Author: Regency
Title: The Story of Us
Rating: PG for vague mentions of sexual situations.
Pairing: Abbey/Other; Jed/Other; Jed/Abbey
Summary: She looked as nervous as I think I've ever seen her. Which, really isn't saying much. She just stood there, staring at the house she'd never seen in person...She was biting her lip and seemed to be shoring up her courage to knock when the door opened. It was the President.
Disclaimer: The only person I own is Andrew Foster.
Author's Notes: Andrew is a photographer. I don't know why Abbey and Jed separated. They just did. Okay?
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Abigail Bartlet; I met her once, well, I more than met her. I lived with her and it wasn't just once. It was for three years. I almost ashamed to say, I don't remember where or when we met, just that we did. It was a few months after she and her husband's separation and I guess you could say she was on the rebound. All I remember was asking her to dance and her agreeing to. The night went on and I returned with her to her hotel room, and a few weeks later, I moved into the Manchester House with her. That was the beginning.
From here, you probably think I'd say we got married soon after right? Happily ever after? No, that's not what happened. Not by a long shot...
Maybe from day one there was trouble and I was too blind to see it. No, now, I'm sure there was. It was the way she acted. The difference in her. She wasn't the woman he'd married. She wasn't this passion-filled vixen with a hot temper. She wasn't...herself. She wasn't...mine. She never had been.
I never felt comfortable in that house. It was never my house, always his. It would always be his. It was the little things; the little marks he'd left on the place. They screamed his ownership: Keep away. It was the cigarette burns on the coffee table, the ancient books in languages I'd never understand left open as though some great cataclysm had taken the reader away. It was the way she made the coffee in the morning, the sweatshirts she came out of the bedroom wearing. She never wore my clothes. No, they were always his...
Just like her. I don't think I ever really had Abbey. I don't think anyone, but Josiah Bartlet ever has. She looked for him in the media, watching them as a captivated America poured over their somehow surprising separation. There was press staked out around the farm, a minium of fifty feet away from the First Lady at all times. But that didn't mean the same for me. They could get as in my face as they wanted and the Secret Service rarely felt it prudent to intervene. After all, I wasn't their charge. I was just her live-in boyfriend.
It was the same thing for the President, who I'll admit, even after all this, I admire. They were always at his house; a nice, but modest one he bought in Baltimore following the separation. They were always asking for a weekly report of what he was doing following his time in office. He was being very closed mouth about all of it.
He said, "There are things that I'm doing, because I never had the time to do them before and there are things that I am doing, because I want to. Those things don't need to have my name on them." There was also wild speculation about his reaction to me moving in with Abbey. Eventually, he grudgingly went on air to make a statement on it.
He said,"I'm very happy--Wait, no, that's not right. I'm glad that there's someone out there who can hopefully heal the wounds I have caused to my wi--ex-wife. Abbey is a wonderful woman. I will be watching, Mr. Foster, and if you hurt my wife in any way, I will retroactively revoke your civil rights. I may be a former President, but I've still got pull." No one commented on the fact that he still refferred to Abbey as his wife. She didn't either. She just shook her head and walked away to do the dishes, all the time muttering, "jackass." Maybe that's when I knew.
It could have been when the press got wind that the President was seeing someone. I don't know, maybe it was the way she pretended not to listen when they speculated on the news. The way she'd drop whatever it was she was doing, no matter where she was in the house and listen and watch and wait. And when the end came and there was no real evidence of another woman, she'd sigh almost in relief and go back to what she was doing before.
They would ask him and he'd smile and say, "I don't think of her as my girlfriend. We've mutually decided we are both far too old for those terms, at least I am. I would rather refer to her as someone I'm closer to than anyone else." When asked about the possibility of marriage, he'd shrug and say, "We like each other, but that could change." He always had a mischeivious twinkle when he said it as though he knew something they didn't know. I think he did.
We would watch people arrive at his home day after day. There was always someone coming or going. They counted the women who showed up most, stayed the longest, but everyone had a different theory as to who his mystery woman was. Some said, CJ, others said, young Donna Moss. There were others still. I always thought it was someone that no one had ever considered...Debbie Fiderer, the woman who became his personal assistant, following his time in office. I'd only met her once and there were no vibes per se, but she knew him. She knew what he needed before he needed it and of course, she came and went from his home at will. He did admit that his lady-friend had a Secret Service detail and always arrived and departed in a limo. The first day, after that, a black limo came up and out stepped CJ. Everyone gasped, reporters were writing like crazy, until...another limo drove up...and another...and...another. Friends and family spilled from the cars and were herded by the black suited agents into the house. The secret was safe.
But we weren't. She missed her family. Her daughters had never been all right with me. They'd tolerated my presence for the sake of visiting with their mother, but that was at first. Eventually, they stopped doing that either. They called occasionally; it was almost always an awkward affair. They spent a lot of time at their father's, a fact that I knew hurt her deeply. She missed her family; she missed her home being her home. Home is where the heart is and suddenly, her heart was under a whole different roof. Even Ellie stopped coming over. That was a wound I thought would never heal.
There was no big fight between them, Ellie simply said, "Andrew, I have no ill-will towards you, I just don't like seeing you here. I love you mom, but I can't be here with the way things are. I'm gonna be at Dad's if you need me." And she walked out of the house and got into her car. During that whole walk, she never looked back once and she hasn't been back since.
Sometimes, I tell myself that Abbey gave all of herself that she could, but I don't really think that's true. She held back from me in ways that should have set off alarms in my head, but I was so dumbstruck by the fact that she was even giving me the time of day that it all just passed me by.
She didn't like public displays of affection. We never kissed or held hands or hugged or any of the things she'd done in public with her husband. Whenever we'd walk down the street together, there'd be this foot wide gap between us. I thought it was her, playing coy, indifferent, hard-to-get. Yeah, she was hard to get, all right, and I never did.
She would always make it up to me when we got back to the house. She'd do just about whatever I wanted, within reason according to her. We'd make love all night, if I could keep it up. We'd do anything, anything I wanted. Even that, I realize now, was a contrivance. She was inside herself, she never let go. She was the picture of the willing-unwilling seductress. She hid her hesitance in her come hither ways and hid her tears in taxed perspiration. I was never the one she wanted to be making love to. It was always him. Even in the aftermath of our love-making, she'd slip away to the shower before I fell asleep and I'd wake up to his scent mixed with hers heavy in the air; the scent of them. Even this, he owned.
I was in denial up to the very end, I think. There was no crescendo, no denouement, not for us. It was a just a steady ride. We never fought. You need to have passion to fight; we never had that. We were never lusty. We were never her and him, before. Were never she and I, then. We were never really anything.
I remember the night because it was about a week following the death of Debbie Fiderer. We were sitting at the table having dinner and she was drinking her wine and looking thoughtful. That was the only expression of hers I'd ever been able to identify: thoughtful. She looked up at me. She said, "I don't think we should be together anymore." I was in the middle of eating my salad and I immediately starting to choke. That was out of nowhere. She got up and patted my back, handing me a glass of water. I was fine, physically.
"What do you mean we shouldn't be together anymore?" Her eyes were serene as though her mind was made up.
"I just meant, I think we shouldn't see each other anymore." I think I made it harder than she expected it to be. "You really didn't see this coming, did you?" I shook my head dumbly. "I'm sorry. I really thought you felt this too. I just don't...want this anymore." She made vague hand motions towards the table and me.
"No, I missed those signs." She looked at me as though there were big-assed road signs that I'd missed.
"Okay, well...I'm gonna go...somewhere else now." She got up from kneeling in front of me.
"Do you want me to leave?" She was standing in front of the window, looking out over the property.
"I think you should, but you don't have to go right now. I know you're going on that big photo shoot in Naples next week. You should have somewhere to come back to. You can leave anytime in the next month." I kept drinking my water.
"Won't that be awkward?" There's no way I could keep living with her after we've broken up.
"I won't be here."
"Where will you be?" She shrugged.
"I don't know yet."
"I can't put you out. This was your home before I ever got here."
"I know, but...It's not home for me anymore. It hasn't been home in a long time." I stared at her and for the first time and I saw the sadness that she'd hidden so well. I saw the loneliness, such an awful loneliness lurking behind her hazel eyes and I wanted so badly to make it go away.
I walked up behind her and watched her. She had never been more beautiful than she was at that moment. I turned her around and looked into her eyes and saw what she'd hidden from me for years. I stroked her face, hoping to elicit any reaction at all. Her eyes closed and I kissed her. She responded for a moment before pulling away. She walked out of the room with my back still turned. I stood there for what felt like an eternity. It would be hours before I'd know about it, but she'd slipped out of the house without me hearing her go. She wouldn't be back, at least, not while I was still there.
Later, I found out that she'd gone to Baltimore, to his house. It was on the news. She stepped out of the gleaming, black limo and straightened her clothes. She nervously fixed her hair and messed with her clothes again. She looked as nervous as I think I've ever seen her. Which, really isn't saying much. She just stood there, staring at the house she'd never seen in person. She would have kept standing there too, if not for the prompting of the SS Agent holding her bags. She nodded, but didn't speak and walked up the walkway to the porch, stopping in front of the door. She was biting her lip and seemed to be shoring up her courage to knock when the door opened. It was the President. He didn't seem as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Her eyes were as big as they've ever been and she looked absolutely frightened. But worst off, she looked as though she might cry. As a matter of fact, that's exactly what she did. Her hand covering her mouth, she just looked at him as though he were the most mezmerising thing she'd ever seen. That's when I knew that I'd never stood a chance. His eyes twinkled softly and he smiled.
He said, "Welcome home, Abigail." When she started to cry in earnest, he pulled her inside and took her into his arms. Gently stroking her hair, he kissed her temples and whispered, "No more tears, sweetheart. You're home. You're home." Ellie peeked out to motion the Agent to come in. Abbey, with one arm still securely around the man who was never less than her soulmate, was welcomed home by the warm embraces of friends and family. Home is where the heart and she was finally under the right roof.
They came together to celebrate the life of the mysterious Debbie Fiderer. The life of a woman who you only knew as well as she let you know her. I only met her once and I still have my theories, but I still gathered with the general public on the corner of 18th and Potomac where one legacy ended and another began. And with them, I wondered, would you believe that she'd just bought her first new car? They say God doesn't crash cars. People do, but you gotta wonder. Two? On the same corner...Yeah, you gotta wonder.
So, that's the story of us; me, Jed, and Abbey.
