Aug 26: Etiam Si Omnes, Ego Non
Title: Etiam Si Omnes, Ego Non
Author: Electra310 (Etraytin on TTH)
Crossover: The West Wing
Summary: A crisis in Sunnydale leads to a crisis in conscience in the West Wing.
Rating: FR15
Word Count: 2439
Timeline: Season Five Buffy, Season Two West Wing, twenty-sixth in the "Dulce et Decorum" series beginning with Ipsos Custodes.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I am just doing this for fun. All rights remain with their owners.
It was after midnight, and Jed knew he ought to be sleeping. Sleep was not always in generous supply around the White House, and with who-knew-what kind of situation brewing up with Reda Nessam and his buddies and their little bottles of nitroglycerin, he'd be wise to take his rest where he could get it. Instead he sat on one of the couches in the West Sitting Hall, idly swirling a squat glass of bourbon in his hand while he stared out the enormous decorative windows into the dark.
Toby's words from earlier still echoed in his head. “It will appear to many, if not most, as fraud. It will appear as if you denied the voters an opportunity to decide for themselves. They’re generally not willing to relinquish that right, either.” Maybe it had been naive of him, but Jed hadn't expected Toby's anger, nor his sense of righteous betrayal. But Toby was, above all things, a speaker of truths, and if he was their canary in the coal mine on the multiple sclerosis issue then there were dangerous times ahead. This was not the sort of thing he needed to be carrying into a reelection campaign. If there was to be a reelection campaign at all.
He knew that the staffers were already thinking about it, knew that they considered it a given. Why stop at four years when they were only now starting to get good at it? But Abbey was already talking about what they'd do when they went back to their farm in New Hampshire, subtly reminding him of the promise she'd extracted before the primaries. She was not finding the job of First Lady especially rewarding, especially when a major part of it involved nagging him over his health so he didn't become one of those unfortunate Presidents to die in office. He'd been thinking hard about it already, trying to find a balance, but if Toby was right then there wasn't even a question. It seemed so unfair, to have everything he wanted to do undermined by a disease that had given him flu-like symptoms once or twice in three years.
His reverie was broken by the sound of the phone in the hallway. Jed glanced over as one of his Secret Service agents walked into the room. “Mr. President, the switchboard has a Quentin Travers for you.”
Jed did his best to keep his face impassive. “Thank you Mark, I'll take it in here. Close the door, would you?” He slid over to the end of the sofa and picked up the phone, a terribly ornate thing with a handset encrusted in little filigreed ridges. “Do you not have clocks in London anymore?”
Quentin's harumph indicated that he was not in the mood for jokes tonight. “Do you think I particularly enjoy calling you at five in the morning?” he asked rhetorically. We both need a bit of extra privacy for this conversation, I believe. You for the obvious reasons, and me because several old and distinguished Watcher families would have my head for coming to you with this, possibly literally.”
“What's going on, Quint?” Jed asked, straightening in his seat and setting the bourbon aside.
“You still have an army base in Sunnydale, yes?” Quentin asked. “Some other military resources in the area that can be called upon, a National Guard regiment?”
“Yes,” Jed answered slowly, wondering where this was going. “You're only two hours south of Los Angeles, there's quite a bit we could mobilize if necessary. Is it necessary?” Part of him, a tiny, terrible part, was hoping it was, was hoping that something overwhelmingly important would happen just to take his mind off the possible scandal and focus him on governing again.
“Not yet.” Quentin's voice was measured, careful. “But you should be ready, whatever that means for American armed forces. There is a new threat in Sunnydale, and I'm not sure Miss Summers is going to be able to handle it, even with our backing. She did come back to us, just as predicted,” he added in an aside. “But it won't matter very much if Glorificus has her way.”
“Glorificus, what's that?” Jed racked his brain and came up completely empty. “Some sort of greater demon?” Anything that could spook Quentin after all this time was surely not small potatoes.
“She's a god,” came the flat response. “A goddess, rather, and ruler of her own hell dimension. She was overthrown and cast out into our dimension, in an imperfect binding that lasted for a few decades and is now breaking down. And all she wants is to get back to where she came from.”
“That sounds fairly reasonable to me,” Jed offered. “I'd certainly much rather have a creature like that on her own side of the dimensional wall than sticking around here and causing all sorts of trouble.”
“Yes, that would be well and good,” Quentin agreed, “except that the way for her to go home involves ripping a large hole in interdimensional space and letting realities bleed together until she's finished passing through. The damage will likely be catastrophic and irreparable, if indeed there's enough of our world left to piece together at all.”
“Hmm, I see your point.” Jed looked towards the window again, up at the vast blackness of the heavens and the stars invisible behind the glow of security lights. “Do you have a plan worked out?”
The brief silence on the other end of the phone line spoke volumes. “We are working on several options,” Quentin finally said. “The situation is extremely delicate and I cannot tell you very much, but I do believe that we will be able to stop the world from ripping itself to shreds. Unfortunately, it's entirely possible that there will be collateral damage along the way. History teaches us that stopping the machinations of the gods always comes with a heavy price.”
“And that's where I come in?” Jed asked wryly.
“I don't know yet,” Quentin said. “We may not call upon you. There may be no need, or there may be no time. If we do, it will be an absolute last-ditch measure, in the understanding that it will be impossible to keep that kind of operation a secret. But I wanted you to be ready.”
Jed nodded even though Quentin couldn't see him. “I understand. I'll brief the necessary people and they can take the steps to have assistance ready. That sort of thing is a last resort on my side as well, legally the armed forces do not have jurisdiction within the borders of the country, but if it comes to a question of life or death from supernatural forces, I think I'll be able to persuade Congress to see things my way. You'll keep me informed?”
“As best I can,” Quentin promised. “Now go get some sleep, you're supposed to be running things over there, or at least putting on a show while your Mrs. Landingham governs.”
“She won't mind if I sleep in a little bit,” Jed promised, “she likes being in charge. But Leo will give me hell all day and it's not worth it. Goodnight, Quentin.” He hung up the phone and picked up the bourbon again, swallowing it down like medicine. If the world did end this year, he supposed that would settle the question about reelection, at least.
***
Five tumultuous weeks had passed since that midnight conversation. Somehow multiple sclerosis had gone from being something Jed rarely even thought about to being the one phrase on everyone's lips and everyone's minds. Mrs. Landingham was gone, taken from him by a rainy night and a drunk driver, and he'd barely gotten a chance to mourn. Screaming at God in the National Cathedral had been somewhat cathartic, if useless, but there never seemed to be time for him to simply sit with his grief and let it be for awhile. There was so much to do. He'd announced his reelection bid to a packed press conference and now Abbey was furious with him, so much so that she was taking it out on the staff as well. CJ had nearly quit, Sam was hanging by a thread, and the Republican Party was gathering up their leashes to take them all out for a walk. And in the middle of all that had been the occasional phone call from Quentin: “Nothing happening yet, stay alert.” Jed was sure there was much more to the situation than that, but he didn't have any time to go looking for it.
He was working late in the Oval that night, not on anything pressing but more because he didn't want to go home, when the phone rang on his desk. He picked it up without even bothering to think of how odd it was to get an unannounced phone call, even without Mrs. Landingham around anymore. “Hello?”
“The goddess is dead.” Quentin's voice was strange, strained and triumphant all at once. “The dimensional rift was closed before it could cause major damage, and the threat is ended.”
Jed blew out a long, relieved breath. “That's the kind of good news I've really wanted to hear,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Well done! I should've known that you and Rupert and Miss Summers would have it all sewn up. I hope you're at least giving them a week's vacation after this!”
Quentin sighed. “That, I'm afraid, is the unfortunate part. Miss Summers behaved in an exemplary fashion, giving all she had in order to save the world, in the very best Slayer tradition. She gave her life to close the rift and save us all, and we shan't forget her sacrifice.”
“Oh.” Jed was quiet for a little bit, his own moment of silence. “When did this happen?”
“Very early yesterday morning, just before dawn in California,” Quentin replied. “There was a delay in communications, as you might expect. Several of her associates were badly injured in the fighting, and Rupert is, of course, completely bereft. I warned him a thousand times, but he could never, not once in his life, listen to good advice.” Jed couldn't tell if he was more angry or sad about that. “I expect he'll be along by and by to join the old soldiers in a life of directionless moping. Such a waste.”
Jed wasn't sure what he could say to that, so he moved on to a more pressing topic. “Have you found the new Slayer yet?”
“No, but we weren't expecting one.” Quentin seemed just as glad for the change in topic. “As far as our witches and seers have been able to ascertain, the line runs through Miss Lehane now. As long as she is alive, there will be no new Slayer.”
“But I thought... didn't you tell me that she's in prison still?”
“She is,” Quentin confirmed. “Even with the plea deal she struck, she's likely to be in there another fifteen years before they parole her. Stupid girl, I can't imagine what she was thinking, allowing herself to be locked up in the first place. Now the Hellmouth is unguarded and there is no Slayer available for the foreseeable future!”
“Do you need me to look into it?” Jed asked, trying not to think what kind of ungodly political headache it would cause to try and get the governor of California to pardon an admitted murderer. It wasn't as though he had much capital to spare these days anyway, but protecting the world was probably worth spending what he did have. “I could make some calls.”
“No, I don't think so, at least not now. We have a Watcher in the prison, keeping an eye on her while she serves her time. She doesn't think Faith is ready yet, still too volatile and violent,” Quentin told him. “I won't ask you to get someone out of jail who goes on to murder innocents, neither of us needs that on our conscience. We are still considering all the options.” There was an ominous note in his voice.
Jed jumped on it. “When you say all the options, what do you mean?” he asked intently.
“The world needs the Slayer,” Quentin reminded him. “Miss Lehane abdicated her responsibility, indeed profaned her calling in the service of evil. She assisted in the rise of a greater demon, and was only stopped because Miss Summers was there to take her down personally. She is unpredictable, emotionally disturbed, has a history of consorting with evil, and is a highly trained, highly skilled killer with human blood on her hands. We are considering all the options.”
“You can't kill her, Quint,” Jed said firmly. “I won't allow it.”
“You won't allow it?” Quentin repeated, incredulous. “You have no say in it!”
“I think you'll find that I do,” Jed countered, his voice cold. “I think you'll find that if anything untoward happens to Miss Lehane while she is in prison, things will become very difficult for you and yours whenever you try to operate in the United States. I think you might also find that our close allies in the British government will have some questions for you as well that you might not like to answer. You can't kill her, Quentin. It's wrong, and I won't have it.”
“I see,” Quentin's voice was equally frigid. “Once again you're willing to put the good of the one, the selfish, undeserving, wretched one in this case, over the good of the entire world. On your head be it, and I just hope you don't have to live with the blood of the consequences on your head.” He hung up then, not bothering to give his best to Abbey and the girls this time.
Jed sighed, holding the phone lax in one hand for a minute before setting it back in the cradle. He hoped so too. But there was a line, and although sometimes it was hard to see, and sometimes it seemed as though it moved, Jed would not step over that moral line to order or allow the execution of a human being without so much as a trial. He knew that was wrong, and he wouldn't do it. Sitting in the dim light of his office, he said his usual little prayer for the soul of Buffy Summers, and for her grieving Watcher, and for all of them left behind on this difficult, complicated little world.
Author: Electra310 (Etraytin on TTH)
Crossover: The West Wing
Summary: A crisis in Sunnydale leads to a crisis in conscience in the West Wing.
Rating: FR15
Word Count: 2439
Timeline: Season Five Buffy, Season Two West Wing, twenty-sixth in the "Dulce et Decorum" series beginning with Ipsos Custodes.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I am just doing this for fun. All rights remain with their owners.
It was after midnight, and Jed knew he ought to be sleeping. Sleep was not always in generous supply around the White House, and with who-knew-what kind of situation brewing up with Reda Nessam and his buddies and their little bottles of nitroglycerin, he'd be wise to take his rest where he could get it. Instead he sat on one of the couches in the West Sitting Hall, idly swirling a squat glass of bourbon in his hand while he stared out the enormous decorative windows into the dark.
Toby's words from earlier still echoed in his head. “It will appear to many, if not most, as fraud. It will appear as if you denied the voters an opportunity to decide for themselves. They’re generally not willing to relinquish that right, either.” Maybe it had been naive of him, but Jed hadn't expected Toby's anger, nor his sense of righteous betrayal. But Toby was, above all things, a speaker of truths, and if he was their canary in the coal mine on the multiple sclerosis issue then there were dangerous times ahead. This was not the sort of thing he needed to be carrying into a reelection campaign. If there was to be a reelection campaign at all.
He knew that the staffers were already thinking about it, knew that they considered it a given. Why stop at four years when they were only now starting to get good at it? But Abbey was already talking about what they'd do when they went back to their farm in New Hampshire, subtly reminding him of the promise she'd extracted before the primaries. She was not finding the job of First Lady especially rewarding, especially when a major part of it involved nagging him over his health so he didn't become one of those unfortunate Presidents to die in office. He'd been thinking hard about it already, trying to find a balance, but if Toby was right then there wasn't even a question. It seemed so unfair, to have everything he wanted to do undermined by a disease that had given him flu-like symptoms once or twice in three years.
His reverie was broken by the sound of the phone in the hallway. Jed glanced over as one of his Secret Service agents walked into the room. “Mr. President, the switchboard has a Quentin Travers for you.”
Jed did his best to keep his face impassive. “Thank you Mark, I'll take it in here. Close the door, would you?” He slid over to the end of the sofa and picked up the phone, a terribly ornate thing with a handset encrusted in little filigreed ridges. “Do you not have clocks in London anymore?”
Quentin's harumph indicated that he was not in the mood for jokes tonight. “Do you think I particularly enjoy calling you at five in the morning?” he asked rhetorically. We both need a bit of extra privacy for this conversation, I believe. You for the obvious reasons, and me because several old and distinguished Watcher families would have my head for coming to you with this, possibly literally.”
“What's going on, Quint?” Jed asked, straightening in his seat and setting the bourbon aside.
“You still have an army base in Sunnydale, yes?” Quentin asked. “Some other military resources in the area that can be called upon, a National Guard regiment?”
“Yes,” Jed answered slowly, wondering where this was going. “You're only two hours south of Los Angeles, there's quite a bit we could mobilize if necessary. Is it necessary?” Part of him, a tiny, terrible part, was hoping it was, was hoping that something overwhelmingly important would happen just to take his mind off the possible scandal and focus him on governing again.
“Not yet.” Quentin's voice was measured, careful. “But you should be ready, whatever that means for American armed forces. There is a new threat in Sunnydale, and I'm not sure Miss Summers is going to be able to handle it, even with our backing. She did come back to us, just as predicted,” he added in an aside. “But it won't matter very much if Glorificus has her way.”
“Glorificus, what's that?” Jed racked his brain and came up completely empty. “Some sort of greater demon?” Anything that could spook Quentin after all this time was surely not small potatoes.
“She's a god,” came the flat response. “A goddess, rather, and ruler of her own hell dimension. She was overthrown and cast out into our dimension, in an imperfect binding that lasted for a few decades and is now breaking down. And all she wants is to get back to where she came from.”
“That sounds fairly reasonable to me,” Jed offered. “I'd certainly much rather have a creature like that on her own side of the dimensional wall than sticking around here and causing all sorts of trouble.”
“Yes, that would be well and good,” Quentin agreed, “except that the way for her to go home involves ripping a large hole in interdimensional space and letting realities bleed together until she's finished passing through. The damage will likely be catastrophic and irreparable, if indeed there's enough of our world left to piece together at all.”
“Hmm, I see your point.” Jed looked towards the window again, up at the vast blackness of the heavens and the stars invisible behind the glow of security lights. “Do you have a plan worked out?”
The brief silence on the other end of the phone line spoke volumes. “We are working on several options,” Quentin finally said. “The situation is extremely delicate and I cannot tell you very much, but I do believe that we will be able to stop the world from ripping itself to shreds. Unfortunately, it's entirely possible that there will be collateral damage along the way. History teaches us that stopping the machinations of the gods always comes with a heavy price.”
“And that's where I come in?” Jed asked wryly.
“I don't know yet,” Quentin said. “We may not call upon you. There may be no need, or there may be no time. If we do, it will be an absolute last-ditch measure, in the understanding that it will be impossible to keep that kind of operation a secret. But I wanted you to be ready.”
Jed nodded even though Quentin couldn't see him. “I understand. I'll brief the necessary people and they can take the steps to have assistance ready. That sort of thing is a last resort on my side as well, legally the armed forces do not have jurisdiction within the borders of the country, but if it comes to a question of life or death from supernatural forces, I think I'll be able to persuade Congress to see things my way. You'll keep me informed?”
“As best I can,” Quentin promised. “Now go get some sleep, you're supposed to be running things over there, or at least putting on a show while your Mrs. Landingham governs.”
“She won't mind if I sleep in a little bit,” Jed promised, “she likes being in charge. But Leo will give me hell all day and it's not worth it. Goodnight, Quentin.” He hung up the phone and picked up the bourbon again, swallowing it down like medicine. If the world did end this year, he supposed that would settle the question about reelection, at least.
***
Five tumultuous weeks had passed since that midnight conversation. Somehow multiple sclerosis had gone from being something Jed rarely even thought about to being the one phrase on everyone's lips and everyone's minds. Mrs. Landingham was gone, taken from him by a rainy night and a drunk driver, and he'd barely gotten a chance to mourn. Screaming at God in the National Cathedral had been somewhat cathartic, if useless, but there never seemed to be time for him to simply sit with his grief and let it be for awhile. There was so much to do. He'd announced his reelection bid to a packed press conference and now Abbey was furious with him, so much so that she was taking it out on the staff as well. CJ had nearly quit, Sam was hanging by a thread, and the Republican Party was gathering up their leashes to take them all out for a walk. And in the middle of all that had been the occasional phone call from Quentin: “Nothing happening yet, stay alert.” Jed was sure there was much more to the situation than that, but he didn't have any time to go looking for it.
He was working late in the Oval that night, not on anything pressing but more because he didn't want to go home, when the phone rang on his desk. He picked it up without even bothering to think of how odd it was to get an unannounced phone call, even without Mrs. Landingham around anymore. “Hello?”
“The goddess is dead.” Quentin's voice was strange, strained and triumphant all at once. “The dimensional rift was closed before it could cause major damage, and the threat is ended.”
Jed blew out a long, relieved breath. “That's the kind of good news I've really wanted to hear,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Well done! I should've known that you and Rupert and Miss Summers would have it all sewn up. I hope you're at least giving them a week's vacation after this!”
Quentin sighed. “That, I'm afraid, is the unfortunate part. Miss Summers behaved in an exemplary fashion, giving all she had in order to save the world, in the very best Slayer tradition. She gave her life to close the rift and save us all, and we shan't forget her sacrifice.”
“Oh.” Jed was quiet for a little bit, his own moment of silence. “When did this happen?”
“Very early yesterday morning, just before dawn in California,” Quentin replied. “There was a delay in communications, as you might expect. Several of her associates were badly injured in the fighting, and Rupert is, of course, completely bereft. I warned him a thousand times, but he could never, not once in his life, listen to good advice.” Jed couldn't tell if he was more angry or sad about that. “I expect he'll be along by and by to join the old soldiers in a life of directionless moping. Such a waste.”
Jed wasn't sure what he could say to that, so he moved on to a more pressing topic. “Have you found the new Slayer yet?”
“No, but we weren't expecting one.” Quentin seemed just as glad for the change in topic. “As far as our witches and seers have been able to ascertain, the line runs through Miss Lehane now. As long as she is alive, there will be no new Slayer.”
“But I thought... didn't you tell me that she's in prison still?”
“She is,” Quentin confirmed. “Even with the plea deal she struck, she's likely to be in there another fifteen years before they parole her. Stupid girl, I can't imagine what she was thinking, allowing herself to be locked up in the first place. Now the Hellmouth is unguarded and there is no Slayer available for the foreseeable future!”
“Do you need me to look into it?” Jed asked, trying not to think what kind of ungodly political headache it would cause to try and get the governor of California to pardon an admitted murderer. It wasn't as though he had much capital to spare these days anyway, but protecting the world was probably worth spending what he did have. “I could make some calls.”
“No, I don't think so, at least not now. We have a Watcher in the prison, keeping an eye on her while she serves her time. She doesn't think Faith is ready yet, still too volatile and violent,” Quentin told him. “I won't ask you to get someone out of jail who goes on to murder innocents, neither of us needs that on our conscience. We are still considering all the options.” There was an ominous note in his voice.
Jed jumped on it. “When you say all the options, what do you mean?” he asked intently.
“The world needs the Slayer,” Quentin reminded him. “Miss Lehane abdicated her responsibility, indeed profaned her calling in the service of evil. She assisted in the rise of a greater demon, and was only stopped because Miss Summers was there to take her down personally. She is unpredictable, emotionally disturbed, has a history of consorting with evil, and is a highly trained, highly skilled killer with human blood on her hands. We are considering all the options.”
“You can't kill her, Quint,” Jed said firmly. “I won't allow it.”
“You won't allow it?” Quentin repeated, incredulous. “You have no say in it!”
“I think you'll find that I do,” Jed countered, his voice cold. “I think you'll find that if anything untoward happens to Miss Lehane while she is in prison, things will become very difficult for you and yours whenever you try to operate in the United States. I think you might also find that our close allies in the British government will have some questions for you as well that you might not like to answer. You can't kill her, Quentin. It's wrong, and I won't have it.”
“I see,” Quentin's voice was equally frigid. “Once again you're willing to put the good of the one, the selfish, undeserving, wretched one in this case, over the good of the entire world. On your head be it, and I just hope you don't have to live with the blood of the consequences on your head.” He hung up then, not bothering to give his best to Abbey and the girls this time.
Jed sighed, holding the phone lax in one hand for a minute before setting it back in the cradle. He hoped so too. But there was a line, and although sometimes it was hard to see, and sometimes it seemed as though it moved, Jed would not step over that moral line to order or allow the execution of a human being without so much as a trial. He knew that was wrong, and he wouldn't do it. Sitting in the dim light of his office, he said his usual little prayer for the soul of Buffy Summers, and for her grieving Watcher, and for all of them left behind on this difficult, complicated little world.