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 10

********

~TIME INDEX: 02:20:49~

The George Washington University Medical Center had, over the years, acquired quite a reputation for medical excellence. And from its convenient location right in the beating heart of Washington, DC, it found plenty of opportunities to prove that to the highest strata of American society.

Tonight, it had risen to a national emergency with speed and precision, earning the gratitude of just about the entire country.

Sam wasn't impressed. He hated all hospitals, period. He could not comprehend how anyone might feel otherwise, even those who had chosen a career in medicine. Nothing else quite captured that unique bouquet of disinfectant, suffering, fear and despair. And although he naturally accepted the value of such aid in desperate times, he couldn't escape the impression of being smothered every minute he was inside.

This night was hardly going to be the exception.

He paced the same stretch of corridor ceaselessly, twenty paces each way, back and forth. His right arm rested in a white sling, his blazer hanging somewhat haphazardly off that shoulder. The earth-brown weave looked suspiciously torn and dark in spots, and only partially disguised the shredded shirtsleeve's corresponding reddish-brown stains. Every now and then he shivered, as yet unable to shake off the cold tendrils of fear. His face was still rather pale, which made the collection of treated scratches and nicks stand out even more vividly. And his hair managed to appear mussed despite its short length.

With every repetition of his self-appointed circuit, he laboriously dialed another number into his cellular phone, left-handed. And by the end of that circuit, every time, he hung up again without success.

Back and forth. Running through every number he could think of, one after another, over and over. Fighting futility and frustration in copious amounts. Chafing at this persistent uselessness, yet persevering anyway. Anything to keep his mind off the fact that he was in the emergency ward, and the reason *why* he was there.

Another call came up blank. Sam growled audibly and hit the disconnect stud. For a moment he stood still, eyes closed in the bone-deep weariness that he was finding harder and harder to keep at bay.

// CJ cried out, whether in fear or pain no one could say; something smashed the cruiser cherries into spectacular red and white fragments; Sam grimaced as he bore her down and more glass blew apart around them... //

Sam's eyes flew open with a start. And at once he started moving again, striving literally to outrun his own memories.

<I'm going to be haunted by that moment for the rest of my life.>

The slightest hint of noise or movement made him jump, as skittish as though he expected another gunfight to break out right here at any instant.

Off to one side, a black-suited Secret Service agent guarded the hall junction. Arms behind his back, virtually motionless, he might have been protecting a king's ransom in gold rather than an otherwise-empty corridor... and the occupants of the half-dozen recovery rooms running its sterile length.

By Sam's opinion, considering how much he personally valued the patients behind those plain numbered doors, there should be a lot more than one bodyguard present.

Actually, there were quite a few more about - just not in sight. This whole section of GWU had been locked down, and the other agents were keeping it that way. Hence the seeming lack of activity: those hospital personnel with direct business and proven clearance had already gained access and plunged into their work. No one else was allowed to come or go.

Nothing to do now but wait. And wait.

Back and forth. Pass the shut and ominously-silent doors one by one. Reach the end of the hall and about-face. Punch another number into the phone. Listen to the endless unanswered rings or aggravating busy signal. Hang up and try yet another.

The veil of fatigue steadily increased. But Sam pushed himself onward. Whenever he so much as paused, the past roared in and filled his senses with every bit as much realism as the first time around. And that, he couldn't bear.

He knew that the silent SSA followed his every move, alert for trouble on any front. The White House Deputy Communications Director ignored him as long as he could. Still, both of them knew who would break first...

At last Sam could stand it no longer. He swung around and approached his only possible source of information.

"Donnie, can't you tell me *anything?*"

It was a real plea - and not the first one, either. In less than two hours Sam had no idea how many times he's asked this same question. At first he'd tried to keep track, thinking that the growing repetitions would help him resist the urge to ask yet again, not wanting the agent to finally lose patience and pitch him down the hall. But the knowledge that Donnie had access to a two-way radio drew Sam as irresistibly as a moth to a flame, and sooner or later he simply had to try once more.

Typical of the Service, Donnie never shifted either in expression or in script. "Nothing, Mr. Seaborn."

Sam looked away with an exhalation that was almost a moan. What made him believe each time that he'd get a different answer?

In the returning quiet something *beeped*, and Sam twitched so violently he almost left the floor. Even Donnie reacted this time.

Then both looked at the cellular phone as it beeped again. Not from an incoming call, as Sam so dearly hoped... but from a new inability to receive *or* transmit at all. Its red charge light was blinking. The battery had been drained.

Sam's fist closed around the phone as though he was about to hurl it against the nearest wall. That would be pointless, and unwise in a secured area, but he hardly cared. His arm muscles tightened - and then went limp in defeat. And he let out a huge sigh.

"Well, there goes any chance of my being helpful, slim though it was."

Silence.

"The worst is that I don't even know if this thing was actually working before, or whether it broke after my gymnastic tumble to the pavement." Sam turned on the agent, his boyish features stiffening with resolve, and this time he would not accept no for an answer. "Either way, Donnie, like it or not, you're my court of last appeal."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I've already told you all I can. I can't call in for more details. It's too soon; we have to keep the channel clear as much as possible."

Everything has its fracture point, and Sam had just reached his. A lawyer's training kicked into overdrive, fueled by sheer exasperation. He kept his voice level yet relentless. "Oh, by all means, don't waste the air-time. No doubt this evening's events are already all over the news, so there can't be too many people in the world who don't know at least something of what happened. By now the White House must be deluged with calls from reporters, politicians, dignitaries and frightened family members, which might explain why *I* couldn't get through. Certainly the actual condition of the President and his daughter has to be played down at all costs to avoid panicking the populace. Never mind that one of my closest colleagues is lying at death's doorway after my all-star attempt to spare her that very fate, or that the White House Chief of Staff was admitted with a severe blood loss almost two hours later than he should have been. I know at least four people personally who deserve to learn about their relatives' injuries from a friend rather than the morning edition, which is a common courtesy that should be granted to *every* individual. I am effectively locked in here like everyone else by you *and* by the doctors, meaning I can't report to my boss - who, let it not be forgotten, is the single most powerful man in the world. And now my cell phone has effectively given up the ghost, and it happens that I have no cash with me at all, as I honestly did not anticipate needing change for public calls when I *have* a cell phone. To top it all off, the lines at the nursing stations are even more off-limits than your comlink. And I'd like to remind you that said comlink exists for the sole purpose of transmitting information about the President and those closest to him... which, incidentally, happens to include me."

Silence. The two men eyed each other, one catching his breath, the other still unmoved.

"I'm preaching to the choir here," Sam realized finally, quietly.

Donnie actually flashed a grin, just for one instant.

After another long moment, Sam nodded in utter resignation. He'd used the last of his energy and had nothing left. Slowly, he wandered over to the opposite wall and leaned his forehead against its cool surface. Eyes screwed tight against the constant kaleidoscope of pain and death.

// CJ crying out, guns exploding, glass flying, bodies diving to the ground... //

"Mr. Seaborn."

He spun around fast enough to suffer whiplash.

Donnie held something out to him. A piece of paper.

A five-dollar bill.

Sam stared at it uncomprehendingly for several seconds.

"Take it," the agent pressed, in a kinder tone than he'd yet used this evening. "Get some change, and find a pay phone."

Despite having been trained in eloquence, and having demonstrated his proficiency in the same mere heartbeats ago, Sam was at a total loss for words. What he finally did come up with would not win any kudos for speech-writing. "I never thought you guys carried money."

Donnie shrugged. "Normally, we're not supposed to. We can take what we need." That *had* to be a joke, even though he didn't smile this time. "But I always feel kind of naked without at least a few bucks on hand."

<Wow. They're human after all. Who'd have thought?>

He still offered the bill. "Go on. Call whomever you can. It'll do *you* good, too."

Shaking his head in bemusement, Sam accepted the loan. "Thanks. A lot."

"Don't mention it. *Ever.*" And some of the old Secret Service dominance returned.

"Gotcha." Sam finally managed a grin of his own. "I don't suppose you want to be looked upon as a walking bank machine, right?"

Donnie was trying to regain his imposing image. With only partial success. "You got that right. *Sir.*"

*****

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

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