And The World Stood Still

by:SheilaVR

Character(s): Jed & Co.
Category(s): General
Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.
Author's Note:I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place.

When the bedroom door swung open, three heads turned fast. Seeing the Chief of Staff's familiar features and unalarmed attitude, the Secret Service agent standing several yards down the hall relaxed. So did Zoey and Charlie, but their smiles were spreading.

Leo understood those expressions a lot better now. Still, he didn't let on just yet. "Come on in, you two. You're *wanted*."

To the uninitiated, it sounded like the President's status was definitely improving. The agent observed silently as all three of them re-entered, and the door closed tight.

"I think someone's been withholding information from me." Leo pretended to give Charlie his angry-boss glower. Being such an old friend of the family, he had watched Zoey grow up... and knew that he could no longer intimidate *her*.

The President's personal aide had been subjected to the Bartlet brand of humor often enough; he was learning to fall on his feet. "Just following orders. The President outranks you."

"And so does the President's daughter," Zoey put in. At Leo's double take she couldn't prevent a giggle. "Do you have a problem with that, *Mr. McGarry?*"

The President stepped into view from the side, obviously being careful to stay hidden whenever that door opened. "Now you see what I go through these days, Leo," he commented before his Chief of Staff could recover.

"Then you have my sympathies, Mr. President."

"Hey!" Zoey objected, trying not to laugh.

"You set yourself up for that one, sweetheart," her father declared merrily.

"And I hear tell that you two earned a couple of Academy Awards this weekend," Leo added, giving the two youngsters a look of fond admiration.

Zoey blushed a bit, and glanced self-consciously towards the bed. "Mom too. It was hard showing a stranger the affection everyone expected to see, even though he really *did* look like my dad."

"Glad to hear it," Bartlet grinned. "I'd hate to think I was that easily replaced." He had dragged a square dinner table into the open and was placing four straight-back chairs around it. As relaxed as though it were customary for the President to move furniture.

The three of them approached, wondering what that quick mind had in store now.

"Charlie, I won't be able to get out of using a wheelchair for the next couple of weeks at least. Are you up to providing propulsion some of the time?"

"Of course, sir."

Bartlet crossed the room and removed something from a drawer in the end table beside the bed. "You're sure? Some people would call this conspiracy, you know."

"Yes, sir." Charlie shifted feet, a little uneasily. "To be honest, after what I saw at the crash scene, I've had to remind myself quite a few times since that it *wasn't* you."

Their Chief Executive stopped short. Her own smile gone, Zoey moved a bit closer until she could touch Charlie's arm, and Leo watched compassionately from the other side.

After a moment, Bartlet nodded. "I know it won't be easy to forget that anytime soon," he said softly, seriously. "And I'm really sorry you had to witness it in the first place. But for now, we all have some major convincing to do. Truth is, I've been trapped in this deception as effectively as if I *was* in that crash. We'll all have to play by the same rules. If you can *stop* reminding yourself for awhile, you should find it easier."

And he paused, considerate as always. "Is that asking too much, Charlie? I'd understand if you feel it is."

The young aide glanced at the other two people present, awaiting his decision.

And straightened, a soldier taking his oath of allegiance. "No, sir. I'll be fine."

Three smiles broke out in unison.

"Good. Besides, I'll also need you to remind me that I'm *supposed* to be convalescing. So if I show a little too much energy or something, give my chair a kick, okay?"

A grin slipped past Charlie's control this time. "Yes, *sir*."

"Does that freedom of correction apply to me as well?" Leo wondered mildly.

His old friend glared at him. "No, it does *not*."

Grinning as well, Zoey nudged under her father's arm and hugged him. "This will be fun: everyone lording it over *you* for a change."

The President scowled at her. "Don't get any ideas, honey. A wheelchair won't prevent me from tightening your curfew even more."

Then his humor faded, and he drew a bit away.

"As my fellow conspirators and accomplices, I want you all to hear this. It's stunning - and downright scary - how a simple, innocent and natural choice, by a father who just wanted to see his daughter on a special occasion, has erupted into a secret capable of rocking the whole country. This is a huge PR gamble I've gotten us into; if it comes out, it could very easily cost me all public support - not mention destroying the personal trust that others have come to have in me. And I feel bad enough about abusing that trust once already."

Bartlet studied the three of them gravely. "If it so much as *threatens* to come out, I will make my stand, tell the truth and take the heat. That's the only thing I can possibly do before my friends, my staff, and the people. I refuse to perjure myself. I owe all of you that much courage at least."

His daughter, his best friend and his personal aide did not move. But there was apprehension on their faces... just imagining the furore that would result. And approval, too... knowing that their leader would do the right thing, regardless of the price tag attached.

"That also applies if a real emergency crops up, where an executive decision is needed. I'm prepared - for the moment - to preserve this illusion, which means letting the Vice-President have his shot. There's a limit to what he can do in such a short period. But I will not risk the welfare of the nation to spare myself some criticism." Pause. "I just thank God that nothing happened over these past two days when Leo was in the dark as well."

Leo's features tightened at the very thought.

Zoey fidgeted, looking decidedly guilty.

Her father saw the protest coming. "Don't say it, Zoey. Don't even *think* it. This was my decision all along, and I'll be the one to deal with it."

She hesitated, then managed a grin and hugged him again. "Okay."

"Okay." He hugged back. And then raised his head. "One more thing: if you guys pick up on the slightest suspicion by anyone, tell me."

The two men before him nodded their firm acceptance.

"Fine. From here on in I'm going to immerse myself into my role so deeply that I will actually forget it isn't real." Good idea, since the greatest acting fell to him. One little slip in a brief moment of forgetfulness would blow everything out of the water.

Finally, Bartlet smiled. "And I have been permanently cured of wanting to even *consider* such a deception ever again."

Everyone smiled back. So much the better; being a politician was quite dangerous enough without upping the ante like this. Had the venture succeeded, it might have encouraged a repeat performance.

"All right, enough pessimism." Now, with a flourish that threw off the somber mood, the President set a deck of playing cards and a stack of poker chips on the table. "*Lady* and gentlemen, take your seats." They moved to comply, realizing what he had in mind. "I'll probably regret this in future years, but if my daughter's going to learn poker at all, she might as well learn it right. And I want at least one good game on my last night of physical freedom for quite some time."

"You'd better hope we don't get any unexpected visitors," Leo warned only half in jest as he sat down with them. "I don't know how you'll explain *this*."

"That's what the Secret Service are supposed to be for. If necessary, I'll just duck under the bed and *you* can take the blame." Ignoring their chuckles, Bartlet opened the deck.

"Sure, that's what *I'm* here for." Leo divvied up the chips. "Oh, just so you know: I was advised by your staff belowstairs to check for any potential signs that the President had been replaced by an imposter."

All four laughed together at just how close that feigned suspicion came to the truth.

The White House Chief of Staff lifted his hands helplessly. "What am I supposed to tell them *now?*"

"Tell them the truth, of course!" The President thumped his chest. "The real me has been here all along. Longer than the imposter, in fact. Now enough about work. Charlie, from this moment any talk of business is off-limits. You have my permission to throw something at Leo *or* at me if either of us brings it up again."

The young man couldn't help a smile. "I'll be sure to take that task seriously, sir."

"Fine. Oh - and don't *anyone* mention this party to my wife."

Zoey laughed. "No problem, Dad." She leaned both elbows on the table, her eyes sparkling with the same devilish sense of amusement. "You do realize, however, that you're about to create your own worst enemy?"

Father and daughter traded smirks. "Sweetie, I'm *counting* on it. Some of the senior staff have been getting way too good lately, and I have to recoup my losses *somehow*. You're going to be my secret weapon." He started to deal.

Leo shook his head in resignation, grinning all the while.

Then the President sobered again. And almost involuntarily, his vision drifted back towards the occupied bed not far away.

"In any event, I want to be here when Mr. Preston wakes up. He and I haven't had a chance to chat yet, and the odds are good we'll never meet again."

*****

"No way. *No way.*"

"He's crazy!"

"It's the drugs talking."

"Are they *sure* there's no brain damage?"

"You can't be serious!"

Leo cut off this barrage. It was a *little* more vociferous than most senior staff meetings around here. The decidedly late hour might bear some of the blame, but not all of it. Of course, everyone had been waiting eagerly for his take on their leader's general state of health. What they heard, however, only raised fresh concern.

"Whether *I* am or not doesn't matter. The President *is* serious. He's not crazy, he's not mentally deficient, he was completely lucid the entire time. And he told me to tell you to co-operate."

"This is totally out of character." Toby spoke quietly, but he spoke for all others present. "Are you *certain* the man upstairs isn't a ringer?"

Leo's mouth twitched, as though fighting back a smile. "Oh, he's the real thing, all right. If I even suspected that, do you think I wouldn't do something about it?"

In fact, he appeared to have shed a few years' worth of anxiety over the last hour.

"But co-operating with Hoynes?" Sam pressed in enduring disbelief. "Has he lost all interest in the welfare of the nation?"

"If not that, then certainly in *us*," CJ said morosely.

Leo shook his head. "Try to face reality, folks. The Constitution is explicit, and even the President has to abide by it. If he isn't well enough to uphold his responsibilities, mentally *or* physically, then the Vice-President stands in. End of story."

"You mean, end of all we've accomplished," Sam corrected. "How much do you *really* trust Hoynes, Leo?"

"More than just about anyone else around here, it seems - including the President himself. But then, I've worked with Hoynes longer. I wouldn't have brought him on the ticket in the first place if I didn't think he was a good politician in his own right. All of which is beside the point. We don't want the public to know that the President and the *Vice*-President can hardly stand the sight of each other, do we?"

"I thought we were supposed to be honest," CJ groused.

Leo deflected her anger without flinching. "We *are* being honest. We're following the rules, and we're getting the job done."

"No way will Hoynes let us get the job done *right*!" Josh insisted. "I was there with you Friday. The man's on a power trip!"

"But he's not suicidal."

"Do you honestly believe you can influence him that much?" Mandy demanded. She was the only one present not an actual party member, and as a result more objective. A bit.

Leo sighed. "I don't know. But you can bet that I'll do my level best."

"Face it, Leo." Toby sounded like the voice of doomsday. "This is precisely what Hoynes has been dreaming of for a long, long time. He's not going to listen to you, he's not even going to listen to the President... and he's sure not going to listen to us."

"We deal with it." The Chief of Staff's tone was inflexible. So were his words. "That's what the President wants."

Silence crashed upon them like a dropped anvil. Clearly all the arguments in the world would not change that overriding fact.

"As for just *how* we deal with it... that's something else."

Five heads jerked back. Leo now wore his crafty expression - a cool calculation honed from decades of political experience.

Seeing that everyone's attention had been recaptured, he went on. "Our battle plan is straightforward: we give Hoynes the courtesy and the support he *won't* be expecting. We will work with his people, we will abide by his decisions, we will provide the same quality of input that we always give to the President. We are going to show our VP that we have the best interests of the nation at heart, regardless of who's running it, and that we're doing our utmost to help him become the *next* best President around."

Josh made a contemptuous noise. The glances he got were full of agreement.

Leo continued with even more emphasis. "Hoynes doesn't yet realize just how much acclimatization is in store for him. He's been safely out of the spotlight for some time. He hasn't got past the public prestige of the Oval Office to the painstaking details that every President has to deal with. He's not going to have *completely* free reign around here, no matter what he thinks. It's your task to prove to him that this isn't a one-man show, that your assistance is vital to getting anything done, and that he needs to rely on everyone's contribution. We're not polarized against him personally - and we don't spend our days around here just sucking up to the boss, either. If he hasn't already figured that out, then it's high time he learned. Whatever mistakes he makes will be his, not yours.

"The President could be back on his feet in as little as a month. We can survive Hoynes for that long. Just do your jobs, and get him through it. Get *us* through it."

After this pep talk, no one else objected aloud. Still, there were less than delighted attitudes on all sides.

"And keep private written records of *everything*."

Again, everyone refocused in a hurry.

Leo nodded, tight-lipped. "This is a test."

A test - to see if the Vice-President could be trusted with such a colossal and delicate task. If he could put aside his own ambitions and concentrate on doing his best for America, at least for awhile. If he could channel his own considerable talents honestly for duty's sake.

Or if he was President Bartlet's direst enemy.

And any enemy of the President...

The senior staff traded looks again. And their eyes began to kindle, and their smiles became positively conspiratorial.

*****

Upstairs, the man lying in the presidential bed finally stirred, one muscle at a time. With painful slowness, his eyes cracked open, meandering and clouded. His brain didn't seem to want to work quite right, either. He took a long time to register on the ornate ceiling, the tall windows, the portraits on every wall. They were familiar in some way, but not really *known*.

Sounds filtered gradually through the fog. Regular, high-pitched beeps. A steady, electrical hum. A woman's voice, strong and all-business. A man's voice, firm yet gentle.

"His EEG is as stable as we can expect. I can't do anything else right now. A few minutes' talking will be a good gauge, but don't overdo it."

"Thanks, Abbey."

Physical discomfort started to penetrate and localize: right leg, left arm, chest, head. Yet he was too utterly strengthless to move more than a few fingers. The right hand seemed more responsive of the two - but why did it feel so *heavy*? He managed somehow to shift the whole forearm across his torso, slide it up the blanket in short stages to his throat, then with a supreme effort over his face. The fingers responded sluggishly, but at last he could detect his own skin... as well as gauze and cloth where skin should be.

His confusion multiplied. Where was he? What had happened to him? Why was he so weak? Who had just spoken? How did he come to be in pain, bandaged? His hand fell back limply, exhausted, trembling in despair. He was helpless, frightened, and totally alone -

"Hello, Tyler."

The man's voice again. Nearby, and speaking a name he responded to instinctively. Someone who could explain, for good or bad. He tried to turn that way at once, to find out *now*. His neck was unwilling to obey. Left with no alternative, fighting panic at what had been done to him without his knowledge, and what may yet be in store, his eyes swiveled to the right.

A dark shadow loomed ominously close and hideously vague. Still, the voice had been friendly enough. He struggled to realign his point of focus. After a few seconds the image sharpened into dark brown hair, a green sweater, brilliant blue eyes, and a smile that certainly *looked* kind. But was it a ruse?

Who...

Something finally sank in, widening his eyes in disbelief. *Himself?*

"Jed Bartlet."

And just like that, the confusion was swept away. That name had been the key. The name, and the face they shared.

This time his neck responded - must have been the jolt - letting his head rotate several degrees to starboard for a better view.

That face - an older version of *his* face - did not change. Either this was one spectacular dream... or else he had to be in the presence of -

"Missah Pres'den'!" was the best his raw throat could do despite the shock.

The smile broadened. "Easy, there; save your strength. You've really been through the wringer." The voice was familiar, even to a Canadian. "And I blame myself."

Blame? That didn't make sense. He still didn't know what had happened, but it seemed rather unlikely that the President of the United States could have been the direct cause.

He tried to swallow, to speak articulately. "Nah..."

"Say, would you like a drink?"

Nodding was almost impossible, but his change of expression accepted the offer. The face moved away, glass clinked and liquid whispered beyond his sight. Then a deep rumble vibrated through the bed, his upper half was slowly raised several degrees, and a straw touched his dry lips. He sipped, with effort, then with relief.

"Not too much, now; you'll shock your system."

The cool water tasted so good that he was tempted to ignore that advice. But then he remembered whose advice it was. And stopped, breathing faster from what *should* have taken no effort at all. The cup and straw were removed, and the face returned.

"Better?"

"Yeah." The ease with which words now came surprised him. "Thank you... sir."

"Good." The bed's new angle was a welcome change to his protesting back and eased the strain on his eyes. The President - it must really be him - sat right beside him, as natural as could be. "Tyler, do you know what has happened?"

He thought about that. Images chased each other around in his unsteady brain. None of them held still long enough to make much sense. "Uh... not... sure..."

"A week ago, a guy named Ron Butterfield approached you in Syracuse with a request on my behalf." The voice was gentle, considerate. Like a stabilizing anchor in rough seas. "He asked if you'd be willing to visit Washington - and be President for an evening."

He closed his eyes and felt around in the mists for a resonance of memory. And, bit by bit, the memory drifted up into the light.

"Oh... yeah... a hotel... a car... hate driving in Washington..."

"Actually, *you* weren't driving. That was my private limousine."

It was coming back faster. "A limo... a chauffeur... a bright light...?"

"That's it, Tyler." The President smiled again, as though absolutely thrilled that he recalled anything. "You'd just left the hotel, pretending to be me, and the limo was taking you back to your own place. And on the way... some fool ran you off the road."

His eyes widened. This time, in renewed fear. "A crash... breaking glass - "

"Hey, relax. That was two days ago. It's over." The voice grew stronger, steadier. Beating back the fresh waves of panic. "I'll admit, you were rather banged up. But you're going to be all right."

He forced his weighted hand to finger again the bandage around his temple. And this time, he discovered the tube feeding into his nose. There was still no response anywhere else.

"How... bad?"

The President wasn't smiling now. But the voice held firm, comforting. "You've got quite the collection of fractures: in your right leg, your left arm, a couple of vertebrae and half a dozen ribs. Also, you took a nasty crack to the head, there are a few patches where you got in the way of some flying metal, and you must be bruised up one side and down the other. You'll be on oxygen for awhile yet, until your lungs are stronger. There were a few internal complications, but my doctor has already taken care of those. What's left will all heal eventually." The face moved a bit closer still, holding his eyes. "You seem to be pretty with it - and you don't know how glad I am to see that."

He just lay there, thoughts in a whirl. He'd been virtually shattered to pieces... and the President had put him back together...

"How do you feel, Tyler?"

He thought about *that*. And said the first thing that came to mind. "Tired."

"I'll bet. And here I am talking your ear off."

"S'okay..." He didn't want the President to leave. And he did owe the President more detail than one word. "Hurts... here and there..."

"They can give you something for that if it gets bad. To be honest, the pain is a good sign. Trust me. My wife's a doctor."

A bell went off. "First Lady?"

The President's smile grew broader. "Herself. I'll arrange an introduction later. She's been keeping a close eye on you. Anyway, she admits to the pros and cons of heavy medication. Too much and you can't think straight. Myself, I'll take the pain."

He saw the virtue in that: about what one might expect of a world leader. A standard to aspire to. "A - agreed."

Speaking of pain... "What about - others?"

"Well, the guy who caused all of this walked away. Wouldn't you know it? And the driver of the limo doesn't have much to complain about, either." The voice paused, any hint of humor now completely gone. "I'm afraid, though, that the agent riding with you didn't fare so well. He's still holding his own - but even if he does make it, he'll probably never walk again."

Silence, deep and regretful.

"He tried... protect me."

The voice lightened again. "That's what the paramedics all insisted they heard you say in the ambulance. We were wondering if it was delirium." Pause. "And I'll admit that I am glad you didn't say anything else that would've been harder to explain."

He couldn't get away from the thought of that bodyguard trying so desperately to save *him*. "He shouldn't'a..."

"That was his job. He knew exactly what he's supposed to do in such a situation."

"But... he knew I wasn't - he didn't have to risk himself... just for me..."

"Oh, you deserved it, Tyler. We sure didn't want a dead impersonator, for your sake *and* ours. Whether Kevin Duane had time to remember that, or whether he forgot and reacted instinctively, it don't really matter. By saving your life, for all intents and purposes he also saved mine." Pause. "Which means that, in a very real sense, so did you."

The right hand moved in a weak wave of dismissal. "My job, too..."

"Well, that wasn't intended, but I won't argue with you right now." The smile returned. "So, a belated welcome to the White House."

His heart jolted again. "Huh?"

"I'm afraid it was the best hospitality the American Government could come up with on such short notice." A light chuckle. "Too bad you haven't seen more of the place. Unfortunately, this will have to be your only night here. In a few more hours some of my people are going to move you to a safer place closer to your home, so you can recuperate in peace. You do realize it's kind of dangerous to have *two* Presidents around?"

"Yeah - sir." The whole conversation was so laid-back that he had to keep reminding himself of just who was speaking to him.

"Right. And believe me, peace can be hard to find in this place. Anyway, these friends of mine are going to stay with you for awhile. They'll contact anyone who may be worried about your absence, and they'll look after your needs until you're one hundred percent better." The voice paused, before resuming on a more subdued note. "I feel really bad about your ordeal, Tyler. This is the least I can do."

His mental connections were getting a bit elusive. Gamely he struggled on. "Thought it'd be fun... a Canadian for President..."

"I am so sorry it hasn't been *more* fun for you. I want you to know that we honestly believed there'd be no risk in it at all. This double nonsense is hardly the theatrical precaution one might expect. Believe me, I prefer to fight my own battles. And as a rule I refuse to play fast and lose with the public." Again, a pause. "I just thought..."

He heard the regret, and made the connection from his briefing. It seemed ages ago. "Your family. Understood." Another image popped into mind and he voiced it. "Our Prime Minister... isn't quite so smothered."

"Well, if you speak to him any time soon, tell him I said he should count his blessings."

Like there was much chance of that. But after playing President, just about anything was possible. "... Yes... sir."

"And I'm counting *my* blessings right now. I owe you one, Tyler. And so does every other citizen of the United States, even if they never know it."

He didn't mind. He was having a harder time minding anything. So tired...

Then he gradually registered on the warm pressure now being applied to his right fingers.

The President was shaking his hand.

The face was smiling more warmly than ever, and the voice was soft. Full of meaning.

"Thank you."

He had to remember this... had to lock it away... and never... forget...

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

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