words spoken.

"Good morning, Mr. President." The voice was politely urbane, yet with an undoubtedly mocking undertone. "Tell me, how is your hand?"

The eyes are the windows to the soul.

Ron Butterfield had spent the last hour coming back to those eyes, the face staring out at him from the Russian military ID photo that accompanied the reams of information that had been wired and then couriered from the White House. The grainy, black and white picture told him little he hadn't already known. Ethnicity and origins aside, he'd hit the profile exactly on age, even perhaps the deeper motivations. The harsh, martial haircut only served to emphasize the sharp plains and angles of an uncompromising face, one that could easily adorn the features of millions of career soldiers around the world.

Except for those eyes...

The window to this soul was empty, frosted with a hard, calculated malevolence that left no room for anything remotely human. Butterfield wasn't given to flowery exaggerations, imagery, as he knew Sam Seaborn would have described it. A bad habit. But the glossy surface of the photo only seemed to emphasize the need for that, for something more to describe the difference. Those eyes were mercilessly black and fathomless. There was nothing recognizably humanthere.

Butterfield's lips tightened and he dropped the photo. The immortality of youth coupled with life lessons he couldn't even begin to comprehend. 'No', he forced himself to correct that thought. He knew what had molded this monster, he just couldn't empathize. There was no common ground.

"Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov." Saying the name, Butterfield turned the predator into prey.

"Sir?" Carlyle looked up from his report, surprised by the low mutter from his superior. Those three words were the most Butterfield had strung together since they'd received the info packet several hours before.

"We have a name, Dale."

Scowling, Carlyle flipped to another page. "I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said I didn't like what went with that name."

Butterfield's only response was a grunt that hovered somewhere between profound disgust at the understatement and the simple lack of anything better to say. The information Lord Marbury had provided - and unlike Leo McGarry, he didn't begrudge the source - opened a whole new world of problems. Predictability, as if they'd everhad it in the first place, had entered the realm of pure supposition.

His hand went to thetransceiver in his ear as a report came through. "Eagle is moving." This time the grunt was accompanied by a slight smile. Looking up at Carlyle, who was listening to the same report, Butterfield said dryly, "He's up."

"And moving." Glancing at his watch, Carlyle couldn't help smiling as well. "Just shortly after five a.m. Almost back on schedule."

"I suppose we couldn't hope he'd keep to sleeping forever."

If he was surprised at the somewhat sarcastic aside, Carlyle didn't show it. He knew better. "Razvedka Spetsnaz," he read from the report, starting from the beginning. "First Lieutenant. He got high marks. Volkov started at sixteen, special ops training, weapons master, martial arts... you name it, he's got it. This guy is loaded."

Butterfield scowled and flipped a page. "Razvedka. Can you translate?"

"There is none."

"Try."

Another report buzzed in the Chief of Security's ear and he scowled. "Eagle is secure. Study." Great, the man was going to start working. That was going to please the First Lady no end. Automatically, he gave the computer monitor across the room a quick glance. No alerts on the outgoing lines. At least Eagle wasn't using the phones yet.

That wouldn't last. Glancing back over the top of the page in his hand, Butterfield prodded his junior, "Translation, Dale."

Carlyle let out a long breath, thinking. Then he shrugged. "English doesn't really have one. The closest you can come is reconnaissance, or maybe spying."

"Intelligence gathering. Spetsialnoye nazhacheniye, composite meaning 'special purpose'."

"Spets-naz, yeah. He can use every dirty trick in the book; electronic surveillance, long distance sniper, close quarters, bare and armed. They started his training and military indoctrination at sixteen." Disgusted, Carlyle closed the file, giving himself a short break. He eyed his boss curiously, and then asked, "You speak Russian?”

"Only what I need." Butterfield rubbed his eyes, as much of a break ashe'd allow himself before turning his attention back to the information. "And what's the difference between sixteen and eighteen?"

He was teaching again. Carlyle was used to it, expected it. He thought about his answer. "Maturity. Those two years are critical for social interaction, emotional growth and stability."

"Most of the time." A grim smile twisted one corner of Butterfield's mouth. Two years in a stable society were one thing. But in the social chaos that covered most of the Russian rural and metropolitan milieu? "What did our boy get instead?"

"He learned how to kill."

"And he learned how to enjoy it." Butterfield's eyes hardened at that.

"'Any mission, Any time, Any place'," Carlyle recited the Spetsnaz motto. "How the hell did the Russian military let this guy slip? He's a loaded weapon with a hair trigger and absolutely no chain of command to rein him in."

"They didn't let him go," Butterfield pointed out tiredly. "They didn't pay him. He walked, simple as that. The GRU just didn't bother to look for him when he went AWOL. Why bother?" More than a little dry cynicism colored his voice. "One less name on an already bloated payroll."

"The Red Mafia was sure as hell quick enough to pick up the tab. He fits right in; a supremely well-trained tool, just point and shoot." Realizing he was letting some of his frustrated emotion force him across the protocol line, Carlyle stammered, "I'm sorry, sir. That was unprofessional."

Waving him off, aware of his own emotional balance, Butterfield said, "You're allowed some humanity, Agent Carlyle. Just don't..." he broke off, hand going to his ear. Paulson was calling in to the forward security exchange.

Carlyle leaned forward, setting aside his copy of the report.

The exchange was quick.

"Eagle has received a call..."

"Repeat, nothing has come through or out the switchboard, double check..."

As realization dawned, Bartlet felt the shock trickle slowly through his body like iced water, robbing him of breath. 

"You..." The word was soft, barely more than an exhalation.

The maddeningly self-possessed voice on the other end of the line laughed lightly, confidently. "Very good, Mr. President! It's good to know that recent events haven't affected your thinking. That would have disappointed me very much. I always knew that the position was deserving of my respect. It's nice to know that the man holding it may be a worthy challenge as well."

Oh, Lord. Did all villains really love the sound of their own voice, or had he simply had the misfortune to draw one who had very traditional ideas of what his role demanded? Bartlet took a deep breath and reminded himself not to underestimate this man. However ostentatious his verbal style might be, he had proved that his working methods were very efficient and direct indeed. And deadly. 

For now, the President would play the game as well. "I'm pleased to know that I haven't disappointed you."

As the initial shock subsided, he found himself wondering if he should summon help.  But how and for what? This wasn't the White House; there was no panic button under the desk, and - he knew Ron was going to kill him for this - he'd left the hand-held on the bed stand next to the bottle of painkillers. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, and certainly not a good way to start the morning. 

He supposed he could just yell for the agents outside the door, but he was reluctant to show his opponent that evidence of unease. Besides, all calls to the President, here or in the Oval, were automatically logged anyway, and he was sure that they were probably all over this one already. In fact, he was surprised that this call had even been put through to him without some kind of warning. Logic and reason aside, he was curious. 

Bartlet desperately wanted to know why, and the maddening speaker on the other end seemed intent on explaining just that. As deadly as he had already proven to be, he also apparently liked to talk. Youth, as Ron's original profile had indicated, or sheer egotistical bravado?

Either way, he couldn't stop it now, not after everything that had happened already.

"Oh, I always had high hopes for you. After all, an Economics professor, a Nobel Laureate and President of the United States?"  The voice sounded condescendingly amused. "I'm actually glad to have this opportunity to talk to you."

Bartlet felt his eyebrows arching upwards. ‘Any moment now, he's going to refer to me as 'a foe man worthy of his steel'. Looks like the FBI profile was right; he has got an ego.’  "I've wanted to talk to you, too. But you have the advantage of me. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me your name?"

"Oh, dear. You mean to tell me that the mighty machine of U.S. intelligence still hasn't been able to find out that for you?" His opponent sounded positively gleeful. "Poor President Bartlet. All that power at your command, and it's not doing you one bit of good, is it? You're blind, groping around in the dark."

"Not for long." Bartlet snapped, his temper fraying. He sure as hell hoped Ron and his people were getting something while monitoring this call, because he wasn't. "My security is on the line. This call must be giving them plenty of information. You've tipped your hand, Mister. We know what you are. Pretty soon, we'll know who as well."

"Are they? Possibly." The other man sounded singularly unconcerned by the prospect. "Honestly, Mr. President, I don't think it matters that much. In fact, I rather think I wouldn't mind your knowing. I know you - very well indeed." His voice lost its bantering quality, became colder. "An old mentor of mine once said that in order to truly fear your enemy, you must first know him. I know you, Mr. President, and I do not fear you or the forces that you can command. I somehow doubt that you would be able to say the same for me."

"Why are you doing this?" Bartlet's voice was low, almost pleading in his desire to understand. There was more to this than simple orders and profit. "It was the press briefing, wasn't it? At least in part. But it precedes even that, doesn't it? The chess piece - that was different to Marine One. That was personal. Why do you give a damn about what I think of you?"

"The press briefing." The Russian's voice suddenly darkened with a barely suppressed rage, his accent growing thicker. "You shouldn't have done that, Mr. President, really you shouldn't. I have not yet done you the disservice of underestimating you or your people. You should have shown me the same courtesy. You have absolutely no idea what I am capable of. But I assure you; I deserve your respect - and your fear. And you will pay for that show of disrespect.  I promise you; you will pay."

Time fractured.

Butterfield was on his feet, turning towards the lone monitor hooked up to the phone lines coming directly into the house. No alerts. Nothing coming or going, and the President had a call. All lines came through the forward security shack. Anything else had to...

Adrenaline hit his system like a freighttrain, flooding his mind and body. Carlyle's earlier quotation followed on the heels of the rush.

Any mission, Any time, Any place; Spetsialnoye nazhacheniye...

Carlyle was the first to say it, surging to his feet and letting his gun drop into his hand, flipping the safety. "He's spliced the lines!"

"He's on the grounds!" Gun already in hand, heart racing, Butterfield bolted for the door, raising his palm transceiver and shouting across the open line, "Code Black! Code Black! Paulson! Pull him out of there!"

Bartlet's lips had drawn back over his teeth in mingled frustration and anger. No matter how much he probed, how many little stinging darts managed to penetrate his antagonist's egotistical armor, what was he achieving? He glanced at the study door. No reaction.

‘Are you listening, fellas?’

He bit down on his lower lip, feeling the tiny tickle of fear as he realized that there was no reasoning with this man, no common ground, no humanity to which he could appeal.  For all that surface facade of civilization, there was an inner core of amoral coldness to the Russian that he could barely comprehend, either intellectually or emotionally. But that coldness was heated by a barely glimpsed rage, a deep, implacable personal hatred that froze the breath in his lungs as its full force was directed at him.

"Tsk, tsk, Mr. President." The voice in his ear had regained its suavity, and there was more than a hint of self-satisfaction in the words. "You really should be more careful of all those minor injuries. Your mouth is bleeding."

Feeling the sharp sting and the hot wetness on his chin, Bartlet instinctively raised his left hand, the bandaging catching and soaking the tiny red trickle. Then he froze; hand pressed to his chin before slowly swiveling and rising from his chair, hand still at his mouth, to stare out through the large window into the graying dawn outside.

The damnable voice in his ear suddenly spoke briskly, coldly satisfied. "Thank you, Mr. President." A distinctly metallic click followed the mocking tones.

Almost simultaneously, Bartlet's head snapped round as he heard a commotion behind him. The study door was flung open with a crash and a blurred, dark-suited figure threw itself at him, shouting, "Sir!" 

Then the window exploded.

"That was worth a little extra effort, wasn't it?"

Ziegler sipped cautiously at his mug and nodded grudgingly. "I admit the quality of the end product almost makes up for the labor involved." He couldn't help scowling at the single saucepan sitting innocently in the sink, though. "But I hate trying to wash out milk residue."

"And you have to do that a lot, do you?" Abbey was feeling in a very good mood right now. The cocoa was hot and deliciously frothy, and its preparation had been more diverting than usual. 

There were few things more entertaining to your average female, however determinedly non-stereotypical, than the sight of a genuinely undomesticated man trying to cope with the simplest of household chores. Toby Ziegler was a shining example of a breed she had believed was almost extinct. Abbey might rag Jed about his culinary prowess, but he could manage to navigate a kitchen with a fair degree of ordinary competence. With three children and a busy, professional wife, he had had little choice at times. 

Ziegler, on the other hand, had hovered over the small milk pan as if hypnotized, his reluctant concentration almost painful to observe.

Ziegler conceded the point with a wry little smile. "Not very often, no. I'm just not that interested in food. I mean, I can appreciate a well-prepared meal as well as the next person, but I'm not really interested enough to care about what it involves, or even what the ingredients may be. Food is fuel, that's all."

"Don't let Leo hear you say that." Abbey stirred her cocoa carefully, trying and failing to hide a smile. "If you thought Jed could be pedantic, then you should see Leo when he really gets going on the Epicurean art."

"Hmmm." The Communications Director chased a tiny marshmallow around his mug with his spoon. "Have you spoken to him yet?"

"To Leo?" Abbey didn't need to ask about what. Her good mood soured slightly. "Not yet."

"May I ask why?" Ziegler viewed his companion curiously. "I'd have thought for sure that my little revelation this afternoon would have sent you hot-foot after both him and Ron. Or did I just draw the short straw?"

"It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"Nowhere near as bad as I expected", Ziegler admitted frankly. Perhaps a bit too frankly.  "Seriously, given the insanity that we have embarked upon, I think you took it amazingly well."

He found himself flinching at the burning fury in the eyes that the First Lady raised to meet his. Okay, he had called that slightly wrong. Her words and actions may have been a model of restraint so far, but there was a smoldering cauldron of emotion heaving underneath. Ziegler found himself devoutly hoping that he would not be anywhere in the vicinity when she finally blew.

"Trust me, Toby." Abbey spoke quietly, dangerously. "You have no idea how I feel about this insane plan. Leo and Ron are going to hear from me." She smiled almost wolfishly.  "But not until I'm good and ready."

"Ahhh!" Realization was slowly dawning. Ziegler had noticed the jumpiness of both the Chief of Staff and the Secret Service Agent steadily increase throughout the day, and not entirely as a result of the salvo they had had C.J. fire either. They knew that Abbey was aware of the game they were playing with her husband's safety, and had been expecting a dressing-down - which was not materializing.

The Lady was making them dance. Somehow, Toby couldn't find any sympathy for them.

"Psychological warfare. You will drop the other shoe, but only when you're good and ready. Probably when they least expect it."

"Meantime, they can sweat a little." Abbey's tone was more than slightly vindictive.  "They deserve to. When the time comes, I'll give them a fight to remember."

"Of that I have no doubt." Ziegler raised his mug in respectful salutation.

"Besides, they're not the only ones on my list."

Ziegler winced in silent sympathy for the man to whom he was sure she referred. "The President." It wasn't a question.

"My husband," Abbey confirmed. She glowered for an instant. "The jackass. Imagine agreeing to something like this."

"I don't think he should have agreed either." Ziegler's voice was soft. "But I do believe he acted from the best of motives."

"Oh, I know, Toby. Jed feels responsible for all that's happened. He doesn't want to lose anyone else. So, he's making this damned quixotic gesture in an attempt to ensure that he is the only one in danger. But he had no right to make that decision alone." Abbey's voice quavered slightly. "He may not want to lose anyone, but I don't want to lose him."

The President's senior consultant shifted uncomfortably. "We don't want to lose him either, Abbey."

"I know." Abbey regained her control. "Be sure that I'm going to mention that little aspect of this whole affair when we finally have words on this issue. But that won't be this weekend. Jed deserves a good reaming out, and he's going to get it. But not in the next couple of days. Much as I may want to get everything off my chest, he's not ready for that yet. This weekend, the real world isn't going to intrude any more than I can help it. This weekend he is going to rest. Heaven knows he needs to. And so far he has - far better than I expected. He’s been sleeping since early last evening..."

Displaying an uncanny sense of timing, Agent Vaughn cautiously poked his head around the edge of the kitchen door. "Excuse me, ma'am, but Agent Paulson thought you might like to know that the President is awake."

"How does the agent know that? Did Jed call him in for some reason?"

"Uh... no, ma'am." Assailed by a feeling that he was about to drop his Commander in Chief right in it, Vaughn continued unhappily. "The President spoke to the duty agents on the way to his study."

"On his way where?" Abbey glanced incredulously at the kitchen clock. "Henry, please tell me he wasn't planning on working?"

Agent Vaughn glanced at Ziegler helplessly. "The President was dressed, ma'am."

"Damn it!" Abbey slammed her mug down on the counter top in exasperation, sloshing some of the dregs over the edges. "That man!" She rubbed her forehead and sighed. "All right. Thank you, Henry. How long ago?"

"A little over five minutes, ma'am." Vaughn thankfully excused himself.

Abbey turned to her remaining companion in heartfelt frustration. "Can you believe him?"

"Quite easily, actually. I'm only surprised it took this long."

"Yeah," Abbey reluctantly admitted. "I guess it was too good to last. He's slept more and longer these last few days than I can ever remember him doing. I guess I should be grateful he only woke up now. At least he managed to sleep the night through."

"To say nothing of part of yesterday afternoon and practically all the day before," Ziegler pointed out. He pushed a marshmallow under the surface with his spoon and watched it bob back up. "Abbey... is he all right?"

"Toby?" Abbey regarded him in confusion. The slightly oblique question really wasn't at all like Toby Ziegler. She gave him what she could, though. "Well, between the MS, the explosion damage and the exhaustion, far better than you'd expect, really. He's starting to come back. Slowly, but he's coming back. Catching up on his sleep this weekend is helping a lot."

"Yeah, the sleeping." Ziegler was still doing his best to drown the unfortunate marshmallow. "That kind of scared me," he suddenly admitted. "I mean, half yesterday and just about all the day before? Even on the helicopter? He just seemed to sleep and sleep - I've never known him be so... still for so long before."

"Oh, Toby." Abbey impulsively reached out to cover his hand with her own. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. That was just Nature's way of restoring the balance. Jed needed to make up for all the time he had lost, the resources he had used up. These last two days have helped with that so much." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "And we've still got another day of peace and quiet to come."

Her hand tightened convulsively over his and she jumped as a dull boom echoed through the farmhouse, gently vibrating the crockery and pans on their shelves.

They froze, staring at each other wide eyed for an endless second, and then the unmistakable sound of gunfire began to resound through the building. One blast followed rapidly after another in a seemingly unending barrage. Ziegler twisted his hand in her grasp and closed on her wrist, pulling the First Lady down with him into the shelter offered by the kitchen island.

"Ma'am!" Agent Vaughn burst explosively into the kitchen, eyes darting frantically in search of his protectee. Code Black! Only seconds between Butterfield's warning and the attack.

His heart gave a convulsive hop, and then restarted as he saw the two heads appearing cautiously over the top of the counter, faces pale and frightened. 

For an instant, all three were locked in place, staring mutely at each other. Then Vaughn whipped around and sprinted towards the stairs that led to the second floor, the source of the noise, and the President of the United States. His earpiece swamped with warning codes and chatter, he was only half-aware of the two pairs of footsteps that followed frantically behind.

He'd fallen asleep on the sofa.

Still only barely conscious, the many kinks and accompanying aches that protested vehemently as he stirred were testament to that foolish mistake. At his age, he should know better. Why was it that when presented with a perfectly serviceable bed, he always managed to end up with the least comfortable alternative?

Why the sofa? Leo McGarry groaned and tried to find a more comfortable position. A sheaf of papers slipped off his chest and fell to the floor with rustle. His glasses, which had been perched precariously on the end of his nose, slid down to his chin. A feeble fluttering of his eyes accompanied the sudden revelation. Work. He'd fallen asleep working. Like that should have surprised him.

He couldn't even sleep in his best friend's home with any semblance of civilized comfort. A small part of his waking mind recognized whose fault that was and promptly moved on to more important matters. Inanity, however, provided no sanctuary from guilty memory.

It was right about now, he knew, that Margaret would barge into the office. Just as he was waking up, she'd spy her employer sprawled on the sofa and proceed with the opening salvos of what would probably be a disapproving contest of wills that would last the entire day. McGarry's still groggy thoughts brightened at that. At least here he was ahead on that one. He wouldn't have to put up with her looks for an entire day.

Satisfied thathe'd found a safe middle ground, for the moment anyway, McGarry decided the Bartlet sofa, lumps and all, wasn't so bad after all. Rolling over, he found a slightly more comfortable position, enjoying the sensation of sleep-induced haziness. He didn't know the time, and for once he didn't care overmuch.

The living room was still dark enough for him not to worry about having overslept. Besides, the President wasn't the only one around here who had some sleep to catch up on. His Chief of Staff had been getting by on only a few hours a night for what felt like weeks now. Or maybe it only seemed like weeks? The strain of the crisis they had all been living with recently had had the effect of warping time for the senior staff, each nerve-jangling minute and hour seeming to stretch out to infinity.

Oddly enough, despite the potentially explosive balloon he had directed C.J. to float at her briefing, McGarry still felt more relaxed this morning than he had for some time.  They were finally doing something at last, not just being buffeted by events. And the President was resting well, seeming to recover that innate sparkle and vitality. 

Oh, the First Lady was after his blood, of that McGarry was certain, and he was not looking forward to that interview. Toby and Ron were ticked with him as well, but he cared slightly less about that. Abbey, however, was a very different proposition - whether chewing him out as First Lady, or as the wife of his oldest friend. 

Still, McGarry was hopeful that having acceded with comparative meekness to her original demand that he arrange to bring her husband home would save at least part of his hide when the inevitable verbal flaying was finally unleashed.

And Jed had looked so much better yesterday morning. Even half-dozing, thoughts sleepily careening from one topic to another, McGarry's lips quirked upwards at the memory. He really shouldn't have teased the man, but his sheer delight at the reassuring normalcy of the moment had carried him away. Guilt raised its ugly head and the smile faded again. A frown crinkled the skin around his closed eyes. 

Abbey's anger was justified, but he wondered if she realized just how much he would fight and sacrifice to ensure that normalcy was restored to his friends. Maybe his plan had been foolishly headstrong, but he had been outraged, and desperate to do something to protect his President and oldest friend, to act. 

Now McGarry could only hope that the consequences of that action would be something he could live with, that they could all live with.

A persistent lump was making itself known and the Chief of Staff rolled back onto his side with a low, frustrated sigh. The sofa wasn't helping him come to terms with his errant emotions and misgivings; it only seemed to reinforce them. He had sensed Ron Butterfield's disquiet last night and, while he didn't fully share it, he had to admit that the contents of that late night wire from Josh Lyman had more than an element of nightmare to it. 

Marbury - he couldn't help snorting quietly, more like a snore, even though there was no one to hear - had compiled some very chilling facts indeed. Still, for McGarry, the threat implied by those facts had been offset by the other facts that the information had imparted. They had a name and a face now - there was power in that, and he had always had a deep faith in the power of information. The enemy was no longer an unknown quantity, a bogeyman they sought for blindly in the dark. 

They had a target now, and a target could be encircled, contained - destroyed if necessary.

Later, when the President awoke, he and Butterfield would brief him on the identity and nature of his antagonist, and they would draw up a plan to hunt him down. Surely, with the loss of his anonymity, this assassin could no longer provide any effective threat?  What could he possibly hope to achieve with the entire U.S. law enforcement community, intelligence and defense forces on the look out?

McGarry's eyelids flickered. No, the worst was surely over and later, when they briefed the President... 

A crack of thunder found its way through the early morning fuzz that clouded his troubled, waking mind. A thunderstorm? At this time of year? Even without his thinking faculties operating at full strength, McGarry was capable of concluding that New Hampshire, like its famous native son, was contrary enough to do just that. Somewhere along that line of thought he decided that it was the President's fault as well, just to deny him a little extra sleep. He just wasn't quite awake enough yet to figure out how.

Thunder was followed by gunshots.

Gunshots! Soldier's instincts he'd long forgotten, or buried in hopes of never needing again, brought McGarry over the threshold into panicked consciousness. He had already rolled clean off the sofa, catching his elbow against the corner of the coffee table. Gritting his teeth through the sudden flash of pain, he flattened himself against the floor before his rattled brain had finished processing the sounds that had kicked almost forgotten combat instincts into life. 

An explosion - and the echo hadn't even died before it was cut in two by the crack of gunfire. Momentarily stunned immobile, he listened as one shot followed after another in rapid succession.

Under the chaotic din, the sound of shouting, of frantic running. The hollow thud of footsteps on the stairs outside, then the landing above.

Looking up at the ceiling, McGarry didn't need a soldier's instincts at that point, nor did he need to think. Something had gone horribly wrong.

The President...

Aware of the sound of shouts and running feet echoing from all over the farmhouse, McGarry felt his friend's name catch in his throat. "Jed..."

Two agents, then more, bolted past the wide entranceway and vanished around the bend in the hall, headed for the stairs to the second floor. Without further thought, caring only that his friend was at the center of the violence, McGarry was up and running, flinging himself in the agents' wake.

Dear Lord, what had he started?

As the bulletproof security glass exploded into the room, Bartlet instinctively flung up his hands in front of his eyes. Almost simultaneously, he felt a violent impact that knocked the air from his lungs and suddenly he was falling toward the floor, someone on top of him. Paulson... his name was Paulson...

Even as he fell, he was dimly aware of the sound of a second report - and the dark-suited figure falling with him. Bartlet heard the man grunt, felt the arms wrapped protectively around his shoulders jerk sickeningly; then the now limp body came down on him full-force as they both slammed onto the carpet behind the desk.

Bartlet managed a strangled gasp as the full, dead weight of the bodyguard landed on top of him, boring him into the hard floor and robbing his lungs of any remaining oxygen. 

Colors danced before his eyes as the damaged hand, now trapped under the weight of two bodies, exploded in pain, and he tried vainly to draw in a half-sobbing breath, his chest aching for air. Through the roaring in his ears, he vaguely heard two more explosions and a strangled shout. A dull thudding noise came from the doorway, as if a body had impacted against the opposite wall. 

Not again. Please, God, not again. 

Bartlet tried weakly to shift under the dreadfully inert weight bearing him down, conscious of a warm, horribly familiar, wetness spattering down onto his neck and cheek. As the movement caused the pain in his hand to soar to new heights, darkness began to shutter his vision.

The last thing he was aware of, as sound retreated along with sight, was the room exploding into a maelstrom of gunfire over his head.

Time continued to fracture, each crack creating a new one that only lead to another, then another.

With each step, taking the stairs in leaps and bounds, one part of Butterfield's mind counted the shots, noting clinically the frantic, almost desperate cadence of the firing pattern. The target hadn't been hit, not yet. Paulson must have taken the President down, he hoped. He knew as well that when the shots ceased of their own accord, his failure to protect would be complete.

One more set of steps, the top and landing looming closer. Behind him, Butterfield heard his people, grimly silent and following close behind. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vaughn, with the First Lady and Toby Ziegler on his heels.

He couldn't do anything about that now.

Balancing one thought against the other, compartmentalizing, Butterfield analyzed the sounds he'd heard. The first shot, the blowout, had been a concentrated, focused explosive round, shattering the bulletproof plexi and opening the way for more conventional ammunition. The study's newly inaugurated owner had protested the replacement, claiming plexi distorted the light coming into his study. It hadn't been something the Head of the President's security detail had been willing to discuss.

A lot of good it had done. Any mission, Any time, Any place. Spetsnaz training coupled with an almost inhuman detachment towards problem solving. No conscience and a bruised ego. They'd underestimated their opponent, badly. The Secret Service weren't the only professionals who trained for the proactive. Their flanking maneuver had in turn been outflanked by sheer audacity.

Butterfield reached the top of the stairs. Pounding down the landing towards the study, helistened as the fusillade continued. Anger fought with determination. Not over yet...

Another part of his mind listened to his transceiver, categorizing the reports and trusting his people on the grounds would stand to their training, find the shooter and stop him before he succeeded.

"No muzzle flash!"

"...angle of fire, north by north west..."

"The shooter is in the trees! Repeat, the shooter is in the trees..."

More gunfire, closer. Butterfield was able to discern the thundering recoil of the Secret Service JARs. The answering high caliber attack, distant but still recognizable, continued. He counted the repeats, adding to the sniper's running total. Eleven shots already and no sign of letting up. Nearly a half-mile distant, the assassin was remaining cool, motivated, taking his chances to the ultimate limit. He wasn't giving up yet... Any mission...

The White House Chief of security nearly cursed aloud.

The last thought, over-riding all the others, was that one voice, the one Butterfield needed to hear, was silent. Neither Paulson nor Stevens were adding to the reports. The detail was down.

The President was not secure...

Rounding the corner, more cracks in the fabric of time. The gunfire continued... twelve, thirteen, fourteen... nearly a full clip for a bolt-action sniper's rifle. The return firing of the Service JARs thickened, becoming more sure. They had their target, or at least the direction. The assassin's pattern faltered, then picked up again.

Not over yet...

The study door, frame and opposite wall pock-marked by bullets, came into view. Steven's body, alive or dead Butterfield couldn't tell, lay just outside. Paulson was nowhere to be seen.

Fifteen, sixteen... Time stopped.

Attempting to shove her way to the front, the First Lady cried out her husband's name. "Jed!"

Only a few short steps from his charge, Butterfield heard the panic, the abject fear and terror. Sympathy for her was there, but he couldn't afford to let her distract him. "Vaughn!" he barked over his shoulder.

It wasn't Vaughn who caught and held Abigail Bartlet, but Toby Ziegler. Ignoring her tear-filled protests, flinching outwardly as another round shattered the doorframe and impacted against the opposite wall, the Communications Director pulled her back. Vaughn joined him, adding his strength and presence to the struggle.

Abbey's shouts were nearly incoherent.

A disheveled figure joined the group. "Abbey!" Leo McGarry took her arm, trying to get her attention.

It did little good and only seemed to galvanize her efforts further. But between the three men standing between her and her husband, she stood little chance.

Butterfield tried to ignore her, but couldn't. He was too close, too involved. The ultimate trap for the fifth and last profession. Duty alone, nothing else. Never get emotionally involved.  Too late, he already was.

Time stuttered, then resumed its flow. The door was only a single step away.

Wood and plaster exploded outwards as another round blasted through the room, the long range, steel jacketed bullet nearly penetrating the interior wall. Seventeen, eighteen... a new clip. Butterfield, two other agents close on his heels, reached the study entrance. With no thought for their own safety, only that of the man within, they readied to enter the inferno.

Another agent dropped down by Steven's body, dragging his colleague further from the danger zone.  McGarry crabbed across the floor to give him a hand.

Then... nothing.

Silence, heavy and loaded, descended.

The gunfire had stopped.

Failure...

Outside on the grounds, the JARs and the field agents continued their attack. Gun in hand, Butterfield crossed over the threshold into the study, listening to the harsh electronic chatter over his earpiece as his eyes frantically scanned the devastation that had been wrought across the room.

"Is the shooter down?! Repeat, is the shooter down?!"

"Somebody get those floods over here!"

"The shooter is not down..."

The speaker sounded sure. Butterfield doubted it as well. Whatever else ex-First Lieutenant Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov was, stupid wasn't one of them. His inhuman and harsh training negated that possibility. He'd cut his losses at the first hint of anyone getting too close. Success and vengeance was one thing, but he was still human enough to want to live to enjoy it. He wasn't a martyr. Still young, the Russian wasn't quite that immortal.

But had he succeeded?

The other agents fanned out behind him, weapons at the ready. Another raced to the destroyed windows, pulling the curtains. He'd been on the phone... Butterfield focused on the desk. Moved at right angles to the bay windows soon after assuming his office - yet another argument the newly elected Commander in Chief had lost with his lead bodyguard - the heavy oak desk had taken the brunt of the attack. It was a complete write-off.

Advancing, disregarding the chance of another salvo, Butterfield angrily kicked the books that had been knocked off the shelves out of his way. More tomes covered the legs sticking out from around the desk lower left corner. Light colored dress slacks poked out from underneath the darker clad legs.

Rounding the corner, Butterfield could only see the one, Paulson, on top. Legs and arms entangled. Neither figure was moving. Blood, far too much of it, coated the back of the covering agent's head. The Senior Agentspied grayer matter coloring it as well. Grimly, his lips tightened. Another man down on his watch.

Falling to his knees and holstering his gun, Butterfield dared ask the next question.

What about the President?

Praying, he reached for Paulson's shoulders to pull him off.

... trapped... again. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Something was holding him down, heavy on his chest and denying him the chance for air. Panic accompanied terrified memory, followed close by a red haze of pain.

Silence... seconds were hazily counted. It seemed the right thing to do, the only thing he could do. No more explosions, no more fury of destruction.

Was it over?Would it ever be over?

The horrible confining weight was being rolled off him. His chest heaving, gasping for precious air, the President dared to open his eyes. For an endless moment twisted metal, spars and sharp angles blurred across his vision, paralyzing memory stealing his sight, choking him away from the air he so desperately needed.

Trapped... closed in... trapped... no way out...

No! He blinked the images away, mercilessly forcing himself to remember. That wasn't the reality, not anymore. That was a different nightmare. This was a new one. Shadowy figures danced across his vision. He tried to focus, and couldn't. It was too dark. It occurred to him that someone had pulled the curtains, blocking the light from the outside floods.

Bartlet felt hands, gentle but firm, running across his body. Head, neck, and chest, they were insistent and relentless in their search. A flash of cranky aggravation at the indignity. What the hell were they looking for?

Another unwelcome memory, this time a car speeding away from a similar scene of destruction. Oh, yeah. Had to make sure all his parts were there and intact, right?

Were they all there? He blinked. A worrisome thought, that.

The hands began to travel down his legs, others taking him by the shoulders. Aggravation turned peevish. Enough was enough...

"Okay, fellas..." he croaked.

Then someone pulled his arm out from beneath him. A flare of agony that was truly exquisite set off a barrage of fire-works that sent his vision swirling with angry color.

That did it.

"Shit!" The President surged upright, clutching at his damaged hand. His chief torturer barely managed to jerk his head back in time, saving them both from a nasty crack. Still, gritting his teeth against the pain and biting back another curse, Bartlet managed to toss the man an accusing glare.

Butterfield settled back on his heals, taking it all in stride. Relief threatened to overwhelm him. He was alive... and cussing. The later was the best indicator of presidential well-being. Sound in mind if not entirely in body.

The Security Chief could live with that, for now.

From behind the drawn curtains, something cracked, and then crashed to the floor. The gathered agents drew down on the still rustling material, eyes hard. Debris, maybe. Nobody was taking any chances.

Adrenaline still coursing through his body, Butterfield slipped his arms beneath the President's shoulders and lifted him to his feet. The man cried out at the manhandling, struggling to get his feet beneath him, protesting the ignominy as his Chief of Security bodily lifted him off the floor.

Weakly, Bartlet managed to stammer, "I thought we both agreed we weren't going to do this anymore..."

Butterfield ignored him and the distressed humor, propelling both himself and the full weight of his charge towards the shattered door and out in just a few hurried steps. The agents left in the room closed behind them like a phalanx, backing up as they followed and guns still trained on the window.

Dimly, the President noted that never once did his feet touch the floor. Ridiculously, his only thought at that point was, 'One for Leo...' The pain in his hand left little room for anything else.

Once out the door and into the hallway, Butterfield let the man find his feet, and then almost literally shoved him into the opposite wall and out of the line of fire. Bartlet's grunt as he hit, then started to collapse, was accompanied by shocked gasps from the gathered spectators. Glancing back over his shoulder, he caught the eye of one of the trailing agents, Carlyle. A question was silently asked.

Carlyle nodded grimly.

Letting out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, the White House Chief of Security and Head of the President of the United States' personal detail felt the last of the adrenaline finally burn through his system. It was over.

Jerking his head, he directed his junior down the hall. "Hit the grounds, Dale. Find out what the hell is going on out there. I want that bastard and I want him now!"

Tapping two more of the gathered agents, Carlyle took off at a run. His boss wasn't the only one taking this personally.

Watching him leave, exhaustion, both physical and mental, settled on him like a lead weight as Butterfield bent over his charge. His duty was here. The President was sheltered between his Security Chief's body and the landing wall. Bartlet was crouched on one knee, shoulder pressed against the wall, in the same pose in which he had landed when his bodyguard had practically flung him through the study door and out of the danger zone.

The reports, none of them promising, continued to pour in through his earpiece. The ground agents had found the would-be assassin's hiding place, but that was the last bit of good news.

"The shooter is on the run!"

"Spread out..."

Carlyle's voice broke in, taking control. "Eagleis secure! Repeat, Eagle is secure!"

"...where is the shooter..."

"Damn it to hell!" Butterfield angrily pulled the receiver from his ear. They weren't going to catch Volkov; he knew that beyond all doubt. The man would leave nothing, least of all his own survival, to chance. Staring down at his primary concern, he forced himself to be content with that and let Carlyle handle the rest. The President was alive.

He at least, unlike the egotistical and audacious assassin, hadn't failed. It was enough.

"Jed?"

"Jed?!"

Abigail Bartlet and Leo McGarry's voices blended together in a frantic chorus.  Butterfield spared the three frantic civilians behind him a brief glance, and then reluctantly shifted his body slightly to give them a better view of the focus of all their concern. By rights, none of them should be here, but he wasn't heartless - or suicidal - enough to tell them that right now. The immediate danger was over and he could understand only too well their desperate need to see for themselves. It was the exact same emotion that had impelled him over the threshold and into the battle zone.

"I'm all right... all right." Bartlet's tones were flat and lacking in their usual resonance.  His features were gray, with a cold sweat glimmering on his cheeks and forehead, and his eyes were fixed and staring. His good hand trembled as he used it to cradle the other, now encased in blood-dappled dressings, against his chest. 

Shock, Butterfield privately diagnosed. Hardly unexpected. Those moments in that fire-torn room would have tried the nerves of a combat veteran. His own nerves were so tightly drawn that he almost fancied he could hear them humming, and the last of the adrenaline rush was still roaring in his ears.

"Are you sure?" Abbey crouched down beside him, eyes widening in horror at the blood coating the side of his head and neck. She ran her fingers lightly through his hair, barely able to refrain from sobbing in relief as she failed to detect any injury to account for the effluence.

She could literally feel McGarry's breath on her ear as he leaned in behind her, anxiously scanning his friend. Toby Ziegler was an awkwardly hovering shadow to his rear.

"Yeah." Bartlet's voice gained in strength, and he pressed his shoulder further into the wall, using the leverage to awkwardly hitch himself to his feet. Swaying slightly, he was still able to wordlessly indicate his objection to the several hands outstretched and grasping in support.

Wisely, they retreated and gave him some space. 

The President looked up at the one man who had not withdrawn. "Ron? What's the situation?"

"Not good, Mr. President." Butterfield's jaw was so rigid it was a miracle he could get the words out. "The firing has ceased and our people are moving in on that location.  Hopefully, we will be able to apprehend the shooter..." - it was an easy lie, but one he knew the man needed to hear - "Still, our security perimeter was breached and your phone line tapped into. I guess we should be grateful for the latter because it at least gave us a brief warning, but by any criteria this was a security disaster. Clearly, we grossly underestimated the nature of our opponent..."

McGarry shifted uncomfortably at the rage trembling in the bodyguard's tones, and the barely veiled rebuke. Beside him, he felt Abbey stiffen at those words. Ziegler, he knew, was casting his own accusations into the mix as he moved in next to him.

"...and we've paid for that," Butterfield finished on a snarl.

"Yeah." The President tilted his head back against the wall wearily. "I'm sorry, Ron. I guess the plan was a little too successful?"

He was sorry? Butterfield kept his voice carefully flat. "We deliberately set out to provoke a reaction, sir. We got one."

"Be careful what you wish for, huh?" The very faintest hint of color was starting to seep back into the President's cheeks and his eyes were sharpening. He frowned, trying painfully to piece together the fragmented recollections of those last, frantic moments. 

The memory of a sound stirred and he glanced quickly around the landing, finally taking in the huddle of agents crouching a few yards away, a pair of dark clad legs projecting from the mass. "Damn it! What happened?"

"Take it easy, Mr. President." McGarry attempted to steady his friend as he pushed away from the wall. "Stevens is going to be okay. He's lost a lot of blood and a fair sized chunk out of his arm, but he'll be all right."

A quick glance at his worried wife and her nod served to confirm that declaration.

"Thank God." Bartlet drew in a shaky breath and ran his hand through his hair. Puzzled at the stickiness, he stared bemused at his red-stained fingers. "What..." 

"It's okay, Jed." Abbey spoke swiftly, reassuringly. "You weren't hit. No injuries. Well, no new ones anyway," she amended wryly, finding some of his odd humor as she attempted to gently draw her husband's damaged hand away from his chest. She frowned at the fresh spots leaking onto the outer surface of the wrappings.

"Then whose..." Bartlet's eyes suddenly went wide in realization. "Oh, dear Lord!"

He suddenly lunged forward, almost knocking Abbey off balance as he jerked his hand out of her grasp. She clutched at Ziegler for support even as McGarry moved forward to intercept Bartlet. 

But it was Butterfield who halted the President's unsteady charge towards his study, bracing an arm as inflexible as an iron bar across the shorter man's chest.

"Mr. President, you cannot go in there!"

"Ron, I remember!" Bartlet tried ineffectually to push aside the restraining arm.  "Paulson! He got me down, just as the window exploded. This blood, it's got to be his!"

"It is, sir." Butterfield's grim tones were not lost on the others. 

Ziegler bowed his head and briefly tightened his supporting arm around Abbey, who raised a hand to her mouth in grief. McGarry squeezed his eyes shut in anguish. Only Bartlet, still caught up in the noise and chaos of his memories, missed that unmistakable tone.

"Then we've got to get in there! He needs help. Damn it, Ron! This is my house! I won't have people left lying hurt and unattended here because of me. I won't!" He thrust again against the confining arm.

Ron Butterfield's temper, frayed by tension and dread, finally snapped. There was no noise, no histrionics, but those present on the landing felt the change in the atmosphere prickle all over their skins like an electric charge. The security chief moved inexorably forward. He didn't push, made no physical contact whatever, but somehow the President found his shoulders once again bumping against the landing wall as his protector loomed over him, white-faced and furious.

"Paulson is dead, sir." Butterfield managed to practically spit the words, yet somehow still sound respectful. As the President's face suddenly paled again, he softened his tone regretfully. The man hadn't deserved that, not after what he'd been through. "There's absolutely nothing you or anyone else can do for him now. And there is no way I am allowing you back into that room right now!"

"Are you sure, Ron?" McGarry couldn't help himself; even as he spoke the memories of the last time he had asked such a question, scrabbling in the wreckage of Marine One, swept back over him. 

He almost flinched as the Security Chief turned a positively incendiary glare upon him.  It was a measure of how badly this night's events had thrown Butterfield that he had shown even that flash of temper to the President. Now, McGarry had conveniently provided him with a new target on which to direct his ire.

"Oh, I'm sure, Leo." Butterfield was practically grinding his teeth as he spoke. "Just as sure as I am that if we had sounded the alarm even a second later, you would be calling Hoynes right now. This whole thing has been a shambles, and more fool me for ever agreeing to it."

A small cry of anguish escaped Abbey's lips at the mention of the Vice President's name, the whys of that aborted call hitting her full force.

Ziegler swung around and took a couple of swift steps; as if by putting distance between himself and the tableau in front of him he could make it all go away.

Only the President remained silent.

"Ron..." The Chief of Staff tried again.

"No, no!" The bodyguard swung around to face him. "Don't tell me it's all right, or that you'll take full responsibility. The lives of everyone here is my responsibility. But we've got that reaction you wanted - drawn the enemy at last. Tell me, Leo, just what do you think we've won from this encounter? Because I sure as hell can't see anything on our side of the scorecard!"

"Ron!" Ziegler shouted a warning.

"What?!" Butterfield whirled furiously to face the Communications Director, only to find the man staring past him with an alarmed expression on his face, just as he heard the First Lady cry out, "Jed!"

He whipped around to see the President, eyes half closed and face dead-white sliding slowly sideways down the wall. Feeling a sudden surge of dismay, and remorse for not having broken the news about Paulson more gently, Butterfield managed to grab the man's arm and slow his progress, sinking down with him until he and his protectee were both sitting on the floor.

"I'm fine," Bartlet murmured vaguely, as his companions once again dropped down beside him. "If nobody minds terribly, I'm just... going to sit here quietly for a bit." He was barely aware of Abbey taking his hand, and McGarry and Ziegler gently easing him back into a sitting position as he started to slump further.

It would be so easy to let it all go right now, let the oblivion take him. So easy...

But he couldn't. He owed too much to the dead. Resolved, strangely certain, he straightened and asked softly, "Ron?"

"Sir?"

"He's going to get away, isn't he?"

Butterfield leaned back against the wall next to his charge and let the exhaustion take him. He nodded wearily, "Yes, sir."

"You can't know that, Ron," McGarry protested hotly. All this, only to see the object of the exercise slip through their fingers? He couldn't accept that. "Not for sure."

Drilling the Chief of Staff with one last glare of frustrated and accusing anger, Butterfield growled, "I know it, Mr. McGarry." Falling back on the formal, he denied McGarry and himself any absolution for the failure. "Bank on it. How's that for an exercise in futility?"

McGarry could only stand there and stare.

"So what did we get?" Ziegler demanded, the question as much for Butterfield as it was for a shaken McGarry.

Regarding the bloodied form of her husband, Abbey knew the answer to that one, the only one that mattered to her. She reached out, cupping his face in her hand. That the blood covering his face wasn't his did little to assuage the turmoil in her soul. It was still blood.

Wearied nearly beyond all endurance, Bartlet took her hand and squeezed gently. He found strength in that simple gesture. Somehow, he managed a weak smile and was relieved when some of the haunted shadows left her eyes.

But not all of them. Those same shadows in his own eyes, he said with just a touch of sarcasm, "Anybody got an answer for me?"

Nobody did.

Not quite. Butterfield shifted, remembering the challenge that had been issued earlier that day. Turning his determined gaze towards the President, he said, "We have a name, sir."

A short, bitter laugh was Bartlet's response. "That's all?" He shook his head, then winced at the pain the sudden movement caused.

Abbey held his hand tighter. It helped.

"And a face," Butterfield added. "It'll be all over the FBI's top ten and VICAP by morning. He's on our ground, sir. He can't run forever."

"Is a name enough for the dead, Ron?"

"It has to be."

The President sighed heavily, a burning spark beginning to grow. It has to be. Empty words and at this moment, he sincerely doubted it. The dead deserved more than that. "Give me the name."

Butterfield looked up at McGarry and silently gave the answer to that question to him. Let him be the one to finish it. The agent was done with games.

Leo McGarry dropped down to one knee next to his President and oldest friend. The line between the two was never more blurred than it was at this moment. Regarding Jed's bloody face, guilt tore at him. A simple name was a poor return for what his arrogant miscalculation had put the man through.

"Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov." The name was as dry as dust on McGarry's lips.

The President simply sat there, his silence as condemning as any angry outburst.

Ziegler shuffled uneasily and exchanged a worried glance with Abbey.

Butterfield waited patiently.

'Condemning who?' That was what McGarry wanted to know, wanted to ask. Neither the thought nor the possible answer offered him any absolution.

"So the enemy has a face and a name," the President finally said, refusing to repeat that name, steel hardening the rich timbre of his voice. The revelation, however much it had been demanded, brought little satisfaction. "The dead want more." 'My dead,' he added silently to himself. Too many faces flickered across his memory. 'My responsibility.'

The spark fanned into an all-consuming flame.

There would be retribution. Bartlet's lips drew back from his lips in a humorless, predatory smile. He felt his wife flinch, a tiny, almost whispered gasp as she caught the expression. Even Leo and Toby drew back, shocked.

At this moment, Bartlet didn't care. He offered them no explanation. Right now, a cold, burning rage surged through him. For once, he didn't try to fight it. He welcomed it. His dead demanded it.

Only Ron seemed to understand. "War without any hint of morality, sir." He bared his teeth in a copy of his Commander in Chief's. "Welcome to the twenty-first century."

"There is no morality in war. Find him," was all Bartlet could manage through his fury. "The bastard wants a war; let’s give it to him."

Through the red haze coloring his sight, Bartlet saw the wide-eyed fright in his wife's eyes. Some, but not all, of the rage cooled and he drew her to him, holding her close and finding some small part of his center once again. She was trembling, and the sudden and unwelcome realization hit him that her fear was not exclusively for what had almost happened, but what she had seen in him.

He had frightened her.

Closing his eyes, Bartlet let his cheek rest against the top of her head. "The twenty-first century can go screw itself, Ron," he said softly, letting his hand slowly travel the length of his wife's rigid back, attempting to reassure her and himself.

He couldn't quite let go of the rage though, and finished in a hard, cold voice that had everyone in earshot straightening. "I want it over and done with, by whatever means necessary."

In the shelter of his arm, Abbey went still.

McGarry dropped his head.

For a long moment, Butterfield said nothing. Refusing to meet anyone's eyes, his attention focused entirely on the man who had just issued the order. Would that order still stand when emotions cooled? He had no way of knowing.

Finally, he nodded. "Yes, sir."

Toby Ziegler turned away, grief written clear across his features. What ifs and maybes were buried under a sudden, inexplicable sense of loss.  It would be war, the likes of which none of them had ever contemplated.

God help them all.

The End