Author's note: I finally broke down and wrote my spin on the season
finale. Obviously, it's not a funny story, and it reflects the
emotions I've felt and observed in my own times of tragedy. Archiving
is fine.

WAITING
By bluejeans

There are moments in life when you *know,* beyond all doubt, that
your life is about to change forever. Usually, your life before was
good. Afterward, you learn to deal with the change. It's that moment
of time in between that's hard.

It's the moment before you pick up the phone when it rings at 3 a.m.

It's the moment when you see a car barreling toward you, and know
that it's going to hit you, and there is nothing you can do about it.

It's the moment when someone you love says: "I have something to tell
you. You'd better sit down."

In those moments, all you can do is wait and pray.

------------

Mallory O'Brian was in her apartment, grading her third-graders'
latest English assignment. She loved teaching – especially this age.
The kids were old enough that they knew that they shouldn't bite each
other, but young enough that they could dream and wonder without
being embarrassed.

It was getting late, but Mallory had the TV on, it's volume low. She
liked the little bit of noise, the comfortable background that kept
things from getting lonely. She was her father's daughter, so the TV
was tuned to CNN. People teased her about it, but she liked to know
what was going on.

She was wading through Bobby Johnson's mess of misspellings when she
detected a distinct note of alarm in the muted voice coming from her
television. She glanced up.

And completely forgot about Bobby Johnson.

"Remote! Where's the remote!?" Mallory looked around in frustration
for that most elusive of objects. The depth of her terror was
apparent when, instead of looking until she found the oft-lost thing,
she actually stood and *manually* turned up the volume on the box its
self.

" . . . We don't know many details at this time," a talking head
said, "but we can confirm that shots have been fired at the
President. This happened a few moments ago outside the town hall
meeting at the Newseum in Rosslyn, Virginia.

"We have part of a tape of the . . . assassination attempt . . . from
one of our cameramen. You can see the Secret Service grab the
President . . . now . . . and put him into the limousine. Then we
loose the feed . . . Ah . . . we're going live to Rosslyn now . . .
obviously, things look quite panicked. We have a reporter on
scene . . . Kim, can you describe what is happening?"

"Dave, things are very confused at the moment. As you can see from
the emergency vehicles and activity behind me, at least some people
were hurt in this attack. Who and how badly we do not know.

"We do not know the President's condition.

We do know that his daughter, Zoe, and most of his senior staff were
with him; we do not know their status. Details on who fired the shots
are sketchy. Apparently the bullets came from a window of one of the
buildings outside the Newseum, possibly the second or third floor.
The White House is not commenting. As I said, we do *not* know the
condition of the President or anyone with him . . ."

Mallory stared at the TV in shock. "This is not happening," she
moaned. She flipped the channel, but the news was the same everywhere.

Mallory collapsed backward into the couch – and onto the remote. She
felt a brief and totally out-of-place relief at finding it before
worry overwhelmed her.

She had known Josiah Barlet since forever. Barlet was one of the
cornerstones of her life. He was always there with a laugh, a hug and
an encouraging word. As an American and as his goddaughter, Mallory
was deeply concerned.

Zoey, the President's daughter, was her friend. "Zoe is 19 and
invincible. She'll be okay," Mallory told herself.

Mallory scanned the now-repeating news video in vain for another man –
Sam Seaborn. She had a love-hate relationship going with the Deputy
Communications Director. She sometimes thought he might be *the one,*
thought she wasn't sure yet. Still, she wanted an opportunity to find
out. The rest of the White House senior staff were also close and
trusted friends.

But her greatest dread, of course, was reserved for her father.

She knew that her father was *there.* The White House Chief of Staff
was rarely more than a few feet away from the Commander-in-Chief, a
fact which was destroying her parent's marriage.

"Dad, where are you?" Mallory had never felt so alone. After a moment
of indecision, she picked up her phone and dialed a number.

--------

Jenny McGarry was in bed with a headache after a long day. It still
felt strange to her that there was no chance of Leo walking in . . .
although he hadn't exactly been a regular before.

She was just drifting off to sleep when the phone rang.

"Hello?" she asked in a somewhat puzzled voice.

"Mom?!"

"Mallory? Honey, what—"

"MOM! *Turn on the TV!*"

There was no mistaking the fear in her daughter's voice, and Jenny
knew immediately what had happened. She ran down to the living room
TV, phone still in hand, and watched just enough that her fears were
confirmed.

"Mallory," she said into the phone, "have you heard from your father?"

"No. Mom –"

"I'm coming over. I just have to change. My cell phone is on. If you
hear anything . . . if he calls . . ."

"What if I get a call," Mallory interrupted, "*and it's not him?*"

Mallory's question immediately brought Jenny back to a night six
years earlier. Leo had been missing for three days, and she had been
frantic. She had known her husband was loosing his battle against the
demons that plagued him. Her prayer all day had been for Leo to call.
When the phone did finally ring, it was Jed. He told her that he'd
found Leo and taken him to a rehabilitation center. That night Jed's
voice had been a blessed relief.

*This* night, however, a call from the President of the United States
could only mean one thing. It wasn't a call she wanted her daughter
to have to take, especially alone.

"Mallory, I'm on my way over right now. I'm hanging up. I love you."

As Jenny raced down to her car, she nearly choked on her terror.

"Dammit, Leo, I can barely stand the thought of you being out of *my*
life," she told the night. "I don't think I could handle you being
out of *yours*, too. So you'd better be okay.

--------

The First Lady and the President had, of course, discussed the
possibility of assassination attempt. It was an ever-present threat,
but Abigail Barlet had never really believed it would happen.

Until the moment she saw her SSA turn pale and look at her with
horrified eyes.

"Oh my Lor– it's happened, hasn't it?" Abby whispered.

There was a sudden frenzy of activity as agents ran in to secure
doors and make sure that *their* protectee was safe.

"Ma'am," the agent swallowed. "There have been shots fired at the
President."

"*Talk to me*" the First Lady said urgently.

"I really don't know anything more. Everything is very confused.
Ma'am, perhaps you should sit for a moment."

Abby allowed her agent to lead her to a chair and get her a glass of
water.

"Jed . . ."

And suddenly an even more horrifying thought hit her.

To lose the man who shared her soul would be nearly unbearable, but
Abby knew in her heart of hearts that people could find new love,
even if it was forever bittersweet.

To lose a person who had shared her very *body* for nine months was
unfathomable. To her mother, Zoey Barlet was irreplaceable.

"My daughter . . .?" Abby asked the agent.

"She was there, ma'am. I don't know anything about either of them."
The agent knew it was unprofessional, but she was a mother too. She
took the First Lady's hand. "I'll tell you the moment I hear
anything."

---------

David Ziegler was very tired. In fact, he was asleep.

He'd been orbiting the Earth a few hours before – when he really
wasn't supposed to be. Things had been a bit . . . tense. He'd heard
that even the White House had been concerned. Which was to be
expected, as the Communications Director was David's brother.

David hadn't bothered to go home to sleep. After the preliminary
briefings, he's just been too exhausted and crashed in a back room at
NASA control.

Which was why he was very annoyed when some tech-fluky burst in,
urgently shouting for `Dr. Ziegler.'

It took a moment to straighten things out, but once David had calmed
the tech enough to get coherent statement, he wasn't tired anymore.

Just very, very worried.

"I thought I had the dangerous job," he sighed.

----------

On the West Coast, where the sun was still up, two brothers dropped
to their knees and prayed for their tall and talented sister.

A mother watched her sleeping child and wondered if she should wake
her. "No, I'll let her sleep," the mother said. "In the morning,
we'll know for sure what we'll need to tell her about her
grandfather."

A woman fingered pictures of her charming dark-haired son and took a
frame off the wall. It was a law degree from Princeton. There was a
note tucked into the back: "To my dear mother, in thanks for all her
hard work and putting up with me. –SNS."

A girl named Deena pulled a blanket around her and shivered as she
wondered if she was alone in the world.

In the White House, at least two women tried not to panic as they
worried about a man who was infuriating as he was charming.

A middle-aged couple held hands in front of the TV. They had never
understood why their daughter had been so fascinated with the
military and guns, but they we're proud of her. Tonight, though, they
could only think that perhaps she had intentionally put her own body
in front of a speeding bullet to save someone else's daughter.

----------

Across the country, Americans watched in a fascinated horror. The
situation was gruesome, terrible . . . exciting. Something important
and dramatic was happening, but it wasn't something that would shake
the very foundations of *their* worlds.

Their interest was akin to the shiver of anticipation for the
resolution to a torturous TV cliffhanger. The question: "Who's been
shot?" was a macabre exercise in human curiosity. They could watch,
and wonder, and be content to hold their own families safe.

But for a few people scattered across the country, the answer to the
question could bring relief or agony. There could be no comfort. And,
with no answers but a thundering silence, they could only wait.

Just like the rest of us.