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 4

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:02:03 ~

The first sensation that registered in the slowly-reviving brain of President Josiah Bartlet was carpet grating against his right cheekbone. Then came the heat - a burning ache that started high on his forehead and stabbed its way backward and down with every beat of his pulse.

His hearing kicked in next, just as a voice spoke nearby, masculine and urgent. "For God's sake, is he alive?"

<Gee, I hope so... Who do you mean, anyway...?>

A warm touch probed the side of his neck, pressing down, searching for something. Another voice said, with vivid relief, "Pulse seems erratic, but it's fairly strong."

The dead-weight that had to be his body shifted a bit, but not under his own volition or effort, and other hands ran over arms and legs that still didn't quite feel as though they belonged to him. Almost like a police pat-down... or a mugging, even?

Those disembodied hands loosened his collar. Moved down along his rib cage -

<Hey, careful... I'm ticklish... usually... >

- And one of those voices swore. "We've got blood here!"

That critical word penetrated and took on meaning. <Okay, what've I done to myself this time?>

Someone else cursed too. "Where?"

"Left of center. Good-sized stain, too... but wait, I can't find a wound anyplace - "

"Then maybe it's mine," a third voice suggested more quietly.

Fragments of memory began to settle into their proper place. Something about handshakes and... firecrackers?

"Aw, hell -! Look, just sit back and pressurize. *We'll* handle this."

No, not fireworks. Gunshots -

// At the very first blast he was seized by both arms and dragged back from the crowds, almost lifted right off his feet, before he could even look to see what was going on... //

"Why are we still sitting here? Get this parade float moving!"

"We can't just drive over bodies in our way!"

// Strong arms around his waist bodily launching him headfirst into the limo... //

"Mr. President? Sir, can you hear me?"

"He's still out like a light!"

"Just pray that's *all* he is... "

"Damn! Head wound - "

Something touched his battered cranium, and he jerked away with a sharp grunt of anguish. Now there were fireworks, assaulting his closed eyes from behind. Red, white and blue: how patriotic.

However, the flare of pain did burn off the fog hovering over his mind - fast. Physical messages began to come in from all fronts. He lay in a heap on his right side, limbs cramped, face pressed into the floor of what had to be the presidential limousine.

And he remembered. Everything.

Recollection brought a surge of pure undiluted adrenaline. But weakness came next, sweeping over him like a tidal wave: a hideously familiar sensation.

<No. Not that. Not here. Not now!>

"Sir! Thank God! Sir, are you - "

Jed Bartlet pushed himself up on both forearms, ignoring the harsh drumbeat in his skull, the dizziness that indicated something far worse, and the query. Deaf to all save his consuming fear for everyone else. "The others?" His tone was weak and ragged, but raw emotion helped give it strength. *"My daughter?"*

"Sir, are you all right?" the nearest voice persisted frantically.

Anything to stop their questions so that he could get some answers. "Hell, no. I'm heartsick and furious. *Where's Zoey?*"

"Details are coming in, sir. Careful; don't move too fast." Hands closed upon him again: this time offering assistance, easing him slowly into a seated position against the limo's interior wall. He just had to lean his throbbing head back and concentrate on breathing for a few seconds. Three other men shared these close quarters with him - Secret Service, of course - but between the dim cabin lighting and the mental thunder he couldn't focus on faces yet.

He didn't need clear vision to issue clear orders. "Well, *get* me those details. That's what your radios are for!"

"We're trying to, sir. Now let me look at that gash." The closest agent held a handkerchief to that radiating sore spot, stanching the trickle of blood that seeped through the President's hair and ran down his temple.

He scowled and impatiently knocked the hand aside. "Forget it. What about my daughter? And my staff? Have any of them been hurt?"

This time it was the agent who ignored a direct question. "It's not a bullet-wound. You must've just cracked it somehow."

"Yeah - when you guys pitched me in here. There's a dent in the metal. *Tell* me about the people still out there!" Jed demanded, struggling to sit up straighter.

"Please keep still, sir, until we're sure you're okay. Do you hurt anywhere else? There don't appear to be any other wounds, but that stain looks critical - "

It sure did, covering much of his left side, soaked through both white shirt and navy blazer. But their protectee paid it no mind at all. He'd had all he could stand of this unwanted attention. "I'm *fine*. And I want a straight answer *now*."

The second agent sighed, finally realizing that there was no way to put this off any longer, and transmitted out. "Who's with Bookbag?"

That simple request froze the President where he sat, his face draining of what little color the head blow had left. *That* was the reason they'd delayed in telling him...

"Wait a min - Gina's not with her? Where is she? *What happened?*"

Without awaiting a reply he pushed away from the wall, fuelled by the iron resolution to exit and find out for himself.

"Sir, you've got to stay down," the first agent insisted at once, barring his way with a firm hand.

"Hell with *that*." Jed suddenly lunged sideways, body-checking the guy and knocking him off-balance, then made a grab for the door handle. Nothing was going to come between him and his little girl when she was in danger -

Nothing, that is, except the United States Secret Service. The second agent shook off his surprise at being under attack by his own Commander-in-Chief and sprang to intercept. It *was* rather comic - three grown men scrambling around on their knees in such a confined space, one desperate to leave and the others determined to prevent that very thing - without hurting him further - but it was also decidedly one-sided. Outnumbered and handicapped by pain and illness-induced exhaustion, the President quickly found himself once again hauled backwards from either side, plunked into his seat and pinned there, both arms locked in the unyielding grip of his own bodyguards.

"Dammit, let *go* of me!"

"Mr. President." The third agent, sitting quietly on the floor towards the front of the passenger area, addressed him for the first time, and something in his quiet tone captured Bartlet's attention. He blinked at the perspiration and blood that stung his eyes. It was Ron Butterfield.

"We're not opening that door again here, sir. It's the only certain protection you have left."

Breathing heavily, his boss glared back. "Ask me if I care right now - "

"Well, sir, *we* do; and the majority rules. You can veto us later if you like."

It had to be an extraordinary occasion indeed when the ranking SSA made a joke. To the Chief Executive, no less.

Jed was just about to let loose a scathing retort when the vehicle around them vibrated noticeably. Four heads turned to the windows.

"Road's clear," one agent confirmed, even as the scenery began to slide past.

"I'm not leaving them behind!" the President bellowed, flinging himself against his living bonds. To no avail, except that it made his abused head pound all the more.

"Sir, there's no way you can help," Ron pointed out, his voice soft yet uncompromising. "And lots of ways you can hinder. *We have to go.*"

Left with no choice in the matter at all, Jed felt some of the tension leave him. Helplessly, he twisted around for just one glimpse of the scene retreating behind them. But between the movement, the night and the heavily-tinted windows, he could see nothing.

"Zoey... "

His companions did not offer any hollow encouragement; at least they could grant him that courtesy. The two unnamed agents felt his resistance die, and gradually released their hold. He stayed slumped in place, expression blank, the fight gone out of him.

All three turned away, trying to provide a little distance and at least the illusion of privacy, not wanting to gaze upon their leader in defeat.

"Where to, sir?" one of the pair finally asked, looking across at Ron.

The President answered first. In a tone as weary as the ages. "Home."

Ron didn't like that. "Sir, you need to see a doctor - "

Something sparked anew in Bartlet's bleary vision. "In case you've forgotten, my wife *is* a doctor... and I'm sure she'll be there by the time we arrive. She's certainly qualified to treat a headache. And assuming Zoey's okay - " he had to pause for a steadying breath " - that's where she'll be taken, too."

Ron waited one calculating heartbeat before he nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And if she's *not* okay... " Jed went on quietly, bitterly "... I know you won't let me go to her anyway."

No one answered him. They all knew how true that was.

Ron nodded silently to one of his subordinates, who radioed out at once: "Laureate's en route to Crown."

Which would reassure everyone with access to that particular frequency that their President couldn't be *too* badly injured, since he was bound for the White House rather than the nearest medical center.

Just imagine the number of relieved sighs heaved at *this* bulletin... especially after the *last* one.

Edging cautiously closer, respectful yet still concerned, one of the agents again applied a cloth to that executive head wound. His "patient" paid him no attention at all, now totally disinterested in everything save his own emotional purgatory.

The other reached for Ron, but he shook his head in silent refusal.

And then, a moment later, all three bodyguards suddenly glanced between themselves and cracked genuine grins at the secret information they now shared.

Bartlet hadn't noticed, staring bleakly out of the limo as each revolution of its powerful engine carried him further from where he most wanted to be.

<Lord, if You're willing to grant me just one prayer in my life... >

"Mr. President?"

Bracing for bad news - or *worse* news - he somehow compelled himself to turn that way.

Ron attempted to maintain a businesslike air. And failed. "Your daughter is safe."

Jed's countenance began to shift from anxiety to wonder.

"She hasn't been hurt at all, and she's heading for Crown right now."

The President hadn't been prepared for the *best* news. When it sank in fully his head fell back against the padded rest with an enormous sigh, and his eyes drifted shut.

"*Thank* you. And while I'm at it, thank *God*."

Who *says* prayers aren't answered?

Then the delight faded as other thoughts resurfaced, and he looked around again. "What about the others? Leo? Charlie - "

"The reports are still coming in, sir. Several people have already been evacuated to hospital; it'll be awhile yet before we know everyone's condition."

Jed leaned forward, eyes narrowed like laser beams; his sense of duty had been re-established in full force. "I want the names of every single one. Every staffer, every agent, every bystander, and I want to know how bad. And I want to know *exactly* what happened to the assailants," he added, his tone turning to granite.

"You'll have that information, sir, just as soon as we can get it."

"Good."

Now that his paternal instincts no longer overrode every other thought, the President decided it was high time he started acting presidential again - for the sake of everyone *else* affected by this senseless assault. He waved off the persevering agent with the now-stained handkerchief, and gave him a grateful nod for his ministrations. Straightened his shirt, jacket and tie as best he could. Applied his own (unstained) hanky to his blood-and-sweat-streaked forehead. And savagely wrestled the demon of real illness back into its cage, by force of will refusing to let it get the better of him. He'd worry about the repercussions of *that* later.

The other SSA fidgeted, looked at his supervisor - who frowned back in clear warning - and decided to speak up anyway. "Mr. President, if you want, you can begin right here."

Jed did a sharp double take. "What?"

Ron exhaled and rolled his eyes.

That got the point across, in spades. The President stared hard at both of them... and his features sagged in the unsettling discovery that he'd managed to totally miss the obvious all this while...

Ron Butterfield had, in essence, not moved from his spot on the carpet in that forward corner since his boss's revival. The poor interior lighting could be blamed somewhat, and the black suit swallowed any sign of dampness, but he held his right arm crooked in a stiff and unnatural position that could mean only one thing.

"Ron - " Jed left his seat and crossed the steadily-rocking limo's floor, fresh perturbation written in bold on his face. "Why didn't you *tell* me?"

Ron clung to his professional detachment. "It's just a flesh wound, sir. Our primary concern was you."

"Oh, give it a rest and let me see." His arm's rigid posture made getting a good look difficult, and moving it would increase his discomfort. But the President gently persisted until he saw enough to judge the general extent of the damage. The blood that had stained *his* clothes also covered his chief bodyguard's entire shoulder.

"That is *not* a flesh wound, mister, and it takes precedence over a goose egg. Thanks for letting me know," he said to the informing agent. "Now change course. We're going to the hospital after all."

"Sir, don't worry about it - " Ron persisted.

"You've ordered me around enough for one evening, my friend. It's *my* turn. This is no time for that famous Service dedication. We're going to drop you off first, before you leave any more of your precious fluids in my car." Bartlet jerked his head imperiously at the other two agents. "Turn this thing around. And tell them *why*, before anyone panics."

"Yes, *sir*," one of them replied with a thankful smile. The Service might normally be advised against burdening their principle security risk with their own welfare, for obvious reasons, but the members themselves looked after each other.

The President tuned out the resulting one-sided radio conversation. He was gazing down at the crimson splash across his own shirt in guilty disbelief.

<Well, if it wasn't mine, whose COULD it be? Jed, my man, you are way overdue pulling yourself together. Snap to it!>

"And to think I never paused to wonder before just how I got this. Pretty thoughtless of me. Ron, I'm *sorry*."

"Not a problem, sir. You had other priorities."

"Damned poor excuse to ignore the pain right in front of me." Jed retrieved his own handkerchief again. "Here, you can use mine." And he himself packed it carefully around the shoulder joint. "You know, not many people can boast of receiving first aid personally from their Commander-in-Chief."

Ron managed a grin, trying not to wince. "I'm honored, sir."

The limo swayed as it took the next left corner at high speed. All four men braced themselves until the keel evened out again.

"And I'm grateful." The President held the improvised bandage in place, steadying his injured employee with the other hand. And just looked at him, abandoning any further attempt at humor. "I don't have to guess when this happened - or *why*."

There was no sense denying it. "No, sir."

"From the looks of it, you got me out of the way barely in time."

Ron paused, held in the grip of those steel-blue eyes. He'd done precisely what his job required; modesty had no place here. "Yes, sir."

"Too bad you didn't get *yourself* out of the way, too," his boss observed sympathetically. "That must've hurt."

He shrugged - with the left shoulder only. "Truth be known, sir, I didn't even feel it at the time."

Jed's gaze never wavered. "Well, if not for your quick response, I have no doubt that *I* would've felt it." His supporting hand squeezed a bit tighter, and his serious tone softened even more. "I owe you one, man."

That made Ron chuckle despite the pain. "No, sir, of *course* you don't - "

"You tell me it's all in the line of duty and I'll fire you right here, Ron. If I say I owe you, then I *do*." And for the first time in what felt like eons to all of them, the President smiled. "And there's just nothing you can do about it."

*****

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

| << back | send feedback | The National Library |