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 7

*******

~ TIME INDEX: 00:50:19 ~

The Arlington Newseum was a full hour away from the White House - for ordinary mortals, during daylight hours, at a sane pace. The presidential motorcade, rarely less than half a mile long, might be granted permanent immunity from stoplights, but it seldom blazed through the streets hell-bent for election either. Tonight, between the low volume of traffic, the greater maneuverability of its scaled-down escort and the urgency of its purpose, it covered that distance in a lot less time - even after stopping briefly along the way.

Flanked fore and aft by a bare minimum of police cruisers and motorcycles, the lone black limo (there were never supposed to be less than two, just to confuse a potential attacker) passed through a predictable crush of barely-contained newshounds at the front gate, and pulled up before the brilliantly-lit pillars of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue with rather less ceremony, and far less accompaniment, than when it left earlier that evening... so very long ago. Time, after all, is relative. Considering how much had changed between departure and arrival, it might as well have been an interval of decades.

The moment that sleek pseudo-tank stopped moving a swarm of Secret Service agents descended upon it. The side door with the unmistakable seal was jerked open and at least three hands darted inside to lift their President out as carefully and quickly as possible.

He emerged unaided. Paused in full view, as though to assure the world of his well-being - or to gather his balance and strength. And flatly refused support from anyone.

"Oh, relax. I can manage fine on my own. You won't be rid of me just yet."

It was always a good sign when he could throw in a wisecrack.

The elite security organization, created for the sole purpose of protecting this man to the death, did not want to countermand his personal wishes; still, they weren't about to leave him unattended either. His tie was straight and his hair reasonably neat, but no quick-polish could hide the lethal-looking stains on his face and clothes. Nor could self-control disguise the weariness of his step, the hunch to his posture, or the strain in his eyes.

Nonetheless, he approached the north portico entrance under his own power, one step at a time, slow and steady... to where yet another crowd awaited. A strangely quiet one. These were all White House staffers: the people who worked closest with him. Most had already left once for the day, only to return the instant they heard the news. They simply could not be anywhere else but here, to see their leader return. Blessedly, in one piece.

He paused again, and gazed upon them all. And gave a single, stern nod.

The President was home. Back in command. Life could resume.

What that life would actually be *like*, after all this, was another matter. Certainly, judging from their Chief Executive's dark glower, there would be hell to pay at the very least.

In tense silence the gathering drew back as he advanced, clearing the entrance, not daring to get too close to him - with one exception.

Mandy Hampton didn't exactly bar his path; rather, she represented a final checkpoint that the President had to confront before he could permit himself to rest. As the White House public relations officer, granted a spot fairly high in its internal hierarchy, right now she was the closest thing to a senior staff member left him.

<We're really scraping the bottom of the barrel, huh? But that's the risk you run when you insist on having all your top people in one place... >

Like everyone else, her eyes were haunted by the shocking events of less than an hour ago. She had remained at work, following the live broadcast of the Town Hall event. Had shared the sense of accomplishment as the crowds applauded inside and cheered outside. Had watched in disbelief as shots rang out and people fell. Had stood there, horrified and powerless, beyond all possible harm herself yet present in every other way. *Wishing* she could be there. To revisit that atrocity - to compel her boss to revisit it - almost made her cringe.

Still, she held her ground and voiced the concern that filled every other mind present.

"Mr. President?" That simple, understated question carried throughout the astonishingly quiet entrance to the nation's premier residence.

His pace slow yet inexorable, Bartlet did not swerve to avoid her. If she hadn't stepped aside at the last second, he might well have run her down. But not even this independent-to-a-fault political advisor could withstand the full force of his personality tonight, refined down to its critical mass, tempered in the furnace of fire and war.

"Don't ask," he told her brusquely, each word clipped short by stress. "You don't - want - to know."

Of course Mandy did; *everyone* was frantic to hear about him and the others, about who was all right and who *wasn't*. But for once she didn't challenge him directly. For all that subtlety went right against the grain with her, there were times when even she realized how unwelcome practical straightforwardness would be. So instead she fell into step, one length behind him, one length ahead of his beefed-up security unit, and hoped that her silent presence wouldn't feel like too much of an intrusion in his current state.

The President negotiated the historical corridors at a stiff, restrained march quite unlike his usual confident stride, fists clenched. Passing other staring employees without a glance; he seemed blind to anything but reaching the sanctuary of his own office. Mandy could sense how he was pushing himself, as though afraid his energy reserves might not last even that long.

No one would blame him if he collapsed. Everyone was praying he wouldn't.

Empathy was not one of Mandy's personal strengths, but her nerves tightened in compassion all the same. She wondered if he currently considered her just a pest, clinging to his heels, ever on the fringes of his awareness, denying him the peace he so deserved and needed.

If he threw political savvy to the winds and ordered her away, she would go. True, almost nothing about this couldn't wait at least a little while longer, until he had the physical and mental stability to handle it. Although it'd be so much easier on a lot of other people to get certain things rolling right away...

The overall atmosphere was stretched to the snapping point. No one knew precisely what had happened; no one knew quite how to react. Staff members watched the grim procession pass and then followed along, pleading voicelessly for answers, for guidance, for reassurance. At one juncture Mandy glimpsed Josh's assistant Donna Moss, her features a study in trepidation.

It was hard, but Mandy shelved that for now. Josh she couldn't help. Others, she could.

Perhaps just being in these hallowed halls again, despite the thick miasma of uncertainty and near-panic, brought a little solace. Gradually, Bartlet's taut posture began to ease, and his expression lost some of its fierceness. Then, at the closed door to the Oval Office reception area, he stopped.

So did everyone else who'd been following. None of them said a word.

"Mandy."

"Sir?" Playing a discreet shadow had been the right move after all. She could have exhaled in relief if she weren't giving him her undivided attention.

He did not turn, one hand on the doorknob, his head bowed in what must have been a fatigue of the very soul.

"Right now we all know very little. When news does come in, I'll make sure it gets to you. If you could keep the staff informed and contact the relevant parties, please."

<What - as in family members of the deceased?> That image crashed down on her shoulders with the weight of an anvil.

"Uh, yes, sir." Like she would even consider refusing his request. Besides, at least this way she'd *know* - and she'd be providing a vital service desperately needed in any crisis. The sacrifice of her personal comfort was worth it.

Afterwards, inevitably, would come the more mundane tasks. There must be a press briefing. <(That's CJ's job...)> The President had to address the nation and reassure everyone that he was all right. <(Toby and Sam do the writing...)> And the White House did not stop functioning even now; its day-to-day operations must still be orchestrated. <(By Leo, with Josh...)>

Despite her lack of direct personal experience as Press Secretary, Communications *or* Chief of Staff, in a crunch Mandy could handle all of this. She'd have to; Bartlet simply had no one else. And she never gave a job less than her best.

It wasn't the sudden workload that perturbed her. It was the very real possibility that these valuable people, these vital individuals, these *friends*, would not be coming back -

The President might have guessed at her turmoil, if just from her silence. He glanced back once... and in his tired eyes she read that same dogged acceptance of duty.

"Thanks," he said simply, quietly. Offering the only reward possible: his deep personal gratitude.

It was more than enough.

And he opened the door and entered. Resigned to facing the business that could not be postponed, even now.

No one followed him... but no one left just yet, either. And Mandy and the closest agents could all see inside.

Mrs. Landingham sat at her desk, exactly as usual. The fact that it was after eleven o'clock seemed to have no bearing here. None of them could picture this matronly woman as being anywhere else... or, whatever the circumstances, less than perfectly serene.

Until now. Now she looked up from her desk - and stiffened in her chair. And then, slowly, she stood.

From the first day of his tenure, Jed Bartlet had entered into a battle of wits with this unflappable employee of eighteen years' experience and four administrations: a battle he always lost yet ever re-engaged in the perpetual hope of one day catching her off-guard.

By her stunned expression, that day had come at last. Only not quite in the manner he might have hoped.

He fell back on his favorite method of putting people at ease. "Mrs. Landingham, you were absolutely right. As usual."

His personal secretary did not reply, visibly uneased by the blood he wore and the various levels of anguish he projected.

"I won't get to watch that softball game after all."

Perhaps that was a little twitch to her mouth, the faintest indication of a return smile.

"Mr. President -?" she had to ask, her voice quivering just a bit.

He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry. I look a lot worse than I am." And continued resolutely onward, heading for the open door to his right.

"Let *me* be the judge of that!" a clear voice announced from inside.

Their Commander-in-Chief stopped short on the threshold.

Edging inside reception, Mandy could see past him to the Oval Office's unmistakable interior. Abigail Bartlet still wore the stylish emerald-green dress from her earlier engagement this evening, almost an hour ago: an engagement that had been abruptly terminated for one of the most distressing reasons imaginable. Her perfect formal appearance brought an extra element of unreality to the moment, but you wouldn't expect a wardrobe change to rank high on one's priorities when informed that one's husband had just been shot at. She did not look up right away, precisely laying out medical instruments on the "Resolute" desk itself as though prepared for major field surgery on the spot. She appeared pale - no surprise there - yet fully in control, buttressed by a doctor's hard-learned professionalism.

For the longest protracted heartbeat, the President did not move.

Tightly composed, the First Lady turned at last to face him.

Their eyes locked, transmitting thoughts and emotions known to no one else. What could a married couple of over thirty years, and incidentally the most powerful couple in the world, say to each other at such an intensely personal time? When the primal elements of their being lay in near-ruin, and neither had been absolutely certain before this instant that they would ever see each other again?

He drew himself up just a bit, trying not to stagger.

She inhaled carefully between clenched teeth.

The spectators beyond could not look away, caught up in a snapshot of eternity that did not belong to them, yet touched their hearts as well.

Then Bartlet took one step forward, and swung the door to the Oval Office closed behind him. Shutting out everything else.

*****

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

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