The Pieces of my Life
May 2000
Rating: PG
Fandom: CSI/West Wing
Pairing: Greg Sanders/Ellie Bartlet
Feedback: Makes my day
Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.
Archive: At my site Checkmate (http://helsinkibaby.ahkay.net)
, Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.
Summary: The President is shot.
It is May 2000, and Greg is kicking back at home, not looking forward
to going into work, is leaving heading to the lab for the last possible moment,
even though he knows that he could stand to go in earlier, and probably should.
The DNA lab is more backlogged than he can ever remember it, with both Ecklie
and Brass, the day and graveyard shift supervisors, telling him that their cases
take priority. It's a nasty political mess, and it only gets worse when you
consider that Brass's top criminalist, Gil Grissom, is also clashing with
Ecklie, and also with Brass. Greg's not stupid, he can see the upcoming blood
on the walls, and he doesn't relish getting caught in the crossfire, though he
knows that it's inevitable that one of the lab techs, if not more, surely will.
It is just half past six in the evening, and he's just finished dinner.
Nothing complicated, microwave mac and cheese, the food of kings, and the
biggest decision on his mind right now is whether to do the washing up before
or after he grabs a cup of coffee and reads the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. Of course, he knows
that if he does that, he'll likely forget to do the washing at all, and then
when John gets home, he'll bitch and moan about having to do Greg's cleaning as
well as his own - it's a scenario that's played itself out innumerable times
since their Stanford undergrad days, and Greg doesn't see it changing any time
in the near or distant future.
It's not even a choice really; when it comes to coffee and Sports Illustrated, or the washing up,
well, washing up is going to lose every time, and so at a quarter to seven,
when the phone rings, he's sitting on the couch, feet up on the coffee table,
music blaring from the speakers on the wall.
The music is loud enough that he can barely hear the phone, ends up
lunging for it, nearly spilling his coffee in his haste to put it down on the
table. With one hand, he holds the phone up to his ear, with the other, he
reaches for the stereo remote, punches the volume down a couple of notches. He
repeats "Hello," a couple of times, just in case it's someone
important, though knowing his luck, it's going to be Brass, calling him in to
work early.
It's not Brass though, because Brass would never ask, "Are you
watching tv?"
"No man," Greg says, laughing and relaxing, because it's not
Brass, it's John, and somewhere in the back of his mind, it registers that John
sounds different somehow, not stressed, like he sometime sounds when he calls
from work, but worried, almost fearful. "Just finishing dinner, listening
to some tunes…"
"Turn on the tv Greg."
It's not that John never interrupts him; in fact, he does it
frequently. But he's never done it in that tone of voice, the tone of an order
being barked out, and the shock of the sound moves the niggling suspicion of
John's emotional state from the back to the front of Greg's mind.
"Why?" he asks, scared himself now, already reaching for the
television remote, which of course, he can't find. He's scrabbling around,
looking under cushions and yesterday’s newspapers and a half-eaten packet of
biscuits, and that's when he hears John make a noise of pure impatience.
"Just turn it on."
"What channel?" Greg asks, when he finally finds the remote
nestled in the pages of -of course- TV
Guide.
"It doesn't matter," John replies tersely, and Greg's about
to question that when he manages to turn on the television and sees what's
happening there.
A news ticker runs across the bottom of the screen, Paula Francis
behind the desk, looking like the walking dead. But it's the picture on the top
right hand corner of the screen, the words super-imposed over it, that dries up
all the moisture in Greg's throat, while simultaneously making all the air in
the room evaporate.
A picture of a smiling President Josiah Bartlet, the words "Shots
fired" underneath it.
"Jesus…" Greg breathes, and the voice doesn't sound a thing
like his own. "When?"
"A few minutes ago," John tells him. "He was at some
kind of event, someone shot at them as they were leaving… they don't know too
much yet..."
His friend is talking, and Paula Francis is talking, but Greg can't
hear either of them clearly, is a prisoner to his feverish thoughts.
"Ellie…" is the first, the name repeating over and over, bouncing
around his brain, unleashing a thousand memories, all of which fade into the
background when tape starts rolling, shots of the President and his entourage,
some faces that Greg recognises, exiting a large stone building, smiling,
waving at the crowd. He sees President Bartlet shaking hands, then there's the
sound of gunfire, the camera tilts, starts moving back and forth as if an NYPD Blue cameraman was being
particularly avant-garde. Then there is only screaming and chaos, and Greg has
to close his eyes, because he can't look at that.
It's then that a second thought enters his mind, bringing with it a
cool breeze of sanity. "Baltimore… she's in Baltimore, at John's Hopkins,
you talked to her yesterday…" She'd mentioned something then about a
killer class that she had the next day, how she was going to be up all night
completing her reading. He'd made a joke about how she should skip it, and she'd
laughed, telling him that she couldn't afford to.
There was no way she would have made the trip to Washington.
With that, Greg finds he can breathe a little easier, that his heart
isn’t racing quite as quickly.
So he can hear see quite clearly Paula Francis pause in mid-sentence,
put her hand up to her ear, as if her producer is talking into it. He can see
her freeze momentarily, swallow hard before turning unblinking eyes to the
camera. Greg has a nasty feeling that he’s not going to like what comes next and
finds himself holding his breath, so he can hear her twice as clearly when she
says, "We are receiving unconfirmed reports that the President is
currently being brought to George Washington hospital to be treated for a
gunshot wound… we have no word at this time as to the location of the wound, or
how serious it is… I repeat, we are being told that the President is on his way
to George Washington hospital…"
"You heard that update?" John's voice breaks through Greg's
thoughts, and he nods dumbly.
"Shit," is his most coherent thought, and he's doing well at
that.
"And the horse it rode in on," John mutters. "Look, I'm
gonna let you go… tell her I'm thinking of her, ok?"
"Sure thing." The line goes dead then, and Greg's grateful for
John's words, because they've told him what he should do now. Numb fingers
working surprisingly well, he dials a Baltimore number that he knows by heart,
isn't surprised in the least when he hears her familiar voice on the answering
machine.
"Ell, it's me," he says, and he's surprised at how normal his
voice sounds. "Look, I know that the Secret Service have probably
transported you to Alaska or somewhere safe like that, and I don't know when
you're going to get this… but I just wanted to talk to you. So… I'll keep
trying. OK? Take care of yourself… oh, and John says hi."
He hangs up then, waits for Ellie to call him back, though he's not
expecting a call anytime soon. Still, he stays on the couch, and he watches the
news, and he's there when it's confirmed that the President was shot, and that
it doesn't look as if it's life-threatening. He's there when Paula once more
puts her hand up to her ear, says that she's receiving reports that a Bartlet
Senior Staffer, Josh Lyman, was also shot and is on his way to hospital. The
name jogs something in his memory, but he can't put a face to it, just
remembers boundless energy and a mass of curly hair, but when the picture comes
up, he remembers him clearly, remembers how frazzled he got as Election Day
neared, remembers him waltzing his assistant, a pretty blonde called Donna,
around the victory party as the Doobie Brothers played on the stereo.
He hadn't known Josh well, hadn't talked to him much, but what he'd
known he'd liked, and when he hears how serious his injury is, it's the first
time since John's phone call that Greg leaves the couch.
He barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.
He's not sure how long he's there, but when he comes back out, there
are no new updates on the ticker, and he picks up his cup of coffee, now cold,
and walks to the kitchen, pours it down the sink. Rinsing out the cup, he fills
it with water, rinses out his mouth, then leaves it, along with the dinner
dishes, in the sink.
This time, he thinks John will understand.
He crosses to the couch again, this time, a man on a mission, and he
takes the phone in his hand, making two calls. The first is a quick one, the
second takes longer, and that much done, he makes his way to his room, checking
the clock as he goes. It's going to be tight, he knows, but he's just about got
enough time to do what needs to be done.
>*<*>*<
It is just after half past ten at night when Greg walks into Brass's
office, and officially, he knows he should be in DNA lab, doing what DNA mad scientists
do.
He also knows that in Washington and Baltimore, it is just after half
past one in the morning. He knows that there's some brouhaha brewing about a
letter that wasn't signed, which is something he doesn't understand, and he
knows that the President is doing well, and that Josh Lyman is still in
surgery, is likely to be so for many more hours. He knows that there are vigils
outside the hospital and White House, knows that there's a massive manhunt
underway, that Washington is one big gridlock tonight, no-one getting in or
out.
But that's ok with him, because he doesn’t want to get to Washington.
Not when he knows that there's a woman in Baltimore scared out of her
mind, who is doing what he was doing an hour ago, sitting in front of her television,
looking for updates, not answering her phone, even to her closest friends.
Greg knows where he has to be, and the DNA lab isn't even close.
He holds that knowledge to his heart, guards it closely, and it's that knowledge
which gives him the courage to stand up straight in front of Brass when the
older man is staring at him with a more than slightly disgusted look on his
face.
"This about the Gray case?" he demands, and Greg shakes his
head.
"I need some time off," he says simply, figuring that it's
better to take the bull by the horns. When Brass looks up at him though, his
pen slamming down hard on the table, Greg wonders the wisdom of that
philosophy.
"What?"
It's an invitation to recant, one that Greg declines. "I need some
time off… there's something-"
"Some time off?" Brass echoes, cutting him off. "Have
you seen the backlog in the lab? Do you know how much there is riding on the
work we do, and you want to take time off? What-"
"Captain, I wouldn't ask." Greg has never in his life cut off
Brass; very few people have when the man is in full flow, and maybe it's that
that aids his cause, because Brass stops, stares up at him. "I wouldn't
ask," he repeats. "But it's an emergency." He throws in his most
winning smile for good measure.
"An emergency." Brass is sceptical. "Involving a female
I take it?"
Greg looks down, for once damning his reputation as a ladies' man.
"Kind of," he admits, falling back on that other old cliché, that
honesty is the best policy. "A friend of mine… she got some bad news, and
I was hoping…"
"Bad news?"
Greg sighs, thinks about how to finesse this particular part, because
he knows if he comes out with a story about knowing the President's daughter,
Brass will kick him out of his office, probably literally. "Her father was
shot," he says, settling for a half-truth. "And she's pretty freaked
out about it." Which she surely was, even if he hadn't been able to talk
to her to confirm it. "So I need to go to Baltimore."
Brass looks at him, stares him down, and Greg doesn't blink. Finally,
Brass opens his desk drawer, takes out a sheet of paper, writes something on
it. Greg frowns, not knowing what the man is doing until he holds out the sheet
of paper across the table, handing it to him.
The title reads "Leave of Absence Request Form."
Under "Reason", in Brass's handwriting, are the words,
"Family Emergency."
Greg reads both several times, just to be sure he's not imagining it, and
when he looks up again, there's a huge smile on his face. "Fill this
in," Brass says, handing across a pen. "And go."
Greg rips the pen from his hand, sits down on the chair across from
Brass and starts writing. "Thank you Captain," he says as he writes,
because he didn't expect it to be this easy, and there's a disgusted noise from
across the table.
"Just don't spread it around," he's told, and he grins, more
to himself than Brass, and promises that he won't.
>*<*>*<
The flight seems to take an age, and even at this early hour in the
morning, there's a queue for cabs, so the sky is already turning a light shade
of blue by the time Greg arrives at Ellie's apartment complex. Hoisting his bag
on to his shoulder, he walks up the steps to the front door, isn't really
surprised when a tall, imposing man in a black suit and tie meets him there.
"May I help you?" he asks and Greg shifts on his feet, momentarily
flustered.
"I'm here to see Ellie," he says, smiling nervously. The
man's face doesn’t change, and Greg swallows. "Eleanor Bartlet," he
continues, adding, "I'm a friend," for good measure.
The man doesn't blink. "Is she expecting you?"
"Ah… no…" Greg frowns. "Is that going to be a problem?
Because I just got a plane and came here, I didn't call ahead, she doesn't even
know I'm coming, but I saw the news and I wanted to be here and…"
He's saved from any further explanation when the door opens, and a
woman comes out. Unlike her counterpart, she's not dressed in traditional
Secret Service attire, instead in an over-sized sweatshirt and faded blue
jeans. "Problem, Mac?" she asks, and Greg is grinning again, because
he knows this woman, and she smiles too when her eyes fall on him. "Greg,
right?"
Greg is nodding, even as Mac asks, "You know this kid?"
"Friend of Ellie's," the woman confirms. "I take it she
doesn't know you're coming?"
"I called… but she didn't answer. Hi Molly."
Molly O'Connor's face, which had shown good humour, falls, and she
doesn't even acknowledge his greeting. "She’s not answering any calls,
from anyone… she hasn't slept either. I think you're going to be just what she
needs. Come on up."
Mac looks like he wants to protest, but Molly silences him with a look.
"How is she?" Greg asks as she leads him up the stairs to the third
floor. "Really?"
Molly shakes her head. "This is the first time I've left her since
we got the call," she tells him. "She hasn't slept, hasn't eaten… she
hasn't even cried. I'm worried about her."
"Who's with her now?"
"New agent… new since your time anyway. Angie Baker." She
looks over at Greg, catches his eye and grins. "Don't worry though… we'll
give you some time alone." Her tone is knowing, and Greg feels a blush
rising up his cheeks, but he can't tell her that she's wrong.
It seems like forever before they reaches Ellie's door, and Molly
knocks smartly, calls out, "It's me." A few seconds that seem like
hours later, the door is opened by a woman the same height as Greg, who looks
just as worried as Molly, her short dark hair ruffled as if she's been running
her hands through it. When her gaze falls on Greg, she looks suspicious, turns
a questioning gaze on Molly, who nods in reassurance.
"It's ok," she says, stepping past her into the apartment.
"I'll explain in a minute." Then, raising her voice, she calls out,
"Visitor for you."
She walks further into the apartment, Greg following her, and his heart
breaks when he sees a forlorn figure curled up in a ball on the couch, staring
at the television screen. He recognises some of the same images he saw back in
his apartment in Vegas, and knows that she's been here like this all this time.
"I don't want visitors," she spits out, her voice broken and
scratchy, and Molly turns her head, looks pointedly at Greg.
He takes the hint, drops his bag at his side. "Not even me?"
he asks softly.
The reaction is instant, Ellie’s head turning so quickly that Greg's
sure she must have wrenched her neck. She stares at him, eyes wide, as if he's
some kind of apparition, and he nods once, to let her know that it really is
him, that he really is here.
"Greg?" she chokes out, and he can't take his eyes off her,
just as she can't take her eyes off him. Her eyes though, are the ones that
fill with tears, and it's she who stands up, more than a little shakily, moving
towards him. He'd dimly aware of Molly moving away from them, of the door
closing behind them, but he's still not looking away from Ellie.
And then she's in his arms, and he's not thinking of anything but her.
>*<*>*<
Ellie knows exactly how long she's been sitting here like this, because
she's been staring at the clock on the corner of the television screen, and
she's the daughter of a cardio-thoracic surgeon and a Nobel Laureate in
Economics. Mathematics was always one of her strongest subjects, and she can
add and subtract time in her head with the greatest of ease. She knows how many
hours and minute she's been here, but on the other hand, it feels like no time
has gone by at all.
Certainly, her fear hasn't diminished one whit.
She knows that her father is going to be fine, because her mother
called her and told her so, or at least left that message on her machine. Liz
and Zoey have both called as well, and so had Mrs Landingham, wanting to know
how she is, but she hasn't talked to anyone, because she's not so sure she can.
She hasn't spoken since her apartment door flew open, Secret Service agents
taking up position all around her, scaring the life out of Carrie and Melissa,
who were here studying with her, both of whom were escorted out of the complex
and home some thirty minutes later.
She also knows that if her father is going to be fine, then Josh
Lyman's fate is still hanging in the balance, and there is no further word from
her answering machine on that.
What she knows most of all is that this time, they were lucky that
there were no fatalities, either on the staff or among the crowd. One woman
injured, the head of her father's Secret
Service detail, Ron Butterfield, shot in the hand, but both will recover, will
do so quickly. All things considered, they were lucky, but next time, they
might not be, and that's the thought that scares her more than anything.
She ignores the Secret Service walking around, especially ignores Molly
with her older sister type worry, batting aside the agent's offer of food and
drink, telling her that she should go to bed, she should get some sleep. Ellie
knows she won't sleep tonight, doesn't know if she'll ever sleep again, can't
imagine it somehow.
Thankfully, Angie's not so concerned about her welfare, or at least,
she's content to leave her alone, thus Ellie is concentrating hard on CJ's
latest briefing when there's a knock on the door. She barely pays any attention
to it, not even when she hears Molly calling out to announce that it's her.
Only when Molly's voice comes closer does Ellie pay attention, especially when
she hears that she has a visitor, but she doesn’t look around when she says
that she doesn't want visitors.
She expects Molly to reply, would never have expected the next voice in
a million years.
"Not even me?"
Her heart stops, then lurches painfully back to life as she considers
the idea that lack of sleep, fear and worry have combined to send her mad,
because there's no way that he can be here. She entertains such thought only
for the briefest of moments before her head whips around and she sees him,
looking just like she remembers him - baggy jeans and one of his trademark
brightly patterned shirts, hair sticking up all over the place. The only difference
between him in her living room and him in her dreams is that in her living
room, he's not smiling. Instead, his eyes are dark and worried, his face tired
as he nods once at her.
"Greg?" she whispers, very afraid that her eyes are playing
tricks on her, and she's standing up on shaky legs, taking a tentative step
towards him. He doesn't move, she can see that through her tears, and somewhere
in the background, a door closes, and she knows that Molly and Angie have left
them alone.
And then, with no clear memory of doing it, she runs to him, throws her
arms around his neck and holds on tightly.
>*<*>*<
She doesn't know how long they stay like that, but it seems like a very
long time before she lifts her head from his shoulder, stares at him in wonder,
shakes her head. "What are you doing here?" she asks in amazement,
and he shrugs his shoulders, giving her that cocky grin that she remembers so
well.
"Where else would I be?" he asks simply, moving his hands up
to cup her cheek, pushing her hair back from her face. She wants to smile, but
there's a sob in her throat which will be let loose if she does, so she just
stares at him. "I got the first plane I could," he continues, hands
still moving through her hair, and she closes her eyes at his touch.
"How long can you stay?" she whispers, keeping her eyes shut,
because she's not sure she wants to know the answer, sure that it won't be
"Forever" which is the only one she wants to hear.
"As long as you want," he says, which still wasn't the answer
she was expecting, or anywhere near it. Her eyes fly open in shock, and he's
got that grin still on his face. "Brass gave me a week's leave of
absence," he tells her. "Family emergency. But however long you want
me Ellie… I'm here."
Tears make their way down her cheeks, but she is smiling, and she wraps
her arms around his neck again, steps into him. "Does forever work for
you?" she asks, and she feels him chuckle.
"Sounds good to me."
>*<*>*<
Greg, Ellie soon finds, is a harder person to ignore than Molly or
Angie. When she finally lets him go, leads him to the sofa, she sits down while
he remains standing, looking down at her. "You look like hell you
know," he tells her, and she laughs out loud at that.
"Your lines haven't gotten any better since college," she
teases, but he's all serious.
"You probably haven't eaten since last night," he decides,
and the way in which he says it makes her think that Molly might have been
telling tales out of school. She opens her mouth to refute the charge, though
she knows she's about to lie to him, but he's already moving away, towards the
kitchen unit, throwing back as he walks all the recipes that he can make
quickly, a list that gets cut short when he opens up her refrigerator and sees
what's inside there, a sight that doesn't meet with his approval.
She quickly remembers something that it's easy to forget about Greg,
that when in a room with him, it's entirely possible not to have to participate
in the conversation at all. So while she listens to him decry the contents of
her cupboards, then start in on the hell-world that is a nocturnal journey from
Las Vegas to Baltimore, she makes herself comfortable on the couch, lying down
and stretching her legs, muting the sound on the television set whilst keeping
one eye on the news ticker at the bottom of the screen.
The next thing she knows, there is a hand moving through her hair, and
when she tries to open her eyes, she feels as if they've been glued shut. She
considers asking Greg if he'd done that - she certainly wouldn't put it past
him - but decides against it when she opens her eyes to find herself looking
into his, which are full of concern, set in a face that's lined with concern.
So instead, she gives voice to her second thought, which is one of amazement.
"I fell asleep?"
She struggles to sit up, but his hand moves quickly from her hair to
her shoulder, presses her down. "Take your time," he tells her, and
she does as she's told, closing her eyes for another long moment and taking in
a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His hand moves back to her hair, plays
with it gently, and she smiles despite herself, continuing to breathe deeply.
"This is familiar," Greg says, a smile in his voice, and Ellie grins
too, reminded of the lazy mornings that the two of them would be found like
this, lying in bed together, completely silent, each knowing exactly what was
in the other's mind.
She opens her eyes, this time focussing on him properly, seeing that
he's squatting down beside her, his face now clearer than it was seconds ago.
"I remember," she replies quietly, reaching up to catch his hand,
bringing it to her lips.
Their eyes meet, and there's another moment of silence before he lifts
their joined hands, brings them to his lips. "I hated to wake you,"
he says, and she knows that it's true, because he always did. "And I hate
even more to disturb you now… but food."
He shifts slightly to allow her to see the coffee table, the two plates
of steaming scrambled eggs, a third piled high with toast. Behind that, there
are two cups of tea, and she realises it's a measure of how worried Greg must
be about her that he hasn't started ranting about the lack of coffee in this
apartment. Though maybe he has and she slept through it.
"I'm not hungry," she protests, as he swings her legs down to
the floor, reaches over to the table and picks up a plate in either hand,
handing one to her. "Really Greg..."
"Just a couple of bites," he says, reaching over to her
plate, taking up a forkful of eggs and holding it up to her lips, which stay
stubbornly closed. A devilish glint comes into his eyes as he pulls the spoon
back, holds it in mid-air. "You want me to make the train noise?" he
asks, and she lifts one eyebrow, daring him to do it. He sighs, shrugging
exaggeratedly. "OK then…" he says, before launching into the loudest
train noise she's ever heard in her life, moving the spoon towards her lips,
just as she used to do for Annie when she was a baby.
He looks so serious when he's doing it, yet the whole scene is so
ridiculous that all Ellie can do is laugh, which of course is what he was
hoping for, because he takes advantage of her open mouth by popping the forkful
of eggs in. She chews and swallows despite herself, shakes her head when he's
done. "You're impossible," she declares and he shrugs again, dropping
the fork on her plate.
"That's why you love me," he tells her airily, and she lifts
her eyebrow again.
"No comment." But she lifts up the fork, takes a few more
bites before he reaches over, drops a slice of toast on her plate.
"To keep your strength up," he tells her, and she shakes her
head, this time, saying nothing.
They don't speak again until their plates are both empty and all the
toast is gone, and then he takes her plate, puts it on the table with his,
hands her her cup of tea. "Aren't you going to complain that I've no
coffee here?" Ellie teases, receiving, for her troubles, a narrow-eyed
stare.
"Don't start me," she is told, and she snickers, taking a sip
of tea.
This time, the silence stretches beyond both of them finishing their
drinks. Once again when she is finished, he takes her cup from her, lays it
down on the table, and when he sits back again, he puts his arm around her
shoulders, drawing her close to him. Her head finds its usual resting place on
his shoulder, as if it hasn't been months, if not years, since they've sat
together like this, her hand resting on his chest, playing with the buttons of
his shirt. He leans his head on top of hers, his fingers moving through her
hair, and if she tries very, very hard, she can almost forget what's brought
them here.
Almost.
She doesn't realise she's crying until her breath catches, and
immediately thereafter, the first drop of water hits his shirt. His fingers
still in her hair for just a second, then start their movement again, and he
takes a deep breath. "You ok babe?"
His voice is soft, and the casual endearment is good for another swell
of emotion. "No," she admits, and his arms tighten around her.
"They shot my daddy Greg."
"I know."
She is sobbing now, which she hasn't done, not when she first heard the
news, not during those long hours sitting on her couch alone, staring at the
television. "I know we're not close…" she manages to say, and she
feels him nodding.
"I know," he says quietly. "That's the problem."
Too late she remembers that this is Greg she's talking to, the man who
knows her as well as she knows herself, and she knows that he speaks the truth.
Because she knows her father could have died, and she can't stand the thought
that that could happen without them sorting out their differences. She'd always
thought that they had time, plenty of time, even after he'd been diagnosed with
his illness, but that assumption had been ripped to shreds with one blast of a
sniper's weapon.
So she cries, cries as if she's never going to stop, and Greg holds her
through it all, whispers soothing words, telling her that everything's going to
be fine, that it's ok, that she should let it all out.
With fistfuls of his shirt in her hand, that's just what she does.
>*<*>*<
Greg knows that this has been coming since he walked in the door, he's just
surprised that it's taken so long. He knew she was on the brink when he first
held her, would also have known, even without Molly telling him, that she
hadn't eaten in hours. The dark shadows under her eyes had been the dead
give-away; Greg had seen those on countless occasions at Stanford, whenever
Ellie had a big test and had spent all night studying, forgetting about eating
and sleeping. He'd especially seen them during finals, when he would literally
have to drag her out of the library to make sure that she ate and slept. During
her senior year, when he was already in grad school in
So he does the only thing he can, exactly what he wanted to do when he
stood in Brass's office and asked for some time off. He holds her in his arms
and he lets her cry, thankful that at least she's eaten something. His next job
will be to get her to sleep, but at least she's already caught a few minutes. A
good cry can only make it easier.
Eventually, her sobs taper off, but it takes her a few minutes longer
to straighten up. When she does, she reaches up to wipe her eyes, smiles
self-consciously. "I must look a state," she mutters, looking down.
Greg looks at her, looks at her hard. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes red
with dark shadows underneath, and the rest of her face is blotchy, but he
doesn't hesitate in his answer. "You're gorgeous," he tells her
quietly, and at his words, the colour in her cheeks heightens.
"You're just saying that," she tells him, but he knows that
she's pleased, can also see that she's smiling.
"Never," he says seriously, reaching out to cup her face in
his hands. Using the pads of his thumbs, he wipes her tears away, forces her to
look into his eyes. "I mean that Ellie… you know I mean it."
Her cheeks are hot under his hands, and she whispers his name before he
leans forward, brushing his lips over hers. He intends for it to be a brief
kiss, but Ellie evidently has other thoughts, her hand going to the back of his
head, holding him in place, her mouth opening to his. Memory and instinct then
take over for Greg, and he pulls him to her, kisses her hungrily, loses himself
in her.
He comes back to himself when her hands, a doctor's hands he remembers
teasing her once, deft and quick, find their way to his belt buckle, try to
open it. With considerable effort, he pulls back, realises that they're lying
on the couch, him on top of her, clothing in all kinds of disarray, and there's
only one place that this is going to end up.
Not that he minds that.
He's just not sure that this is the best thing for her.
"Ellie," he whispers, reaching a hand up to push back her
hair, noting almost absently that it's shaking. "We can't do this."
He expects her to object. He expects her to grow angry, to push him off
her. He doesn’t expect her to smile, to laugh softly, but that's just what she
does. "We've been here before," she reminds him, and he frowns,
because she's lost him. "Spring break my freshman year… the beach…"
"Our first kiss," he remembers now, seeing the picture in his
mind's eye. Except it wasn’t really, so he quickly amends, “Our first real
kiss…”
She reaches up a hand, lays it on his cheek. "I'm not that girl
anymore Greg," she reminds him. "I haven't been in a long time."
Her hand moves around to the back of his head, her fingers playing with the
short hairs at the nape of his neck, sending shivers up and down his spine.
"I know what I want…" A pause, in which she shifts against him in
just the right way. "What I need…" Another pause when she does it
again, and he closes his eyes, trying to conjure up any image that will block
his body's reaction to her. When even the thought of Conrad Ecklie in a
towering rage doesn't do that, he knows he's in real trouble.
"Ellie…" He's trying to spin out the last drop of sanity he
possesses, but when she interrupts him, says his name, the moment is lost.
"Greg." Her voice is firm, yet pleading. "I just want
things to be normal… just for a little while…"
As she speaks, she moves against him again, at the same time as she
brings her lips to his, kisses him soundly.
When he kisses her back, he doesn't stop.
>*<*>*<
It feels like hours later that Ellie finds herself lying in her bed, a
contented smile on her face. Greg lies spooned behind her, his arms around her
waist, one finger tracing patterns on her stomach, her hands resting
comfortably on his arms. "You ok?" he asks her as he presses a kiss
to her shoulder. It's the same question he asked her earlier on, but this time,
her answer is quite different.
"I'm fine," she tells him. "You?"
"I'm all right," he tells her, and she knows from the teasing
tone of his voice that there's more to come in that answer. "Considering
that I feel like I've just been used to satisfy your carnal urges…"
She knows he's kidding, half-turns to look him over her shoulder.
"And this is different from usual how?" she asks, gratified when she
sees him purse his lips, narrow his eyes in reaction.
"You're a cruel woman Eleanor," he murmurs, and she looks
away from him, at the same time as she presses herself against him, eliciting a
groan from him.
"That's why you love me." She throws his own words back at
him, says them just as lightly as he did earlier on, but when he doesn't quip
back immediately, she knows what's coming next.
"I do, you know," he says, and she closes her eyes, swallows
hard. When she doesn't answer, he continues. "Love you."
"I know," she tells him, closing one hand over his, lacing
their fingers together, holding them against her belly. "I love you
too."
A long silence, another kiss to her shoulder. "Remind me again why
we're not together?"
She grins. "Because there are no good medical schools in Vegas,
and you couldn't take a Baltimore winter?" she tries, expecting at least a
chuckle, receiving none.
"I'm serious," he counters, and she closes her eyes. This was
not a conversation that she wanted to have right now, not like this, and
certainly not today.
"I know you are Greg," she tells him, turning to face him.
"But we've been here before. Lots of times. And things haven't
changed…"
He nods. "Yeah… it's just… what happens if it's never the right
time?"
She reaches up, smiling sadly, runs a finger along his cheek.
"Then we'll always have each other," she whispers, and she knows that
it's not much, that it might not be enough, but it's the best that she, that
they, can do right now.
He stays still for a long moment, then nods. "OK." He closes
the distance between them, kisses her again, the kind of kiss that can only
lead to more, and when he rolls her onto her back, moves his hand between their
bodies, she knows exactly what's going to happen and she welcomes it.
Which of course, is when the phone rings.
They freeze, and he lifts his head from where he was busily kissing a
path across her chest, staring at the phone on the bedside table as if it's
going to explode. She follows his gaze, and as the phone continues to ring, she
looks back at him. "I should get that," she says, reaching for it,
and he lets her go. Not completely though, because when she sits up, holding
the phone to her right ear, his hand snakes across her stomach, rests there as
he sits up beside her.
"Hello?" she says tentatively, though she knows that only a
handful of people have this number.
"Ellie? Ellie, it's Mom."
"Mom?" Her mother's voice brings tears to Ellie's eyes, and
Greg holds her just a little bit tighter. "How's Daddy? Is he ok? Has
something happened-"
She knows she's panicking, and her mother is quick to reassure her.
"He's fine… he's out of surgery, he's resting comfortably." An
almost-chuckle. "He was making bad jokes when they brought him in here…
I'm not sure that made the press."
"How's Josh?"
There's a long pause, then a sigh. "It could be worse… he's out of
surgery, but it was touch and go for a while there… it's going to be a long
haul back for him."
"But he's going… I mean, he's not going to…"
"No honey… no. They're both going to make it… Ron Butterfield was shot
too, they got his hand, and there was a girl injured on the ground, but aside
from that…" Her mother pauses, and Ellie can imagine her shaking her head.
"We were lucky."
"What about the shooters?"
There's a pause, and when her mother speaks, she sounds strange, and
Ellie's not sure why. "They were killed," she says simply, and Ellie
just nods. Beside her, Greg reaches out to turn the phone receiver so that he
too can hear what her mother is saying, as she continues, "And there was a
signal man on the ground… we have him in custody now too. I thought that was on
the news…"
Ellie can feel herself blushing, glances at Greg, her gaze a clear
warning not to make a sound. "I haven't watched the last couple of
hours," she admits. "Has he told them why they did it?" There's
another, longer, pause, and Ellie's suddenly terrified again. "Mom? Why
did they want to shoot Daddy?"
Greg's left arm slides around her waist, and he threads his fingers
together so that his arms cocoon her in a protective circle. "They didn't
want to shoot him," her mother finally says. "They wanted to shoot
Charlie."
"Charlie?" Ellie echoes, not understanding for a moment, and
then it hits her. Charlie, a twenty-two year old guy who went to the White
House looking for a messenger's job and ended up becoming her father's body
man. Charlie, who works outside the Oval Office every day, hours as long as her
father's, for six hundred dollars a week and more than double that in
headaches. Charlie, who's been dating her little sister, Zoey, for the last few
months.
Charlie, who's received death threats from white supremacists who don't
like the idea of a black man dating the President's daughter.
"Oh my God," she moans as the full horror hits her, and for a
moment, she's sure that she's going to throw up. She has to take several deep
breaths before she can talk again, and only Greg's hand making circles on her
back tethers her to reality.
"Ellie?" Her mother sounds worried about her. "Ellie,
honey, are you ok?"
She nods, as much for Greg's benefit as her mother's. "I'm fine
Mom," she says, though she can hear the weakness in her own voice.
"Is there someone there with you?" her mother demands.
"A friend, the agents?"
"The agents are outside," Ellie tells her. "And Greg's
here."
There's another silence, but this one is different. "Greg?"
her mother finally asks. "Greg from Stanford? Your Greg?"
The phrasing makes her smile, and when she looks across at Greg, he's
smiling too. "Yes Mom," she says quietly, finding his hand with her
own, squeezing it. "My Greg."
"Well, I… I mean…" Her usually competent, articulate mother
is at a loss for words, something that Ellie's never been witness to before.
"Honey, are you two back together?"
Ellie's looking into Greg's eyes, and he raises an eyebrow, leaving the
ball in her court. "Probably not," she admits. "He just wanted
to make sure I was ok."
"Oh." In that one syllable, her mother manages to convey a
wealth of disappointment and confusion. "Well then… ok. Is he there with
you now?"
"Yeah…" Ellie knows that her mother can't see them, and she's
glad of that, but she can't quite shake the feeling that her mother still knows
exactly where they are.
"Can you put him on the phone?"
Ellie shoots him a questioning look, and Greg shrugs, reaching out and
tilting the mouthpiece towards him. "Hey, Mrs B," he says, as if this
was an ordinary phone conversation, the kind he's had with her on more than one
occasion.
"Greg." Her mother's tone is conversational. "This is a
surprise."
"Yes Ma'am," he says. "How is the President?"
"He's fine, he's fine… I give him about an hour before he's
terrorising the hospital staff… and about half that before he's driving me
crazy…" But Ellie can hear the relief underlying the snark, and she knows
Greg can too. "Is Ellie doing as well as she sounds?"
She warns him with a look to say she is, but it appears that Greg is
more afraid of his mother than of her. "Probably not Ma'am," he
replies.
There's a dry chuckle from the other end of the line. "You're
honest… I always did like that about you." There's nothing that Greg can
say to that, so he stays quiet, leaving her mother to continue with,
"You're taking care of her, right?"
His eyes still locked with hers, Greg smiles. "Yes Ma'am," he
says quietly. "Always."
There's a pause, then her mother says briskly, "Well, that's good
then. I'm sure I'll see you soon?"
"I hope so Ma'am."
"For the eight hundredth time Greg, my name is Abbey."
"Yes Ma'am."
Ellie stifles her giggles as best she can, and once again, she can
picture her mother rolling her eyes. "Fine… now, I'm sure my daughter is
listening in, but can you put her back on please?"
Without another word, no further "Ma'ams", Greg tilts the
receiver back towards Ellie, who says, "Hey Mom."
"I see you're in good hands," her mother observes.
"Exactly how good I'm better off not knowing…"
"Mom!" Ellie yelps, and even Greg blushes at that one.
"So I'll leave you guys to it. I'll call you later on… and I think
Zoey might welcome a call from her big sister too."
Ellie nods. "Tell Daddy I love him," she whispers, still more
tears rising in her throat.
"I will. I love you."
"Love you too."
Then all she can hear is the dial tone, and she reaches out behind her,
placing the phone blindly on the bedside table. She turns back to Greg then,
buries her head in his shoulder, shaking as his hands trace patterns on her
back.
When her shivers subside, she sits up, looks into his eyes again.
"Thank you," she whispers, kissing him gently.
"Hey," he says, grinning as he brushes her hair back over her
shoulder. "I told your Mom I'd take care of you… and I always keep my
word."
Ellie smiles, brings her lips to his. "Well, you'd better start
then."
They kiss, and he more than keeps his word.
>*<*>*<
In a hospital in Washington, Abbey Bartlet walks into her husband's
room, and sees that he's already remonstrating with a doctor. As a doctor herself,
she recognises the signs of exasperating-patient-frustration syndrome, and she
steps in quickly, all the while revising her estimation of how long it's going
to take her husband to drive the hospital staff up the wall.
When the doctor leaves, Jed turns his gaze on her, eyes brightening.
"How are the girls?"
Abbey sits down on the bed beside him, heaving a sigh. "Zoey's
with Charlie… Liz is handling it… Doug's staying home today, and they're
keeping the kids off school…"
Jed nods. "That's probably best."
"That's what I said."
"And Ellie?" He sounds almost hopeful, and Abbey wishes that
she'd told Ellie to call her father too, because she's pretty sure it'd never
happen without her prompting. Ellie and Jed just don't have that kind of
relationship.
"Ellie's handling it too," she says. And then, just because
she can't resist, she leans a little closer and says, "Greg's with
her."
It takes a second for the name to register; Jed's always been lousy
with names. When it does, his eyes widen and his jaw drops. "Greg from
college Greg? The one with the hair?"
Abbey nods. "The one and only."
Jed looks from side to side in amazement. "When… I mean… does this
mean…"
"Ellie says they're probably not back together. Except that I'm
pretty sure they were in bed together when I called…"
Jed squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head away. "For God's sake
woman, I'm already in hospital… what more do you want from me?"
"Sorry." Except that she's not and she's pretty sure Jed
knows it too.
"You think those two are ever gonna work whatever the hell it is
between them out?"
She shrugs. "I don't know… I'd like to hope so."
He sighs, takes her hand in his. "Me too."
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