The National Library - West Wing Fan Fiction

Refiner's Fire

Category(s): Post-Ep
Rating: TEEN
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: A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.
Authors Notes: This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.
Warning:I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.

PART 2

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:01:24 ~

A hand lifted shakily, grasped the top rail of a section of steel barricade that was still upright, and hauled. It cost a lot of effort and several painful grunts, but at last Toby Ziegler gained his feet once again.

And just held himself there for several seconds. Head bowed, arms braced. Breathing hard. Blinking at the persistent afterimages before his eyes.

// The stampede swept around him, overwhelmed him, tumbled him across the ground, feet pounding on all sides... //

He ached in every muscle he ever remembered and many others he'd forgotten about. His suit was in greater disarray than the usual Ziegler rumpled image. But, amazingly, everything seemed to work despite the dull pain.

If that rush had not bowled him over, the guns might not have missed. How many people had inadvertently shielded him - and how many had been hit *instead?*

Toby had known his share of military service. The gunshots, the confusion, the acrid smell of powder were all too familiar. But this was not legitimate combat for which one can prepare. This was wholesale destruction aimed at civilians, in violation of every moral code.

In Judaism traditional prayers exist for just about every imaginable occasion. Which one would best apply to a political assassination?

He looked around, seeing the chaos and the bloodshed without really seeing either, trying to marshal coherent thoughts. One concept surfaced chillingly: the President was the most obvious target of such an attack... and Toby, Leo, CJ and Sam had been close behind him as he walked the rope line in those last seconds of peaceful innocence...

"Toby!"

The White House Communications Director turned automatically; one's name possesses an astounding power.

Sam Seaborn gestured briefly to him from the other side of a nearby police cruiser. His tight voice conveyed whatever his strained look did not.

At least *he* was still alive. Which meant that the others just might have survived as well. That slim hope jarred Toby's brain back into gear. Biting back a groan at the concerted objection of wrenched tendons, he headed that way.

Sam had ducked behind the car again by the time Toby arrived. Who cast one glance down and went rigid, all memory of hope crumbling away within him.

CJ Cregg's supine form somehow looked totally *unnatural*. As a rule she positively vibrated with energy, even after a long and hard day at work. This still, silent figure with closed eyes, a dusting of broken glass, and a deceptively-small, deceptively-dark splotch just below her ribs, bore almost no resemblance to the woman that both men knew.

Sam knelt beside her, his own features slack, his head rotating back and forth as though searching for another angle of perspective where this might not look quite so awful. His right arm hung limp, the upper jacket sleeve partially shredded as only glass can do, the earth-brown cloth dyed black. Less severe cuts and their corresponding scarlet ribbons seamed his face; glass fragments twinkled merrily in his disheveled hair.

Toby dismissed Sam's comparatively superficial injuries at once. Even from behind he could tell that Sam was perilously close to a full-scale panic attack, not even aware of his own pain, clearly without the first idea of what he should do next. Toby reached out and grasped his deputy's shoulder.

"Sam." The older man waited until his young colleague looked around. He himself kept his expression carefully expression*less*. "Find the others. And send the very first paramedic you spot back here."

Considering his renown for soft-spoken reserve, Toby could project a powerful aura of command when he really had to. Sam was gripped by that iron resolve, and his anxiety eased a bit at the steadying reassurance of having clear orders to follow. After just a moment he nodded, rose and silently withdrew.

Toby did not watch him go. This was *his* task.

He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and, disregarding his own aches, knelt in turn beside CJ's frighteningly-still body. The blood continued to ooze around her waist, soaking both blouse and slacks. He applied the wad of cloth against its point of origin, trying to judge how much pressure would do the most good and the least harm.

And, with his free hand, he cradled her head, turning her empty face towards him.

"No - CJ, *don't*... "

*****

~ TIME INDEX: 00:01:28 ~

If Josh Lyman could have found the strength, he would have laughed out loud. The whole scene was too ridiculous: rock-steady white street-lamps and flashing red emergency lights, sleek black limousines and boxy white ambulances, sirens and shouting all combined to completely ruin this once-pristine summer evening of euphoria and triumph. Meanwhile the Secret Service, local police and trauma teams scurried in every direction like so many ants when their orderly routine goes awry.

And to cap it off, he was sitting comfortably back against a fence and watching the whole thing, unnoticed, quite untouched by the tensions and fears so apparent in everyone else. For some unknown reason feeling distinctly tired, yet perfectly at ease.

"Josh?"

His head didn't want to move much, so the Deputy Chief of Staff shifted just his eyes.

And smiled. "Hey, Sam. How's it going?" he asked faintly.

The Deputy Communications Director looked almost as pale as his shirt, contrasting well with his dark suit and darker hair. Strange. And he didn't seem to be enjoying himself at all. <Pal, we've gotta work on your sense of humor... >

Sam crouched down to share the same eye level. "You okay?"

Josh was about to offer an appropriately glib comeback - <Why wouldn't I be?> - when the distinct tremor in his friend's tone penetrated. This appeared to be important. So he thought about it for an extra moment.

// He stumbled forward, crashed to his knees and gripped the fence railings in both hands, staring blankly through it into a realm of safety where he could not go... //

Right - now he remembered. And there had been something else... a pinprick? Maybe a bee sting instead. Certainly nothing serious, compared to what might have been.

He looked up in mindless calm. "Sam, I have no idea."

For one long second Sam did not react. Then Josh was surprised by the urgency with which his suit jacket was shoved aside.

"God." Sam's diagnosis sounded like a real prayer. "In the back, out the front."

Josh actually snickered. "Really." He understood, in a distant manner, what that must mean, but just could not muster the energy to care. "Doesn't hurt a bit."

"That's *one* small mercy in all of this." Sam was doing something. Taking off his own jacket, in a very awkward fashion. Folding it none too neatly, with only one hand. Stuffing it around his lower back and side, around the entry and exit wounds that simply could not be there, since Josh felt nothing at all.

He vaguely noticed, though, that Sam's appearance seemed oddly *unbalanced* somehow.

Oh, yeah: only one sleeve was white. The other - wasn't...

Josh blinked slowly in wonder. "So... what've *you* been doing?"

"Never mind me. Just hold still."

No problem there; he had no intention of going anywhere. His dreamy smile persisted. This peculiar contentment could go on as long as it pleased. <What a day. What a night... >

"Josh?" Pause. "Josh!"

"Hmm?" He peered dazedly back around. "Whazzat?"

"Keep talking. You have to stay awake; you're in shock. The medics will be here in just a few minutes. Until then, you and I are going to find something to talk about. And I won't let you stop. I'm not going to let you quit on me."

"Yeah... sure... whatever you say, old buddy... "

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

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