Shadow of the Gun

by:SheilaVR

Character(s): The Senior Staff
Category(s): General
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: What would YOU do to protect the President of the United States?”

As these two old friends entered the Oval Office some time later, it would have been evident to any observer just what topic was under discussion. The mid-sized, flesh-toned medical dressing rode in splendid prominence upon the presidential brow.

"You know," Leo commented merrily, "one of my favorite pictures of JFK shows him with a band-aid just like yours. Apparently he banged his head while crawling under the furniture of this very room. Playing hide-and-seek with young John - or was it Caroline?"

Bartlet didn't even honor him with a glance. "You're doing a lousy job of changing the subject."

"I'm merely pointing out that there's an historical precedent here," Leo persisted, obviously enjoying himself. "You should feel proud to uphold it."

The President moved behind his desk, where no one else dared follow, and suddenly fixed his Chief of Staff with a baleful look under lowered brows. For all his famed joviality, this man could be every bit as formidable as his office suggested, and then some.

"I'm fully aware of the historical precedents attached, thank you. What I'm feeling right now is *anger*."

From that cold turn of voice, Leo realized he was pressing his luck a little hard for safety's sake, and came to full attention without rebutting. For a moment, very much like any other subordinate brought up on charges.

"The Secret Service have a specific function to perform, Leo. And that includes protecting *you* as well. Or had you forgotten?"

This was no time to take liberties. "No, sir."

"Well, you could've fooled *me*. You didn't exactly make it easy on them today." The President likewise held himself straight and tall, as though delivering judgment. "In a security breach you and I are supposed to present *two* targets, not one. Would you care to explain just what you were thinking earlier?"

He'd thanked Margaret for the exact same sentiment with rather more grace than this. Leo stood his ground, looking wounded at such treatment and at being asked such a question in the first place. "Offhand, sir, I believe I was thinking about preserving your life, so that you would actually be *able* to chew me out about this at a later time."

Bartlet planted both fists on his desk blotter and leaned closer. "It's not your job to protect me, Leo!"

Rising to the challenge, his Chief of Staff stepped forward and mirrored that stance perfectly. Their faces were inches apart. "Friendship aside, sir, I think it should quite naturally be considered the duty of *any* right-thinking American citizen!"

"Well, then, *friendship aside*, I really don't enjoy the thought of *anyone* dying in my defense. If such a sacrifice does become necessary, at least it should be paid by people who are trained for that task and know the risks!"

"Well, sir, you'll please excuse me if I say I don't feel very repentant about the order of my priorities in such a situation." Formality can be a powerful weapon between friends.

The subtext beneath their locked gaze and surging emotions filled the Oval Office as loudly as any words actually spoken.

The President's blue eyes narrowed. "Answer me truthfully, Leo: which one of us is more vital to running this place?"

His best friend paused, lips pursing in almost theatrical consideration. Bartlet quickly lost patience with this attempt at levity. "All right, you don't have to hesitate *that* much."

Leo straightened again, both to ease the confrontation and to confirm his lower rank. "Okay, *you* are." Which certainly *should* be the expected response.

Hi boss heaved a sigh of exasperation. "And after all that deep thought, you still got the answer wrong."

"*Mr. President - *" Placing rather exaggerated emphasis on The Man's exalted position.

"Leo, if anything happened to me, you'd still be here to keep the whole country working smoothly."

"Sir, if anything happened to you, I'd be working with the *Vice*-President."

The President hesitated at *that* thought. "Mm. Good point. Of course," he countered, his nature's demand for humor reasserting itself at last, "if anything happened to *you*, *I'd* have to work with him."

Leo finally permitted himself a grin. "My condolences. And I'm *really* sorry I wouldn't be there to watch."

Both looked aside from each other, almost guiltily, and a sense of returning comradeship filled the void of anger so recently between them.

At length Bartlet lowered his head and exhaled. "What were we arguing about?"

His Chief of Staff cast a glance at the ceiling, as though the answer hung there above their heads. It was a rare occasion indeed when they almost came to blows over an issue. That such an altercation would be about which one of them most wanted to protect the other... What better definition of friendship? "Slipped my mind."

The President drew himself up as well. "Look, Leo, I can't do without you. The *Government* can't do without you. And even though Hoynes may *think* he can, he just doesn't know any better." He gave his old friend the old warm smile. "So ease up on the heroics, will you? I don't want another scare like that one anytime soon."

Reassured that everything was back to normal, Leo replied with his patented look of innocence. "Well, sir, I'll try. You know, anything for the welfare of the nation. I suppose *not* protecting the President *could* fall into that category... "

"All right, already." They shared a chuckle. "Oh, and do me a favor: keep an eye on Margaret, okay? If she's trying out for the Secret Service, I want to know it."

* * *

Meanwhile, just one closed door away, Margaret faced her own war of self-justification. One of the agents who had been present at the *incident* an hour past was conducting the required official investigation, and doing his level best to prove her crazy at the same time.

"How could you see something that detailed from across the room? Especially with people passing in front of you?"

"I don't know!" she insisted. "I was standing here." And she demonstrated, marking places and movement with her left hand. Her right now resided in a tensor bandage and arm sling, in tribute to her presidential tackle. "I started moving towards Mr. McGarry, to get his attention before he could leave, just as the President and you four went by. Mr. McGarry was on the President's right, so I naturally had to look in the direction of the windows to make eye contact with him." She pointed to the last patio door with conviction. "Right there."

Even Mrs. Landingham, back at her desk and trying to ignore them both, glanced that way. So did the worker crouched beside her desk, re-potting the palm tree Sam had upset.

And, as before, there was nothing to see.

"You're *sure* it wasn't just a shadow?"

"Well, if it *was*, it was an almighty black one."

"It *is* a very sunny day," Mrs. Landingham supplied quietly, trying to be helpful but not a nuisance. "Nice, dark shadows."

"And the sun has moved quite a bit over the last hour," the agent positively groused, as though that celestial body were to blame. "*And*, there's nothing close to the outside wall that could possibly cast such a precise shadow near the windows."

"All right, then - how about something in here?" Margaret threw a critical eye at any surface that might provide the answer.

"The sun's quite high at 10:30 AM; if there is something in here that reflected it, it would have to be something low." With an air of humoring this flighty employee, the agent glanced across the carpet, found no inspiration, and moved on to the tables. Looking for anything that would have been within the sun's reach at midmorning.

"How's your hand, dear?" Mrs. Landingham asked during this interlude.

Margaret managed a single-shoulder shrug. "Just a sprain. I suddenly have a great sympathy for football players. And I will say that I've never been so glad to be left-handed."

"Excuse me, please, ma'am."

The President's secretary sat back in some surprise as the agent turned his attention to her desk. He touched a shiny paperweight, and then her polished nameplate. Neither of them, however, could have likely volleyed a sunbeam upward enough to resemble human height.

Until he picked up a small picture frame of Mrs. Landingham's twin sons - and its glass pane sent a flash of pure sunshine back into his eyes.

"You know," he admitted readily enough, blinking around the after-images, "this just might have done it. The sun would've been right on this desk at that time."

"Great!" However, Margaret's pleasure soured quickly. "But what on earth cast the shadow of the gun barrel I saw? What around here even *looks* like a gun?"

"Has anything in this room been moved since the incident?" the agent demanded.

"Not a thing," Mrs. Landingham assured him. "Even the palm's back where it belonged."

In the sudden quiet that followed her statement, three pairs of eyes flashed together in mutual comprehension.

The worker, on his knees with a trowel, noticed this peculiar silence and looked up in wonder. To find all three of them focused on him.

"What?" he asked uneasily.

"Where *exactly* does that thing go?" the agent demanded.

"Uh... " Rather intimidated that he should suddenly be the center of attention, the worker hesitated before moving the huge pot over another handspan or so. "Here."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. This indentation on the carpet is from the pot's weight."

"All right. And which way was it facing?"

"Um... " The worker scratched his head in total uncertainty. Even the President's secretary, who sat beside it every day, couldn't be sure.

The agent sighed. "Okay, we'll do it the hard way." He turned Mrs. Landingham's frame into the sun again, adjusting its angle in his hands until it flung silver light upon the palm's fronds. Sure enough, a sharp shadow hit the opposite wall, right beside the last patio door.

However, nothing in the shadow's shape looked even remotely like a weapon.

Yet.

"Now rotate the pot. Slowly."

Completely confused, the worker complied. The entire plant waved with each motion, eliciting a snap from the agent to shift even more carefully. Inch by tedious inch, the palm assumed a different orientation to the wall, and the shadow changed accordingly. Branches and fronds slid around each other, creating multiple patterns of light and dark -

All at once, Margaret couldn't suppress a gasp. Much like last time.

And much like last time, everyone froze for one instant.

On the wall, near the last patio door, two of the most outreaching branches joined with their combined fronds to form the near-perfect image of a shadowy pistol on white paint, exactly as though a handgun were aimed at them right now from directly outside.

Chapters: 1 | 2