Fic: Hour Follow Hour, Part I
Author: Ryo Sen
Spoilers: Life on Mars, Commencement, and particularly 25.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Neither does Aaron, anymore. ::sniffle::
Summary: and from one to the next, we don't know what each hour will deliver. Staffers' reactions in the hours after Zoey's disappearance. Post-ep for 25
Thanks: To the usual suspects, the incomparable beta double-threat of Jo and Marguerite. This story would make little sense without y'all's mad skillz. Now, Morgan, would you please, for the love of Josh, watch the episode now?? :)
Hour One
CJ began to answer the question before the sound of Carol's knock faded. "No," CJ said again, her tone of voice somewhere between amused and frustrated, "I'm not letting him back in the building." She figured that since she knew what was coming, waiting for Carol to figure out a way to rephrase the same damn question for the forty-eighth time was a waste. "He hasn't slept in three days," CJ continued, tossing aside her folder and leaning back to meet her assistant's gaze, "and his internal clock is set to, I don't know, Iceland or something. Tell him--" And then the look on Carol's face registered. "Carol?"
In that never-ending moment before her assistant spoke, CJ would swear someone had managed to turn down the volume on the world. It was so quiet that CJ could hear the rustle of the message slip clutched in Carol's shaking hand. "Zoey's missing," Carol answered, her voice thin and uncertain.
Instinctively, CJ laughed, relaxing. "Zoey's 22 years old and she just graduated from college. She and Jean-Paul--"
"CJ."
It was the soft shock in Carol's voice that made CJ start to believe it, that made her assistant's absurd statement start to make a horrifying kind of sense. "Carol." CJ meant it as an admonishment, but it sounded like a plea. Because the horrible scenarios she half-remembered from Secret Service briefings were flashing through her mind, and none of them were good. None of them ended well.
"One of her agents is dead," Carol explained, the words tumbling out. "Her panic button is at the club and so is Jean-Paul, but Zoey's gone."
"Oh, God."
"They think..." Carol faltered, glancing down at the pink slip in her hand as if it would magically say something different if only she checked again.
"They think she was taken," CJ surmised. She was pretty impressed that she sounded so normal. How could her voice sound the same when she was talking about something so very wrong?
"Yeah," Carol confirmed.
"Kidnapped."
"Yeah."
CJ nodded slowly, pushing herself up from her chair. She wasn't surprised to find that her entire body felt odd. Awkward. Just a little bit out of control. "Okay," she said, swallowing an inappropriate little laugh. "Kidnapped," she repeated, but it didn't make any more sense the second time.
"Yeah." Carol shrugged. "What do we do?"
"I don't--" CJ stopped herself. She did know. There was protocol for this, there had to be. They'd covered these situations in one of the many meetings with the Secret Service during the transition. She just hadn't paid much attention, since the thought of someone kidnapping any of the Bartlet girls had seemed so ridiculous. That kind of thing happened in movies with musclehead lead actors and actresses who gave good scream. CJ touched Carol's arm. "I need you to get me someone from the Secret Service. No one who's needed for this thing, obviously, but someone who can keep us informed. Leo's with the President?"
Carol nodded, her eyes watery. "Yeah," she answered, her voice trembling.
"No," CJ ordered. "We're not doing that." Playing the Worst Case Scenario game wouldn't do anyone any favors, and the President needed more from his staffers.
Carol pressed her lips together, sniffled, and nodded her agreement.
Heading for the door, CJ said, "I need Leo as soon as he's free."
She moved out into the darkened bullpen and squinted, not seeing anyone. Then the sunspot on the other side of the room resolved itself into Donna's shiny blonde hair. Good, CJ thought. Donna's exactly the kind of person who would remember protocol for -- for something like this. She wondered absurdly if this is what it had been like for the others the night of Rosslyn, the ones who'd stayed at the White House. Had they wandered in a stunned daze, wondering what happens next? Hungry for information and reassurances, and thirsty for something to do to help?
"Donna," she called, noticing a second person as she grew closer. "Amy. Good. I need you both."
Amy's oddly intense gaze didn't shift from Donna. "Yeah? Why's that?"
Donna, who seemed frozen in place, a small red book clutched in her hands, caught the panic underlying CJ's words. "What's happened?"
A Secret Service Agent burst through the door before CJ could answer. All three women winced when he flipped on the overhead lights, but CJ recovered first. "CJ Cregg. Donna Moss. Amy Gardner. My assistant's in my office," she rattled off quickly. The agent looked familiar, but CJ couldn't quite remember his name. "Anyone else, Donna?"
Donna shook her head. "No. CJ?"
"We've crashed the West Wing," the agent said. "No one in or out."
"We know the drill," Amy shot back. "Why'd we crash?"
"Thank you," CJ told the agent. "I've got this." She mustered a smile as the agent gave a curt nod and withdrew.
"CJ," Donna said, her voice shaking now with the strain.
CJ figured she was remembering Rosslyn, and she quickly assured her, "Josh is fine." CJ turned her attention to Amy, a little surprised by the sharp look from the younger woman. CJ decided she had more than enough to deal with without taking on Josh Lyman's twisted love life. "Amy, I think Abbey's going to need you."
"The President?" Donna guessed, one hand pressed to her heart.
"No." CJ couldn't come up with a gentle way to break the news. "Zoey's missing." She paused to let that sink in for a moment. "There's a dead agent. Jean-Paul's still at the club. It looks like--"
"Oh, God," Amy said, one hand over her mouth. She pushed a beer bottle away and stood. "I should go."
CJ nodded. "Please, call if Abbey--" She shrugged. "I don't know how I can help, but anything she needs."
"I'll tell her," Amy tossed over her shoulder, rushing out into the lobby.
Donna was standing utterly still, her mouth open just a little, as if she were about to say something.
"Donna?"
"Yeah," she said, tossing the small book aside and heading for her desk. She seemed to pick up momentum, her actions growing more assured as she shifted into crisis mode.
"Were you in those Secret Service meetings?" CJ asked.
"During the transition?" Donna asked, glancing over her shoulder at CJ.
"Yeah."
"Of course." Donna focused her attention back on the computer, her pale skin taking on a bluish cast in the monitor's light.
Something about Donna's pallor disturbed CJ, and she had to look away. "Okay, then I have a question for you."
"Sure," Donna said, selecting some text on the screen and then moving again, this time away from her desk.
CJ stepped to the side to allow Donna past. "Did they cover what to do in, you know..." CJ shrugged. "In case of this?"
Donna nodded soberly. "Yes. In the event someone close to the President, whether in the protection of the Secret Service or not, is held hostage. Yeah, there's--"
"We don't know she's being held hostage," CJ interrupted sharply. "Maybe she was just..." CJ thought about the women abducted by sex offenders, about the women who were so brutalized they were never the same, about the women whose tortured bodies were discovered months later, about the women who were never found, and she decided that speculation would quickly drive her to drink. "We don't know what happened or why."
When Donna turned from the printer and met her gaze, CJ figured from the tears glimmering in Donna's big blue eyes that she'd been thinking something similar. "Okay," Donna said, pulling the paper from the printer. She scanned the contents quickly. "Crash the President, close the airports, train stations, bus stations, initiate roadblocks--" Donna broke off and looked up at CJ. "There's not much on this list that we're supposed to be doing."
"CJ," Carol called, silhouetted in the doorway of CJ's office.
"Did you get someone from the Secret Service?"
"Yeah." Carol moved quickly through the bullpen, handing CJ a sticky note with a name and number scrawled on it. "They're holding this line for you. You'll be speaking to Agent Annie Lange."
CJ tucked the note inside her folio, trying to ignore the fact that her fingers were trembling the slightest bit. "Okay. She's not holding now?"
Carol shook her head. "Leo wants you. He's on his way back to his office."
"Okay." CJ wasn't sure she could bear the look on Leo's face. Zoey was like a daughter to him, and he must have been the one who had to tell the President and Abbey. God, what must the President and Abbey be thinking? CJ knew the answer, but she asked anyway, "Anything new?"
Carol dipped her chin, her expression rueful. "Nothing for sure, but Jean-Paul's really out of it. They think he took something."
"Something meaning drugs," CJ said.
"Right."
"Do they think--"
"They don't know if Zoey took anything."
"Or," Donna said quietly, "if Jean-Paul gave her anything." She looked nauseated at the thought.
CJ's imagination supplied images, Zoey stumbling in the arms of her captors, Zoey dragged along, protesting feebly, and a half dozen more. CJ shook her head. "I need to--"
"Go see Leo," Donna nodded, handing the protocol printout to CJ. "I'm going to call Josh. I assume we'll need to call Congress before we go public?"
CJ accepted the proffered paper. Seeing the words in black and white -- "Abduction of Protectee or Other Family Member" -- this dreadful scenario was starting to feel distressingly real.
"CJ?"
"Huh?" CJ met Donna's concerned gaze. "Congress?" she asked, trying to remember Donna's question. "I think so. Josh will know." CJ attempted a smile, gave her assistant a thankful nod, and pushed through the doors to the Northwest Lobby.
***
Will was really only in the West Wing on a whim. A staple remover seemed like a common enough office implement that there'd be one somewhere in the small conference room that he'd taken over for the writing interns, but a search had turned up nothing. After one of the Laurens sliced her thumb open trying to coax a staple out of an old speech with a pair of scissors, Will told them to grab dinner (which elicited several pointed remarks about it being nearly midnight, and what kind of dinner were they supposed to be able to get in 20 minutes when the mess was already closed?) and retreated to his office.
He found the staple remover quickly, and then went looking for Toby. His office was empty and dark with a very odd, abandoned feel to it. Will stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if Toby would have a spare salad tucked away anywhere that Will could have for dinner. He'd replace it later, he told himself. Unless of course Toby would prefer someone else to eat his salads, leaving him no choice but to resort to a burger. Really, Will reasoned, he'd be doing Toby a favor.
So convinced, Will moved a couple steps farther into Toby's dark office, and nearly screamed when the overhead lights flipped on unexpectedly.
"Toby, good, you're--" CJ Cregg stopped short in the doorway and blinked at him. "Not Toby," she finished.
"No," Will agreed. "Just foraging for food."
"Have you seen Toby?"
There was something in her tone, something in the pinched lines of her face that set Will's nerves jangling. "No, but I've been at the OEOB with the interns. Is something wrong?"
The moment stretched out as she decided how to answer him, then she sighed and stepped closer, pushing the door closed behind her. "Yes."
Will nodded. "Okay. What's--?"
"Zoey's missing," CJ interrupted, rubbing at her temple with her free hand. "She was at a club with Jean-Paul, and then she was gone, and one of her agents was found in the alley behind the club."
Will raised his eyebrows. "Found?"
"Shot," CJ answered, the strain audible in her voice. "Execution style. The agent's dead."
Will nodded calmly, his reaction automatic even as he tried to make sense of such an absurd situation. His father had, from early on, instilled in his children the need to think calmly and rationally, especially in times of crisis. Will had taken the advice to heart, but he'd never before faced a situation quite so explosive. "So the agents think it's a kidnapping."
"Yes."
Will tried to assimilate this information, tried to figure out what his father would do. First, get all the information possible. "Do they have any leads?" he asked.
CJ gave him a look. "I've just been in with Leo. I have some information, and I've got an open line to the Secret Service, but this thing's only about 40 minutes old."
Will glanced reflexively at his watch. "What do you need me to do?"
CJ's gaze slid away from him. "I hate to ask," she began, "but I can't find Toby and I need to get ready for this press conference--"
"We're going public?" Will interrupted.
"Yeah," CJ answered. "We would anyway, but there was a radio station there when she disappeared, and they obviously noticed when the Service responded. I think there was something like 55 black-and-whites with lights and sirens, plus a few vanloads of S.W.A.T. team guys in full regalia."
"Ah," Will said. He couldn't imagine the chaos that had erupted. "Do you need a statement or..." he shrugged. "Anything?"
"No, Leo and Ron worked out what should be publicized. We've got network time in about twenty minutes."
"I hate to be negative," Will said, "but that'll be almost 12:30 EST. A lot of the people we want to see the press conference, people in the D.C. area who may have seen something, they'll already be asleep."
CJ nodded tiredly. "Well, we're doing what we can to get it out there, but this is so big it doesn't need much help from us. D.C.'s effectively closed down right now, plus, the broad outlines are already on CNN."
"Broad outlines?" Will asked.
"They're not stupid. They put together Zoey's presence at the club, the massive, unexplained police response, and the sudden silence from us."
"They're saying that she's missing?" Will asked, incredulity making his voice somewhat a little too loud, a little too high-pitched. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Isn't that incredibly irresponsible?"
CJ shrugged. "It would be if they were wrong. Right now, they're speculating -- with lots of 'We have no confirmation of this, but...' disclaimers. They're suggesting a kidnapping. I need to get out there with the details before the coroner's van arrives for--" She stumbled for a moment. "For the Secret Service agent."
Will grimaced, imaging the hysterical suppositions the image of a body bag being wheeled out to the coroner's van would provoke from the less responsible "pundits" on cable news. He leaned over, plucking Toby's remote from the small table in front of the couch. Flipping on the TV, he breathed in sharply at the long, unsteady shot of what he supposed was the club. Will couldn't read the small sign, but the door was guarded by figures in all black holding some serious weaponry. The alternating red and blue lights lent a surreal quality to the scene.
He glanced over at CJ, who seemed momentarily transfixed, leaning heavily on the back of Toby's visitor chair. He guessed she was doing about as well as could be expected, all things considered. Will had seen Zoey interact with the senior staffers. They treated her like a kid sister, and he couldn't imagine how this was affecting them. He felt incredible empathy for the President and First Lady, but his colleagues knew and loved Zoey as well. "CJ?" he asked gently. "You needed me to do something?"
She jerked upright. "What? Oh. Yes. I'm sorry. Will, I'd like to do this myself, but I don't have the time. I can't find Toby right now, Josh is still at the scene with Charlie, and on the off chance that Sam isn't already watching CNN--"
"You want me to call Sam, let him know what's going on," Will interrupted, a heavy dread in his stomach. Bearer of bad news wasn't his favorite role to play.
"Would you mind?"
Will pushed his petty disinclination aside. The absolute least he could do was this small favor for CJ. She was right, after all; Sam deserved better than to hear about this along with the rest of the nation. "I'll do it right now. It's no problem."
CJ glanced one more time at the TV screen, ran a self-conscious hand through her hair, and tried to smile at Will. It was a little wobbly, but he appreciated the effort. "Thanks," she said, opening Toby's door and heading for her side of the building at a fast clip.
Will reached for the phone and dialed Sam's cellphone from memory. He pulled the phone to the edge of the desk and settled into the guest chair, his attention split between the rings and the blue-and-red flashes on the screen. He flipped to MSNBC, to Fox News, to the local networks; clearly the police had all the press in roughly the same place, hundreds of yards from the club, because each channel was broadcasting the same shot of the guards at the doors of the club.
"Sam Seaborn."
Startled, it took Will a moment to respond. "Sam, it's Will Bailey."
"Will," Sam responded cheerfully. "You're up late."
He doesn't know, Will realized. He wouldn't sound so happy if he did. Will supposed he should be glad for Sam's sake that he hadn't innocently turned on the TV, but he hated to be the person to break this news to Sam. "You remember the hours," Will answered, attempting to match Sam's jovial tone, but even he could hear the strain in his voice.
"Will?" Sam asked, quizzical now. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes, and I wanted to call and tell you about it so you wouldn't have to see it on CNN."
"Oh, God," Sam muttered. "Is it the President? Or Andy? Are the twins okay?"
"They're fine. Toby's fine. The President's fine," Will answered quickly. He hesitated, trying to figure out the kindest way to break the news. "Zoey graduated today."
"I watched the speech," Sam said. "He did well. Was the Eudora Welty yours?"
"Yeah," Will confirmed distractedly. "Sam, listen. Zoey was at a club with her boyfriend tonight, and now she's missing."
In the silence that followed, Will could picture the look on Sam's face. The slight frown, the involuntary shake of his head. "Missing?" Sam asked finally, sounding troubled. "You mean--?"
"There's a dead agent at the scene."
"Oh, God," Sam whispered. A moment later, he seemed to have shifted into crisis mode. "How's the President?" he asked, his tone stronger, more urgent. ":How's Abbey?"
"I haven't seen them," Will answered grimly. "And I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess."
"Yeah." Sam sighed. He fell silent for a moment, then said, his tone frustrated, "I suppose I couldn't get to D.C. right now even if I wanted to."
"We're in lockdown," Will answered. He understood Sam's need to do something to help; Will himself wasn't feeling particularly useful. "The airports are closed. You want me to convey a message?"
Sam hesitated for a long moment. "Please, just tell them that I'll do whatever is in my power to help. Anything, Will. You'll call?"
"Yeah," Will answered. "Sorry to have to, you know..."
"No," Sam said, all the cheer leached from his voice. "Thanks for calling. Better than turning on CNN."
Will said goodbye and hung up, staring pensively at the screen. It was still the same shot, with the anchor inset down at the bottom, no doubt repeating the same scant information over and over, with the occasional comment about how dreadful this must be for the President. With a muttered curse, Will flipped off the TV and rose, heading for his office. Surely they'd need a statement at some point, and that was something productive he could do. Now he just had to figure out how to write a statement about this.
***
In the fifty-eight minutes between when Donna was told of Zoey's disappearance and when Josh blew through the doors of the Operations Bullpen, she'd spent her nervous energy pacing in a positively Joshlike fashion as she woke up Congressional assistants all over D.C. After all, cold calling the Senate Majority Leader's house and waking up his wife when she should've known that he was working out of the Oklahoma office this week was an amateur mistake, one that might suggest that the White House wasn't functioning smoothly during this particular crisis.
Donna couldn't be in the Sit Room, she couldn't help CJ with the press, and she couldn't do anything to help the President or the First Lady, but by God, the calls to Congress would go right if she had anything to say about it. And confirming the whereabouts of each and every member meant waking up some very cranky assistants. (Donna had, of course, been on the other end of such calls on more than one occasion, but what little empathy she had for these tired workers disappeared when she thought about what Zoey might be going through; at the very least, she must be terrified. Donna tried not to think about that too much, though, because the possibilities made her blood run cold, and standing in the bullpen shaking too hard to dial the telephone wasn't a productive use of her time.)
So she kept calling the emergency contact numbers she'd gathered over the course of five years. On a normal night, Donna would joke with the groggy assistants about the hour, or make an allusion to whatever crisis had her bothering them and their bosses so late (or so early). Tonight, she couldn't joke. And she damn well wouldn't say one word, give one hint about the situation with Zoey.
Still, she'd made an impressive start, with almost forty names and numbers scrawled in her notebook when Josh arrived. He was pale and rumpled and moving very fast, his hair displaying its usual defiance of gravity.
"Thanks, Cassie," Donna interrupted Senator DeJoie's assistant's long-winded explanation of why it would be ill-advised to wake her boss after his long day of minding the country's business on the Hill. "Sorry to disturb you." Donna dropped the phone into its cradle and rushed to catch up with Josh as he reached his office door.
"Josh," she greeted, her small notebook clutched in one hand, reaching out to touch his arm with the other.
His gaze collided with hers, and she tried not to react to the pain it revealed. "Anything?" Josh demanded, pausing just inside his doorway.
"No," she answered in muted tones. The crushed look on his face was starting to worry her. "How's Charlie?"
"How do you think?" Josh shot back, dropping into his chair. After a quick, distracted look at the stacks of briefing memos on his desk, Josh pushed himself back up.
"Does he need anything?" Donna asked, standing just behind the guest chair.
Josh snorted. "I don't think coffee's going to make it all better, Donna."
Stung, Donna swallowed back her first, angry response. "I'm not suggesting it would," she answered evenly, but he knew her well enough to read her reaction in the pause before she spoke.
"Yeah," Josh said, seemingly unable to look directly at her. "I know." He wandered to the side of the room, running one finger along some Budget binders from the last session of Congress.
Donna decided they'd have to put his nervous energy (not to mention her own) to good use before their short tempers and stress levels landed them in a fight. They might feel better after a good, healthy shouting match, but every moment they spent indulging themselves was a moment they weren't handling this crisis for the President. "I've started locating the leadership."
Josh, who'd been staring sightlessly at his overflowing bookcase, sighed and turned back to her. "Good." He began to pace, not having much success given the dimensions of his office and her presence in what little free space there was. He looked even worse up close, pale and sweaty and distracted, the small worry lines around his mouth and eyes more pronounced than usual. Josh glanced at her and almost smiled. "I'm fine."
Donna nodded, wondering how clearly her concerns were displayed on her face. She hoped she didn't look as shaken up as Josh; she was supposed to be the one who kept him from flying off into the stratosphere when he was upset. "You need to start--"
"Charlie wanted to go out in his Honda and canvass the streets," Josh told her. "No spotlight or sirens or, really, any way to save Zoey if he found her, but he nearly slugged me when I tried to stop him."
Donna blinked, trying to figure out why Josh was telling her this. "I'm not surprised," she said. "He's still in love with her."
"No kidding," Josh agreed. "And we found her earlier, at the Arboretum."
"The Arboretum?" Donna echoed, perplexed. Josh had told her he and Charlie were going out for a celebratory beer in honor of Zoey's graduation, not on some sort of off-roading adventure in the Arboretum. "Is the Arboretum even open at night?"
"For the First Daughter? Sure." Josh's movements slowed. "There was a bottle of champagne. It doesn't matter. Zoey was there, and we didn't expect her to be. We found her by chance." Josh stopped, jacket pushed back so he could stick his hands into his pockets. He leaned back against the door to the small pantry, his unfocused gaze aimed in Donna's direction. "I didn't even see her," he said quietly.
The despair in his voice made Donna want to throw her arms around him, but they weren't those people, so she matched his tone and said, "Josh, this isn't your--"
"Donna." Josh grimaced. "Don't start with that. I'm fine." He pinned her with an intimidating look. "And I don't need to talk to Stanley."
I'll be the judge of that, Donna thought. She didn't say it, but Josh raised his eyebrows at her and said, "Really. I'm fine."
"I know," she answered, frustrated. How like him to discount even the possibility that he -- the walking ball of regret and self-recrimination over anything that went wrong for the people he loved -- would feel guilty about this. She weighed her options and decided that since he was in avoidance mode, work was probably the safest subject. "I've got the Majority Leader, the Minority Leader, and the Speaker, the whips--"
"Good." Josh nodded, hands on his hips, and asked, "Committee chairs?"
"Not all of them, but I'm working on it."
"Do Armed Forces first. And Foreign Relations," Josh instructed. "Intelligence, obviously, and International Relations."
Donna raised an eyebrow. "We think it's an international incident?"
"We don't know what the hell it is yet," Josh answered grimly. "But to be on the safe side--"
"I'll get those chairs first," Donna nodded, listing the names from memory on her notepad. " Do you want to start the calls while I--?"
"It's just that Charlie -- he was sitting right outside the club," Josh's gaze was focused on something in the middle distance. "He saw her at the Arboretum, and then we were just sitting there with Wesley, drinking beer, talking about nothing, and Zoey--"
Josh pushed himself away from the door so suddenly Donna startled. "Josh," she said. "You and Charlie being there --"
"Don't. Please." Josh rounded his desk and settled back into his chair, but he sat right at the edge, rigidly upright, and stared at her. "Where are the numbers?"
Donna wanted to say more, but he wasn't ready to be forgiven, to forgive himself, for something that wasn't his fault in the first place. She waggled her notepad in the air. "You want me to start the calls?"
Josh hesitated. "No," he decided. "I'd better do it, but stay here." He pointed at the notebook. "I may need translation."
Donna accepted the invitation and sat in the guest chair. She glanced at her notepad. "Mosely's at home," she began. "The number's 687--" She broke off, frowning, when she noticed he was staring rather intently at his desktop, paying no discernible attention to her recitation. "Josh?"
"What?" he asked, blinking at her. Then he pulled the phone towards him and started to dial. "What's the number?"
"687-432--"
"We should've gone," Josh interrupted, holding the receiver aloft. "Why the hell didn't we drive around? What could it have hurt?"
"Josh, the entire city's locked down."
"I know," he said grimly, "but we found her once tonight, maybe we could've done it again." The phone protested its abandonment, beeping angrily into the air. Josh dropped it back into its cradle. "We were just sitting there," he said.
Donna hated to watch him beat himself up, but she didn't know what to say to make him stop. She figured the day she mastered that particular trick, she could retire without worrying that Josh would fall into a tailspin of self-recrimination. She said his name softly, and he looked at her with those tortured brown eyes. "We can go drive around now, if you want."
Josh held her gaze for a long moment, the edges of his mouth inching upwards just a little. Then he shook his head. "No, we'd probably just get in the way," he answered finally. He reached for the phone again. "What's the number?"
***
Hour Three
Charlie stood in the hallway, seemingly unable to remove his balled fists from his pockets as he worked up the courage to knock. The Secret Service agent on guard stared discreetly at the wall as Charlie rapped tentative knuckles on the door. An almost unrecognizable voice called out for him to enter, and Charlie paused, his gaze on the agent. "I'm sorry about Molly," he said, the words sounding inadequate.
The agent met his eyes briefly and nodded once. "Thank you."
Charlie opened the door to the First Family's sitting room and entered. This was quite possibly the last place he wanted to be right now. He wanted to be doing something productive. He wanted to be out looking for Zoey; he wanted to right the wrong he'd done when he sent Zoey to the club and, as it turned out, into danger. But the First Lady had requested his presence.
How could he refuse Zoey's mother at a time like this?
So he obeyed Abbey's summons, taking the chair she indicated, asking her softly if she needed anything.
"No," she said in that wrecked voice. "I'm fine." A half-second later, her words seemed to register, and she smiled a terrible, ironic grin.
The First Lady was devastating to look at tonight. She sat, stone-still, her half-focused gaze turned in the direction of CNN. Her hands were constantly in motion, brushing her hair away from her face, smoothing her skirt, buttoning and unbuttoning her sweater. She barely resembled the vibrant, sharp-eyed Abigail Bartlet that Charlie still found somewhat intimidating.
Charlie sat stiffly in the armchair, unable to relax his tense muscles. This was his fault, the whole situation. Just like the shooting. He still hadn't quite forgiven himself his role in that, though he told himself to be happy that Zoey hadn't been hurt that night. Cold comfort now that he was responsible for whatever was happening to Zoey tonight. And tonight, just like that night four years earlier, Abbey had requested his presence. But this time, Zoey wasn't sitting next to her mother, looking up at Charlie with those beautiful, expressive eyes.
"Ma'am?" Charlie spoke more to break his train of thought than out of any concern that the First Lady needed anything. She had muted the inane commentators, but she still stared at the images on the screen. "Do you want me to get the President? Do you want an update from Ron?"
"No." Abbey seemed to be locked into some kind of paralysis; except for her fluttering hands, she barely moved. "Zoey told me you were still pursuing her," Abbey said, her head swiveling awkwardly towards him. "Are you still in love with her?"
Charlie opened his mouth, but for a moment, couldn't find words. "Yes," he said simply. "I'm sorry."
Under normal circumstances, Abbey would probably give him a half-amused, half-puzzled look. Now, the best she could manage was a slight furrow in her brow. "For what?"
"I saw Zoey tonight," Charlie answered, the words tumbling out. "At the Arboretum. We buried a bottle of champagne a few years ago for her graduation night, and I was going to dig it up and give it to her. But Zoey was there and she--" Charlie stopped, figuring Abbey didn't need to hear about Zoey's romantic confusion.
"No," Abbey said, with more spark in her voice than before. "Please," she begged, her eyes focusing on him for the first time since his arrival, "tell me all of it."
Charlie understood why she wanted all the details, but he refused to believe that his conversation with Zoey could be one of her last conversations ever. "She had some of the champagne," Charlie continued. "And she told me she didn't want to leave the President for the summer, because she wasn't sure how he'd react."
Abbey nodded, her rapt gaze on him.
"And she kissed me," Charlie said, tripping a little on the words. It had been a private moment, an intimate moment, one he never thought he would share with Zoey's mother, but under the circumstances, he could hardly deny Abbey the details she craved. "And then -- I --" He stopped, closed his eyes, swallowed hard. "I told her to go. She wanted to stay with me, and I told her to go to the club." Charlie hung his head, grinding the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. "So I'm sorry."
After a long silence, Abbey sighed. "Has Jean-Paul woken up yet?"
Charlie forced himself to look at the First Lady again, dreading the accusation he expected to see, but she'd retreated back into the semi-daze. In some ways, he thought maybe that was worse. "I'm not sure."
Abbey's chin dipped once. "This must be awful for you."
"Ma'am?"
"I remember Rosslyn, when I knew Jed was shot," she said. She seemed to be talking to Charlie, but her gaze slid past him, focusing on something over his left shoulder. "I remember that panicked feeling, but I knew where he was. I knew I would see him in a few minutes." Her gaze sharpened suddenly, boring into him. "Do you have that panicky feeling?"
Charlie nodded. "Yes."
Abbey's eyes sparkled with tears. "I feel numb," she confessed in a hushed tone. "I don't feel panicked. I can't feel anything." She turned a desperate look his way. "Why can't I feel anything?"
"Mrs. Bartlet," Charlie answered, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "I think you're in shock."
"I'm not," she answered. "I'm a doctor. I'd know it if I were in shock. I'm just... numb."
The double doors burst open and the President burst into the room, his expression angry. Charlie jerked to his feet, swaying a little until he caught himself on the arm of the chair. Abbey froze, eyes wide and fixed on her husband.
"Abigail," the President greeted. "Charlie, I suppose you should hear this, too."
Charlie's fingers tightened on the chair. "Hear what, sir?"
Abbey's tortured voice managed a soft, "Jed?"
"Jean-Paul is, as we suspected, on drugs. But it wasn't ecstasy," Jed said with a nod in Charlie's direction. "He's on GHB. Gamma-Hydroxal Something-or-other."
"Gamma-Hydroxy Butyrate," Abbey corrected automatically, her tone devoid of emotion.
Charlie looked back and forth between the President and First Lady. "What's Gamma-Hydroxy Butyrate?"
The President moved to his wife's side. "It's a date-rape drug, Charlie. Colorless, odorless, and nearly undetectable in alcoholic drinks."
Charlie fought the sudden urge to find Jean-Paul and punch his arrogant, date-rapist face. "A date-rape drug?" he repeated, his tone too loud for the room.
"Charlie," the President warned with a significant glance at the First Lady. "It seems that Jean-Paul thought he'd purchased ecstasy. Leo thinks the dealer was involved in..." He grimaced. "This."
Charlie still wanted to kick the shit out of Jean-Paul -- how could he not protect Zoey? -- but managed to rein himself in. Her parents had more than enough to deal with right now without adding Charlie's anger at Jean-Paul.
"How much champagne?" Abbey asked suddenly.
Startled, Charlie turned towards the First Lady. "I'm sorry?"
"How much champagne did she have with you?" she asked, her gaze razor-sharp and focused once more.
"I'm not sure," Charlie answered.
"Think," Abbey commanded harshly.
"Abbey," the President said, his hand on his wife's shoulder. He settled onto the arm of her chair.
"Maybe a third of the bottle," Charlie answered. "I don't know, exactly, but I think the bottle's in the trunk of my car."
Abbey tilted her head up to see her husband. "Did she drink at the club?"
"Abbey, we're not sure about--"
"Jed, GHB can be fatal," Abbey interrupted forcefully. "It can cause hypothermia, bradycardia, respiratory depression, and if it was mixed with alcohol in high doses, Zoey may already be--" She broke off, turning her face away, trembling lips pressed tightly together.
The President met Charlie's gaze.
Charlie nodded and withdrew, pulling the door shut behind him and only then realizing that his entire body was trembling. He managed the few steps to a nearby plush bench, sank into its embrace, and tried to figure out what to do now. He thought about taking a drive over to the hospital to confront Jean-Paul, but that seemed unproductive. As much as he blamed Jean-Paul, he also couldn't stop blaming himself. He'd told Zoey to go. Why the hell had he told Zoey to go to the damn club?
Soon, when the President learned of the events at the Arboretum, he would probably blame Charlie, too. So Charlie decided to stay at the White House and do as much as possible for Zoey's parents. That way maybe someday he could make it up to them in some small way, even if he couldn't forgive himself.
***
End Part I
Spoilers: Life on Mars, Commencement, and particularly 25.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Neither does Aaron, anymore. ::sniffle::
Summary: and from one to the next, we don't know what each hour will deliver. Staffers' reactions in the hours after Zoey's disappearance. Post-ep for 25
Thanks: To the usual suspects, the incomparable beta double-threat of Jo and Marguerite. This story would make little sense without y'all's mad skillz. Now, Morgan, would you please, for the love of Josh, watch the episode now?? :)
Hour One
CJ began to answer the question before the sound of Carol's knock faded. "No," CJ said again, her tone of voice somewhere between amused and frustrated, "I'm not letting him back in the building." She figured that since she knew what was coming, waiting for Carol to figure out a way to rephrase the same damn question for the forty-eighth time was a waste. "He hasn't slept in three days," CJ continued, tossing aside her folder and leaning back to meet her assistant's gaze, "and his internal clock is set to, I don't know, Iceland or something. Tell him--" And then the look on Carol's face registered. "Carol?"
In that never-ending moment before her assistant spoke, CJ would swear someone had managed to turn down the volume on the world. It was so quiet that CJ could hear the rustle of the message slip clutched in Carol's shaking hand. "Zoey's missing," Carol answered, her voice thin and uncertain.
Instinctively, CJ laughed, relaxing. "Zoey's 22 years old and she just graduated from college. She and Jean-Paul--"
"CJ."
It was the soft shock in Carol's voice that made CJ start to believe it, that made her assistant's absurd statement start to make a horrifying kind of sense. "Carol." CJ meant it as an admonishment, but it sounded like a plea. Because the horrible scenarios she half-remembered from Secret Service briefings were flashing through her mind, and none of them were good. None of them ended well.
"One of her agents is dead," Carol explained, the words tumbling out. "Her panic button is at the club and so is Jean-Paul, but Zoey's gone."
"Oh, God."
"They think..." Carol faltered, glancing down at the pink slip in her hand as if it would magically say something different if only she checked again.
"They think she was taken," CJ surmised. She was pretty impressed that she sounded so normal. How could her voice sound the same when she was talking about something so very wrong?
"Yeah," Carol confirmed.
"Kidnapped."
"Yeah."
CJ nodded slowly, pushing herself up from her chair. She wasn't surprised to find that her entire body felt odd. Awkward. Just a little bit out of control. "Okay," she said, swallowing an inappropriate little laugh. "Kidnapped," she repeated, but it didn't make any more sense the second time.
"Yeah." Carol shrugged. "What do we do?"
"I don't--" CJ stopped herself. She did know. There was protocol for this, there had to be. They'd covered these situations in one of the many meetings with the Secret Service during the transition. She just hadn't paid much attention, since the thought of someone kidnapping any of the Bartlet girls had seemed so ridiculous. That kind of thing happened in movies with musclehead lead actors and actresses who gave good scream. CJ touched Carol's arm. "I need you to get me someone from the Secret Service. No one who's needed for this thing, obviously, but someone who can keep us informed. Leo's with the President?"
Carol nodded, her eyes watery. "Yeah," she answered, her voice trembling.
"No," CJ ordered. "We're not doing that." Playing the Worst Case Scenario game wouldn't do anyone any favors, and the President needed more from his staffers.
Carol pressed her lips together, sniffled, and nodded her agreement.
Heading for the door, CJ said, "I need Leo as soon as he's free."
She moved out into the darkened bullpen and squinted, not seeing anyone. Then the sunspot on the other side of the room resolved itself into Donna's shiny blonde hair. Good, CJ thought. Donna's exactly the kind of person who would remember protocol for -- for something like this. She wondered absurdly if this is what it had been like for the others the night of Rosslyn, the ones who'd stayed at the White House. Had they wandered in a stunned daze, wondering what happens next? Hungry for information and reassurances, and thirsty for something to do to help?
"Donna," she called, noticing a second person as she grew closer. "Amy. Good. I need you both."
Amy's oddly intense gaze didn't shift from Donna. "Yeah? Why's that?"
Donna, who seemed frozen in place, a small red book clutched in her hands, caught the panic underlying CJ's words. "What's happened?"
A Secret Service Agent burst through the door before CJ could answer. All three women winced when he flipped on the overhead lights, but CJ recovered first. "CJ Cregg. Donna Moss. Amy Gardner. My assistant's in my office," she rattled off quickly. The agent looked familiar, but CJ couldn't quite remember his name. "Anyone else, Donna?"
Donna shook her head. "No. CJ?"
"We've crashed the West Wing," the agent said. "No one in or out."
"We know the drill," Amy shot back. "Why'd we crash?"
"Thank you," CJ told the agent. "I've got this." She mustered a smile as the agent gave a curt nod and withdrew.
"CJ," Donna said, her voice shaking now with the strain.
CJ figured she was remembering Rosslyn, and she quickly assured her, "Josh is fine." CJ turned her attention to Amy, a little surprised by the sharp look from the younger woman. CJ decided she had more than enough to deal with without taking on Josh Lyman's twisted love life. "Amy, I think Abbey's going to need you."
"The President?" Donna guessed, one hand pressed to her heart.
"No." CJ couldn't come up with a gentle way to break the news. "Zoey's missing." She paused to let that sink in for a moment. "There's a dead agent. Jean-Paul's still at the club. It looks like--"
"Oh, God," Amy said, one hand over her mouth. She pushed a beer bottle away and stood. "I should go."
CJ nodded. "Please, call if Abbey--" She shrugged. "I don't know how I can help, but anything she needs."
"I'll tell her," Amy tossed over her shoulder, rushing out into the lobby.
Donna was standing utterly still, her mouth open just a little, as if she were about to say something.
"Donna?"
"Yeah," she said, tossing the small book aside and heading for her desk. She seemed to pick up momentum, her actions growing more assured as she shifted into crisis mode.
"Were you in those Secret Service meetings?" CJ asked.
"During the transition?" Donna asked, glancing over her shoulder at CJ.
"Yeah."
"Of course." Donna focused her attention back on the computer, her pale skin taking on a bluish cast in the monitor's light.
Something about Donna's pallor disturbed CJ, and she had to look away. "Okay, then I have a question for you."
"Sure," Donna said, selecting some text on the screen and then moving again, this time away from her desk.
CJ stepped to the side to allow Donna past. "Did they cover what to do in, you know..." CJ shrugged. "In case of this?"
Donna nodded soberly. "Yes. In the event someone close to the President, whether in the protection of the Secret Service or not, is held hostage. Yeah, there's--"
"We don't know she's being held hostage," CJ interrupted sharply. "Maybe she was just..." CJ thought about the women abducted by sex offenders, about the women who were so brutalized they were never the same, about the women whose tortured bodies were discovered months later, about the women who were never found, and she decided that speculation would quickly drive her to drink. "We don't know what happened or why."
When Donna turned from the printer and met her gaze, CJ figured from the tears glimmering in Donna's big blue eyes that she'd been thinking something similar. "Okay," Donna said, pulling the paper from the printer. She scanned the contents quickly. "Crash the President, close the airports, train stations, bus stations, initiate roadblocks--" Donna broke off and looked up at CJ. "There's not much on this list that we're supposed to be doing."
"CJ," Carol called, silhouetted in the doorway of CJ's office.
"Did you get someone from the Secret Service?"
"Yeah." Carol moved quickly through the bullpen, handing CJ a sticky note with a name and number scrawled on it. "They're holding this line for you. You'll be speaking to Agent Annie Lange."
CJ tucked the note inside her folio, trying to ignore the fact that her fingers were trembling the slightest bit. "Okay. She's not holding now?"
Carol shook her head. "Leo wants you. He's on his way back to his office."
"Okay." CJ wasn't sure she could bear the look on Leo's face. Zoey was like a daughter to him, and he must have been the one who had to tell the President and Abbey. God, what must the President and Abbey be thinking? CJ knew the answer, but she asked anyway, "Anything new?"
Carol dipped her chin, her expression rueful. "Nothing for sure, but Jean-Paul's really out of it. They think he took something."
"Something meaning drugs," CJ said.
"Right."
"Do they think--"
"They don't know if Zoey took anything."
"Or," Donna said quietly, "if Jean-Paul gave her anything." She looked nauseated at the thought.
CJ's imagination supplied images, Zoey stumbling in the arms of her captors, Zoey dragged along, protesting feebly, and a half dozen more. CJ shook her head. "I need to--"
"Go see Leo," Donna nodded, handing the protocol printout to CJ. "I'm going to call Josh. I assume we'll need to call Congress before we go public?"
CJ accepted the proffered paper. Seeing the words in black and white -- "Abduction of Protectee or Other Family Member" -- this dreadful scenario was starting to feel distressingly real.
"CJ?"
"Huh?" CJ met Donna's concerned gaze. "Congress?" she asked, trying to remember Donna's question. "I think so. Josh will know." CJ attempted a smile, gave her assistant a thankful nod, and pushed through the doors to the Northwest Lobby.
***
Will was really only in the West Wing on a whim. A staple remover seemed like a common enough office implement that there'd be one somewhere in the small conference room that he'd taken over for the writing interns, but a search had turned up nothing. After one of the Laurens sliced her thumb open trying to coax a staple out of an old speech with a pair of scissors, Will told them to grab dinner (which elicited several pointed remarks about it being nearly midnight, and what kind of dinner were they supposed to be able to get in 20 minutes when the mess was already closed?) and retreated to his office.
He found the staple remover quickly, and then went looking for Toby. His office was empty and dark with a very odd, abandoned feel to it. Will stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if Toby would have a spare salad tucked away anywhere that Will could have for dinner. He'd replace it later, he told himself. Unless of course Toby would prefer someone else to eat his salads, leaving him no choice but to resort to a burger. Really, Will reasoned, he'd be doing Toby a favor.
So convinced, Will moved a couple steps farther into Toby's dark office, and nearly screamed when the overhead lights flipped on unexpectedly.
"Toby, good, you're--" CJ Cregg stopped short in the doorway and blinked at him. "Not Toby," she finished.
"No," Will agreed. "Just foraging for food."
"Have you seen Toby?"
There was something in her tone, something in the pinched lines of her face that set Will's nerves jangling. "No, but I've been at the OEOB with the interns. Is something wrong?"
The moment stretched out as she decided how to answer him, then she sighed and stepped closer, pushing the door closed behind her. "Yes."
Will nodded. "Okay. What's--?"
"Zoey's missing," CJ interrupted, rubbing at her temple with her free hand. "She was at a club with Jean-Paul, and then she was gone, and one of her agents was found in the alley behind the club."
Will raised his eyebrows. "Found?"
"Shot," CJ answered, the strain audible in her voice. "Execution style. The agent's dead."
Will nodded calmly, his reaction automatic even as he tried to make sense of such an absurd situation. His father had, from early on, instilled in his children the need to think calmly and rationally, especially in times of crisis. Will had taken the advice to heart, but he'd never before faced a situation quite so explosive. "So the agents think it's a kidnapping."
"Yes."
Will tried to assimilate this information, tried to figure out what his father would do. First, get all the information possible. "Do they have any leads?" he asked.
CJ gave him a look. "I've just been in with Leo. I have some information, and I've got an open line to the Secret Service, but this thing's only about 40 minutes old."
Will glanced reflexively at his watch. "What do you need me to do?"
CJ's gaze slid away from him. "I hate to ask," she began, "but I can't find Toby and I need to get ready for this press conference--"
"We're going public?" Will interrupted.
"Yeah," CJ answered. "We would anyway, but there was a radio station there when she disappeared, and they obviously noticed when the Service responded. I think there was something like 55 black-and-whites with lights and sirens, plus a few vanloads of S.W.A.T. team guys in full regalia."
"Ah," Will said. He couldn't imagine the chaos that had erupted. "Do you need a statement or..." he shrugged. "Anything?"
"No, Leo and Ron worked out what should be publicized. We've got network time in about twenty minutes."
"I hate to be negative," Will said, "but that'll be almost 12:30 EST. A lot of the people we want to see the press conference, people in the D.C. area who may have seen something, they'll already be asleep."
CJ nodded tiredly. "Well, we're doing what we can to get it out there, but this is so big it doesn't need much help from us. D.C.'s effectively closed down right now, plus, the broad outlines are already on CNN."
"Broad outlines?" Will asked.
"They're not stupid. They put together Zoey's presence at the club, the massive, unexplained police response, and the sudden silence from us."
"They're saying that she's missing?" Will asked, incredulity making his voice somewhat a little too loud, a little too high-pitched. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Isn't that incredibly irresponsible?"
CJ shrugged. "It would be if they were wrong. Right now, they're speculating -- with lots of 'We have no confirmation of this, but...' disclaimers. They're suggesting a kidnapping. I need to get out there with the details before the coroner's van arrives for--" She stumbled for a moment. "For the Secret Service agent."
Will grimaced, imaging the hysterical suppositions the image of a body bag being wheeled out to the coroner's van would provoke from the less responsible "pundits" on cable news. He leaned over, plucking Toby's remote from the small table in front of the couch. Flipping on the TV, he breathed in sharply at the long, unsteady shot of what he supposed was the club. Will couldn't read the small sign, but the door was guarded by figures in all black holding some serious weaponry. The alternating red and blue lights lent a surreal quality to the scene.
He glanced over at CJ, who seemed momentarily transfixed, leaning heavily on the back of Toby's visitor chair. He guessed she was doing about as well as could be expected, all things considered. Will had seen Zoey interact with the senior staffers. They treated her like a kid sister, and he couldn't imagine how this was affecting them. He felt incredible empathy for the President and First Lady, but his colleagues knew and loved Zoey as well. "CJ?" he asked gently. "You needed me to do something?"
She jerked upright. "What? Oh. Yes. I'm sorry. Will, I'd like to do this myself, but I don't have the time. I can't find Toby right now, Josh is still at the scene with Charlie, and on the off chance that Sam isn't already watching CNN--"
"You want me to call Sam, let him know what's going on," Will interrupted, a heavy dread in his stomach. Bearer of bad news wasn't his favorite role to play.
"Would you mind?"
Will pushed his petty disinclination aside. The absolute least he could do was this small favor for CJ. She was right, after all; Sam deserved better than to hear about this along with the rest of the nation. "I'll do it right now. It's no problem."
CJ glanced one more time at the TV screen, ran a self-conscious hand through her hair, and tried to smile at Will. It was a little wobbly, but he appreciated the effort. "Thanks," she said, opening Toby's door and heading for her side of the building at a fast clip.
Will reached for the phone and dialed Sam's cellphone from memory. He pulled the phone to the edge of the desk and settled into the guest chair, his attention split between the rings and the blue-and-red flashes on the screen. He flipped to MSNBC, to Fox News, to the local networks; clearly the police had all the press in roughly the same place, hundreds of yards from the club, because each channel was broadcasting the same shot of the guards at the doors of the club.
"Sam Seaborn."
Startled, it took Will a moment to respond. "Sam, it's Will Bailey."
"Will," Sam responded cheerfully. "You're up late."
He doesn't know, Will realized. He wouldn't sound so happy if he did. Will supposed he should be glad for Sam's sake that he hadn't innocently turned on the TV, but he hated to be the person to break this news to Sam. "You remember the hours," Will answered, attempting to match Sam's jovial tone, but even he could hear the strain in his voice.
"Will?" Sam asked, quizzical now. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes, and I wanted to call and tell you about it so you wouldn't have to see it on CNN."
"Oh, God," Sam muttered. "Is it the President? Or Andy? Are the twins okay?"
"They're fine. Toby's fine. The President's fine," Will answered quickly. He hesitated, trying to figure out the kindest way to break the news. "Zoey graduated today."
"I watched the speech," Sam said. "He did well. Was the Eudora Welty yours?"
"Yeah," Will confirmed distractedly. "Sam, listen. Zoey was at a club with her boyfriend tonight, and now she's missing."
In the silence that followed, Will could picture the look on Sam's face. The slight frown, the involuntary shake of his head. "Missing?" Sam asked finally, sounding troubled. "You mean--?"
"There's a dead agent at the scene."
"Oh, God," Sam whispered. A moment later, he seemed to have shifted into crisis mode. "How's the President?" he asked, his tone stronger, more urgent. ":How's Abbey?"
"I haven't seen them," Will answered grimly. "And I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess."
"Yeah." Sam sighed. He fell silent for a moment, then said, his tone frustrated, "I suppose I couldn't get to D.C. right now even if I wanted to."
"We're in lockdown," Will answered. He understood Sam's need to do something to help; Will himself wasn't feeling particularly useful. "The airports are closed. You want me to convey a message?"
Sam hesitated for a long moment. "Please, just tell them that I'll do whatever is in my power to help. Anything, Will. You'll call?"
"Yeah," Will answered. "Sorry to have to, you know..."
"No," Sam said, all the cheer leached from his voice. "Thanks for calling. Better than turning on CNN."
Will said goodbye and hung up, staring pensively at the screen. It was still the same shot, with the anchor inset down at the bottom, no doubt repeating the same scant information over and over, with the occasional comment about how dreadful this must be for the President. With a muttered curse, Will flipped off the TV and rose, heading for his office. Surely they'd need a statement at some point, and that was something productive he could do. Now he just had to figure out how to write a statement about this.
***
In the fifty-eight minutes between when Donna was told of Zoey's disappearance and when Josh blew through the doors of the Operations Bullpen, she'd spent her nervous energy pacing in a positively Joshlike fashion as she woke up Congressional assistants all over D.C. After all, cold calling the Senate Majority Leader's house and waking up his wife when she should've known that he was working out of the Oklahoma office this week was an amateur mistake, one that might suggest that the White House wasn't functioning smoothly during this particular crisis.
Donna couldn't be in the Sit Room, she couldn't help CJ with the press, and she couldn't do anything to help the President or the First Lady, but by God, the calls to Congress would go right if she had anything to say about it. And confirming the whereabouts of each and every member meant waking up some very cranky assistants. (Donna had, of course, been on the other end of such calls on more than one occasion, but what little empathy she had for these tired workers disappeared when she thought about what Zoey might be going through; at the very least, she must be terrified. Donna tried not to think about that too much, though, because the possibilities made her blood run cold, and standing in the bullpen shaking too hard to dial the telephone wasn't a productive use of her time.)
So she kept calling the emergency contact numbers she'd gathered over the course of five years. On a normal night, Donna would joke with the groggy assistants about the hour, or make an allusion to whatever crisis had her bothering them and their bosses so late (or so early). Tonight, she couldn't joke. And she damn well wouldn't say one word, give one hint about the situation with Zoey.
Still, she'd made an impressive start, with almost forty names and numbers scrawled in her notebook when Josh arrived. He was pale and rumpled and moving very fast, his hair displaying its usual defiance of gravity.
"Thanks, Cassie," Donna interrupted Senator DeJoie's assistant's long-winded explanation of why it would be ill-advised to wake her boss after his long day of minding the country's business on the Hill. "Sorry to disturb you." Donna dropped the phone into its cradle and rushed to catch up with Josh as he reached his office door.
"Josh," she greeted, her small notebook clutched in one hand, reaching out to touch his arm with the other.
His gaze collided with hers, and she tried not to react to the pain it revealed. "Anything?" Josh demanded, pausing just inside his doorway.
"No," she answered in muted tones. The crushed look on his face was starting to worry her. "How's Charlie?"
"How do you think?" Josh shot back, dropping into his chair. After a quick, distracted look at the stacks of briefing memos on his desk, Josh pushed himself back up.
"Does he need anything?" Donna asked, standing just behind the guest chair.
Josh snorted. "I don't think coffee's going to make it all better, Donna."
Stung, Donna swallowed back her first, angry response. "I'm not suggesting it would," she answered evenly, but he knew her well enough to read her reaction in the pause before she spoke.
"Yeah," Josh said, seemingly unable to look directly at her. "I know." He wandered to the side of the room, running one finger along some Budget binders from the last session of Congress.
Donna decided they'd have to put his nervous energy (not to mention her own) to good use before their short tempers and stress levels landed them in a fight. They might feel better after a good, healthy shouting match, but every moment they spent indulging themselves was a moment they weren't handling this crisis for the President. "I've started locating the leadership."
Josh, who'd been staring sightlessly at his overflowing bookcase, sighed and turned back to her. "Good." He began to pace, not having much success given the dimensions of his office and her presence in what little free space there was. He looked even worse up close, pale and sweaty and distracted, the small worry lines around his mouth and eyes more pronounced than usual. Josh glanced at her and almost smiled. "I'm fine."
Donna nodded, wondering how clearly her concerns were displayed on her face. She hoped she didn't look as shaken up as Josh; she was supposed to be the one who kept him from flying off into the stratosphere when he was upset. "You need to start--"
"Charlie wanted to go out in his Honda and canvass the streets," Josh told her. "No spotlight or sirens or, really, any way to save Zoey if he found her, but he nearly slugged me when I tried to stop him."
Donna blinked, trying to figure out why Josh was telling her this. "I'm not surprised," she said. "He's still in love with her."
"No kidding," Josh agreed. "And we found her earlier, at the Arboretum."
"The Arboretum?" Donna echoed, perplexed. Josh had told her he and Charlie were going out for a celebratory beer in honor of Zoey's graduation, not on some sort of off-roading adventure in the Arboretum. "Is the Arboretum even open at night?"
"For the First Daughter? Sure." Josh's movements slowed. "There was a bottle of champagne. It doesn't matter. Zoey was there, and we didn't expect her to be. We found her by chance." Josh stopped, jacket pushed back so he could stick his hands into his pockets. He leaned back against the door to the small pantry, his unfocused gaze aimed in Donna's direction. "I didn't even see her," he said quietly.
The despair in his voice made Donna want to throw her arms around him, but they weren't those people, so she matched his tone and said, "Josh, this isn't your--"
"Donna." Josh grimaced. "Don't start with that. I'm fine." He pinned her with an intimidating look. "And I don't need to talk to Stanley."
I'll be the judge of that, Donna thought. She didn't say it, but Josh raised his eyebrows at her and said, "Really. I'm fine."
"I know," she answered, frustrated. How like him to discount even the possibility that he -- the walking ball of regret and self-recrimination over anything that went wrong for the people he loved -- would feel guilty about this. She weighed her options and decided that since he was in avoidance mode, work was probably the safest subject. "I've got the Majority Leader, the Minority Leader, and the Speaker, the whips--"
"Good." Josh nodded, hands on his hips, and asked, "Committee chairs?"
"Not all of them, but I'm working on it."
"Do Armed Forces first. And Foreign Relations," Josh instructed. "Intelligence, obviously, and International Relations."
Donna raised an eyebrow. "We think it's an international incident?"
"We don't know what the hell it is yet," Josh answered grimly. "But to be on the safe side--"
"I'll get those chairs first," Donna nodded, listing the names from memory on her notepad. " Do you want to start the calls while I--?"
"It's just that Charlie -- he was sitting right outside the club," Josh's gaze was focused on something in the middle distance. "He saw her at the Arboretum, and then we were just sitting there with Wesley, drinking beer, talking about nothing, and Zoey--"
Josh pushed himself away from the door so suddenly Donna startled. "Josh," she said. "You and Charlie being there --"
"Don't. Please." Josh rounded his desk and settled back into his chair, but he sat right at the edge, rigidly upright, and stared at her. "Where are the numbers?"
Donna wanted to say more, but he wasn't ready to be forgiven, to forgive himself, for something that wasn't his fault in the first place. She waggled her notepad in the air. "You want me to start the calls?"
Josh hesitated. "No," he decided. "I'd better do it, but stay here." He pointed at the notebook. "I may need translation."
Donna accepted the invitation and sat in the guest chair. She glanced at her notepad. "Mosely's at home," she began. "The number's 687--" She broke off, frowning, when she noticed he was staring rather intently at his desktop, paying no discernible attention to her recitation. "Josh?"
"What?" he asked, blinking at her. Then he pulled the phone towards him and started to dial. "What's the number?"
"687-432--"
"We should've gone," Josh interrupted, holding the receiver aloft. "Why the hell didn't we drive around? What could it have hurt?"
"Josh, the entire city's locked down."
"I know," he said grimly, "but we found her once tonight, maybe we could've done it again." The phone protested its abandonment, beeping angrily into the air. Josh dropped it back into its cradle. "We were just sitting there," he said.
Donna hated to watch him beat himself up, but she didn't know what to say to make him stop. She figured the day she mastered that particular trick, she could retire without worrying that Josh would fall into a tailspin of self-recrimination. She said his name softly, and he looked at her with those tortured brown eyes. "We can go drive around now, if you want."
Josh held her gaze for a long moment, the edges of his mouth inching upwards just a little. Then he shook his head. "No, we'd probably just get in the way," he answered finally. He reached for the phone again. "What's the number?"
***
Hour Three
Charlie stood in the hallway, seemingly unable to remove his balled fists from his pockets as he worked up the courage to knock. The Secret Service agent on guard stared discreetly at the wall as Charlie rapped tentative knuckles on the door. An almost unrecognizable voice called out for him to enter, and Charlie paused, his gaze on the agent. "I'm sorry about Molly," he said, the words sounding inadequate.
The agent met his eyes briefly and nodded once. "Thank you."
Charlie opened the door to the First Family's sitting room and entered. This was quite possibly the last place he wanted to be right now. He wanted to be doing something productive. He wanted to be out looking for Zoey; he wanted to right the wrong he'd done when he sent Zoey to the club and, as it turned out, into danger. But the First Lady had requested his presence.
How could he refuse Zoey's mother at a time like this?
So he obeyed Abbey's summons, taking the chair she indicated, asking her softly if she needed anything.
"No," she said in that wrecked voice. "I'm fine." A half-second later, her words seemed to register, and she smiled a terrible, ironic grin.
The First Lady was devastating to look at tonight. She sat, stone-still, her half-focused gaze turned in the direction of CNN. Her hands were constantly in motion, brushing her hair away from her face, smoothing her skirt, buttoning and unbuttoning her sweater. She barely resembled the vibrant, sharp-eyed Abigail Bartlet that Charlie still found somewhat intimidating.
Charlie sat stiffly in the armchair, unable to relax his tense muscles. This was his fault, the whole situation. Just like the shooting. He still hadn't quite forgiven himself his role in that, though he told himself to be happy that Zoey hadn't been hurt that night. Cold comfort now that he was responsible for whatever was happening to Zoey tonight. And tonight, just like that night four years earlier, Abbey had requested his presence. But this time, Zoey wasn't sitting next to her mother, looking up at Charlie with those beautiful, expressive eyes.
"Ma'am?" Charlie spoke more to break his train of thought than out of any concern that the First Lady needed anything. She had muted the inane commentators, but she still stared at the images on the screen. "Do you want me to get the President? Do you want an update from Ron?"
"No." Abbey seemed to be locked into some kind of paralysis; except for her fluttering hands, she barely moved. "Zoey told me you were still pursuing her," Abbey said, her head swiveling awkwardly towards him. "Are you still in love with her?"
Charlie opened his mouth, but for a moment, couldn't find words. "Yes," he said simply. "I'm sorry."
Under normal circumstances, Abbey would probably give him a half-amused, half-puzzled look. Now, the best she could manage was a slight furrow in her brow. "For what?"
"I saw Zoey tonight," Charlie answered, the words tumbling out. "At the Arboretum. We buried a bottle of champagne a few years ago for her graduation night, and I was going to dig it up and give it to her. But Zoey was there and she--" Charlie stopped, figuring Abbey didn't need to hear about Zoey's romantic confusion.
"No," Abbey said, with more spark in her voice than before. "Please," she begged, her eyes focusing on him for the first time since his arrival, "tell me all of it."
Charlie understood why she wanted all the details, but he refused to believe that his conversation with Zoey could be one of her last conversations ever. "She had some of the champagne," Charlie continued. "And she told me she didn't want to leave the President for the summer, because she wasn't sure how he'd react."
Abbey nodded, her rapt gaze on him.
"And she kissed me," Charlie said, tripping a little on the words. It had been a private moment, an intimate moment, one he never thought he would share with Zoey's mother, but under the circumstances, he could hardly deny Abbey the details she craved. "And then -- I --" He stopped, closed his eyes, swallowed hard. "I told her to go. She wanted to stay with me, and I told her to go to the club." Charlie hung his head, grinding the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. "So I'm sorry."
After a long silence, Abbey sighed. "Has Jean-Paul woken up yet?"
Charlie forced himself to look at the First Lady again, dreading the accusation he expected to see, but she'd retreated back into the semi-daze. In some ways, he thought maybe that was worse. "I'm not sure."
Abbey's chin dipped once. "This must be awful for you."
"Ma'am?"
"I remember Rosslyn, when I knew Jed was shot," she said. She seemed to be talking to Charlie, but her gaze slid past him, focusing on something over his left shoulder. "I remember that panicked feeling, but I knew where he was. I knew I would see him in a few minutes." Her gaze sharpened suddenly, boring into him. "Do you have that panicky feeling?"
Charlie nodded. "Yes."
Abbey's eyes sparkled with tears. "I feel numb," she confessed in a hushed tone. "I don't feel panicked. I can't feel anything." She turned a desperate look his way. "Why can't I feel anything?"
"Mrs. Bartlet," Charlie answered, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "I think you're in shock."
"I'm not," she answered. "I'm a doctor. I'd know it if I were in shock. I'm just... numb."
The double doors burst open and the President burst into the room, his expression angry. Charlie jerked to his feet, swaying a little until he caught himself on the arm of the chair. Abbey froze, eyes wide and fixed on her husband.
"Abigail," the President greeted. "Charlie, I suppose you should hear this, too."
Charlie's fingers tightened on the chair. "Hear what, sir?"
Abbey's tortured voice managed a soft, "Jed?"
"Jean-Paul is, as we suspected, on drugs. But it wasn't ecstasy," Jed said with a nod in Charlie's direction. "He's on GHB. Gamma-Hydroxal Something-or-other."
"Gamma-Hydroxy Butyrate," Abbey corrected automatically, her tone devoid of emotion.
Charlie looked back and forth between the President and First Lady. "What's Gamma-Hydroxy Butyrate?"
The President moved to his wife's side. "It's a date-rape drug, Charlie. Colorless, odorless, and nearly undetectable in alcoholic drinks."
Charlie fought the sudden urge to find Jean-Paul and punch his arrogant, date-rapist face. "A date-rape drug?" he repeated, his tone too loud for the room.
"Charlie," the President warned with a significant glance at the First Lady. "It seems that Jean-Paul thought he'd purchased ecstasy. Leo thinks the dealer was involved in..." He grimaced. "This."
Charlie still wanted to kick the shit out of Jean-Paul -- how could he not protect Zoey? -- but managed to rein himself in. Her parents had more than enough to deal with right now without adding Charlie's anger at Jean-Paul.
"How much champagne?" Abbey asked suddenly.
Startled, Charlie turned towards the First Lady. "I'm sorry?"
"How much champagne did she have with you?" she asked, her gaze razor-sharp and focused once more.
"I'm not sure," Charlie answered.
"Think," Abbey commanded harshly.
"Abbey," the President said, his hand on his wife's shoulder. He settled onto the arm of her chair.
"Maybe a third of the bottle," Charlie answered. "I don't know, exactly, but I think the bottle's in the trunk of my car."
Abbey tilted her head up to see her husband. "Did she drink at the club?"
"Abbey, we're not sure about--"
"Jed, GHB can be fatal," Abbey interrupted forcefully. "It can cause hypothermia, bradycardia, respiratory depression, and if it was mixed with alcohol in high doses, Zoey may already be--" She broke off, turning her face away, trembling lips pressed tightly together.
The President met Charlie's gaze.
Charlie nodded and withdrew, pulling the door shut behind him and only then realizing that his entire body was trembling. He managed the few steps to a nearby plush bench, sank into its embrace, and tried to figure out what to do now. He thought about taking a drive over to the hospital to confront Jean-Paul, but that seemed unproductive. As much as he blamed Jean-Paul, he also couldn't stop blaming himself. He'd told Zoey to go. Why the hell had he told Zoey to go to the damn club?
Soon, when the President learned of the events at the Arboretum, he would probably blame Charlie, too. So Charlie decided to stay at the White House and do as much as possible for Zoey's parents. That way maybe someday he could make it up to them in some small way, even if he couldn't forgive himself.
***
End Part I