Okay. This is it: the last part. I have had a blast (so to speak) writing this, and hope that you have enjoyed reading it. Many thanks to those of you who give me feedback. It is always appreciated, and gives me inspiration to write more. I hope you can tell how much I love these characters, Jed in particular. I only wish that I could use telepathy to the show's writers to let them know how I want them to treat "our boy."

Bounds of Freedom

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

Chapter Fifteen – Yin and Yang

POV: Various

Spoilers: "Pilot;" "The White House Pro-Am;" "ITSOTG;" "Two Cathedrals;" "NFS Thurmont;" "A Change is Gonna Come"

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I have created several characters for this story, none of which even come close to the rich ones that came from Aaron Sorkin's imagination. We are all indebted to him for giving us Jed, Abbey, Leo, C.J., Toby, Josh, Nancy McNally, and the rest of The West Wing personalities. I have enjoyed – and will continue to enjoy – watching them, reading about them, and writing about them.

"There are two forces in the universe, according to Chinese theory: yin is the passive, negative force, and yang the active, positive force. According to this theory, wise people will detect these forces in the seasons, in their food, and so on, and will regulate their lives accordingly."

The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, Third Edition, 2002

The White House

8:25 p.m. Wednesday, EST

Four Months to the day after the "Xian Incident"

POV: C.J.

The White House Protocol Office could not have orchestrated a better setting – bright sun, crisp air, azure sky, happy, cheering crowds: a press secretary's dream. And it certainly didn't hurt that this setting was the backdrop for the most significant diplomatic victory in sixty years – perhaps longer. A victory that would change the relationship between east and west. A victory that would set them on a course toward unparalleled human rights, prosperity, and peace. A victory that had been born in the womb of terror.

Who woulda thunk it?

Feet propped casually on her desk, C.J. Cregg took a slow pull on the Diet Dr. Pepper and peered more closely at the television screen.

"And here it is. The moment. The culmination of talks that began four months ago: President Bartlet and President Jintao shaking hands, both having signed this unprecedented agreement between the United States and the Peoples Republic of China." Despite his obvious attempt to remain objective, CNN's Aaron Brown could not mask his awe. He paused, blinked a couple of times and admitted, "Wow."

But like all good newsmen, after a beat or two of indulging his human reaction, he cleared his throat and assumed the non-accent prevalent in people of his profession. Throwing the spotlight to the woman who sat with him, he said, "Karen, some historians have suggested that we really can't comprehend the significance of this document, that only time will reveal how important it was at this particular juncture. True or maybe a little dramatic?"

Damn. Karen McIntyre. Why the hell did they have to choose Karen McIntyre?

C.J. shook her head as she let her feet slide from the desk and leaned her body forward to place herself just a tad closer to the screen. She supposed Karen was as good a choice as any, given her foreign affairs experience, but they surely couldn't expect any favors from her. Not for this administration. Not for this President.

Still, she couldn't do much about that now, so as her ears took in the discussion between Brown and McIntyre, their Far East "expert," about how the Xian Accords would play out in history, she set her eyes on the man who had orchestrated it. Not that she could do anything about HIM, either. That was for Abbey and his doctors to deal with.

The satellite feed that spread the historic moment across the globe revealed the colorful pomp of the ceremony, the flourish of the pens, the triumph in the smiles of the world leaders. But she was looking for something more subtle, something that only those closest to the man would notice.

His hand shakes were firm and smooth, his waves easy, with full arm rotation. Good. Not just for the PR effect, but for what it told her about his condition. After a moment, he turned and gave the First Lady a kiss, not too brief, but not so long that it became an issue. C.J. flinched at this public display, but shrugged fatalistically. She had reminded him of the Chinese opinion on public affection before Air Force One – the backup plane – took off two days before. Little good it had done last time. It seemed to have even less effect this time.

"Uh oh."

She turned to look at her comrade-in-perusal, Josh Lyman, ready to tell him the kiss wasn't really that big of a deal until she saw the twinkle in his eye. The grin split is face, then, pressing those dimples deep into his skin.

He shrugged at her glare. "President blows ground-breaking treaty over face-sucking incident with First Lady."

"Ha ha."

"Oh, come on, Ceej. You can't tell me you think that little smooch will create an international incident. For Pete's sake, last time they were here, he felt her up right in the middle of the opera."

"What?" Thank God she hadn't heard about that. "Who told you?"

"Sources. Let's just say the musicians probably weren't the only ones singing that night."

It was a reflex really, the slap across his head.

"Hey!"

"Does it bother you to live vicariously through the lives of people who really are having sex?"

"I have sex!" he declared, a little too defensively.

"I'm talking about with another per – wait, look!" She brushed away his indignation by pointing toward the screen, where, instead of a disapproving scowl from Hu Jintao over the public lip-lock, her President received a smile and pat on the back.

The Chinese president even went so far as to speak at some length with Abigail Bartlet. She decided when the First Couple returned, she would offer to get drunk again with Abbey. There had to be a story behind that noticeable change in attitude. But then, maybe the story simply reflected the bond that was created by mutually repelling a terrorist attack.

Her gaze returned to the President as he stepped from the stage to speak with various Chinese dignitaries. He looked good, she determined, completing her perusal. His color was back, and he managed not to appear as if he needed to brace his ribs every time he turned, even though she suspected that's still what he felt like doing. And if his pace wasn't quite as swift, if his gait wasn't quite as easy, that was generously overlooked by a world that had watched the horror unfold on that airstrip four months before, a world that had seen him battered, bloodied, and bruised and was grateful that he was even alive. Fitness was relevant.

Still, he looked good. Damn good. C.J. blushed a bit and threw a sheepish glance toward Josh, who nodded at the screen.

"He looks good," he noted, and C.J. flinched. Had she said that out loud? But a second look told her he wasn't even paying attention to her. His entire focus lay on the screen, on the man everyone was watching so closely.

"Heard from the Veep recently?" she asked, clouding the question with as much nonchalance as she could manage. In truth, she hoped he had just dropped off the face of the earth – or that someone had thrown him.

"Will's trying to get mileage out of how well he ran the country when the President was 'incapacitated.'"

She turned to him, open-mouthed. "Oh dear God. How well he ran the country! If it weren't for Nancy McNally and Berryhill we would be at war with China right now. Russell didn't have a clue, not a damned clue."

"I was there, remember?"

Yeah, he was. They all were. Nancy, Berryhill, Hutchinson, Alexander. All trying to keep "His Accidency" from tripping over the laces until Jed Bartlet could step back into the shoes. It had not been an easy task, but they managed to prevent Buffoon Bob from selling the Treasury Building to Japan and handing over the entire supply of uranium to Lichtenstein.

A close call. She took another swig of Dr. Pepper and let her ears tune back in to the report.

" – what was accomplished during that week and a half that the President stayed with Hu Jintao at his palace," McIntyre was saying. "Certainly, we must assume that the majority of the agreements were forged in that time."

Brown raised a brow. "Given the President's injuries, you actually think he was able – "

"Aaron, you know I am a bipartisan critic and have lobbed my share of criticisms at this administration."

"Newflash," Josh noted, kicking back in the chair, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

McIntyre, former foreign advisor to George H. W. Bush, was certainly not a friend of the President's – or very many politicians on either side of The Hill anymore. She had seemed, in the past seven years, to take it upon herself to counter nearly every policy the Bartlet Administration set before Congress. Of all people to comment on this agreement –

The press secretary held her breath, anticipating a pointed question about whether or not the President had really been mentally and physically able to negotiate the agreement. If she would just read the damn document –

McIntyre's thin lips pressed together for a moment before she continued, as if emphasizing the reluctance of the speaker to say the words. "But I have to say that injured or not, Jed Bartlet has shown the world that he is indeed able. I don't know of any president in the past sixty years who could have accomplished such an incredible feat, given the still-unbelievable trauma he had to go through."

Josh suddenly dropped forward. "What the hell – "

"Is that admiration I hear, Karen," Brown accused good-naturedly, knowing her former attitude toward the Bartlet White House.

"Mea culpa," she admitted, with only a pinch of reluctance, "but I don't think I'm alone in the world, Aaron. At least not today."

"Son of a bitch!" Josh laughed. "Was that a compliment?"

Not a compliment, C.J. decided, a praise – coming from the lips of one of their most-acidic critics in Washington.

But they weren't finished. Pressing his guest, Brown asked, "Given his political accomplishments as well as his – well, his frankly pretty incredible physical actions that reports have described from the struggle with the terrorists on Air Force One – we have heard the word 'hero' ascribed to the President these past few months. Do you agree?"

McIntyre hesitated, wincing slightly. Her lips pursed, relaxed. Finally, she hedged, "Well, I don't know if I would go so far – " Then her eyes crinkled and her shoulders lifted in a shrug of surrender. With a half-laugh, she admitted, "Yeah. Yeah. I think maybe I would."

Josh grinned now and stood, bowing hi body in his familiar, goofy victory stance. "Son of a bitch!"

What had seemed like the end of the world four months before had turned into a personal, political, and humanitarian triumph for the President, and there wasn't one person on the earth who could or would dispute that. Even Karen McIntyre.

Josiah Bartlet was making history in Beijing. Hu Jintao was becoming a true reformist for China. And best of all – and this fact had given great glee to more than one member of the group that worked in the West Wing – Bingo Bob was back where he belonged: relegated to the ignominious obscurity of the vice-presidency – at least for now.

She looked back at the television in time to see the President and Hu Jintao raise joined hands in victory. Two different leaders. Two different philosophies. One common cause. Balance.

"Yin and yang," she murmured.

"Huh?"

"Yin and yang. Balance."

Josh dimpled. "I thought it was about sex."

Dear Lord. "Can you go five minutes without thinking about sex?"

He appeared to give it some thought. "No."

C.J. rolled her eyes. "It's about balance in the world. About give and take. About – "

"It's about sex," he insisted. "Men and women. The women are yin; the men are yang."

"Forget I said anything."

"No. You've got a good point. China and the U.S. Yin and yang." He paused. "But we get to be the yang."

"Josh?"

"Shut up?"

"Bingo."

But she was smiling anyway as the camera zoomed in on the President and Hu Jintao, her eyes lingering on her boss. He did look good. Damn good. Thank God.

Steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony

The Forbidden City

8:25 a.m., Thursday

Beijing Time

POV: Jed

Hu Jintao's handshake was firm, his smile genuine. Jed Bartlet returned both in the same fashion. To capitalize on the magnificent vista behind them, with the distinguished oriental architecture of the Forbidden City, they had chosen to have the ceremony outside, and nature had been gracious. A cloudless sky stretched above them, made even brighter by the crisp autumn day. A moment of heaven that had been born from a moment of hell.

He turned to find his wife beaming at him, the pride and love in her eyes catching him unprepared so that he had to fight against the hot tears that rushed up. To avoid showing the world his emotions, he leaned in, knowing she saw, needing her to see, and let his lips press against hers in a soft, lingering kiss, remembering too late C.J.'s reminders about public displays of affection in the Orient.

Well, who the hell cared? The damn thing was signed already, wasn't it?

Grabbing that moment to regain his composure, he took the strength Abbey sent him through the kiss and spun back around, barely managing to suppress the automatic wince at the flash of pain his quick movement caused. Oh, he had made incredible progress from those first moments of almost unbearable agony in that Xian hospital; even his most conservative doctors had to admit that. Still, smashed ribs were smashed ribs, and four months later, he occasionally fought to keep from bracing a hand against his side when his body – perhaps illogically – sensed a threat. He especially avoided any move that would give the clue that the incision his wife had made to insert the life-saving chest tube still pained him. He saw the guilt in her eyes when she looked at the healing scar, and no amount of assurances he could give seemed to erase that guilt completely.

But today wasn't the day to linger on such thoughts. Today was a day of celebration, of joy, of history. Hard to believe it had begun on a day of horror.

"We have accomplished much," Hu Jintao declared over the applause, bringing Jed's thoughts back to the reason they were there.

"Indeed," the President agreed.

"A great day for both our nations."

"For the world," he amended.

The Chinese leader smiled. "Indeed."

After a few more waves to the crowd, Hu Jintao leaned a little closer and said, "You return to your country tomorrow. Tonight, I am sending a present to your suite in the residence. I hope you will find it enjoyable."

Jed kept the smile on his face, but let his eyes question. They had already exchanged official gifts. He told Hu Jintao as much.

"Ah," his colleague said, "but this one is not official." At Bartlet's puzzled frown, he leaned even closer until he was right at the President's ear. "Mister President, do you remember our discussion in your quarters during your recovery?"

Jed smiled more genuinely this time. "We had many discussions." They had, indeed. His thoughts flew back to that productive, and sometimes fuzzy, week.

The Chinese Presidential Residence

10:15 a.m., Tuesday after the Xian Incident

Beijing Time

It had not been easy, arguing from flat on his back, both figuratively and sometimes literally, but it was his only option if he wanted to argue at all during those first few days out of the hospital. He might as well have stayed. The Chinese leader had arranged for 24-hour care to be at his disposal. Well, he figured Abbey needed a break occasionally.

To his surprise, Hu Jintao was as good as his word about the talks, which were amazingly open and frank. But the best part was that they were between the two of them, with little intervention from either staff. Jed felt true progress was being made, even flat on his back – or propped up as he was in the middle of an ostentatious dragon bed.

"The U.S.'s health care GNP ratio is fourteen percent, Mister President," he argued on the second day of his convalescence at the Presidential Residence, trying to push back the persistent reminder from his body that he was way past time for his pain medicine. "China's is only four percent."

Hu Jintao sat in a chair he had pulled up at the bedside of his counterpart, his earlier silence replaced by almost eager discussion. Maybe it was their mutual survival of a murder attempt that had drawn them closer. If so, Jed Bartlet was grateful for the opportunity, even if it had put him in harm's way and – he admitted only to himself and sometimes to Abbey – in considerable pain.

"Mister President," Jintao returned, "of our one point three billion people, nine hundred million – seventy percent – live in the rural areas. Their access to healthcare is limited, but those who live in urban areas have broad access."

The American President had to agree that the care he had received at the Xian Gaoxin Hospital was impressive. Of course, he couldn't take for granted that he had been treated just as any other patient. "Yes, but you have to know that access to health care in many of your areas is governed by the ability to pay. Our indications are that eighty-seven percent of sick people in your rural areas pay their medical expenses completely by themselves."

He tried to shift, quickly decided against it. "Twenty-five percent of those have to borrow money to pay their fees and more than sixty percent have to leave the hospital before they are fully recovered because they are unable to pay their bills." Pausing to take a breath, he was irritated to hear the labored wheezing. It certainly didn't punctuate his point like he wanted.

The Chinese president offered him a sip of water. Jed waved him away. He despised lying in the bed, invalided, while the other man walked around perfectly healthy, but Abbey – and fifteen other doctors – had not budged, despite his valiant attempts to talk her into letting him sit in an arm chair. He supposed he was lucky she allowed him the talks in the first place.

Settling back, Hu Jintao pursed his lips for a moment, as if considering revealing some great secret to his adversary. Finally, he nodded and said, "We are considering the creation of a cooperative system, which will provide insurance to rural residents."

Well, that was a surprise. He raised a brow. "How far along are you?"

"It has begun, at least. By 2010 we should have implemented it throughout the country. It will provide each medical account of rural dwellers in our central and western regions with ten yuan, which is – "

"A dollar twenty U.S.," Bartlet supplied instantly.

"Yes." Hu Jintao seemed appropriately impressed. "This will at least partially cover medical costs."

"This is for everyone?"

"They must contribute ten yuan in order to join the system. Then they may participate."

Jed nodded and leaned back against the pillows. He couldn't put off the pain killers much longer. Still, he didn't want to stop now that they had latched onto something. Just a few more minutes. It was a start.

Steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony

The Forbidden City

8:35 a.m., Thursday

Beijing Time

And it had been a start. It had led to more detailed conversations, to true give and take between leaders who wanted to make a difference. But, standing there on that triumphant day, with papers signed and crowds cheering, he couldn't figure out which conversation Hu Jintao was talking about. His lack of enlightenment must have shown, because the other man chuckled – a rare sound – and clarified.

"Yin and yang."

Ah. Yes, he remembered that one. Definitely.

And then he couldn't help it. The President of the United States blushed, right before the cheering crowds, before the international cameras. He hoped they wouldn't notice, or at least they'd figure it was a response to the victory of the moment. But both he and Hu Jintao knew it wasn't.

The Chinese Presidential Residence

3:15 p.m., Thursday after the Xian Incident

Beijing Time

After they had come to a consensus on the health care issue, had established cooperation between Chinese and American doctors, a sharing of knowledge and research, the American President was fighting the fatigue of both his wounds and his efforts.

During the lull, when Jed had once again surrendered to the overriding need for pain medicine and was struggling with its persuasive effects, the Chinese president suddenly cleared his throat. "If I might ask a question of a more personal nature, Mister President?"

Trying to push one more beam of focus through his thickening thoughts, he narrowed his eyes. Personal nature? There were many questions that could be asked. Many questions he had no intention of answering. After a moment, he swallowed and took a breath. "Okay."

Standing, the Chinese president turned his back and paced. Jed realized he was nervous for some reason. This must be some question. Still fighting his sluggish brain, he began wading through diplomatic answers to inquiries about his MS, about Zoey's kidnapping ordeal, even about his colossally stupid agreement to accept Bingo Bob as his VP.

Jintao cleared his throat once, paused, cleared it again. "It is, ah, about Doctor Bartlet."

Well, hell, just what he needed.

Abbey had finally gotten tired of being treated like a second-class citizen and had lambasted somebody, maybe Jintao himself. Probably on national television. An international incident. The talks were in jeopardy. The Chinese president was about to ask the U.S. President why the hell he couldn't control his wife.

In his fuzzy state, he couldn't seem to grab onto a measured, cautious response.

The flash of panic disappeared under a rush of anger. How dare they lord their hypocritical superiority over her – over all women! Even with the talks in danger, he couldn't lie there and let that man insult his wife. He opened his mouth to tell Jintao just what he thought of his bigoted attitudes. Fortunately, instead, the other man threw him a different pitch.

"I have noticed – "

He had noticed what? That Abbey was an undisciplined and insubordinate woman who shouldn't be involved in her husband's politics? That Abbey was outspoken and bold? Or maybe it was that Abbey was hot and the Chinese president wanted her for his concubine.

Okay, that medicine was definitely taking effect now. He blinked hard to draw himself back to reality.

"I have noticed that you and your wife – Doctor Bartlet – seem to have a deep bond."

"Pardon?" A curve ball.

"A bond. If you'll pardon my frankness, it appears to be both emotional and physical."

"Yeah."

"I was just wondering what – what created such a bond."

They had discussed many things during his few days at the residence: healthcare, economic trade, North Korea, even Taiwan to a certain degree. This did not fall into any of those categories, and he was having trouble figuring out where the Chinese leader was going with it.

"Our people are – subtle – about their affection, Mister President," he said, and Jed figured he was about to get a lecture on public hand-holding. But Hu Jintao surprised him. "You enjoy each other. That is obvious. She is – a partner?"

Jed's eyes softened. "She is."

"In all senses of the word?"

Now the President narrowed his eyes. Wait a minute. What exactly was being implied here? But he was too tired and too out of it to give back anything but the truth. "In all senses, Mister President. She is the other half of my soul."

If Jintao found this unbelievable or corny, he didn't indicate it. "I see. I wish – " But he stopped, and after a pause, he smiled, almost an embarrassed, tight smile, and asked, "Did you know that there are many ancient sexual customs in our culture?"

"Really?" In fact, he did, having run across a few tidbits in his research before their opera visit four months –

Dear God! Maybe he was right about Hu Jintao's motives earlier. Abbey was hot and the Chinese leader – He really wasn't about to be asked if he would share Abbey, was he? Their teasing conversation during that performance from their first visit came back to him. Oh God!

"Symbols. Stories. Artwork. There is one particular carving of a man and a woman – "

He trailed off, and Jed wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

"I have not been able to keep from noticing that your wife – the First Lady – is quite, ah, how do you say, extraordinary."

Shit. He was lying there in a grotesquely ornate bed, about to be offered a chance to recreate Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice with a decidedly eastern slant. The American President narrowed his eyes. "Yes," he agreed warily. "Yes, she is." And you had better not think you are going to find out exactly how extraordinary, you bastard.

"You love her very much." A statement, not a question.

His head was swimming now. "Yes, I do."

"She was very protective of you on the plane," Hu Jintao remembered.

"What?" Another curve ball. This guy could pitch for the Red Sox.

"On the airplane. She was protective of you."

Jed winced at the scattered memories he had of that nightmare. His main vision, the one that haunted him almost nightly in the midst of tortured dreams, was of the Chinese doctor backhanding Abbey, and the red fire that swept through his body in response. The next one was of the briefcase that would blow them all away. "Yeah?"

"She refused to get off, even though your agent and your chief of staff were insisting."

That sounded like Abbey, all right. "She makes me whole," he said with the simple declaration of truth.

After a moment's consideration, the Chinese president nodded. "Yes. I can see that. Are you familiar with yin and yang, Mister President?"

Jed shrugged, regretting it immediately. He sucked in a sharp breath, but shook off Hu Jintao's quick concern. "Vaguely," he admitted when he could speak again. At least the pain had cleared his thoughts a bit, and he felt embarrassed at his earlier assumption. Besides, Hu Jintao couldn't possibly expect that Abbey was a fair trade for the Chinese First Lady.

All right, he wasn't focusing.

"It means many things, but in the Chou Dynasty, it represented the woman and the man."

"Taoism," the President added.

"Yes." Hu Jintao cocked his head. "You know it?"

"I know a little," he admitted. "As I recall, it was rather vague. A concept of what controls the universe. God, in a way, but not God."

"That is – perhaps part of it. Tao is at once the universal pageant of the constellations and the budding of each new leaf in the spring. It is the constant round of life and death and all that falls between. It resides in us as we reside in it. It is the source as well as the end of our being. It neither judges nor condemns but continually blesses, in all moments, an unending cycle of change and renewal."

Yeah, well, okay. It was the kind of talk he usually ate up, but his waning focus was getting in the way of philosophy. Even so, he fought to hang in there.

"Tao," Hu Jintao continued, "is the way, as in direction, as in manner, source, destination, purpose, and process. In discovering and exploring Tao the process and the destination are one and the same."

Was he saying that their process and destination toward and east/west agreement were one in the same? "I see." But he wasn't sure he really did. "What does this have to do with yin and yang, Mister President?" he wondered, hoping he could remain conscious long enough to hear the answer.

"Yin and yang are energies. They create a balance in life, in all things. The woman represents the yin; the man, the yang. In sexual terms, the woman was said to have inexhaustible yin essence."

Was this man really talking about what he thought he was talking about? Where would they log this discussion in the history books? "Um – "

"But the man was said to have a limited supply of yang."

"Sucks." He was pretty sure they weren't talking about treaties anymore.

"Because of this, the man had to acquire the woman's yin essence several times before allowing himself to spend his yang."

He thanked God no one was recording this for posterity. "I see." All too well.

"It was a matter of health," Hu Jintao explained.

He could see Abbey now as he explained that they must have sex again and again because of medical reasons. On second thought, it just might work –

"She is the yin to your yang, Mister President. Not only in the sexual sense, but also in life itself. Two forces that come together to create everything in life."

When did this guy become the philosopher? Jed smiled, letting the warmth of the medicine slide through him, not trying to stay with the discussion any longer. Yin and yang. "Yes," he acknowledged, drawing out the "s" as his mouth slackened.

"We can be yin and yang, too."

Okay, what -

"Our countries."

Oh. Right. Sure. He knew that. "I get to be the yang, then," he mumbled, fading quickly. This was a good step, he knew, and would reflect on it later, when his brain wasn't ambushed by chemicals. For the moment, he could only nod and hope that Hu Jintao understood.

Yin and yang. Give and take. The forces of life. Wasn't that what it was all about, anyway?

Steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony

The Forbidden City

8:37 a.m., Thursday

Beijing Time

His mind grasping the identified discussion, Jed allowed himself to focus back on the present, on the clear sky, on the crowd, on the almost-smirking cohort next to him.

"Oh, yes, Mister President," he assured Hu Jintao, "I certainly do remember that discussion."

With a rare gleam in his dark eyes, Hu Jintao leaned closer. "Think of that when you open your gift."

Whoa. What on earth had this guy gotten him?

He lifted a brow in question, but the Chinese president simply smiled enigmatically. "I believe you will understand."

They turned to the crowd, cheering even more loudly. Jed allowed himself a moment of self-glory. Only a moment, because he had not done this alone. Still, he had to admit that he did a hell of a lot and that it was a masterful and hopeful work of diplomacy. There was hope, now, where only a mad man would have envisioned it before. There was a future in China and a future in America. Yin and yang. And he was the mad man who brought it about.

The Chinese Presidential Residence

VIP Bedroom Suite

6:30 p.m. Thursday

Beijing Time

POV: Charlie

Charlie Young had been privy to uncounted historical moments in his amazing service as bodyman to Jed Bartlet. He had witnessed public and private triumphs, as well as defeats. And each time he learned a little more about the man he worked for – about the father he loved. As he watched the President dress for the evening ceremonies, he did not think he could be prouder.

That morning, standing against the rich and ancient backdrop of the Forbidden City, he had found his breath catching, his heart racing, his eyes stinging with the emotions of the moment, with the vision that he knew would follow him forever of the President of the United States signing a document that bridged east and west, that brought the most significant opportunity for freedom to the largest remaining communist country in the world. The hand shakes, the waves, the smiles. The media could capture all of those things. But they couldn't really capture the spirit, the hope that crackled on the crisp air that day. Hope for both nations. Hope for the world.

Charlie felt it. He knew the President felt it.

As always, his eyes had watched Jed Bartlet carefully, even more so because he knew the President was still recovering from his injuries, still ached from his ribs, still fought an occasional headache. He had seen him rotate his shoulder and wince when he thought no one was watching. He had seen him brace a hand against his side when he turned suddenly. He had seen him try to hide these discomforts from the First Lady. He had seen the First Lady frown when she saw them anyway.

But he had also seen him battered and bleeding and – they all figured – dying on the floor of Air Force One, and considered his current condition a blessing.

His own sacrifice – the one the world media was calling heroic – was almost an embarrassment for him. He had simply acted on impulse, knowing his efforts were their only hope, his only chance to save the President – to save two presidents, a First Lady, a chief of staff, a chief of communications, the head of the Secret Service POTUS detail, and a whole bunch of veteran members of the press. He had just been a damned lucky son of a bitch that he hadn't been blown apart himself. He only knew he would not allow Jed Bartlet to be blown apart.

For his troubles, he had experienced something close to canonization from the media, had received medals for heroism from his own country and the PRC, had – with only scattered success –ducked interviews from every network, five different cable station, and hundreds of local stations. The only reward, however, that had meant anything to him came from the man he had done it all for.

All the other accolades paled in comparison with the simple "Thank you, son." Of course, the thank you was accompanied by an extended lecture on the foolishness of his actions and the warning that he should never – NEVER – place himself in such danger again. And a long, emotional embrace.

He loved Jed Bartlet so much.

Pushing down the swell of emotion that hit him with his reflections, Charlie cleared his throat and stood by while the President finished putting the studs in his tuxedo shirt and fumbled with his tie. After a moment or two without apparent success, the bodyman offered, "Do you need help with that, Mister President?"

It was the wrong thing to say. He could tell by the flash of irritation from those blue eyes. But the irritation was not directed at him. It was definitely aimed inward.

"I got it," he insisted, pulling the two sides apart and starting over.

Another try, unsuccessful. Charlie tried not to fidget. Usually, this was not a major task. The fact that it had suddenly become one presented an unwelcome worry. Just before he determined he would help anyway, the President blew out a hard breath.

"There," he announced, dropping his hands and presenting the neat bow for viewing. "Nothin' to it." But those eyes that had flashed a moment before flickered away quickly, not meeting Charlie's dark gaze.

Any further discussion, however, was lost with the knock at the door. Charlie took only one more glance at the President, who had moved away and flipped his jacket over his head, letting it slide down his arms into place, his own signature style. The bodyman grinned, despite the disturbing moment earlier. He loved to watch Jed Bartlet put on a coat.

The open door revealed a messenger, head bent in respect, arms extended, hands holding a colorfully-wrapped package. He nodded toward the President and smiled. "President to president," he explained in halting English.

"This is for the President?" Charlie tried to clarify.

The man nodded.

"From President Jintao?"

Another nod.

"Okay. Thanks." He took the package, and noted that it was rather heavy, even though it wasn't very large. Is it bigger than a breadbox?

"Whatcha got?" the President asked, straightening his cummerbund.

"A present to you from President Jintao," he said.

Now those blue eyes flickered again, but not with irritation, nor with anxiety. This time they flickered with mixture of amusement, anticipation, and – Charlie was not sure he really saw this – embarrassment. "Ah. Right. He said he was – okay, I'll just open this later."

"You sure?" Curiosity was a very human trait.

Now the President cut his eyes toward him, a knowing smirk curving his mouth. "You wanna know, huh?"

"It's up to you, of course, Mister President. It is a private gift, I know. You are under no obligation to share its contents with – yeah, I wanna know."

The President laughed, and it was good to see him not try to hold the breath shallow. "Well, maybe I'd better look at it before Abbey sees it. After the explanation I got – "

Now he was even more curious. He watched closely as the strong, square hands tore at the paper, uninterested in saving it. An ornate box sparkled at them, its gold and silver trim gleaming.

"Wow."

The President nodded his agreement, then lifted the lid. Wow suddenly seemed inadequate. Was that what he thought it was? Charlie glanced up at the President, who was staring, as well. Yeah, must be.

He blinked at the figures of the smooth carving. Surely they weren't – then he blinked again. Yeah, they were. He looked at the President, unable to keep from assessing his reaction. There weren't many times he had ever seen Jed Bartlet nonplussed. In fact, he wasn't sure it had ever really happened. Now, however –

"Sir, are they – "

"Yeah," he answered, an uncharacteristic flush sweeping across his cheeks. "Yeah, they are."

"That's from the Chinese president?" Charlie asked, a little unsure now that he got a better look at the present.

"Yep."

"The same one who frowned because you held Mrs. Bartlet's hand going up the steps to the Imperial Palace during your first visit?"

"Uh huh."

"He appears to have changed his mind."

The President stared at the figures a beat longer, then set the box on a nearby table. "Yeah," he agreed. But a faint smile grew to replace the bemusement. "Listen, Charlie, tonight, I – uh – the First Lady and I – "

"Yes, sir." No need to go further. Charlie understood. It wasn't as if he had never drawn barbecuing patrol before. And that present –

Still, the President wanted to be quite clear. "No interruptions, okay. I mean none. After the reception tonight, no one needs to see me. No one. Got it?"

The young bodyman put only mild effort into suppressing a grin and gave a pointed glance at the gift. "No interruptions, Mister President," he repeated, eyes gleaming.

Jed Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "Are you smirking?"

"Definitely, sir."

After only a quick pause, his chin jerked up and he gave Charlie a smirk of his own. "Okay."

With the tie trouble forgotten, at least for the moment, Charlie Young watched his boss – his father – stride from the room, whistling gleefully, triumph in his wake, the First Lady in his future. It took him only a few bars to recognize the tune "Indiscreet."

The Imperial Palace sitting room

9:00 p.m. Thursday

Beijing Time

POV: Abbey

First Lady Abigail Bartlet worked not to look at her watch. The reception had been over for thirty minutes and here she sat, still in the public eye, still under the scrutiny of the world while her husband was probably sound asleep on that horrible dragon bed in the quarters in the presidential residence. Not that she would even dream of denying him his rest. God knew he needed it.

But she just wanted so much to be with him, to hold him, to curl up in his arms. It had been so long. His injuries made such contact impossible until recently. His work schedule, piling up when he was able to take on heavier days, filled in the rest of their personal time. He had hinted that maybe they could repeat their experience on Air Force One from their earlier trip, but most of those hours were spent hammering out the final topics to discuss once they landed. Of the seventeen hours it took, thirteen were dedicated to work, two to sleep, and two to staring out the window. She had not asked what he was thinking. He had not volunteered.

Now, however, the deed was done. The treaty signed and celebrated. And she was proud of him, proud of the truly amazing accomplishment. She definitely believed that no one else could have done it. But she missed the hell out of him, and had hoped that perhaps after the reception they could just have a little quiet time in their suite, no talks, no negotiations, no treaties – and definitely no interruptions.

She looked back at her interviewer and tried to remember what the question had been. Finally, with a measured smile, she had to ask, "I'm sorry, what was that again?"

Diana Sawyer smiled back, as if she understood the First Lady's preoccupation. For the entire conversation she had been pleasant, gentle even. Not that Abbey had expected a grilling from the veteran reporter, but the atmosphere was decidedly sympathetic. Perhaps the trauma they had all witnessed brought more compassion to the interview.

"Certainly. It's been an eventful day."

Well, that was an understatement.

"I said, Mrs. Bartlet, that almost everyone is calling the President a hero. He placed himself in front of danger to save the life of his bodyman. He attacked the terrorist to save your life. He grappled for a briefcase that held a bomb to save the life of the Chinese President – the lives of everyone on that plane."

Jed. "Yes."

Sawyer gave her that personal smile, the one that was supposed to bring out some deep revelation no one had ever heard before. "Were you surprised?"

Abbey looked back. Was she surprised?

After all, this was Jed she was talking about. Her Jed. The same Jed who had accidentally run over Herb and Marjorie Douglas with his car. The same Jed who had crashed Leo's 4,000 bike into a tree in Jackson Hole. The same Jed who had visited all the national parks and tortured them all with inane statistics about obscure ancient civilizations. The same Jed who balanced his checkbook – and other peoples' checkbooks – just for fun.

Was she surprised?

This was also the same Jed who had stayed on the line with a terrified radio operator on a tender ship while they listened to the doomed craft founder. The same Jed who joked his way through the trauma room at George Washington Hospital with a bullet wound through his abdomen. The same Jed who had met the world head on with the truth about his multiple sclerosis. The same Jed who had turned over the Presidency of the United States without hesitation in order to save his child. The same Jed who had almost single-handedly forged an impossible peace between Israel and Palestine.

This was Jed. Her Jed.

Was she surprised?

She smiled. "No. Not at all."

The Imperial Palace VIP Bedroom Suite

9:50 p.m. Thursday

Beijing Time

Abbey Bartlet tried not to rush through the halls of the presidential residence, tried to maintain a pace appropriate to the dignity of the position of First Lady, tried not to give the indication that she was late for her rendezvous with the President of the United States – a rendezvous that she had waited sixteen weeks for. From the glances she received from her agents, she wasn't completely successful. She looked again. Okay, not really successful at all. Well, she didn't give a damn. Not tonight.

Tonight, her husband served no other mistresses. Not the Joint Chiefs, not the Chief of Staff, not the DNC, not the Press, not China. Tonight, he served only her – and she served him. The flush that swept across her cheeks merely telegraphed her plans more clearly. The nearest agent cleared his throat and lowered his gaze.

Almost there. Her heels clicked on the floor, slowing only when she reached the delicately carved doors of their suite.

Her heart sank when she saw Charlie Young waiting for her.

Damn. Damn. There were many reasons for him to be there, many messages he could be delivering. But almost all of them involved her husband being somewhere else.

I'm sorry, but the President was called away to another meeting.

I'm sorry, but the President had to deal with some forgotten detail of protocol.

I'm sorry, but the President was involved in keeping Ickystan and Bleckistan from annihilating each other.

I'm sorry, but –

Whatever it was, it was not good for her.

Damn.

"Good evening, Doctor Bartlet," he greeted. Since the attack, he had referred to her exclusively as Doctor, not Mrs. Bartlet.

Despite her disappointment, she smiled at him. Six years ago, she would never have imagined that the raw, unsure boy would grow to become such an integral part of their lives. He had become a confidant, a protector, a sounding board – a son. And now, amazingly, he was a savior. But she knew he didn't want the limelight, was uncomfortable with the attention. So instead of the warm hug she wanted to wrap around him, she smiled.

"Good evening, Charlie."

"I have a message for you, Ma'am," he said without further conversation.

Of course. Maybe it wasn't too late to procure a ticket to the opera.

"The President sends his compliments and would like for you to know that there will be no interruptions tonight."

Hold on. "Jed told you to tell me – "

"He was quite firm, Ma'am. No interruptions."

"Jed's here?"

Charlie's eyes widened, as if he didn't know why she should think otherwise. "Yes, ma'am."

She wondered if he could hear her heart beating again, if he could see the chill bumps race over her skin, if he could feel the charge of sexual desire crackle through the air. Well, if he could, it wasn't anything he hadn't witnessed before in his years of service to the President and First Lady.

Calmly masking her tingling anticipation, she smiled again. "Thank you, Charlie." Then her doctor's instincts – or maybe her maternal instincts – nudged her to place a hand on his arm and ask, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Ma'am."

"Really?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Good as new."

Ah, youth. And thank God for it.

A darker thought passed through her mind. "How's he feeling?"

It was only a slight hesitation, but it was noticeable, nevertheless. "Fine."

Damn. "Charlie – " He had to know that tone. He had heard her use it on the President often enough.

"Really, Ma'am. I think he's fine."

"You THINK?"

Their eyes met, conveyed the message sufficiently without words. Jed was fine – compared to what he was, but not completely. She knew that, had seen the winces, the stiff movements. He was still recovering. To be honest, so was she; if not physically, then certainly emotionally.

"Enjoy your evening, Ma'am," Charlie offered. "The President is looking forward to it."

She got the hint. Don't ask. Don't ruin it by quizzing him on how he feels. She usually didn't take orders from someone 30 years her junior – or her senior for that matter – but Charlie had insight into her husband that sometimes she didn't have. And he had earned a few liberties over the years – certainly over the most recent months. Tonight, she would follow the subtle suggestion. Tomorrow – tomorrow was another day.

"Thank you, Charlie," she said, ignoring his embarrassment and giving him a kiss on the cheek that conveyed more than just thanks. It carried the conspiracy of two who loved one man, who looked after one man.

"Yes, Ma'am." With a nod, he closed the doors behind her.

When she stepped into the room, the first thing she noticed was the statue of two snake-humans fornicating.

Okay. She was pretty sure that had not been there before. It would have been hard to miss. She peered closer at the dark marbled stone that sat – reclined? – on the table. The male – and there was no doubt it was the male – perched on his knees, or his tail really, since the lower part of his body curved into a snake. The female lay before him, her own tail interlocked with his in a sensual, erotic arch that left no doubt about the significance of the entwined figures.

She couldn't wait to hear the explanation for that.

Candles lit the room with soft, warm flickers, throwing dancing shadows against the rich drapes. She didn't recognize the music; it lilted with the plucking notes of the Orient, but the mood was set, nevertheless. Yes, a perfect scene. There was just one thing missing.

"Jed?"

Only the music answered her. Maybe Charlie was wrong. Maybe Jed had been called away. Maybe –

"Jed?"

"Here."

Okay. Good. Yes. The bathroom.

Smiling in almost girlish anticipation, she kicked off her heels and sauntered to the door that separated the sleeping chamber from the bath. They had already admired the ancient accommodations as they had meshed with modern conveniences. The focal point of the room was the huge footed tub that was as wide as it was long, looking as if it had been built to host a party of bathers. Well, they were going to have a party, all right.

When she entered, she saw that it was already occupied. Her husband reclined lazily, arms draped over the side. She ran her eyes appreciatively over the sight, starting with his forearms. She loved his forearms. She loved the golden hair that curled over the muscles, the square hands that could be both gentle and bold. The water lapped at his chest when he shifted to raise a glass of bubbly liquid toward her, and her gaze moved down his body. Below the waterline, she saw clearly that she was not the only one anticipating the evening.

"Good evening, Mister President," she greeted, taking the glass from his hand, a jolt of desire jumping between them as their fingers touched.

"Madame First Lady," he returned. She caught her breath at the sensuality in that rich voice and the raw lust in those blue eyes. "Join me?"

"Thought you'd never ask." Squelching the urge to tear off her clothes and jump him right then, she turned her disrobing into a seductive, sensuous strip-tease, earning her a groan from him. She looked down to assess her success. Oh, yes.

The water was warm and silken against her skin. She didn't slide up next to him at first, but teased him by sitting on the opposite side, letting her toes tickle the soles of his feet, daring him to make the first move. Despite his obvious physical response to her, though, he managed to stay put. Damn it.

"You were expecting company?" she asked innocently.

He didn't even flinch. "Just waiting for my yin."

"Pardon?"

"My yin." His eyes snapped with mischief. Tonight would be fun.

Well, she was more than capable of playing the game. "Is that your geisha's name?"

"First of all, Madame Butterfly, geishas are Japanese."

Time to twist things in her own direction. She smirked and asked, "Where'd you get the pornography out front?"

His brows rose in feigned innocence. "That's not pornography," he protested. "It's art – ancient Chinese art, for your information."

"Um hmm. What'd you do, have Ron sneak around the black market section?"

"I'll have you know that was a gift from the President of the People's Republic of China."

Oh God. C.J. would flip if Jed brought home a statue of screwing snake people. "I hope he doesn't expect us to put it on display at the Smithsonian," she said, not completely joking.

He shook his head. "Nah. I figured we'd have a special showing of it in the East Room."

"Jed – " She knew he was kidding. She was pretty sure –

"You're too easy," he grinned. Jackass. "Hu Jintao gave it to me – to us, really – not to the President of the United States."

Well, that was better, but – "Why?"

"I'm pretty sure he wants to do a little swinging. You, me, him and Mrs. Hu Jintao."

"What?"

"Yeah. You know, in the interest of east-west relations."

She wasn't usually too credulous, but he was selling this one quite well. Not a hint of a smile. Still – "Jed – "

"Too easy," he reminded, then smiled. "Actually, he thinks you're extraordinary. His very word."

She smirked, acknowledging the stripe of pleasure that gave her. "Yeah?"

"He's right, of course." The man could be so dear sometimes.

"Jed – "

But he cut her off with a sudden launch into his professorial tone. "The figures of the statue represent yin and yang, the balance of nature, of life – of sexual fulfillment. It's actually a reproduction of a stone carving from the Han Dynasty. The interlocking tails are a metaphor for sexual intercourse."

"Not much of a metaphor," she observed. "Doesn't take a Nobel Prize winner to see what they are doing."

"Does it take one to do what they are doing?" he smirked.

She ignored him. "Hu Jintao really gave you this?"

Jed smiled softly, and she felt her heart pound at the warmth in his eyes. "He said you are the yin to my yang."

All right. He could just take her right then, no waiting, no teasing. Bring it on.

"Did you know," he said, swirling the liquid in his own glass, "that in the Chou Dynasty women were said to have an inexhaustible supply of yin essence?"

"Really?" Nerd hot talk. She loved it.

He nodded and pulled in his legs, shifting a little closer. She was getting to him, not that it was all that difficult. "Unfortunately, men have a limited supply of yang."

"You're saying no one knew that already?"

Setting down his glass, he stretched out on his stomach and leaned forward so that his chin rested on her right thigh. His fingertips danced just below her navel. This was more like it. "I'm sayin' you women had it good in the old days."

"How's that?"

"Well," he continued, letting his hand slide to caress the inside of her left thigh, "that meant that before he could ejaculate, the man had to make the woman orgasm several times to acquire her yin essence."

Several times? Oh, this was definitely more like it. She tried not to squirm.

"If a man ejaculated or used up his yang essence without taking any yin essence, it was said to cause him health problems and even death." His hand slid lower now.

Nerdy, maybe. Hot, definitely. She smiled and arched into his feather touch, groaning as he pulled away. "We, uh, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"No, indeed." He eased his body back, moving between her thighs and lowering his mouth to lick teasingly in her soft folds at water level. Oh God! The electricity shot through her body, her muscles writhed under his caresses.

Her nerves trembled, on the edge, burning with the need to reach completion. But he didn't let her. He kept her poised for ecstasy, slowing when she got too close, going fast when she got too relaxed. Over and over until she felt that her heart was going to explode as soon as her body did. Finally, she clutched at his shoulders, groaning her need. He didn't need the words. He knew her body well. With dedicated movements, he threw her into the passionate convulsions she had yearned for from the very moment his lips touched her. Out of control, she bucked beneath, only vaguely concerned with how hard she thrust against him. Again and again, the spasms shot through her, until finally her body collapsed, trembling and exhausted into the cooling water.

When she was able to open her eyes, she saw him watching her, those beautiful blues sharp with a mixture of satisfaction and lust. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that the first acquisition of yin has been accomplished," he declared, grinning.

She smiled back, admiring the masculine beauty of his face, the rakish flop of his hair, the strong swell of his shoulders. Oh yes. Definitely accomplished.

But she figured the yang deserved a little attention, too. Pushing against his chest gently to have him sit, she kissed him, soft at first, then harder, tasting herself in his mouth, igniting her still smoldering desire. She held his face tightly, then let her hands slide down his chest and over his ribs.

The sudden, harsh grunt stopped her cold.

Looking down, she brushed her fingers over the area she had just touched, the area that had drawn an uncomfortable reaction from him: the smooth, pink scar that she, herself, had created. It was to save his life, certainly, but that didn't mean she could stop the cringe when she had to look at that scar and know it was one more mar on his body, one more imperfection. And she had done it.

"Babe?" His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

She looked up and tried to smile, but the tears sparkling in her eyes belied her expression.

"Hey, it's okay," he assured her, cupping her face in his palm, realizing what had affected her. "Abbey, it's all right."

"No, it's not. We shouldn't – I should have known it was too soon – "

But he shook his head and drew her hand to his groin so that she could feel the hardness, understand that he was ready. "I'm fine, Abbey. More than fine, I – "

"I didn't want to do it," she choked out, unable to move away from the sudden vision of that horrible moment on the floor of the cabin on Air Force One, the moment she sliced into her own husband's body, the moment she pulled his ribs apart to thrust in a foreign object, the moment she had desperately fumbled to keep him from dying under her own hands.

"What?"

"I didn't want – I had to, but I didn't want to." The sobs clogged her throat, broke up her words. "But you – you were dying, and I was the only one – I had to – "

"Oh, Abbey," he whispered, moving her hand up so that they both could touch the scar. "Don't do this. You can't think it was bad thing."

"You couldn't breathe, see, I had to – "

Now he pulled back and caught her shoulders with both his hands. "Look at me, Abigail."

She did, the guilt welling up in her chest, overflowing in tears from her eyes. But she didn't see blame, she didn't see pain. She didn't see anything except love – no, not love. Adoration. Those blue eyes drowned her in their devotion, in their warmth, in their absolute and unconditional love.

"What you did was incredible. It was heroic." He placed her hand flat against the scar and covered it with his. "It was life, Abbey. You gave me life."

You gave me life. God, she loved this man. "I'm sorry – "

His fingers touched her lips. "No. Don't say that. I'm not sorry. If you hadn't done that, I wouldn't be doing this."

Then his lips replaced his fingers and she clung to him, desperate to feel him against her, to reclaim that connection she had feared would be lost to her forever. Their movements grew frantic, uncontrolled. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub, but neither noticed. She tugged at his hips, tried to pull him to her, to satisfy her ache to have him full and complete inside her once more.

But he stopped her, drawing back with a groan. Instantly, she stilled, angry with herself for hurting him. With effort she pressed down her own surging desires and addressed his needs.

"You okay?" she asked, trying to catch her breath. "How are your ribs?"

The doctors had given him a clean bill of health to travel back to China, to finalize the agreements between Hu Jintao and him. They had also cleared him for other activities, but she wouldn't push, wouldn't even hint until he was ready, despite the almost constant ache to be with him. She had seen the aborted movements, had watched him grimace in response to a quick turn, had known about the quiet requests to his bodyman for aspirin.

"They're fine, Abbey. I feel fine."

"Not sore? Not tender?"

"Nah." In other words, hell yes.

"Maybe we should just go to sleep," she suggested, trying – and failing – to be convincing. To put more teeth into it, she braced to rise from the tub. The water was almost cold now, anyway.

His fingers left her arms to trail between her breasts. She caught her breath. "Jed – "

But he leaned in and let his mouth touch hers again softly, ran his tongue over her skin. "Don't wanna sleep. Not yet."

Her skin exploded in shivers. She wanted nothing more than to lie with him, to feel his body against hers, to shudder as he pushed into her slowly, as he led them forward, harder and harder until they – but she couldn't. Damn it. He still hurt, she could tell. And she wouldn't do anything to make it worse.

"You stopped us – I thought – "

"No, Sweet Knees. I stopped because things were happening too fast. See, I haven't gotten my quota of yin, yet. Gotta take care of that before the yang can – "

"Jackass," she grinned with relief, hoping he really was being a delightful jackass, praying it wasn't just a bluff to mask his pain.

But he responded with complete seriousness, and she felt a thrill down her spine at the passion in his eyes. "I want you so much, Abbey. I can't tell you how much I've missed holding you, touching you." He ran his fingers lower to rest below her navel. "Being inside you."

Oh, how she had missed that, too. They could go slowly. She could be gentle. Damn it! Her own desires, raging now, pushed past her medical logic.

She lay back in the tub, the pose of her body clearly seductive, blatantly inviting, the water brushing at her breasts. She needed him so badly, ached for him, and her blood surged as he stood, blatantly displaying his surging arousal. Licking her lips, she ran her fingers over her breasts, lifted her hips toward him.

"God, Abbey," he groaned. "It's been four months. Do you want me to come right now?"

She grinned and reached out a hand to him. "As long as you come inside me, Babe, it doesn't matter when – "

He groaned again and offered his hand to pull her up. "It'll be warmer in the bed."

As they stepped from the tub, she rubbed her dripping body against his, sliding her fingers over his chest, threading through the wet, curly hair that ran down to his abdomen and lower. He moved with her, pressing his hips to hers, and she gasped at the urgent pulses that beat against her pubis. They didn't have time to dry off, couldn't wait for anything now.

She heard the strain in his voice. "Abbey, you'd better – "

She grasped him, her fingers dancing up the shaft. God, he was hard and way past ready. Well, he wasn't the only one. She was so aroused again that it wouldn't take much for either of them. Somehow, they stumbled to the dragon bed, not bothering to pull back the covers as they fell onto them, bodies sliding together, slick and wet. She wrapped her legs around his hips, which pushed forward, his burning erection searching hungrily for her entrance, for the familiar territory he had first claimed so many years before.

She cried out when he thrust in, unable to hold back, to take things slowly. She knew they heard her outside the door. She didn't care.

Her muscles greeted him eagerly as he plowed deeper, thick and strong, and he didn't stop until he couldn't go any farther, until he was buried as deep inside her as she could take him. Abbey tightened her legs around him as he lay there for a moment, throbbing at her center.

"Move, Jed!" she demanded. "Please, I need you – I need – "

But he had regained some control, and she opened frustrated eyes to see him grinning down at her and shaking his head. "Not yet, Sweet Knees," he teased, pulling back slowly, so that he was almost completely out.

She tried to arch up to force him back, but he placed a hand on her stomach to still her before sinking in. She groaned. What a time for him to find willpower. He held still again, full and deep inside her.

"Just feel that, Babe," he coaxed. "Feel how much I want you. Feel how good this is. God, you feel so good, Abbey."

Oh yes, she felt it. It was good. It was glorious. She just didn't know how much more glory she could take. The waves were building even though the only movement was the involuntary pulses his body sent through him.

"Josiah," she whispered, bringing his hand up to her lips, taking his middle finger into her mouth and sucking it, then licking between each of the other fingers.

He grunted and dropped his head. "Not – fair," he accused, pulling his hand away. "I want this to last."

They could make the next time last. The hell with it this time. She needed him. She needed him to move and move hard and move now.

"I can't wait, Jed," she groaned. "I need to – "

"Go ahead," he urged, taking her wrists in his hands and raising her arms above her head to pin her to the bed. "I've got you." And he pulled back with aching slowness, only to push back in just as slowly, just as agonizingly. Then, he bent his head and kissed her neck, his lips sucking gently at first, then harder. She would have a mark there in the morning. She didn't care. She felt so full, so complete. And he wasn't even moving. She was going mad, right on the edge, every muscle poised, every nerve trembling.

"You are making me – pay for that remark on the plane the first time we – came here, aren't you?" she accused, her voice hoarse.

He raised an innocent brow and nudged her hips a little. She groaned. "I have no idea what you are talking about, Hot Lips."

"You know – very well."

He moved again, slowly, tauntingly. God, she wasn't going to survive this.

"Remind me," he suggested, flicking his tongue across her left nipple and letting his shaft flare inside her.

"Uh, it was – it was – " It was what? She couldn't think suddenly.

"Yes?" Now his teeth nibbled at her earlobe. Oh, he was pure evil.

"I, uh, I might have, uh, suggested that we wouldn't need – " He pumped hard. She gasped.

"Wouldn't need what, Sweetheart?" Pure evil.

"A whole hour to – to make love."

"No?"

"I was wrong," she pleaded.

"You were wrong?" Another lick, this time between her breasts.

"Oh, God, was I wrong."

"You bet your ass you were wrong," he growled, and she felt him give up a little of the control as he pulled back and plunged in hard. "Besides, I'm just following the advice of the ancient Chinese. Yin and yang, Babe. Yin and yang."

"Jed!" She knew he heard that tone, realized she was there. No more play. It was time to get serious.

Abandoning his slow, taunting pace, he swung into a faster, more terminal rhythm. And it was incredible. He felt so good, hitting deep, twisting his hips up to grind against her clitoris with each down stroke. Her legs began to tremble, the momentum building inside. He released his hold on her hands to brace himself, and she clutched at his shoulders, her head arched back as their hips met again and again, harder and harder.

"Jed!" The burst of ecstasy shot through her, grabbing her nerves and throwing her muscles into convulsions with the magnificent explosion.

He rode out the waves with her, whispering in her ear. "That's it, Babe. You are so beautiful. I love you, Abbey. I love you."

Finally, her body relaxed its relentless grasp on her muscles, and she collapsed beneath him, her arms sliding from his shoulders, her legs dropping from his waist.

Even with her eyes closed, she heard the smirk. "Second acquisition of yin accomplished," he boasted. "And now it's yang's turn."

Giving her only a minute to recover, he settled himself inside her again, then withdrew, his movements smooth and fluid with her climax. He had been so patient, so controlled, so deliciously evil, and now he deserved a reward. Drawing her legs back around him, she arched up to meet his thrusts, to give him a little twist of her own. Her teeth tugged at his chest hair, her tongue licked at his nipples, her fingers ran down his stomach to caress him as he pulled back, to touch where they joined.

He groaned, pushed harder, faster. Sweat trickled down his face. She had not planned on coming again, but the friction and heat his body created against hers pulled her back into the conflagration, and she knew she would be right there with him.

As she moved with him, though, she noticed that his breath began to grow labored, and she slowed, concerned. One didn't play with a collapsed lung, even after four months. What if –

"Jed – "

But he shook his head and urged her on with his hips. "Don't – stop," he gasped, no longer smug, no longer in control. She loved him even more for it. "Almost – there – "

Then he was, his body tensing, his eyes closing, his teeth gritting. Even if she had wanted to stop, it was too late. She felt him swell even larger within her, felt the wave sweep through his length, felt the strong first pulse jerk inside her, felt the explosion of liquid heat overflow. And she was gone, too, her muscles milking him, pulling at his continuing spasms as he pumped, over and over, on and on.

"Abbey!" he gasped, neck muscles taut, jaw clenched. He drove into her several more times until he gave a final shuddering thrust and melted onto her body, his random lingering pulses still throbbing at her center.

There was certainly something to be said for the ancient Chinese, she decided. Yin and yang, indeed. Or rather yin and yin and yin and yang.

But it took only a moment for her brain to key back on what had bothered her earlier. His breathing continued to be fast, harsh almost. And even though she dreaded giving up that incredible feeling of intimacy, of oneness that she felt still joined with him, her instincts prodded her to move, pushing up so that he was forced to withdraw. Even then, it took some effort, and when he gave in to her, he had barely pulled out before he was collapsing onto the bed, his breath coming in gasps.

"Jed?"

Her only answer was the labored breathing.

"Jed?" More urgent this time. Answer me, damn it.

"I'm – all – right," he managed, the strained tone belying his words.

She rose now, sat to look down at him. Lines of sweat trailed down his face and dripped onto the sheets; his glistening chest heaved, fighting for the needed oxygen; his skin was flushed.

"Bull." Damn it! She had known it was too soon. She had let herself be carried away by his charms, by his words, and by her own impatient desires. "Do you have pain? Tightness? Can you breathe all right?" Her hands automatically moved over his ribs.

"Abbey, I'm – fine," he insisted, pulling away from her examination, but the gasps didn't support the assurance.

"Try not to fight it. Let your body – "

"Just give me – a minute." It wasn't a plea, but it was close. He lay on the bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. She counted the breaths, listened for any struggle, any wheezing. After a moment or two, they grew shallower, less frantic. Thank God.

"Babe?" she asked gently.

He opened his eyes and smiled sheepishly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he assured her. "It's just – that was the first time since – I'm just a little – out of practice."

She narrowed her eyes doubtfully, gauging his honesty, her body still tingling from his touch. "You didn't seem too out of practice to me."

"Well, it's like – riding a bike," he said, offering her a boyish smile, breath almost normal. "You never really forget."

The medical part of her brain assessed his condition even as the lover part bantered.

"A bike, huh? I feel like I've just ridden a Harley," she said, slapping at him playfully when he gave her a proud smirk. At the same time, her fingers curled around his wrist, taking his pulse.

"A Harley?" he prodded, ignoring the obvious check on his health.

Heart rate a little fast, but not alarming, considering he had just had some pretty intense sex. Her answer was only a little in jest. "Only the biggest and best."

"Damn straight."

Satisfied he really was all right, she laid her head on his chest and let her fingers swirl the hair.

"Besides," he added more smoothly, "you've always taken my breath away, Hot Buns."

"Josiah Bartlet," she threatened, "so help me, if you are lying – "

He ran his hands up both sides of her spine. "What does your exam say?"

Well, hell. Her mouth turned up into a smirk against his chest. "It says if we're going to do that again, you might need to borrow an inhaler."

"Then you'd better find me one, Hot Pants," he said, letting his hands slide to her buttocks. "Because I think I still have some yang left, and you know what that means."

Her own heart rate kicked up a notch as he pulled her hips against his. "What?"

"I've got to acquire more yin – "

Some time later they lay, limbs entwined, in the hideous dragon bed. Their encore had been slower, more tender, but not one bit less satisfying. It had been a long time since she had been so spent. This yin/yang ratio was definitely an interesting concept. Twice for him meant – she blushed – several more for her. Yes, an interesting concept.

His breathing had been better the second round, and she stroked his chest as she listened to the soft snores, heavy and even. It was good to have him back, good to lie next to him and not worry about hurting him, good to feel his strength and know that it had not abandoned him yet, good to share the exquisite pleasure they had brought to each other for the past 37 years.

It was just plain good.

So she lay in his arms and smiled with the knowledge that Jed Bartlet was hers. And he would always be hers.

But not hers alone. Not anymore. Six years earlier he had taken a mistress: the Presidency. And now, neither of them would ever be completely free of that mistress again. But Abbey was a jealous lover. She would tolerate the mistress, would even cater to the mistress. For a while. For just a while.

But not too far into the future, that mistress would have to relinquish him into her grasp again. And she would be his only lover once more. And she vowed that nothing else would take him away from her for the time they had left. She knew they were blessed. She knew they had evaded the ticking clock more years than she would have guessed. Who knew how much longer they could? She had seen something in Charlie's eyes, something she would find out about soon enough. She wasn't blind. She had noticed the subtle changes, the occasional hesitations, the rub of a thigh, the squint of an eye.

But she decided she didn't resent that mistress anymore. By sharing him, she had allowed him to become the man he sought to be. Regardless of what happened, of how the final chapter turned out, Josiah Bartlet had done what he wanted to do.

He believed that the world could be changed. He determined to be the one to change it.

It could.

And he did.

Was it worth the price he had paid – or the one he would pay? They probably disagreed on the answer to that, but she couldn't deny that it was his destiny. That much had become apparent as soon as he took the oath of office.

So now, as she lay in the arms of this man who had altered the course of history, despite the uncertainty before them, she smiled. Because this was Jed. Her Jed. The same Jed who had accidentally run over Herb and Marjorie Douglas with his car. The same Jed who had crashed Leo's 4,000 bike into a tree in Jackson Hole. The same Jed who had visited all the national parks and tortured them all with inane statistics about obscure ancient civilizations. The same Jed who balanced his checkbook – and other peoples' checkbooks – just for fun.

The same Jed who had stayed on the line with a terrified radio operator on a tender ship while they listened to the doomed craft founder. The same Jed who joked his way through the trauma room at George Washington Hospital with a bullet wound through his abdomen. The same Jed who had met the world head on with the truth about his multiple sclerosis. The same Jed who had turned over the Presidency of the United States without hesitation in order to save his child. The same Jed who had almost single-handedly forged an impossible peace between Israel and Palestine. The same Jed who had transformed the relationship between East and West.

The same Jed who changed the world.

Her Jed.

And he always would be.

END

Lyrics from the song "Indiscreet"

Sammy Cahn

1958

"Indiscreet - it's indiscreet, to gaze at you - each time we meet.

I've told my eyes - they must disguise - this yearning.

Yes it's indiscreet - quite indiscreet, to find your touch - so bitter sweet.

You're close to me and suddenly I'm burning.

While I ask myself"Where is your pride" irresistibly I'm drawn to your side,

And (Yes) it's indiscreet - so indiscreet, but love is swift - and time is sweet,

And oh my dear - I crave the nearness of you.

To love you is why my heart must be - so love me - it can't be indiscreet."

"Mistress, there are portents abroad of magic and might,

And things that are yet to be done. Open the door!"

Elizabeth Jane Coatsworth

"On a Night of Snow"