Hail to the First Lady

by:SheilaVR

Pairing(s):Jed/Abbey
Rating: YTEEN
Disclaimer: This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: Never, ever come between Jed Bartlet and his wife.

It was a rare occasion that the First Couple of the United States found their official travel plans to be in concurrence. The President naturally dealt with politics in one form or another for the vast majority of the time, which was one subject his wife made every effort to avoid. Few families saw so little of each other over an average day. So when his complicated agenda coincided enough with her own public projects to let them share transportation and accommodations, they seized the moment with both hands and gave heed to no concerns about security or anything else. Anyone who doubted the closeness of the Bartlets' relationship needed only a glance at this mutual determination to have all suspicions quashed dead.

Of course, security there always was, no matter where they went... and always would be to some extent, even after Jed Bartlet left the White House for good. And yet, although the Secret Service beefed up its efforts as a matter of prudence whenever away from the familiar and well-defended surroundings of that primary residence, staying elsewhere - however briefly - seemed almost like a vacation to the President and the First Lady both. No one who worked (or lived) at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue could ignore the level of security on all sides, looming perpetually over one's shoulder like a drill sergeant just waiting for someone to break ranks. And since protecting the nation's Chief Executive had to be at least a little discreet when in full public view, the illusion that the First Couple was less harried than usual persisted, to their own personal preference.

Reality check: it was, after all, just an illusion... 

In this particular instance the President's cortege had almost the entire floor space of a relatively small (by New York City standards) hotel to themselves, in a relatively secluded (again, according to New Yorkers) suburb of the Big Apple. For all its antique exterior and posh interior, the Westboro maintained a cozy charm for the much-traveled and a convenient distance from the City's action. It had, in fact, been designed with an eye for this very market: a large political gathering where expedience and security could be provided together. Conference rooms, state-of-the-art communications wiring and an easily-secured layout were all included. So, rather than expend Air Force One petrol on such a short flight north (as a flying four-star barracks and complete situation control center, it was easily defensible yet undeniably expensive), Bartlet had declared this sojourn a scaled-down holiday and elected to accompany his wife for the sleepover. Certainly, if some national crisis sprang up during his absence from Washington, the executive chopper could whisk him back fast enough.

In fact, the entire White House senior staff had remarked upon their Commander-in-Chief's considerable anticipation of this trip for the last full week. Even a president can get tired of having most of the world brought to him.

Of course, holiday or not, there was no escape from the bureaucracy of paperwork that forever followed this most influential of world leaders no matter where he went. On this, their third evening, Charlie Young had just been admitted into the President's temporary office on the Westboro's tastefully decorated second floor.

Lounging comfortably in a plush armchair, jacket off and tie loosened, a paperback in hand for once instead of the usual official report, Bartlet looked up. "Yeah, Charlie - oh, don't tell me," he almost groaned at the sight of the thick envelope his personal aide carried.

The young man grinned in sympathy. "Afraid so, sir."

"I told you not to tell me!" The President slapped his novel onto an end table, hard. "You know, I resigned myself long ago to reading half a dozen briefs on one topic or another each evening at home. You'd think that on an away trip I could have a night off *once* in a while." He accepted the folder and tore it open with rather more force than strictly necessary to break the seal. "What does it take to give us a *real* holiday?"

"I'm really not sure, sir."

"Should've held this conference at the South Pole."

Charlie wore a patient smile. "That would cut down on the couriers, sir."

Bartlet obtained his reading glasses and paged through the sheaf of documents. "Well, there does seem to be a bit less this time than I expected." He grunted. "Maybe people are grasping the fact that there's no telling how long even a White House packet can take to pass through the security grid downstairs."

His young aide politely reserved judgement, two respectful steps away in case he could be of further assistance.

The President shook his head resignedly at something on one page. "And just when I was hoping to finish *Brave New World* tonight."

Charlie glanced at the discarded paperback. "It's a pretty good book, sir."

""Don't tell me how it ends."

"I wasn't going to, sir."

This time Bartlet raised his head. "What's this - withholding information, are you?"

Apparently caught between two orders, the boy waited one careful heartbeat - he hadn't held this position all that long - before realizing that a rapid defense of *either* order wasn't required. The President had a notorious sense of humor. This time, unlike quite a few in recent memory, Charlie managed to rise to the occasion without flustering. "Yes, sir, I guess I am."

His boss smiled, eyes now twinkling. "Attaboy."

Another knock on the door made them both look around. The President's expression clearly indicated that he expected a veritable cartload of reports to be delivered. "Yes?"

The Secret Service coordinator entered two steps. Empty-handed. Not shutting the door behind him. "Mr. President?"

Bartlet gave him a sharp once-over, and grinned. "Well, since you aren't bringing me more paperwork, you can come in. What's up, Ron?"

Charlie drew back. He hadn't actually been dismissed, but a personal aide had no place at a security briefing.

"Just to let you know that we're locking up for the night, sir," Ron Butterfield announced. "All personnel are accounted for."

"Good - that means no more deliveries. I might get my book finished after all."

The agent didn't quite smile. They weren't supposed to. "Yes, sir."

"All right, then; see you tomorrow."

Ron gave a brisk nod. "Good night, Mr. - "

And broke off, one hand flying to the security radio-microphone in his ear.

Instantly he had the President's attention. Charlie's, too. One glance at the man's sudden tension was enough to warn them both.

Ron relayed the news at once to all forces. "We're breached. It's Regina."

Bartlet sat bolt upright as if jolted by electricity. The Secret Service had code names for everyone, and he made a point of knowing them as well. *This* one sent a shock of ice water down his spine. *"ABBEY?"*

Then, without any further hesitation, he catapulted out of his chair and sprinted through the door at a dead run. Leaving both his personal aide and his security coordinator staring.

"Sir!"

The President didn't even hear him. And if he did, he wouldn't have cared. Security protocol specified clearly that the Chief Executive be protected above all else, followed by a descending hierarchy of the most vital staff members - most of whom were not present on this trip. Ranking very high on that same list were the other members of the First Family, due to a constant fear of abduction. What more effective way to pressure the President of the United States into political action of some sort? He would not likely be that cooperative with dire threats against himself, but if someone threatened his loved ones...

In any event, the last place *he* should go was *into* the danger zone.

None of these thoughts registered. Bartlet tore around the hall corner at full throttle with single-minded intent, blue eyes blazing in voiceless fury. His entire self was focused on the suite at the end of the corridor, an endless thirty yards away. Every bit of strength in his sturdy build channeled towards that one goal, driving him on in a desperate effort to reach it *first*.

When was the last time anyone had seen the President *run?*

The Secret Service was rallying with their usual rapid precision, agents converging from all directions. The alarm, however, must have been caused by a sentry some distance from the situation, or else it would already be under control. Had an intruder met a bodyguard face to face, everything would have ended there and then. Instead, agents had to close in on the threat before they could eliminate it. As a result, precious seconds were still flying past unresolved.

And that unresolved threat was closest to the First Lady.

Despite his own frantically pounding footfalls, Bartlet noticed dimly that other feet were now following at a similar pace. They only served to spur him onward even faster. Shouts of "Sir!" and "Don't!" made no impression at all. When one agent appeared right in his path and, seeing him, naturally tried to prevent their Commander-in-Chief from endangering himself, the President slammed this obstruction aside just like a linebacker blitzing the scrimmage line, without sparing a word or cutting his speed.

Nothing was going to come between him and his wife. *Nothing.*

And if anyone even *considered* harming her -

Chest heaving, heart hammering - not entirely from the high-speed marathon he'd just run - he wrenched open the suite's main door, the last *inanimate* barrier, and blasted inside without pause even for a deep breath.

*Abbey -*

She was there.

So was the intruder.

The scene had an air of unreality: two people seated in antique armchairs facing each other, exactly as though this were some kind of tea party. Not at all as though she were the wife of the U.S. President and he the target of a full-scale Secret Service offensive.

Jed Bartlet did not check at all. Did not take the measure of the situation before acting. Did not glance around for any other adversaries in the room. Did not pause to confirm that his wife was unhurt. Did not ascertain that she or any other possible hostage would not be further endangered by any move on his part. Did not look for explosives, obstacles or potential sources of cover. Did not anticipate hidden dangers or concealed weapons. Did not follow *any* of the procedures drummed into each bodyguard and (supposedly) each public figure they were trained to protect. It was as if his path at this moment had been laid out well in advance and rehearsed to the point of utter familiarity, requiring no conscious thought and now proceeding on its own inexorable momentum. Even as both heads turned towards his explosive entrance, he charged those four strides to the unidentified man's seat and wrenched him completely out of his chair, almost ripping the pullover right off in the process.

The stranger, somewhere in his twenties and dressed casually, though without the streamlined black attire of a second-storey man - or assassin - yelped in shock as he found himself so abruptly accosted. And not by any faceless and fearsome Secret Service agent, either, but by the President of the United States himself.

Looking as scary as any professional killer in his own employ.

Abigail Bartlet leaped from her own seat in equal astonishment, if less terror. "Jed - "

Hair disheveled, tie blown back over one shoulder, perspiration standing out on his forehead, breathing heavily in equal parts exertion and rage, her husband dragged his captive a few more paces away from her by sheer strength, doubled fists stretching that sweater painfully tight, and impaled him with furious eyes.

*"What do you think you're doing?"*

The man was too stunned by this physical assault and that seething, teeth-clenched demand to even move. His mouth gaped without benefit of speech. Not a very confident lawbreaker... but that didn't mean he was harmless.

Well, neither was the man who had, in essence, just arrested him.

And as if it wasn't bad enough that this guy could penetrate such security and get close enough to his wife to kill her with ease, now he didn't even have the grace to answer a direct question from his President. *Fast.*

"Jed, don't!"

*DON'T?!*

The loud, ominous staccato of several automatic pistols coming to full cock not at all far away punctuated that sense of disbelief.

*"N0!"* Abbey's command was directed at *all* of them this time. And she didn't sound the least bit hysterical or unsure about her stance on this issue.

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

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