Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 21, 2001

10:38 PM

The light in CJ’s office is still on.

Josh is not at all surprised; even on a Sunday, CJ rarely leaves before the 11pm print deadline, not before all the errant reporters can be chased out of the press room and she can be assured there will be no more crises to deal with for at least a few hours.

If only there were no more crises to deal with. But ever since the President revealed his MS, Josh’s life has felt like a constant series of crises. Then again, that feeling probably didn’t start with the MS.

He wishes, for a minute, that the light was off, that CJ was a normal person who went home at a normal hour on a Sunday, and that he didn’t need to have this conversation. Maybe, if he doesn’t have this conversation, he won’t be plunged into this new crisis. Maybe this can all amount to nothing. Maybe he is overreacting. He does that, right? 

Josh takes a look at his watch. It is late, especially for a Sunday. He should just let CJ go home. They can deal with it tomorrow, or the next day, or never…

But the longer he waits the worse it will be, and the less time they will have to prepare. Anyway, he knows he won’t be able to get to sleep tonight whether he has this conversation or not, so he might as well have someone to share his agony with.

Josh takes a deep breath and knocks on the door before opening it and steeling himself to begin the conversation he dreads. CJ looks as relaxed as she can ever be in the office, her shoes kicked off, her feet resting on the desk, her blazer tossed on the couch, and the top few buttons of her shirt undone. He almost hates to disturb her, but she has her eyes locked on him, and now that he is here, he has no chance of escaping this conversation.

“Joshua,” she says, a hint of a smile on her face. “What brings you here tonight?”

He wants to make a joke, wants to tease her, wants to do something to stop the feeling of his heart pounding in his chest, but he doesn’t have it in him. He swallows thickly. “We need to talk.”

“Well, I assumed that’s what…” she begins to tease, but even in just the light of her desk lamp, she sees Josh’s distress. “Josh, what is it? Sit down.”

He doesn’t. Instead her begins to pace the small strip of floor in front of her desk, running his hand through his hair so aggressively that it looks as if he might pull it all out. “CJ, I did something.”

This is obviously not the right phrase to help her reduce her anxiety, but she keeps it together pretty well. Calm, unshakable CJ. That’s what makes her so good at her job, and he envies her for it. “What? What did you do?”

Josh doesn’t look at her. He can’t. “I can’t talk about everything. I’m not trying to hide things from you, I promise, but the less you know, the better it’ll be when you get deposed.”

“Is this about the MS?” she asks.

“No. Well, yes. Kind of, but it’s more about me,” he stammers.

“You’re really freaking me out here, Josh,” she says, her tone an attempt to be light but belying the very real worry behind it.

He grips the back of the chair and leans forward, dropping his head and letting out a deep sigh before looking up at her. “They have my Secret Service file, my medical records, everything…”

“Who?”

“House Government Oversight.”

CJ furrows her brow. “I thought they only needed the files of visitors to the president, to see who might have been involved or known? I didn't think they needed the files of employees, not when it’s a security risk.”

“They’re not subpoenaing everyone else’s, no, but mine… it’s out there, CJ,” he says, turning away again and beginning to pace the same path.

“Okay…” CJ starts. “You haven’t done anything illegal, have you?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And there’s nothing in that file that would indicate that you were involved in any wrongdoing related to the MS?”

Josh shakes his head. “Again, not to my knowledge. I haven’t seen the damn thing, but…”

“Josh,” CJ interrupts softly. “What’s in there, then?”

He doesn’t meet her gaze.

December 29, 2000

6:14 PM

The knock on the door startles Josh.

Maybe someday, the noise won’t be too much. Maybe someday, he’ll be able to hear a knock or a car backfire or music without jumping, but he hasn’t figured out how to do that. He’s in an odd limbo; he knows what’s wrong with him (and there is, officially, something very wrong with him), but his appointment with the therapist that Stanley recommended isn’t for another week because of the holidays. Leo had told him he could take this week off, but he had refused. Work is a distraction, a welcome one, and he needs all the distraction he can get.

Still, he thinks as he tries to still his racing heart, the sooner he can see someone and figure out how to manage this, the better. But he doesn’t know how long that will take, and while Leo has assured him his job is in no danger, Josh isn’t sure how long Leo can keep that promise.

“Come in,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to ignore the fact that the hand he raises in greeting is trembling.

To his surprise, it is Leo who enters. Leo almost never comes to Josh’s office, choosing instead to call or summon Josh to his own. “Hey kid,” Leo says, his voice unnaturally soft. “How are you doing?”

Josh shifts in his chair and rubs the back of his neck. “Fine.” At Leo's disbelieving look, he adds, “The knock startled me a bit, but really, I’m fine.”

Leo considers this with a frown before nodding. “Good. Good. Don’t feel like you have to lie to me if you’re not.”

“I don’t,” Josh says off-handedly, as if he doesn’t actually intend on telling the truth anyway.

“Okay," Leo says, leaning back in the visitor chair before sighing heavily. “Josh, we need to go speak with Ron Butterfield.”

Josh frowns. “Why?”

“The Secret Service needs to know about… your thing.” Before Josh can interject in frustration, Leo holds up a hand. “Look, I know you don’t want anyone to know that doesn’t have to, but they have to. It’ll be completely confidential.”

“Yeah, and that worked so well for your rehab records,” Josh murmurs, rubbing his forehead and not meeting Leo’s eyes. He expects an angry outburst in response, but none comes. Instead, Leo just looks at him with those sad, pitying eyes, with that look that he never wants to see directed at him again, because he’s had more than enough of it in his life, especially in the last few hellish months. “Leo, I’m sorry, I just…”

Leo reaches out and touches his hand, surprisingly, because Leo is not a very tactile person. “I understand your concerns. But if you have an episode while you’re around the President, what’s it gonna look like to them?”

“That I’m insane and a danger to myself and others, which frankly, isn’t too far from the truth,” Josh mutters, staring intently at the still-healing lines on his hand. The stitches are out now, but the scars will forever be there to remind him.

“Josh…”

“Sorry, I just…” He doesn’t know where he’s going with that sentence, so he cuts off and balls his hand into a fist, which makes the scars stand out more against his pale skin.

“You have an appointment to see a guy?”

“Yeah. Next Wednesday was the soonest he could get me in.” And Josh is dreading the appointment; he wishes he could continue with Stanley, if only to avoid rehashing his first long, painful appointment. He doesn’t want to have to talk about it again, he doesn’t want to have to explain that his stupid fucking damaged mind thinks that innocuous classical music sounds like sirens and that sirens means he’s getting shot again and that he thinks maybe it might have all been easier for everyone involved if he had just bled out on the pavement like he was supposed to.

He had hoped that things would get better after he ended his meeting with Stanley, but he’s five days removed, he’s had five days to process it, and instead of getting better, being aware of the storm raging inside of him has made things feel worse in some ways. No, he hasn’t tried to hurt himself again, but now he notices every sound that makes him jump, and he’s constantly aware of the music and sometimes he’ll try to listen to prove to himself that Stanley got it wrong, that he’s perfectly fine, and then the sirens will creep up on him again. It’s a vicious cycle, and he knows he needs therapy, and possibly medication, and whatever else they can do to stop the thoughts from intruding, but that help is still five days away at best, and he’s so tired already that he’s not sure he’ll make it through another five nightmare-filled sleeps and still manage to be functional.

No, he can’t let himself think that way. He has a job to do, and he managed to be functional for two months after coming back from the shooting before all of this came to a head. He can make it five more days, even if the sirens won’t go away.

Leo looks at him with concern lining his face. “Josh, if you need to take some time off, you still…”

“No!" he snaps. “I spent three months bored out of my mind, the last thing I need is more time off.”

Leo doesn’t look convinced, but he slowly nods and reaches out to touch Josh’s arm. “Let's go downstairs, huh? Talk to Ron.”

“I don’t know if I feel…” Josh bites his lip. He hasn’t spoken about this to very many people, and it’s only been the people he trusts implicitly, and while he has a great deal of respect for Ron Butterfield, he’s not sure he can say the words. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable talking about it yet,” he says.

“Ron was there at Rosslyn, Josh, he’ll understand…”

Josh draws in a sharp breath. He can’t meet Leo’s eyes. “I can’t talk about it, okay? Not until I… sort through some of the stuff going on in my own head.” He wonders, briefly, if he’s going too far. If Leo’s promise of continued employment in conditional on him managing his disorder the way Leo thinks is best.

But much to his relief, Leo nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll go talk to Ron. You don’t need to be there if you don’t want to, although at some point, when you feel better about discussing it, he’ll probably want some more details from you.”

“My medical records end up in my file, don’t they?” Josh asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s becoming quite a thick file then,” he quips, leaning back in his chair. “So records of my visits with a psychiatrist will also have to end up in there.”

“Probably.”

“Leo, if this comes out…”

Leo shakes his head. “It’s not going to come out.”

“Oh really? Because I seemed to remember that Lillienfield and Claypool didn’t have any trouble managing to get their hands on your file!” He pauses for a second to collect himself. “Leo, if this comes out, it’s going to be a problem.”

Leo looks at Josh with that sad look again, and Josh wonders if he’ll ever feel normal again. “As long as I have a job, you have a job.”

“I just don’t know if you can keep that promise.”

October 21, 2001

10:52 PM

“Josh,” CJ repeats, showing more anxiety than she had before. “What’s in your file?”

He takes a seat on the couch, still not meeting her gaze. “Do you remember last Christmas?”

Realization marks her face. “Oh…”

“Yeah.”

CJ bites her lip, almost, almost looking fazed. “How many details do they…”

“All of it,” Josh says quietly. “There's a written record of the events that led to Dr. Keyworth coming here since that incited a Secret Service report, there’s a copy of his notes from that session where he diagnosed me, all the records for my therapist and doctors, copies of my prescriptions…” He finally is able to look up and meet CJ’s eyes. “It’s pretty damn convicting.”

“I can't see how they’ll manage to establish relevance…” CJ starts, although she hardly sounds convinced.

“They’ll figure it out. Oh look, while we’re on the subject of people who are running the executive branch and are hiding things from the public, how about the Deputy Chief of Staff having a mental breakdown, getting diagnosed with PTSD, and still having his security clearance and the ear of the President?” Josh stands again and begins to pace. He’ll surely wear a hole in CJ’s floor by the end of the night. “That’s how they’ll say it’s relevant, whether or not it is.”

CJ still doesn’t move, unsure of how to provide him with comfort or reassurance. There is little she can give. “It isn’t relevant, though. This is about the President, not about you or your health.”

“No, this about the Republicans trying to win the next election,” Josh replies with a scoff. “And this might be some of the ammo they need to do it.”

“You’re sure it’s going to come out?” CJ asks.

Josh nods. This is why he came to CJ, because this is what she does. She controls the story, and she’ll know better than anyone how to deal with it. “Yeah. There’s no way it doesn’t.”

“Okay. How do you think it’s going to come out?”

“Well, there’s a probably equal chance that it either gets asked about at my hearing or it gets leaked prior to the hearing and then gets asked about there. Depends on what they think will get more attention, probably. Either way, I’m probably going to end up answering plenty of questions about how I’m unfit to serve in the government in front of Congress.”

CJ frowns. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Josh, and it certainly hasn’t affected your ability to do good work.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Josh says. “They'll try and make something of it, and they’ll succeed, and I… I need your help to figure out how to get through this.”

“Okay,” CJ says quietly. “Okay, but I need you to tell me something.”

“What?”

“How did they get the file? And how do you know that they have it?”

Josh leans forward on the chair again and draws in a sharp breath. “Because I was the one who gave it to them.”

Chapter Text

October 21, 2001

6:33 PM

Josh tries to steady his breathing as Donna closes his office door behind her. He's overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions, none of them pleasant.

First, there’s anger. How could she be so stupid? She lied in a deposition. She lied to a committee that’s out to get her, out to get them. She gave them the ammunition to take them down; her, him, the President. All for what—a stupid diary?

And worse, she slept with Cliff. She slept with the enemy, even when she knew that he was involved with the investigation, and she didn’t demand that he recuse himself from the deposition, and he didn’t recuse himself. 

But second, there’s fear. For himself, for the administration, but most importantly, for her. If she's convicted of perjury, that’s a significant fine that he knows she can’t afford (and he couldn’t pay it for her, not with the risk it would get out in the press), and possibly some time in prison, and a rap on her record that would make her unhireable in DC, and he’d have to fire her for such a conviction. As angry as he is, he could never want any of that for her. She can’t get convicted. He has to save her somehow.

He puts his head in his hands as the thoughts race faster than he can keep a handle on them.

He has to do something. He has to fix it.

He picks up the phone and dials the majority counsel’s office.

“Calley? Yeah, this is Josh Lyman. We need to talk.”

October 21, 2001

8:03 PM

The bar is not one he’s ever been to; it’s old and run down and out in some suburban designation in Virginia, but that’s exactly what he wants. The less chance someone recognizes him, the better. 

Josh settles into a booth in the back corner with a beer and takes a sip, trying to steady his nerves. He stares into the glass. If this goes badly, it might not just be Donna who is in trouble. Cliff acted unethically, which is Josh’s leverage, but he’s not convinced it’ll be enough.

“Interesting spot.” Josh almost jumps at the voice, but he’s able to maintain his composure and look Cliff Calley in the eye.

“I didn’t want anyone to recognize us,” Josh says with a shrug. “This meeting never happened.”

Cliff takes a seat and frowns. “This meeting shouldn’t be happening. In fact, I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“Donna,” Josh says simply. “I know about it all. I know you slept together, I know you saw the diary, and I suspect you want to get her on perjury charges.”

His eyes widen, as if he’s surprised that Donna shared this information (although he shouldn’t be, considering the rumors that are floating around DC). “Look, she perjured herself. This isn’t political.”

“It’s a Congressional investigation, it’s as political as you can get!” Josh exclaims, before realizing he really should keep his voice down in the situation.

Cliff lets out some sort of sound—infuriatingly, it’s almost a laugh—and shakes his head. “It’s my duty to follow up with this. I already bent the rules when I offered to help her walk it back in her testimony, but she refused.”

“She… she didn’t tell me that,” Josh says softly. His mind begins to race even faster. What was in her diary that she needed to protect? She had said it was nothing, that it was a mistake, but if it had been only a mistake, why wouldn’t she have taken Cliff up on his offer to rectify the testimony?

“There’s something in that diary she doesn’t want us to see,” Cliff continues.

What could it be? Josh takes a larger swallow of his beer than he intends, trying to quietly fight off the choking sensation. “It’s not about the MS.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

Josh stares at the table.

Cliff sighs and continues. “Anyway, it’s too late. I'm not going to have any choice but to indict her for perjury. If it gets out that I knew she had perjured herself and I didn’t say anything…”

It takes a fair amount of self control for Josh to keep himself from getting up and punching Cliff right then and there, but he knows that wouldn’t do him any good. “And that’s not a political move? What if you saw the diary? What if you got the chance to read through it, see that there's nothing relevant, and then leave it at that?”

“I offered that too. Donna refused.”

Josh bites his lip. This doesn’t help him answer his question. Why on earth would she refuse? What in that diary could be worse than her getting sent to prison for perjury? "If you try to nail her with a conviction, you’ll get grilled by the ethics committee because of how you knew. Because you slept with a witness. You’ll lose your position on Oversight, possibly even your job in Congress.”

“Yes,” Cliff says. “I’ll get a slap on the hand.”

“But it’ll be worth it, for you and for the party, to have a senior assistant in the White House with a conviction. They’ll send you to some backroom job where you’re not visible, but they’ll take care of you if you can get a conviction.” Josh says slowly, deliberately. “You said this wasn’t political.”

“It’s not.”

Josh lets out a laugh. “Is it personal, then? Are you pissed she wouldn’t keep sleeping with you when she found out you were a double-crossing Republican snake?”

“Hey, hey, hey, if you’re just going to hurl accusations at me, we might as well end this meeting now since it’s clear we won’t get anywhere,” Cliff replies, his voice still infuriatingly calm. Josh wants to do nothing more than scream, but he can’t. Not here.

“You know this might backfire on you, right? Not just for you personally, although it’s definitely going to come with more consequences than you think it will. But for the party.” Josh hopes his bluff is steadier than his voice currently is. “You think it's going to look bad for us when a senior assistant gets a conviction, possibly even jail time, so you can make an example of the lying Bartlet White House. But if the details come out, that this young, doe-eyed assistant got put in jail because she forgot about a diary she hadn’t written in recently, and that the only reason she got caught for perjury was because the majority counsel was screwing her, well… that’s going to look pretty bad for you guys. The public will say ‘that’s all you’ve got?’ and they’ll come down on our side.”

Cliff shrugs. “I’m just doing my job. Like I said, I offered her an out, she refused blankly to let me read the diary or even to walk back the testimony, and so it’s my duty to…”

“Where was all this talk about duty when you decided to sleep with her?" Josh growls, feeling his temper rising.

“I promise you, that was a mutual choice.”

Josh bites his lip and takes another sip of his beer, hoping it’ll calm him down. That’s the last thing he wants to hear. He doesn’t want to think about Donna choosing to sleep with Cliff, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about what she might be trying to hide in the diary.

She knows a lot, she has to in order to work as his assistant, but she doesn’t have special clearance or anything. She found out about the MS two days before the public knew, and they were such chaotic days that she wouldn’t have had time to write about it. He believes her about the MS. But what could she possibly have to hide?

He stares down at his hands, not sure how to respond to Cliff, not sure what to say. She knows nothing material, he tells himself, so it can’t possibly be anything classified. It’s not governmental, it must be personal, but…

Josh blinks and looks down at his hand, balling it into a fist. The scars from last Christmas haven’t faded. That’s when it hits him.

Donna isn’t protecting herself or the administration. She’s protecting him.

She must have written about his recovery, his breakdown at Christmas, about his PTSD diagnosis, about his subsequent struggles with his mental health. All things that would be devastating for him, personally and professionally, if they came to light. Her sharing the diary wouldn’t cost her much, but it might cost him everything.

But he can’t let her go to prison for that. Not to mention that Donna made a significant miscalculation; if she gets convicted for perjury, the diary will be entered as evidence.

No matter what, the world is going to know.

Which is why Josh doesn’t ponder the consequences of his next move for himself.

“Cliff… you’re not going to achieve anything from going after her,” Josh says. “You’ll get a minor scandal that may look more sympathetic to us than to you, and you’ll get to spend some time in front of the ethics committee, and it’ll derail the whole investigation for you.”

“This is going to be over my head soon, but I’m doing what I can to…”

Josh shakes his head and holds up a hand. “Drop it,” he interrupts.

“You know as well as anyone that I can’t just…”

“Drop the perjury charge, and I’ll give you a bigger fish to fry. You’ll get to nail a member of the senior staff for something with actual substance, and you won’t have to worry about getting punished for your unethical behavior.”

Cliff raises an eyebrow. “What could you possibly…”

“Me,” Josh says quietly. “You’re going to drop this thing with Donna, and in exchange, you can go after me.”

October 21, 2001

10:56 PM

“You leaked your own Secret Service file?” CJ’s voice is incredulous.

Josh feels a buzzing in his ears and suddenly he can’t focus on what CJ is saying. He grips the back of the chair more tightly. He needs to keep it together. “Yes,” he says quietly.

“Even though you knew what was in there? You knew what would come out if you did?”

“Yes.”

CJ stands up and begins to pace behind her desk. “Why would you do that? I knew you could be pretty fucking stupid, but not stupid enough to intentionally put a target on your back when you KNOW that’s the last thing this administration needs right now.”

“I can’t tell you that,” Josh says.

“I’m your first call, Josh, you know that. You tell me everything I need to know so that I can fix it!”

“And that’s why I’m here telling you this!” Josh says. “You think I like this? You think I really want this information out there? As bad as it seems for the administration, it’s a hundred times worse for me. Not only on a professional level, but also… the whole world is going to hear about my breakdown, about the way my broken brain hears sirens instead of music and they’ll all go ‘Well, we always knew that Josh Lyman had a few screws loose’ and what’s worse is that they’re right! Believe me, CJ, there’s nothing I’d rather talk about less in front of Congress. Literally nothing.” He sits back down on the couch, hunching over with his hands pressing against his knees. “I can’t tell you why I did it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would open you up to questions at your hearing that I don’t want you to have to answer. The less you know, the better.”

CJ bites her lip. “Josh, I’m not just asking this as the Press Secretary. I’m also asking this as your friend. I know it’s going to be painful and difficult for you when this comes out. Which is why it would help me to know why you did it.”

"I can’t say anything. That’s part of the deal.”

“The deal?”

October 21, 2001

8:35 PM

“Let me get this straight,” Cliff says, his voice low. “If I agree to never mention the diary again, if I conclude her deposition without mentioning any of this, you're going to leak your Secret Service file to Oversight.”

Josh nods slowly. “And any related documents afterward that fit the scope of the investigation.”

“And tell me, Josh, why would I take you up on that deal?”

He really doesn’t want to talk about this. He barely wants to talk about it with the people he trusts, and he doesn’t trust Cliff Calley in the slightest. But if this is his only shot at saving Donna from going to prison, then so be it. “Because in it, you’ll find all the information you need to prove that I concealed a significant psychological disorder from the public. You want to get on the Bartlet White House about hiding diseases? Here’s another shining example for you. Now, I’m not convinced you’ll find evidence of anything technically illegal in there since I didn’t try to do anything illegal, although it’s possible I’ve slipped up, but it’ll be much more useful to you than a perjury conviction for a minor staffer. The media will be all over it. You’ll be uncovering more dishonest behavior from this administration. And for you, personally, it’ll be a victory because you get to take us down without having your own unethical behavior investigated.”

Cliff, for the first time, loses some of his veneer of confidence. “What psychological disorder? What could possibly…”

“You’ll figure it out soon enough. But trust me when I say that it’ll be a thing. There are records from multiple psychiatrists, a Secret Service report, prescription records… Cliff, you’re really sitting on a gold mine here where you can take the administration down. Or at least me.”

“You’ve already shown your hand here,” Cliff says quietly. “I know about the file now, so why wouldn’t I go after Donna and then get the file?”

Josh swallows thickly. He wishes he had thought this out better, but he has to think on his feet. “There’s a reason the files weren’t initially subpoenaed; the Secret Service thought it might be a security risk. You won’t get mine unless I give it to you. And this way, you can save face with your buddies on Oversight without getting an investigation into your own indiscretion with Donna.”

“Fair enough,” Cliff says. “But what I don’t understand is… why would you do this? I know Donna works for you, but if what you’re saying is true, then this will be a painful experience for you and for the whole administration. Donna probably wouldn’t even get prison, just a fine, and…”

“Not if you decide to make an example of her,” Josh interrupts. “I'm doing it because I’m doing it, and that’s all you need to know.”

Cliff suddenly looks uncomfortable. “Josh, I really think…”

“So, is the deal on?” Josh asks quickly, taking a sip of his beer. He’s sure he’ll lose his nerve if this doesn’t happen soon.

“This isn’t a good idea, legally. I mean, I’m not even sure we should be having this meeting.”

"If anyone asks, we didn’t,” Josh says. “The file will be leaked anonymously by one of my assistant deputies. He’s leaving this week anyway. All you have to do is leave Donna alone. So are we on?”

Cliff presses his lips together before holding out his hand for Josh to shake. “Okay. I can’t fathom why you’re doing this, but it’s your funeral," he says. “I’m going to leave now. We never had this conversation. No one can know.”

Josh nods. “Donna can’t ever know,” he adds. “She can’t hear it from either one of us. You probably shouldn't speak to her again.” And he’s not sure if it’s practicality or jealousy that makes him say it.

“No. Tell her... no, don’t tell her anything. Except that the diary won't be a problem anymore.”

“Yeah,” Josh murmurs. “Thank you for understanding, I just…”

“I don’t understand,” Cliff replies honestly. “But you offered a good enough deal, at least for me. I can’t see how you haven’t screwed yourself over.” With that, he slides out from the booth and leaves the bar.

Josh rests his head in his hands and contemplates buying three more beers and downing them all in one go. Yes, he’s definitely screwed himself over.

But it’s for Donna, so it’s worth it. It has to be.

October 21, 2001

11:01 PM

“There was no deal, CJ, at least not officially. Forget I said that,” he corrects quickly, although he knows he’s already said too much.

CJ frowns and looks him over critically. “Josh, please promise me you didn’t do anything illegal,” she says.

“I didn’t,” although he’s projecting more confidence than he actually has. He’s not explicitly aware of anything he did being illegal, and he has been to law school so he has a decent grip on what would or would not break the law, but this whole mess has become so convoluted that he hasn’t been able to keep track.

CJ comes out from behind her desk and sits next to him on the couch. She puts an arm behind his back and draws him close to her In a sort of side hug, and he's relieved to know at least someone is on his side. “We’re going to figure this out, Josh,” she says. “It would really help me if you could…”

“I can’t tell you why I did it, CJ—in fact, I shouldn’t even have told you I did—but you need to trust me when I say that it was the only option I had. There’s going to be fallout, though, and I think it’s best if we plan ahead. That’s why I’m telling you. That’s why you’re my first call.”

She nods slowly and squeezes his arm. “I understand. It makes my job harder, but I understand, and I just want to protect you and protect this administration to the best of my ability.”

Josh presses his lips together and lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure you can do both,” he says quietly. He rubs his eyes with his open hand. He has to ask her the question that has been plaguing his mind, even though he knows that there isn’t an easy answer. He doesn’t have any good options.

He doesn’t regret putting himself in this position, though. Not if it protects Donna.

“CJ…” he starts, breaking the tense silence between them. “CJ, do you think I need to resign?”

Chapter Text

December 25th, 2000

1:22 AM

“Want a drink?” Josh asks, as he pushes open the door to his apartment and flicks on the light. God, it’s cold in there. He boarded up the window he broke a few days ago using some plywood but his handiness skills are less than exemplary, especially with his hand bandaged and practically unusable, and his super said it couldn’t be fixed until after the holidays. Still, it’s better than the broken glass.

Donna follows him inside and closes the door behind them. He’s not sure why she’s here. He's not complaining—he’s incredibly grateful that she’s here with him—but it was enough that she took him to the emergency room, and then she volunteered to come up to his apartment with him. He won’t admit it, but he hopes she’ll stay. “You shouldn’t be drinking anything tonight,” she says, and her firm, steady voice suddenly reminds him of months earlier and the enforcement of rules. “They gave you something pretty strong at the ER, didn’t they?”

“I haven’t taken it yet,” Josh says, tossing his backpack down by the door.

“You should,” Donna replies softly. “Otherwise you might not sleep tonight.”

Josh sighs and allows her to help him shrug off his coat, fighting to pull the sleeve over his bandaged hand. He winces as it begins to throb even more; aren’t stitches supposed to help? Because it seems like they’ve just made things worse. “I’m not sure I’m going to sleep tonight anyway,” he says, although he feels as drained as he’s ever felt.

“Well, you can't have a drink.”

“I didn’t necessarily mean alcohol,” he argues, although he definitely did. But the more he thinks about it, the more likely he is to take the pain medication he was provided. His hand really does hurt. “I’ve got other things to drink. I have coffee, there’s some juice in the fridge probably… might be some hot chocolate in the back of the pantry.”

Donna smiles indulgently, taking off her own coat and hanging it on the hooks. At this point, it practically looks like it belongs there. He suddenly resents himself for how much he’s made Donna take care of him—he’s grateful for her, of course, but he shouldn’t have put her in that position. Still, miraculously, she doesn’t seem to show any resentment towards him. “Hot chocolate would be nice. Sit down, I’ll make it.”

He stumbles toward the couch, lowering himself into the corner and pulling out the little bottle of painkillers they gave him out of his pocket. He pops one into his mouth and swallows it dry; he hates just how easy that’s become after all the hundreds of pills he’s had to swallow since August. There’s an antibiotic too, because apparently his bandaging job was not entirely effective, so he shakes out one of those and gulps it down as well. His mouth is so dry, but it’s not from the pills.

Josh closes his eyes and leans his head back on the couch. He’s so tired, but there’s a pit in his stomach that he recognizes as anxiety and fear and who even knows what else. It’s almost nauseating, this feeling, a physical manifestation of the torment in his mind.

“Is that… the window?” Donna’s voice comes from behind him, hesitant and soft and a little tight, as if she might want to cry if given the chance.

He opens his eyes and takes the proffered mug. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I spent all day talking about it," Josh says. “Believe me, there’s no topic I want to talk about less.”

Donna nods and presses her lips together, slowly sitting on the edge of the couch, her arm tensed so that she doesn't spill her very full mug of hot chocolate. “Okay. You can talk about it when you’re ready. But I just need to know something. Are you going to be alright?”

He puts the mug down on the coffee table and leans forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the nothingness in front of him. Suddenly, his face twists up in a kind of smirk and he snickers quietly, although there is no humor behind it. “I don’t know,” he says. “I got a diagnosis, so that’s something.” It’s a relief, in some ways, to know that what he’s going through isn’t unprecedented or unexplainable, but there’s something frightening about the label. 

“Post traumatic stress disorder.” Donna’s voice is quiet and sure, as if there was no question about it.

He doesn’t look at her. “Did Stanley tell you that?”

Donna shakes her head. “It was a guess.”

“Good guess.” His voice is thick, as if he’s trying too hard to prevent it from shaking.

“I did my research.”

He almost laughs. “You figured it out before I did.”

“Josh…”

“How long have you known?”

Donna takes another sip from her mug and curls her legs up in the corner of the couch. “I didn’t know. I just suspected.”

“One better than me. Leo told me you went to him.”

There’s a painful silence before Donna affirms his statement. “I should have gone sooner, Josh, I was just scared…”

He picks up the mug again so that he can disguise his expression behind it, because he’s not even sure what he’s feeling. “Of me?”

“I was scared you’d lose your job.”

“Donna, you wouldn’t lose your job if I lost mine,” he asserts.

Her face falls. “I wasn’t worried about my job,” she says, her voice firm. 

He chuckles into his hot chocolate; it’s watery. His milk must have expired. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he went to a grocery store. “You know the first thing I said to Stanley, when he told me what my diagnosis was?”

Donna finally loses interest in staring at the wall and fixes her gaze on him. “What?”

“I said it didn’t sound like something they let you have when you work for the President,” he replies, and the words rush out without out humor, without deflection, on the edge of tears. He had been able to disguise his fear in front of Stanley, although Stanley had seen through his defenses, but with Donna… “I can’t have this, Donna. Not with this job, not with my life, I can’t…”

“You’ll get better,” Donna reassures, reaching out a hand to touch his thigh in a gesture that’s supposed to be comforting but feels out of place as soon as she does it.

“That’s the thing, I won’t,” he protests, hanging his head. “There’s no cure, it doesn’t just go away. I’ve got a fucked up brain to go along with my fucked up heart and fucked up lungs and…” Josh realizes he’s begin to hyperventilate, and he’s been told he’ll learn how to manage it, but right now he doesn’t know how.

Donna looks at him with pitying, caring eyes, but she doesn’t reach out to touch him again. Is she scared to touch him? Is she scared of him? Hell, he’s scared of himself. “You’re not going to lose your job over this,” she finally says. “Leo won’t let it happen.”

“That’s what he says, but if things get worse… although I’ve already blown up in the Oval Office and put my hand through a window, so how much worse things could get I don’t…”

“They’re not going to get worse,” Donna interrupts his spiraling firmly. “You’re going to get treatment. There are very good outcomes with treatment. After three months, half of PTSD cases see a sufficient remission of symptoms to retract a clinical diagnosis. It might not go away, but it’ll get better.”

Josh bites his lips and tries not to melt under her gaze. He wishes he could believe her, but he knows better than to argue at least. Instead, he deflects. “If Leo wasn’t there, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep my job,” he whispers. “And that’s what scares me the most.”

It strikes him how ridiculous that must seem to her. That he’s in such a bad place and yet his biggest worry is not his health or his sanity or his relationships but his job. But if he was fired, if he had to resign, he’s not sure how he would cope. How he would find purpose again. 

“They’d be lost without you, you know,” Donna assures him. The hand reaches out towards him, resting on his thigh again, and this time he doesn’t flinch. “Leo meant what he said.”

He brings his good hand to his forehead and rubs it. “You heard that?”

“I caught the end of it,” Donna says softly. “I was waiting for you. He really means it, you know.”

“Yeah.” Doubt creeps into Josh’s voice.

“Anyway, I’m glad you have a diagnosis now. I mean, not glad, of course, and I wish you didn’t have to go through this, but I’m glad you can get help,” she says. “You’re going to be alright, aren’t you?”

He looks to the side and into her eyes. He's so drained, beyond tired, and the thought of trying to cope with the future grips him with ice-cold terror, but there’s something about her gaze that convinces him that things might just be okay. He has a diagnosis, which means there’s a reason he's struggling, which means that there are ways to fix it. A label is a terrifying thing, especially in politics where everyone is in the business of abusing them. But Donna’s soft gaze seems to make some of those fears disappear, and Stanley’s words to him ring in his ears. We get better. “I’ll get there,” he replies finally.

“That’s a start.” She smiles and reaches for the remote. “Are you tired, or do you want to watch something? Have you ever seen A Christmas Story? I know you don’t celebrate Christmas but it’s a classic, and they run a 24-hour marathon of it on TV.”

Josh leans back further into the couch cushions, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, sure. Will you… stay?”

Donna points the remote at the TV and gives him a genuine smile, not the sympathetic look that’s been on her face all day. “Leaving hadn't even crossed my mind.”

October 21st, 2001

11:10 PM

“You can’t resign, Josh,” CJ says, her voice low. “Not over this.”

He stands up from the couch to start pacing again, to try to relieve just a little bit of the nervous energy that regularly fills him. “It’s going to look bad.”

“It’s going to look worse if it looks like we forced you to resign over hiding an illness. If we’re holding you to that standard, who’s to say the President shouldn’t also just up and resign?”

Josh turns and puts his back against the wall. Sometimes it calms him, but the effectiveness of the strategy has been undercut by how much he tries to use it. “Yeah, I guess. But still, it's going to look bad.”

“We got through Leo’s thing, we got through Sam and the call girl…” CJ says softly. “You can’t resign.”

Josh sighs heavily. He knew that would be her answer, and truthfully, he really doesn’t want to resign. He loves his job, and he knows being set adrift without a purpose professionally would only make things worse for him, but there’s still something in him that wishes that by being self-sacrificing, he could save the rest of them. “Okay,” he says. “Then what?”

“Can you come out about it preemptively? Make an announcement for the sake of transparency?” CJ asks.

He’s not sure if that would violate the agreement he and Cliff made, but it might do him some good. “Maybe… I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“I mean, you’ve already leaked it so I can’t see…”

Josh shakes his head. “CJ, seriously. I need to look into a few things first before I give you an answer on that. Please don’t try to figure out why.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Her tone is light but she's clearly attempting to hide her concern.

“Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about me. Your job is to worry about this administration.”

CJ looks at him with steel. “I can’t not worry about you, Joshua," she whispers, and for a second, it’s like he's curled up next to Joanie again, when she reassures him that despite his annoying tendencies, she’ll never stop loving him.

But, he thinks with regret, Joanie did stop because Joanie left him, and he wonders how long it’ll take before CJ does the same.

“So what can we do? To mitigate the damage?” he asks. “To the administration, I mean. Should I stop seeing my therapist? That might make it look like I’m…”

“Absolutely not!” CJ interrupts. “Believe it or not, your health is more important.”

Josh frowns. “I just thought that maybe if…”

“Do you really think Leo or the President would be okay with that? Josh, this is going to be fine. We can spin it sympathetically. Our poll numbers were never higher than they were a week after the shooting, so if we remind people that it’s something you suffered because of that we might…”

He pushes himself away from the wall. “I don’t want sympathy!” His voice is raised, but he doesn’t have the capacity to keep it under control. “I just want to be left alone!”

“Well, you pretty much ruined any chance you had of that when you leaked your own damn Secret Service file!” At his flinch, she pulls herself together and sighs. “I’m sorry, I just…”

Josh chuckles humorlessly and begins to pace yet again. “I've made your very difficult job even harder.” He rubs his eyes tiredly and yawns. “I’ll see if making a preemptive statement is possible,” he says. “That might lessen the damage, but CJ… they’re going to twist everything in that file in the worst possible way. They’re going to try and paint a picture of an unstable staffer who has high clearance and regular access to the President, who’s unfit to do his job, who the White House is protecting in the same way they’re protecting the President with the MS and I…”

CJ stands up and does the last thing he expects her to do; she wraps her arms around him, pulling him tight. He can’t remember the last time he got to hug her—maybe after they received some good polling, or maybe even before, when he had come back to work after Rosslyn—but there’s something so comforting in being wrapped in her arms. “We’re going to figure it out, okay?”

“You’re not angry at me?”

She steps back, her hands still on his arms. “I’m plenty angry. I’m angry at you, I’m angry at the President, I’m angry at the Republicans, I’m angry at West Virginia White Pride… I’ve got plenty of anger to go around, but neither of us needs that right now.” CJ pulls her arm back, but not without squeezing his hand. “You should go home. Get some sleep.”

“But don’t we need to talk about…”

“Tomorrow night, we’ll talk strategy. Your hearing won’t be for another month, so we have some time. But you look like you haven’t slept in weeks, and I can’t remember what my bed looks like anymore,” she jokes. “Good night, Josh. And… I’m sorry you’re going to get put through this.

Josh shrugs. “I leaked it. It’s my burden to bear. But I appreciate your help.” He turns and opens the door to her office.

He won’t sleep tonight, he knows that much, but he can maybe close his eyes for a few hours and hope that what he’s done won’t be the catalyst to destroy his career and his life.

He's not holding out much hope.

October 22nd, 2001

8:15 AM

“You’re here late,” Donna comments, looking up from her computer as Josh drags himself into the bullpen.

Josh shrugs and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I didn’t fall asleep until five; figured I might as well get a few hours as long as I was actually sleeping.”

Donna is always telling him how he needs more sleep, and how he needs to take better care of himself, so she looks pleased with him. “You missed senior staff, but I’m sure Leo will be sympathetic.” Josh isn’t so sure, but there’s not a trace of irony in Donna’s voice. “You have a meeting with Congressman Lorenz in fifteen minutes, and the vote on 593 got moved up to noon so if you need to make any more calls on that, now’s the time.” She pauses, looking as if she has something more to say.

“Is there anything else?”

“Can we talk later? About the deposition because I really do want to try to…”

Josh shakes his head. "It's taken care of. Just don’t bring it up again.”

She looks at him in disbelief. “Josh, I really think we need to talk…”

“No,” he replies, his voice low. “You’re not going to share any details of your deposition with anyone, and that’s it. It won’t be a factor.”

“What did you do, Josh?”

He turns away from her and heads towards his office. “Don’t bring it up again, or I’ll have to fire you.”

Instead of shooting back a quip like “impervious!”, Donna watches as he slams the door to his office and lets her face fall, only for a second, before turning back to her computer and getting back to work.

Josh leans back against his closed door and takes a deep breath. If this is going to work, if he’s going to be able to protect her, he’s going to have to keep his distance from her, or else she’ll get questions about what she knew. It shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks, not with the cracks already forming in their relationship. She thinks he’s pissed at her, and maybe he is, and maybe if she keeps thinking that, there won’t be any trouble for her.

He needs to get to work.

Chapter Text

October 22nd, 2001

9:37 PM

He’s back in CJ’s office, stretched out across her couch in an attempt to find some relief for his aching back that is yet another legacy of the bullet. CJ sits behind her desk, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. It’s the very picture of a Freudian therapy session, and he almost thinks he might as well start spilling all of his feelings. It would be funny if it weren’t so remarkably close to the truth. Josh has been through enough therapy to know that’s not how things work, not in modern psychology, but he still feels like he’s under a microscope, waiting for his mess of a psyche to get analyzed and dissected.

“First of all,” CJ says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them, “how many people know?”

The counting is eerily similar to when he had been told about the MS, to when Toby had told him afterward that he was the nineteenth person to know. That Sam and CJ would make up twenty and twenty-one. And then suddenly Donna said Sagittarius, and then days later the whole world knew.

“Um, do you want names? Because obviously people who I have personal relationships with, and then the doctors who have treated me, and the Secret Service.”

CJ nods. Her voice is cold, and it’s almost a relief, as if she knows how difficult this is for him and keeping it impersonal and unemotional is the best thing she can possibly do. “Let’s start with your personal contacts.”

“Um…Leo was the first to find out I think, since I gave permission for him to read the report. I told Donna that night, when she took me to the ER. And then you and Sam and Toby…”

December 31st, 2000

10:09 PM

Maybe a New Year’s Eve party isn’t the best place for him to be right now, not while music sets him on edge and fireworks are sure to do the same. Still, Josh thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he gets drunk enough, he’ll make it through the night without an episode. It’s not that he wants to solve his problems by drinking—he’s seen that cause enough trouble—but it's a stopgap solution that might get him through to the next year, and maybe once 2001 begins things will feel just a little bit better.

It’s not a party anyway, really. It’s just him and Toby and CJ and Sam and several bottles of champagne. Toby suggested a game of poker, but no one really bit; instead, they’re all spread out on CJ’s couch, eating the remains of a pizza from the place next door and taking in the fact that somehow they’ve all survived this year.

Still, CJ has the radio going, and Josh wishes more than anything that she could turn it off because he’s definitely not drunk enough to block it out completely. And if there are fireworks tonight, he’s afraid they might set him off even more. They haven’t before, but then again, he’s not sure he’s heard any fireworks since that night. 

He knows his friends are already worried about him, and he knows that Stanley spoke to all of them before his appointment. And the music is interfering with his ability to think.

He has to tell them tonight.

So he takes a deep breath and an overly large swallow of champagne, enough that it burns going down, and raises his voice above the sounds of the radio. “Hey CJ, could you turn that off?”

CJ looks at him curiously, but seeing the seriousness in his eyes, she stands up to turn the radio off. “What’s up?”

“I..uh…” he stammers, taking glances at Toby and Sam. They’re interested now too, and he supposes he’d better do this now before everyone has consumed too much champagne to process this. “I don’t want to bring the mood down tonight, but I need to tell you all something.” He doesn’t want to share this, even with these people who are such close friends they might as well be family. He’s not sure he can bear the looks in their eyes once they know, the way they’ll worry about him more than they already do. He’s scared them enough this year.

CJ frowns and sits down. Her glass is abandoned. “Okay," she says softly. “You can tell us anything, you know.”

“Yeah, uh…” He clears his throat. “I mean, you all know I was behaving kind of weird the last few weeks, and you all met with Dr. Keyworth, of course, so you knew something was going on, but anyway…” Josh swallows. Why is this so hard? They’re his friends, and certainly they’ll be relieved to know there’s a reason and that there’s treatment and that while he might not be the same, he’ll get better. But still, he can’t predict their exact reactions, and perhaps that’s why it's so frightening. “He diagnosed me with post traumatic stress disorder.”

They all seem to freeze at that, and a silence falls over them. He can see the wheels in Toby’s head turning, Sam’s face falling in sympathy, and CJ looking at him with that heartbroken expression he managed to catch a few times when she sat by his hospital bed.

Sam is the first one to gather enough words to speak. “What does that… mean for you?”

“I still have my job, which is the main thing,” Josh says with a chuckle. Before going in to meet with Stanley, he had been so afraid that saying the wrong thing might end up with a revocation of his security clearance or worse. It might have, too, if it weren’t for Leo’s protection. “I’ve been having flashbacks—reliving the shooting, basically—and some other symptoms. And uh…music seemed to make it worse.”

Toby stares at his lap. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have…”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to know,” Josh interrupts. He laughs again, but without humor. “I didn’t even know, myself. Not until I…” He holds up his hand, now free of the stitches and the bandages, but obviously still healing. “I broke a window in my apartment. As it turns out, music sounded like sirens to me, and the Christmas party concert triggered what they call an acute exacerbation of symptoms, so an episode of sorts, and I wasn’t even conscious of doing it until I did it, and…” The words come out in a rush, and he wishes they didn’t have to exist out there, that he didn’t have to admit all of this, but now he’s said it.

Sam is sitting next to him, and so he reaches out to put a hand on Josh’s knee. The physical touch is oddly comforting. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” he says quietly. “Will it… get better?”

Josh presses his lips together and stares at the wall in front of him. “Yes and no. There are treatments which can and probably will reduce the severity and frequency of the symptoms, but it’s… technically incurable.” At the downcast looks of his friends, he adds, “ That’s not to say it’s hopeless. I’ve been told it will get better. With a lot of therapy, possibly medication… Hopefully it won’t get to this point again.” He stands up and reaches for the bottle of champagne, pouring himself another glass. “I'm sorry about these last few weeks. I know I’ve been… difficult, and while that’s nothing new, I apologize for it. I don't have the right to take out what I'm going through on you.” 

“It’s okay…” CJ starts, trying to sound conciliatory, but there’s a sense that maybe it’s really not okay. Josh thinks back to everything he’s said and done in the past few months. His memory has been unreliable as of late in situations clouded by emotion (which is a normal symptom, Stanley had assured him, and something that will get better), but he remembers enough to know that he needs to make several apologies. To CJ, Sam, Toby, Leo, the President, his mother, Donna…

God, he really needs to apologize to Donna. He doesn’t mind apologizing, not when he’s been in the wrong, and while it’s easy enough to blame the things he’s said and done on his mental health, that isn't fair to the people he loves and cares about, and they’re just about all he has.

“Seriously,” he says, knowing that the words are not enough. “I really am sorry. And if I’m an asshole in the future—you know, beyond the bounds of me being me—call me out on it. Don’t let whatever twisted sense of sympathy you’ve got going on prevent you from kicking my ass,” he says, with a wry smile.

None of them seem to know how to respond, what to say. And what do you say, Josh wonders, when your friend tells you something like this? He wouldn’t know; he's never been on the other side. How do you comfort your friends in tragedy when the tragedy is your own?

“This probably goes without saying, but don’t… don’t say anything to anyone, alright?” Josh gives a sort of grim smile, to which his friends reply with serious nods. “I’d rather keep it away from the Republicans.”

There’s a heavy silence after that. In all the thousands of hours these four have spent together, there has never been a quiet so uncomfortable. But none of them know what to say and Josh doesn’t know how to make it any better for them when he can’t even make it better for himself.

Suddenly, mercifully, there’s a tumbling sound from the kitchen. Josh startles at it, before biting his lip and staring at his lap. He can feel their eyes on him, even if they all pretend they’re not staring.

So he laughs.

It’s just the ice-maker in CJ’s freezer, which has been broken and loud since she’s moved in, and Josh knows this, and he can’t help but laugh at himself for jumping. 

And it’s the right move, because CJ starts laughing too, and then Sam, and even Toby cracks a smile, until they’ve forgotten any of what it was about. Josh takes another swig of his champagne and leans back into the couch, letting his heartbeat return to a normal pace.

October 22, 2001

9:43 PM

CJ scribbles down the names, looking over the list with a sigh. “Everybody on this list is going to have to testify if they haven’t already,” she says grimly.

“But they won’t call you all back to talk about me,” Josh argues. “It’s not in the scope of the investigation. And you’re all going before me, except for Leo.”

“Right, right. That’s good,” CJ says. Clearly she has not been relishing the prospect of testifying before Congress, even though she stands in front of the press to face similar assault every day. “I think you forgot someone on the list of people who know, though. Probably the most important person, really.”

Josh scrunches his face in confusion. “Who?”

“The President knows, right?”

December 26th, 2000

7:23 PM

“You know,” the President says, not looking up from his document as Josh enters the Oval, “in other countries, the day after Christmas is a federal holiday. Boxing Day, they call it. And yet here we are, Americans with our puritanical work ethic, and we can’t be bothered to take a single day to breathe after indulging the excesses of capitalism in the name of religious celebration.”

Josh cracks something that might be identified as a smile, his bandaged hand stuck firmly in his pant pocket. “Well, sir, seeing as I’m Jewish and don’t get my holidays off anyway, it hardly matters to me.”

“Not that you would take them anyway,” President Bartlet replies knowingly, coming out from behind the desk. “Come, have a seat. Leo said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes sir,” Josh says, sounding much more confident than he really feels. He sits down on the couch and clears his throat. “I wanted to apologize for yelling at you. That was beyond inappropriate, and you’d be well within your rights to ask for my resignation over it. I’m sincerely sorry for that, sir.” He wants to add that it won’t happen again, but he can’t quite convince himself of that, yet. He still feels lost and out of control.

The President nods sympathetically. “Leo thought it might have been something else going on.”

“Yeah.” He can't meet the President’s eyes, especially because he feels like he’s about to cry, and while the yelling was bad enough, crying would be much, much worse. "He had me meet with a guy from ATVA.”

“He thought it was related to the shooting,” the President says. His voice is low and does not so much posit a question as declare it.

Josh hopes his flinch at the mention of the shooting is unnoticeable. “Yes.”

“And was it?”

He swallows. “Yes.” The silence lingers for a moment, before he adds, “The doctor, he uh… diagnosed me. With post traumatic stress disorder. I’m going to be able to get treatment for it, and I should be able to manage it, but sir, I completely understand if you want my resignation.”

President Bartlet stands up. “Is that all?”

“Sir, I…”

“Do you realize how ridiculous you sound, Josh? You’re not going to get fired for taking a bullet for me and then having some problems afterward. You know, I still have nightmares once in a while about that night, and I was out of the hospital before you could even form coherent sentences.”

“Sir, if this gets out…”

The President shakes his head. “Do you think you’re the only one with issues that you’d rather keep private?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, let me tell you something. You’re not." The President gives him a fatherly pat on the back and a tight smile. “It’s going to be alright. You and I, we’ve proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that we’re stronger than bullets.”

October 22nd, 2001

9:48 PM

“Yeah, I told the President the day after Christmas. I had to—I had to apologize for yelling at him. I offered him my resignation.”

CJ almost laughs at that. “We seem to do a lot of that around here.”

“It’s more symbolic than anything at this point,” Josh agrees. “Although I was afraid that this time, he would actually accept it.”

“He didn’t.”

Josh shrugs. “Obviously not. He told me it was ridiculous for me to even think of resigning over this. And then… then he said… oh no.”

“What?” CJ’s eyes grow wide with concern.

“He asked me if I thought I was the only one who would rather keep a personal problem private.” Josh straightens up on the couch, turning to face her fully. “He… I’m pretty sure he was talking about the MS.”

CJ’s face falls. “God, I wish you hadn’t told me that. You might have to bring it up in your testimony. At any rate, you’ll have to mention that to Babish.”

“Yeah…” Josh says. “CJ, I don’t have to take any of this to Babish, right? The stuff about my file leaking? Because it’s not to do with the White House, and there are limits to attorney-client privilege if you use the counsel’s office.”

“You’re the one who went to law school,” CJ points out. “You’re going to have to tell your personal lawyer.”

“Right, another thing to waste my money on now that I’ve finally gotten on top of my medical bills,” Josh mutters derisively. “Which is something we should be fixing, but instead we’re mired down in this mess.”

“Are you angry with the President?”

Josh shakes his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m angry that this has to be a big deal. When he first told me, my first reaction was that maybe it wouldn’t have to be a thing. It’s not unprecedented for a president to hide health problems—did anyone think FDR defrauded the nation? And I could understand where he was coming from, a little bit; believe me when I say having your health status advertised on cable to the entire nation is uh… let’s just say that it was a waste of my fifteen minutes of fame. I mean, I very quickly understood the consequences, and I wish he didn’t put us in this position, but… I’m angrier at the situation than at him.”

CJ closes her eyes. “I’m angry at him. If any of us faces legal consequences, it’s going to be me, and I didn’t have a clue.”

“That’s fair.” Josh runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “If you need any tips on how to process your anger in a healthy way, I know a guy,” he says with something like a grin. “In fact, I know a few guys, since at this point it takes a whole team to try to fix whatever’s gone wrong in my mind.”

She lets herself laugh. “Are you saying I need a shrink?”

“Honestly? I think everyone could benefit from a little therapy,” Josh says.

“You know, I asked Leo if we should bring in someone. To help everyone process after Rosslyn. Toby was fixated on the hate groups, poor Charlie was so withdrawn… everyone was kind of a mess. But we were so busy, and Leo was trying to do all of your work as well as his own, so it kind of fell through the cracks,” CJ admits. “I don’t know if it would have helped, but it doesn’t matter now.”

“I didn’t know that,” Josh says. “But then again, Donna made it her mission to make sure I didn’t hear anything about the outside world ever," he adds with a smirk.

CJ smiles softly at the memory of Donna and her rules and looks down at her notes again. “Okay. That’s personal contacts, how about doctors? I don't think any of them would be called in to testify because it’s outside of the scope of the investigation, but it’ll be helpful to have a list.”

Josh nods. “Dr. Stanley Keyworth diagnosed me, of course. I regularly meet with a Dr. Andrew Holloway. He’s a psychologist and trauma therapist who contracts with ATVA, although he has his own practice. But since he’s not an MD, he can't prescribe medication, so I also meet with a psychiatrist he referred me to, a Dr. Isobel Prentice, about once every three months for that.” He spells the names out for her as she scribbles them down. “I should probably let them all know this is happening, huh?”

“Well I imagine it’s the sort of life stressor that comes up in therapy,” CJ notes wryly. “Okay. Any other doctors who you’ve discussed this with?”

“Well, any of them who look at my medical record can see it…” Josh says, “so it might be easier if Donna just handed you the contact sheet of every doctor I’ve had to see in the last year. But um… I’ve discussed it specifically with my cardiologist and my primary care physician. But that’s probably not relevant, and anyway, all of these people are bound by HIPAA. Doctor-patient confidentiality, all that. Unless they are also subpoenaed, but I think we could argue in court against the relevance and necessity of the disclosure so they shouldn’t have to get involved…”

“I know,” CJ says. “But the more information we have, the better.”

There’s a knock on the door that causes Josh to jump, and CJ to eye him with concern and slide her notes underneath a pile of papers on the desk. “Come in,” she says.

The door opens to reveal Donna, a stack of papers wrapped in her arms. “Do you have Josh?” she asks. CJ indicates the couch, and Donna smiles in what could be construed as relief. “Josh, Senator Fraser was wondering if you could meet with him tonight.”

Josh takes a glance at his watch. “It’s awfully late for that." 

“You take late meetings with people all the time,” Donna points out.

“I’m busy.”

“Your schedule is…” Donna begins, but she from Josh to CJ, and then to Josh again, and her mouth forms a shape of realization. “Sagittarius?” she asks. There’s no reason to use the code word anymore, not when the whole world knows, but it’s a sort of shorthand phrase that Donna has held on to, as if she’s still afraid that something she says or does might reveal too much.

Josh nods slowly. It's not entirely a lie—there’s a relation there. “Tell him I’ll meet with him tomorrow, and then you should go home.”

“Really?” Donna asks, her face lighting up. It may be late by any normal person’s standards, but this is practically an early night for her. “Are you going to be…”

“This is my last thing for the night,” Josh says, “and then I'll go home. But go ahead and go now. I don’t need you anymore.” His voice is cold, perhaps unnecessarily so, but the sooner she leaves, the less likely it is that she’ll find out what’s going on.

Donna nods. “Okay. You have a free chunk of time around noon tomorrow, so I’ll offer him that.”

“Thanks. Get home safe,” he says, waving her off, but not quite looking her in the eye.

CJ eyes the door as Donna closes it behind her. “Are you going to tell her?”

“No. No, no, no,” Josh says quickly. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? If anyone knows how to help you with this, it would be…”

Josh shakes his head. “Donna cannot know about this. She can’t. If she asks you what we talked about, it’s the President. Always the President. She can’t know.” His voice is taking on a tinge of hysteria.

“Okay,” CJ replies. She doesn’t sound convinced, and there’s some wariness and concern in her eyes, but she lets it drop. “Now, the Secret Service. What do they have?”

“Leo told them at first. I just wasn’t in a state where I could do that then. I did talk to Ron Butterfield a little later, but he didn’t really need anything else from me at that point except an explanation of what would help me most if I had an episode. And then they have all my records. They have all of our medical records, you know, in case of emergency, but mine includes Dr. Keyworth’s initial report, as well as records of my visits with Dr. Holloway and Dr. Prentice…” Josh clears his throat. “There’s a record of all of my prescriptions, too, which could look problematic, especially after Leo's thing.”

CJ frowns. “Why?”

“Well, I’ve got a Valium prescription, for one,” Josh says with a chuckle, “so that’ll look really good. McGarry’s boy taking after his mentor.” He stares at his lap before continuing. “I mean, I don’t take it regularly, but it’s… still there. Let's see, it’ll be back to the ‘one in three White House staffers are on drugs’ things, and since I was the one who purportedly did that investigation, they’ll crow about it, even if the investigation predates every single prescription they have. I’ve got antidepressants, too, which they’ll of course call a ‘mood-altering drug’. Not to mention the painkillers and sleeping pills…” He jumps up from the couch, suddenly filled with nervous energy he can’t quite work out.

“Do you still take the painkillers?” CJ asks.

He shrugs. “Not as much as I probably should.”

“Are you still in pain?” She looks him over carefully, as if she might notice something that she hasn’t seen before.

Josh doesn’t look at her. “Sometimes. It’s fine, it’s infrequent enough that I can deal with it. I stopped taking any painkillers altogether for a while last Christmas, because…” He gulps. How can he tell her how scared he was that he might slip up, that he might not be able to overcome the temptation of taking a few too many? He shakes his head, hoping that she understands. “Anyway, I barely ever use the prescription ones. But still, they’re there.”

“And the sleeping pills?”

He snorts. “The ones that knock you out for a full eight hours? God, CJ, when would I ever find the time to take those?”

“See, unfortunately that’s the kind of attitude that makes congressmen mad, so maybe you shouldn’t say that at your hearing if they ask,” CJ replies, smirking. She knows better than anyone the lack of sleep that is practically requisite to their jobs. “Okay. Well, everything here is legal and there’s plenty of evidence you’re taking it all as prescribed, so I don’t think you should worry about it.”

“But this is all going to link back to the drug use in the White House investigation, and while we prevented Leo from having to go through hearings then, they’re sure as hell not going to let up on him now, and I…”

CJ’s face softens. “Josh. Hey. Leo knew that his thing would probably come up at some point during the hearings, and yet he wanted the House to do it rather than a special prosecutor. He knew that might be the consequence, and I’m sure he doesn’t want you to try and throw yourself under the bus to protect him.”

No, he supposes, Leo wouldn’t want that. He’s already done that for Donna, and you can only get run over by a bus so many times.

“Yeah…” he says. “I’m just… CJ, the worst part is that the Secret Service filed an incident report last December. Ron gave it to me today when I asked, and it’s… it’s about me yelling at the President in the Oval. See, the agent outside on the portico could hear yelling, and could see how Sam and Leo were practically ready to hold me back, and he said in the report that he was seriously concerned and considered stepping in before Leo sent me out of there… but he didn’t know what the yelling was about. They’re going to ask what it was about, CJ. That’s their in. They’re going to say, ‘Josh, this report says you were yelling at the President so intensely that a Secret Service agent felt like he might be compelled to step in. What could possibly make you so angry aside from the admission of the MS?’and I'll have to reply that it was something utterly ridiculous and inconsequential and I can’t remember because oh yeah, I happen to have a psychological disorder that on occasion likes to fuck with my memory!” He stumbles back towards the wall, his breathing heavy, and leans against it. “That’s how they’re going to connect it. That’s how they’re going to say it’s relevant.”

“That is a problem,” CJ says, “but considering that was right before you were diagnosed, I don’t think they’ll try to connect it to the MS much further. And then you’ll have grounds to reject certain questions due to relevance.”

“It’ll still be out there. If they can’t put it in the hearings, they’ll leak it to the press.”

CJ nods. “But that I can deal with. We can mitigate the damage, have you do a few interviews—I know you won’t want to, but that’s really going to be the best way to do it. We can talk about that later. But first, are you sure we’ve got everyone who knows so far?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t told your mother?”

Josh bites his lip and sighs heavily. “No. I… she’s already constantly worrying about me. She doesn’t need this on top of everything.”

“You need to tell her before the press gets it.”

He knows that, and he’s agonized over how to say it to her. It was hard enough to tell his friends, harder still to tell the President, but his poor mother who has suffered enough already and worries incessantly about him, especially in the past year… how does he tell her? “I’m going down at Thanksgiving. It’s not really a conversation I want to have over the phone.”

“Will it hold until then?”

The hearings of the senior staff have been scheduled for the week after Thanksgiving, once the House has gotten through all the unimportant staffers who are scheduled to have depositions. But he doesn’t get a deposition, he gets a televised hearing in front of the entire committee. He and Sam and Toby and CJ and Leo and Dr. Bartlet and he assumes, at some point, the President. If he’s lucky, it won’t come out until the week of the hearings. But if they’re trying to preemptively leak it, they'll have to do it before that week. Before he can talk to his mother. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I really don’t know."

Chapter Text

October 25, 2001

11:30 AM

Josh’s door is closed.

That’s strange, Donna thinks. Josh doesn’t often close his door unless he has a meeting; he claims he focuses better with the noise of the bullpen outside. But when he came back from senior staff this morning, he closed his door, and he hasn’t opened it since.

He’s been strange this week overall, she thinks. Ever since the night of her deposition, he’s been cold and distant and oddly enough, polite. She never thought she’d be concerned about that, but she misses the way he would yell her name. He hasn’t asked for her at all today. He seemed to be barely listening when she outlined his schedule for him this morning.

Donna would like to think she understands Josh, knows what makes him tick, but the truth is, all she knows is that something is off.

She thinks it might be her fault.

It hurts her, this idea that she might have made things worse. She wants to be helpful. She wants to do some good. How can she do that if she keeps screwing up?

God, she was stupid with Cliff. She shouldn’t have slept with him, and she definitely shouldn’t have gone back to see him, and she absolutely shouldn’t have lied about the diary. But she did; it was a unthinking slip of the tongue at first, since she had been so used to answering no for every question anyway, but then when she was asked about it, she realized she absolutely could not share the diary.

Things had just spiraled from there.

Josh had seemed so angry when he told her not to talk about it anymore, and then the next day he had acted like everything was fine. She doesn’t want to question it, not if everything has worked out for the best, but she’s worried, because the last time he acted this oddly was right before he put his hand through a window.

She might be jumping to conclusions. The timing of all this, of Josh's mood coming back so vehemently right after her deposition, after her mistake, might be coincidental. Josh can be an asshole sometimes. Donna is well aware of this flaw, and so his cruel behavior could be easy enough to dismiss. Could be, if she didn't know that there was something else to be worried about.

She takes another glance at the closed door, rolls her shoulders back, and resolves that this time, she'll do something, that his hand won't be anywhere near a window again.

December 18, 2000

Dear diary,

I finally went to Leo today.

I was scared to do it. I have a lot of respect for Leo but… he’s also the Chief of Staff, and this seemed almost too small of a problem to bring to him. But then again, it’s too big of a problem to let go.

Josh will probably hate me for it. If he ends up getting fired, I might hate me for it too. But he’s been acting more and more weird. I’ve done some research. I don’t know what exactly is going on with him, but he needs help. I’m scared, honestly. He’s been so fixated on this pilot who committed suicide. Every day he shouts at me to ask if there’s new information about the situation. It’s not that Josh doesn’t usually shout, but there’s so much anger and pain there that he doesn’t normally have. He’s so volatile, so unpredictable. I don’t know how much longer this can go on.

I’ve thought about going to stay with him again, but I think he’d be resistant to that idea. I've gone over a couple nights this week in the evening to check on him, by saying I forgot stuff there (I promise I did- I could swear half my wardrobe is there). I don't know, I think I'm just terrified he’ll go home one day and he won’t come back.

When I talked to Leo, I didn’t really know what to tell him. I didn’t want to say too much because this is the sort of thing that could easily put Josh’s clearance or even his job in jeopardy. But I told him that Josh seemed to be struggling emotionally and might need to talk to someone. Leo asked if it was related to the shooting, and while I don’t know that for sure, I suspect it is. When I stayed with him after he came home from the hospital, he did have some nightmares about it. He told me they were getting better, but he’s coming into work on more than one occasion in the past few weeks looking like he got no sleep at all. I wonder if they might be happening again.

I know there was a psychological debrief for all the staff who were there. They came to the hospital to do one with Josh, but that was barely a week after it happened. He was in so much pain and on so much medication that he could hardly hold a conversation. Maybe there is something and they missed it then.

Leo said he’d noticed Josh acting a little weird too, and told me to keep an eye on him, and that if things got worse, he’d consider bringing in a counselor to talk to Josh. I don’t think we should wait for things to get worse, but I don’t know much about it. Maybe Leo’s right and this can go away on its own. But if Leo’s wrong… I don’t want to think about what might happen.

Still, I feel better knowing that someone else is looking out for him, someone with a little more power and experience than I have. Usually, I can read Josh like a book. Now though, he seems so closed off. I can’t tell what’s going on inside of him, which scares me. A lot.

It’s late, as per usual, so I should go to bed. On a better note, tomorrow is the Congressional Christmas party, which I convinced Josh to let me go to, so I get to see Yo-Yo Ma! In real life! There are definitely some perks to working at the White House.

October 25, 2001

11:34 AM

The phone rings and Donna picks it up. “Josh Lyman.”

“House Government Oversight,” comes the response. “The majority counsel needs to speak with Mr. Lyman.”

“Okay, give me a second,” Donna says, and puts the caller on hold. Usually she’d just yell for Josh, or automatically transfer the call, but his door is still closed. She knocks on it and doesn’t wait for an answer before opening it. “Hey, you’ve got a call.”

Josh looks up from whatever it was he was reading. The ever-present bags under his eyes are even more prominent than usual, and there’s a weariness to the way he carries himself. Donna’s worried, but he’s been so angry with her that she’s not sure fussing over him would do any good. “Okay... then do your job and put them through.”

“It’s majority counsel from House Government Oversight,” Donna says cautiously. “Josh, is that who I think it is?”

“They’ve got more than one counsel, Donna. This is the government, after…” He stops short and rubs his eyes. “Yes. Probably.”

Donna furrows her brow. “Why is he calling you?”

“I’m an important guy, I get lots of calls, I don’t…”

“Josh.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “Well let me tell you, when I talk to your boyfriend, it’s sure as hell not to chat about you.”

Donna knows her face looks stricken in response, but she can’t really help it. Sometimes Josh says cruel things, he just does, but there’s a cutting edge behind it that scares her. Still, the only response she can muster is “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You slept with him.”

“Okay, yes, but he's not my boyfriend now. He never was, Josh. I sleep with guys, it doesn't always mean something!”

Josh raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say that too loud around here. Some people are still under the illusion we’re doing serious governing.” It's the sort of remark that before, he would have said with a wry grin, but now there seems to be no humor behind it. “Are you going to transfer the call to me or not?”

“I thought it was a bad idea for the majority counsel to have contact with witnesses,” she says pointedly.

“Yes, you’ve proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt,” he says, looking down at his desk again, “but everyone in this building is a witness and House Government Oversight still has to talk to somebody on occasion. And since I’ve got the bulk of the legislative portfolio, that somebody is me.”

Donna doesn't begin to move from the doorway.

“Can you just do your job and transfer the call?” he asks, the irritation in his voice rising.

“Just… be careful,” she says quietly. 

“Donna, I know what I’m doing.”

She gives him the barest hint of the smile. “I know.”

“Close the door, please.”

Donna has to take a deep breath before pressing the button to transfer the call to his office. She had liked Cliff—against her better instincts, she still harbors a fondness for him—but she knows that this is a dangerous game. Josh is smart. He won’t make a mistake with this. Still, she worries that things will get too heated, or that he’ll do something stupid to protect the President.

She shakes her head and tries to calm herself down. Worrying about Josh has become like second nature to her. But he’s a grown man, and a rather successful man at that, and he certainly won’t appreciate her hovering. In fact, it seems to be making him even more upset with her.

Something is wrong, without a doubt, but she pushes that thought to the back of her mind.

Because whatever is wrong… she knows it’s somehow her fault.

October 25, 2001

5:24 PM

Donna stands in the doorway to Sam’s office for a good three minutes before he looks up and notices her there. For a moment, Donna wonders what it might be like to work for someone like Sam, someone with laser focus, someone whose best work occurs inside his head instead of in a large physical space, bouncing off the walls of the office. Boring, she decides. Working for Josh can be irritating, but she loves the way he thinks out loud. Loves the way he bounces ideas off of her. She’s learned so much through that process, and she has to imagine that she wouldn’t know nearly as much if she had stood in Sam’s office in Nashua instead.

Finally, though, she makes her presence known vocally with a pointed, “Sam.”

He looks up from his writing. “Hey Donna. What’s up?”

“Do you have a minute?”

He nods, and so she steps into the office and closes the door behind her. “What’s going on?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

“Josh is being weird,” she says, taking the seat across the desk from him.

“Like what kind of weird?” Sam asks. “Like normal Josh weird? Or last December weird?”

Donna presses her lips together. “It’s like last December. Well, maybe not that bad. But still, he’s keeping his door closed, he’s barely speaking to me… I think he’s mad at me.”

“He told me he wasn’t pissed at you,” Sam quickly corrects, although with what he’s noticed over the past few days, maybe he doesn’t believe that either.

“Was that before or after I got back from my deposition?”

“Before.”

Donna deflates slightly. “Okay then.”

“Donna, did something happen at your deposition?”

She doesn’t want to answer that. She shouldn’t answer that, because it could just make things worse. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t seem…”

“Seriously, Sam, please don’t ask about it,” she snaps, and she wonders if he might just think she’s being paranoid about Josh, and maybe then he won’t take her worry seriously. And someone has to look out for Josh. “It might not be relevant, I’m just… I don’t want it to get to the point where Josh puts his hand through another window,” she whispers quietly. 

Sam’s face softens and he reaches across the desk to grab Donna’s hand. “You think this is about that?”

“I don’t know what this is about, but I think I'm well within my rights to worry about it.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and she wonders if he’s thinking back to all the times he’s been worried about Josh in the past year, the way she is. “Is he still going to see the guy?”

Donna finds it funny that Sam won’t say the word ‘therapy’, but she nods. “I’m still clearing off his schedule one a week for a squash game,” she says with a hint of a smile, “while you and I know he’s never played squash in his life.”

“Good, good,” Sam says. “And it’s good you’ve got it scheduled as something else. That’s another thing none of want to see come out in the press.”

She bites her lip and wonders, yet again, how Josh kept the diary incident from going any further. Because if her diary had to be entered as evidence… well, then the press would have many, many things on Josh that he wouldn’t want the world to know. No wonder he’s pissed. Beyond the perjury issue, her dating Cliff did put his privacy at risk. She never would have gone on that date if she had known, no matter how cute or funny Cliff was. 

Maybe Josh will stop being angry with her if she just lets him know that.

“Anyway,” she says, suddenly eager to end the conversation, “I was just wondering if you’d noticed anything going on.”

“Nothing in particular, but I’ll definitely keep an eye out,” Sam says. “Cut him a little slack; it’s been stressful lately, and you know how he gets with things like this.”

Donna nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah, I do. That’s why I’m worried.”

October 25th, 2001

8:12 PM

Josh’s door is still closed.

Donna knocks on it and again, doesn’t wait for him to answer. He doesn’t even look up when she comes in, but instead has his elbows resting on the desk, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Josh,” she says softly.

“Yeah?” He practically groans, not moving from his position.

“I was going to leave soon if you didn’t need anything else," she hazards.

“Okay.”

Well, that’s certainly a sign that something is wrong. She usually tells Josh she’s about to leave at least two hours before she actually plans on leaving, because she knows he’ll give her at least five more tasks to do. 

She pulls out the visitor’s chair and takes a seat in it.

“You’re… leaving, right?” Josh says as he finally looks up at her, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

“I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.”

Donna sighs heavily, steeling herself before beginning. “Josh, I’m so sorry about the whole Cliff debacle. Really, I am. I never would have gone out with him if I had known that it would put you at risk.”

This gets his attention. “Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean, put me at risk?”

She wants to let the wheels in his brain turn, but he’s clearly not making the connection, and the wait for the answer is making him antsy. If he doesn’t realize, should she tell him? Is it weird that she writes about him in her diary? Can she tell him that?

Donna makes a split-second decision. As much as she wants to be honest with him, this could stress him out even more. And judging by the bags under his eyes and the way his hands are shaking, Josh certainly doesn’t need any more stress. “I just mean… having your assistant indicted for perjury really wouldn’t look very good in the press.”

“Yeah, well it would be worse for you than the rest of us,” Josh replies with an inelegant snort, but there’s a pain in his eyes that he can't quite hide.

“I’m not going to ask what you did, since I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just wanted to apologize. Sincerely apologize. Josh, I’m really, really sorry,” she says, hoping that he understands the full extent of her contrition.

“Okay.”

This is not the response she is looking for. “Josh, I—“

“We've been through this. We’re not talking about it anymore. It’s all in the past, okay?” At her flinch, his face softens. “Donna, if you wanted to leave here, no one would blame you.”

At first, Donna can barely even process what he’s saying. Leave? Why would she ever leave? Does he want her to leave? Is he firing her? Her mind runs through all oft he possibilities, and she doesn’t particularly like anyone them. She picks her jaw up from its position practically near the floor and meets his gaze. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No! God, no, absolutely not. I wasn’t implying that you should,” he says, and she thinks it might be the first nice thing he’s said to her since her deposition. “I just… this seems like it’s stressing you out, and it’s going to get worse, Donna.”

“Worse than me almost getting indicted for perjury?” she challenges.

His faces blanches. “Yes.”

She wishes he wouldn’t do this. She wishes he wouldn’t be so vague, so mysterious about it. She knows there are things that he can’t tell her, but it still scares her when he acts like this. What she wouldn’t give to go a month without being scared for Josh Lyman. “For the president?”

He shrugs. “Not sure. But for you, for me, it might get worse. And I'm just saying, if you wanted to get out of town now, establish yourself somewhere else before it gets bad and all you have on your resume is being an assistant for your publicly disgraced boss…”

How could he ever think she would leave him? How could he think she would care about that? After all she’s put up with for him, all she’s done for him… and she knows just how much he values loyalty. She knows leaving now, leaving at this point might just break him entirely. “No. I’m staying here.”

Josh swallows. “Yeah. Okay.”

It worries her, his passiveness, his lack of energy, his coldness towards her. And while she’s not sure that asking him about it is such a good idea, she can’t hold herself back from murmuring “Are you still pissed at me?”

He somehow turns a lighter shade of white than even before. “Donna, I…” He stumbles over his words, finally settling on, “No, I’m not pissed. Not at you, anyway. You screwed up, sure, but it’s not like I’ve never screwed up before.” He chuckles humorlessly. 

She reaches across the desk, hoping he’ll move his hand out so that she can squeeze it to comfort him, or comfort herself. Josh is a tactile person, and physical touch seems to calm him down. But he makes no move to connect with her.

“You can tell me anything, you know,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not now. You’ll find out—“ He is interrupted by the ringing of the phone, and before Donna can pick it up and answer it to screen the call, he picks it up. “Josh Lyman.”

She can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but from the pained expression on Josh's face and the subdued way he keeps muttering “Okay" into the phone, she figures it must be something pretty bad. 

When he hangs up, he pushes his chair back abruptly. Donna looks up at him, her eyes wide. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he sputters. “It’s fine. It’s just… I have to go see CJ.”

Donna feels her heart constrict as she watches him rush out of the office. She’s not normally one to blame herself—Josh does plenty of that for the both of them—but whatever is wrong is something big, and she thinks it’s her fault.

She wants to fix it, but it’s hard to find a cure for what doesn’t have a diagnosis.

Chapter Text

October 25th, 2001

11:38 AM

Josh picks up the phone as soon as Donna leaves, steeling himself for a conversation he absolutely does not want to have.

“Calley,” he says gruffly. “You got the file?” He had hoped never to speak with Cliff Calley again, but there’s no avoiding it, not when he is the only other person in on the deal, not when Josh needs him to help protect Donna.

“Should we be having this conversation over the phone?” Cliff asks.

“It’s a secure line, it's not tapped by anyone, and there are many, many good reasons why the majority counsel’s office would be calling my office,” Josh says, with a bit of irritation in his voice. “Meeting somewhere would make things worse.”

Cliff clears his throat. “Okay. Yes, we have the file.”

“And you’ve looked through it, I presume?”

“There’s a lot there, but… yes. I get the gist of what’s going on.” He pauses for a second. “Josh, I don’t like doing this, I really don’t. But the committee is out for blood. Donna’s going to be fine, but you…”

“I know what I’m doing,” Josh says, although he’s not sure he believes that. “Anyway, you have the file. It’s out of my hands now.”

“The committee has seen it, so it’s out of my hands too,” Cliff says. “Believe me, Josh, I have some qualms about letting them use this against you. I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of, but I know not everyone in my party sees it that way, and some of them won’t hesitate to eviscerate you for it.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I appreciate that,” Josh says, although the very idea that Cliff knows about his disorder makes him feel sick with anxiety. It had only been the few people he trusted most before, and now… now a significant number of representatives, most of whom hate him, know his carefully guarded struggle. “Better me than the President.” Or Donna, he adds silently. “I do have a question though.”

“Shoot," Cliff says, and it takes all of Josh’s strength not to snicker at the unfortunate word choice considering Cliff just read his file.

“Hypothetically, if I were to make a preemptive statement regarding my diagnosis, prior to my hearing… would that cause trouble? With the deal?”

Cliff is quiet for a moment. “Hypothetically, I’d need to run that by the committee chairman before I could give you an answer on that. I'm sympathetic to you, Josh, but I also have a job to do.”

“Your job is legal, not political.”

“This is Congress, there’s no such thing as apolitical,” Cliff shoots back, “and you know it.”

Josh rubs his forehead. “Okay. Give me a call back when you’ve decided, will you?”

“Yeah,” Cliff says. “Really, Josh, I am sorry about all this. I wish we could have dealt with it a different way.”

He sounds sincere enough, but Josh doesn’t have the capacity to really trust in the truth of his words. Nor should he. Cliff may be a decent guy, but he’s still a Republican, and he’s still a major player in this witch hunt.

And Josh doesn’t have the capacity to trust anyone else right now.

“Okay, call me when you know,” he finishes, and hangs up the phone.

He leans back in his chair and breathes deeply, trying to take in the oxygen that eludes him as his chest tightens and a sense of dread seems to pull at every muscle in his body.

October 25th, 2001

8:27 PM

Josh throws open the door to CJ’s office; thankfully she’s not on the phone or taking an important meeting. Instead, her desk is littered with briefing memos and she has her head in her hands, trying to make sense of one of them. She looks up and gives him a smile that belies her concern. “Hey. What's up?”

He deposits himself on the couch again. This spot has become increasingly familiar to him over the course of the past week. “We can’t do a preemptive statement,” he says, his voice tight.

“Why not?”

“We just can’t.” Cliff hadn’t explained all the reasoning to him when he called back, but the point had been clear; if he released the information before the committee did, Donna’s perjury might just come out as well.

CJ frowns. “They can’t stop you from doing it. Not legally, anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Josh says. “We can’t do it that way.”

“It would be much better for the administration if we did it that way, Josh, so if this is just some convoluted way to protect yourself and not the administration, then…”

Josh suddenly stands, his whole body tense and on edge. “Protecting myself and not the administration? CJ, are you doubting my loyalty to this President, to all of you? You know me! You know I would take a bullet for this president; oh wait, I did! And then I came back to work, despite all the shit I’ve gone through because of this job, because I couldn’t just leave.” CJ’s face is stunned, and he feels somewhat guilty for yelling at her, but there is still anger burning in him. “I’m doing my best, okay? I’m trying to do what’s best for the administration. If I was doing what was best for myself, I would have quit a long time ago and taken a job that pays me six times as much for a sixth of the work.” He takes a few backwards steps, stumbling back into the couch. “I know this is frustrating, that I can’t tell you everything. I wish I could, but I have to protect you as much as I can, too.”

CJ closes her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Josh, I never meant to imply…”

“Yeah, okay," Josh interrupts. “It’s fine, let’s just…” He swallows and continues. “They’re moving my hearing. I was supposed to be in the same week as you and Toby and Sam, but they moved me to the week after. And not until Wednesday.”

“And you think that means…”

“They’re going to leak it to the press on Monday,” Josh says with a sigh. “They’ll leak at least some of the details before Wednesday, to drum up public interest in the hearing, and then they’ll hope that millions tune in to watch me get eviscerated for my lack of sanity.”

CJ presses her lips together. “That sounds about right. Except, you know, the last bit, since I know that’s not…”

“So what do we do then? Do we just wait?”

“I suppose so. Once it comes out, I think it would be helpful to do some public education. You could do a few interviews, talk about your experience with PTSD—being open about it is a good way to reduce the public stigma. But if you can’t talk until then, there’s not much you can do,” CJ says. 

Josh closes his eyes against the exhaustion that is suddenly overtaking him. “I guess we wait, then.”

“Josh?”

“Yeah?”

CJ straightens out some of the papers in front of her. “You used the wrong metaphor. You’re not taking a bullet this time. You’re falling on your sword.”

“I don’t exactly throw around ‘taking a bullet’ as a metaphor anymore,” Josh says tightly.

CJ closes her eyes, and Josh wonders if she, like him, is remember blood and sirens and fear. “I know,” she replies softly. “Believe me, I know.”  Uncomfortable lingering on the memory, she adds, “What do you say we go get drunk tonight?”

“It’s a Thursday.”

“As if the days of the week matter, considering we take none of them off,” CJ says with a snort.

“I just really… I don’t think I should get drunk. Not until this is all over.”

“What, don’t trust your sensitive system?”

“Not really, no,” Josh replies. “Seriously CJ, there are things I really can’t say.”

She frowns. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

“Something I never would have anticipated when I went to that town hall in Nashua,” Josh says, with a rueful smile.

October 25th, 2001

9:16 PM

“You’re still here,” Josh remarks when he comes out of CJ’s office and through the bullpen.

Donna looks up from the work she’s doing. “You know when I tell you I’m leaving, it’s really my two hour warning.” She tries to smile at him, hoping to provoke a similar response, but he doesn’t return the grin. “What was the phone call about?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Josh…”

“I’m serious. Donna, there are going to be any number of things going on this next month that you can’t be privy to, that you’re better off not knowing. So please don’t waste your time worrying about me.”

She frowns. “It’s not a waste of time.”

“Well, you’re not being paid to worry about me.”

“No I’m not, I do that because you’re my friend and I care about you,” Donna shoots back with irritation. “So if there’s anything you need from me…”

“What I need from you is to do your job that you are paid for and not try to be some sort of emotional support blanket!” Josh snaps.

Donna looks stricken, and Josh immediately realizes what an asshole he’s being, but he can’t bring himself to admit it to her. Because maybe this is what he should be doing anyway. The best way he can protect her and her future career is by distancing himself. It’ll hurt her temporarily, for sure, but in the long run, she’ll understand that he’s driving her away for a reason. That he doesn’t want her life to be ruined by his problems and his instability. Maybe she’ll leave, find a job with better hours and better pay now that she has White House experience, go get her degree… before she is permanently disgraced by being associated with him.

It would kill him if she left, of course. He functioned professionally before she came into his life, but now he can’t imagine doing his work without her. And he would miss her, as a friend. But that doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things. He has never deserved to have her in his life anyway, and he certainly didn't deserve her dedication when she helped him through some of the most difficult months of his life. He owes his life to her in some way, he is conscious of that much, and he thinks the only way to repay that is to protect her.

Even if she doesn’t understand that now.

So he doesn’t apologize. He leaves her there, mouth agape, and slams his office door behind him.

He’s finding, more and more, that it's good to have his door closed.

October 26th, 2001

10:46 PM

There are probably three dozen policy briefs spread across his coffee table; he would have read them all in the office but Leo had practically forced him out after taking a look at the entry logs and finding out Josh hadn’t left the night before. So instead he’s spending his Friday night in his living room, doing the same thing he would have done at work and struggling to find a comfortable reading position on his lumpy couch.

The sound of the buzzer is a surprise. Did he order food? Maybe he should order food before everywhere closes; he can’t really remember the last time he ate and his fridge is woefully empty.

He pushes himself up off the couch with a groan and presses the call button by the front door. “Hello?”

“Josh?”

“Donna? I thought you had a date.”

“I did. Now I’m on my way back and I realized I left my jacket here last week. Can I come up and get it?”

Josh hasn’t noticed her jacket anywhere, but then again, he’s hardly been home. “Uh, sure. Come on in.” He hears her footsteps approach his door and opens it before she can knock. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You… your jacket?”

“Yeah. Should be on…” she slips past him and closes the door, reaching for a black fleece hoodie that’s on top of all the outerwear Josh tends to forget he owns. “There we are.” She turns to him, making no move to open the door. “I can see you’re in for a relaxing night,” she says, motioning towards his coffee table.

He takes a step back and shrugs. “The government doesn’t stop for arbitrary things like Saturdays and Sundays.”

“The government does, but you certainly do not,” Donna retorts, patting his arm. “Well I should get going but…”

Josh stares at her for a second, before shaking his head as if coming out of a sort of trance. “You had a date?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d it go?” He hopes she can’t tell that his voice is an octave higher than it normally is.
Donna sighs and invites herself to lean against the arm of his sofa. “I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no interesting men in this city.”

“So… not great?”

“It was fine, I just…” she throws her hands up in the air, blowing out a heavy puff of air through almost closed lips. “There was no spark of anything and he was completely self-obsessed, but it’s rare you find a man who’s not, at least around here. But I got a free dinner out of it.”

“Your pursuit of love seems entirely mercenary,” Josh comments.

Donna rolls her eyes. “Hardly.”

“Was a he a Democrat, at least?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Well, he said he was. Although the way he talked about the ‘welfare state’ sounded like something straight out of the RNC platform if the RNC completely lacked any sort of political tact. But he won’t be, you know, trying to indict me for perjury, so I count that as a win.”

Josh tries to still his reaction to that, because Donna will certainly notice if he recoils. He walks around to the other side of the couch and takes a seat. “You can sit if you want. You’re very well acquainted with my couch.”

“That I am,” Donna says, allowing herself to slide off the armrest and plop onto the couch. The bottom of her dress rides up as she does so, exposing a significant chunk of her thigh. Josh swallows and tries not to look too closely.

“Do you know what’s open around here at this time of night?”

Donna grabs his wrist to take a look at his watch. “At almost eleven?”

“Yeah.”

“Food?”

“Yeah.”

“Pizza place on N delivers until midnight,” she says. “Why don’t you know this? You’re the one who lives here.”

“Because I always make you order food for me. They never get my order right when I do it.”

“That’s because you talk at a mile a minute and never let anyone confirm anything.”

Josh shrugs. “My time is precious.”

“Clearly.”

He smiles and realizes she’s still holding onto his wrist, her fingers hovering over where she can feel his pulse. He pulls back gently, lest his heart start racing to the extent that she could notice. “Want to order a pizza?”

“I already ate,” she replies, although she turns to look him over and frowns. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I honestly can’t remember.”

“Fine, I’ll order a pizza, if only to make you consume something,” she says, pulling out her phone. “But if I’m ordering, there are going to be vegetables on it.”

Josh sighs dramatically at that but he can’t suppress a smile. “No peppers though.”

“No peppers,” she confirms.

As she calls and orders the pizza, reaching casually into his pocket to pull out his wallet when they ask for a payment card, Josh watches her. She’s still all dressed up—he’s not sure where she found the time to style her hair like that between work and her date, but it’s soft and curly and feminine and frames her face perfectly. She smiles as she talks to the pizza place, laughing at something the person on the other side said, and Josh can feel his heart clench as he watches her.

She’s going to be furious with him when she finds out what he did. She might go do something even more stupid to try and throw herself in front of him. He doesn’t have any right to expect that of her, but he deeply treasures Donna’s loyalty. He’s also somewhat afraid of it.

He has to push her away to protect her. He knows that. But as he gazes at her in the dim light of his living room, sitting on his couch and looking for all the world like she fits there, the idea of pushing her away is unimaginable.

She ends the call and turns to him. “Should be here in twenty minutes or so. You doing alright?”

“Yeah,” he sputters. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been acting… kind of weird lately.”

“Some might argue that’s my ever-present state.”

“Some,” she says softly. “But not me.”

He locks eyes with her and gives a sad smile. “I’m fine. Just stressed with everything that’s going on.”

“You can trust me, you know.”

Josh bites his lip, suddenly unable to to meet her gaze. “I do. But I can’t. Not with everything.” Not with this.

“Matter of national security?”

“Something like that,” he says. “Donna, if I could…”

“I know.”

He takes his wallet back from where it’s sitting beside her. “I need you to trust me, too.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He leans forward and starts to stack the policy briefs in something resembling organization. An uncomfortable silence lingers between the two of them, as if neither of them have anything else to say. It’s a rare sensation, that.

Donna swallows and stands up. “I should probably… head home.”

“You don’t want to stay for pizza?”

“Thanks, but I already had dinner,” she says. “But believe me, if you pick all the vegetables off, I’ll know.”

He tries to smile, but he doesn’t want her to leave. And yet he has to let her leave. Should make her leave, really, so that he can try to do what he can to put some distance between himself and her. But even this short, somewhat uncomfortable while together has lifted him, and Josh isn’t sure he can function without that in his life. “Call me when you get home.”

“Josh…”

“I just need to know you got home safe,” he says, standing up to walk her towards the door.

She smiles and grabs his hand, rubbing her thumb over the back of it before opening the door. “Will do. Good night, Josh.”

“Good night.”

He closes the door behind her and stares at it for a minute before retaking his seat on the couch. As he hears her car pull away, he looks at the back of the couch and sees that her jacket, her purpose in coming over, is still laid across it. Such a Donna thing to do, he thinks; she frequently comes over to get something she forgot and then once again forgets the very thing she came for. 

Josh picks up the jacket and holds it up to his face. It still smells like her.

He could bring it to work on Monday (or really probably tomorrow, since there are a few things he needs to go in for), but that would defeat the purpose. Then she wouldn’t have an excuse to come over.

And while he knows he needs to keep his distance, he can’t stomach the thought of throwing up this particular barrier. Not yet.

Chapter Text

October 30th, 2001

1:00 PM

The waiting room of Dr. Andrew Holloway’s office always sets Josh a little bit on edge. He knows that Holloway is very discreet, and his office, in a nondescript building in Foggy Bottom, does not stand out as an odd place for Josh to be entering. Still, he always has to check over his shoulder when he enters, terrified that a member of the press might spot him, might make the connection, might do some digging.

That fear, he supposes, is irrelevant now.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone he knows, someone he recognizes might come into the waiting room. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dr. Holloway has told him on several occasions, and while Josh wishes that was easy to accept, he knows that in his world, in his life, it’s not that simple.

He picks up a magazine and begins to leaf through it, although he couldn’t say what any of the content is even about. His mind is somewhere else.

The door opens and Dr. Holloway peeks out. “Mr. Lyman?” he says to the empty waiting room, and Josh briefly wonders is he should have been going under a pseudonym this whole time. Not that it matters; his face is recognizable enough that a fake name wouldn’t throw off a DC insider.

Josh stands and follows Dr. Holloway to his quiet, bookshelf-lined office.

“It’s been a little while since I’ve seen you," Dr. Holloway says, seating himself across from Josh and pulling out a notepad. “How have the last two weeks been?”

Josh had cancelled last week, citing work obligations. In truth, he probably could have made it, but the situation had been so up in the air and new that he did not want to talk about it with anyone other than CJ. He also needed to do some research, dusting off his old legal textbooks as well as pulling out some more recent laws, some of which he had helped to write when he had been working in the Senate.

“You do know that HIPAA doesn’t necessarily protect doctor-patient confidentiality under a subpoena or court order.”

Dr. Holloway frowns. “This is your time, of course, but are you sure you want to use it making sure I understand the finer points of HIPAA?”

Josh scrubs his face with his hand. “No, it’s just… I don’t think you’ll be subpoenaed, since it’s a few too many steps removed from the investigation to be relevant, but if you are, I think we could challenge it in court and protect any other information, but most of it’s out there anyway so I suppose it doesn’t really matter…”

“Josh, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say here,” Dr. Holloway says, putting down his notepad. “What’s been happening the last few weeks?”

Josh looks past the therapist, his eyes focusing on the bookshelf behind him, on a thick book claiming to be a comprehensive guide to trauma therapy. “Let’s just say my private health information isn’t going to be private for much longer.”

January 3rd, 2001

10:00 AM

“Did Dr. Keyworth share his notes with you?” Josh asks, trying to get comfortable in this new office, where a rapidly balding man just a few years older than him looks across at him from behind a large stack of papers. It’s hard to get comfortable when his leg seems to bounce absent of his own volition. “I think I signed the authorization for him to…”

“Yes, he did,” Dr. Holloway says.

“Good, I guess that means we don’t have to rehash…”

The therapist holds up a hand. “There's going to have to be a little rehashing, you know that, right? Otherwise I can’t do my job very well.”

Josh sighs and nods. “I do.”

“Good, good,” he says. “Now, I haven’t had a chance to look through all of his notes with all the attention they probably deserve, nor your intake forms—there’s a lot to catch up on after being gone for the holidays—but I’m glad we can meet today to complete the intake process.”

Josh presses his lips together, unable to stop thinking about the question on his mind. “Did Dr. Keyworth impart to you the um… sensitivity of this.”

“The information of all of my patients is sensitive,” Dr. Holloway says sternly.

“Of course, of course, but…” Josh looks up at the ceiling and lets out a sigh. “There’s a particular sensitivity to this. I work very closely with the President. I have a very high security clearance which frankly I’m worried may be in peril because of this. I had a therapist before I began working at the White House and I stopped going because it might have reflected badly on the President. I can’t have this disorder, not publicly, so…” He stands up and begins to pace. It’s not really what he’s supposed to do in the situation, but the nervous energy is getting to him. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you understood that.”

Dr. Holloway chuckles. “Josh, I’ve worked in DC my entire career. Do you think you’re the first person in that kind of position that I’ve seen?”

Josh’s eyes widen. “What? Who else?”

“I would hope you’re familiar with HIPAA given your position.”

“Of course, I helped write the damn thing, but…” he sighs and looks down at his shoes. “Sorry, I know you can’t say anything, it’s just… It’s impossible to keep anything a secret in this town, so I’m just surprised to hear that.”

Dr. Holloway sits up straighter and gives a kind of prideful smile. “I’m very discreet.”

“So it seems.”

“You can’t imagine you’re the only person in government struggling in this way. Think of  how many people in Congress were formerly in the military. Think of the statistics for mental illnesses, and then consider how many people work in the federal government. It’s much more common than you think, Josh.”

Josh swallows and nods. “That said, I will need you to understand that there are some things I just can’t share. It’s not because I’m holding things back emotionally, but sometimes there are things I literally can’t say to anyone.”

“I understand,” Dr. Holloway says. “Now, I have a few background questions to ask before we can get into all of this.

October 30th, 2001

1:10 PM

“Share the details you can,” Dr. Holloway says. It’s become a sort of refrain in their therapy sessions; Josh can’t and won’t share everything, but he does his best to provide enough details for an understanding of the situation, or at least a hypothetical that reflects what is going on.

Josh sighs and stares at his lap. “You’re familiar with the Secret Service?”

“They tend to delay my commute by twenty minutes.”

“Well, they keep files on everyone who is checked and cleared to interact with the President. Those of us who travel with the President or enter the Residence have an even more extensive file. Suffice to say, my file is stuffed. They keep medical records in case of emergency, and they have a list of prescriptions, and also… a few other things. I’m sure I told you about the time I yelled at the President in the Oval—there’s a secret service report for that—and also a record of the conversation I had with the head agent to disclose my PTSD. Or I guess Leo had that conversation, and I followed up later. Anyway…”

Dr. Holloway frowns as Josh pauses. “Is there trouble with the Secret Service?”

“No, but… my file leaked,” he says with a sigh.  “It's in the hands of House Government Oversight. It's going to be brought up in the hearings, probably reported on in the media.”

“How did it leak?”

Josh looks away. “That’s a detail I can’t share.”

“But you were involved.”

“That’s a question I can’t answer. Anyway, I don’t think you’ll get subpoenaed because it’s not part of the investigation, not really, but I did want to warn you.” Josh sighs and glances out the window. “This was what I was so afraid of.”

February 13, 2001

1:04 PM

“The State of the Union address was excellent last week,” Dr. Holloway says, as Josh comes in to take his usual seat.

Josh nods gratefully. “Thank you.” He chuckles with a bit of derision “If only the polls had been as effusive as you are.”

“Did you end up attending?” This had been a point of discussion the week before; Josh had been concerned that the large crowds and loud music at the post-speech party might have been overwhelming for him at this point in his recovery, and Dr. Holloway had agreed that an alternative assignment that night may be beneficial, but that it was ultimately up to Josh. 

“I was at the polling location instead,” Josh says. “I just… I was afraid I’d have an episode in public.”

Dr. Holloway pulls out his notepad. “That’s a very valid fear. And do you think it was the right decision?”

“Well, probably, but I was on the verge of panic all night anyway, so…” Josh shifts in his seat.

“Can you identify why?”

Josh shrugs. “I’ve never been the calmest person when it comes to polling, and then the power went out, and Donna kept trying to get me to ask Joey Lucas out which I could not for the life of me comprehend and…”

“And that caused you panic?” The therapist asks as Josh trails off.

He pauses for a second before sighing. “No.”

“Do you know what it was then?”

“There were… some specific polls results I was waiting on,” Josh admits. “About a waiting period for certain kinds of guns. It was going to help us decide whether we could push some legislation successfully. Obviously that’s something that is important to me now, but apparently it’s also a little bit triggering.”

“Understandably so,” Dr. Holloway says, scribbling something on his notepad. “You said you had a sense of panic— did you have more specific symptoms?”

Josh thinks back to that night. “I was kind of a jerk about it. I think I yelled a lot. But I didn’t have a flashback or a panic attack or anything, I just felt on edge all night. I could feel my heart pounding and my blood pressure rising and my stomach hurt, so there was a lot of physical manifestations but nothing overtly obvious to others. I think.”

Dr. Holloway makes a humming noise while scribbling down a few more things. “Did that lead to any nightmares that night?”

“I honestly don’t think I slept,” Josh replies. “The power outage slowed things down, and then there was the Colombia thing which kept us busy for the rest of the night, and we had to finish the polling the next day.”

“Did you try to sleep?”

“I probably was well aware that I wouldn’t even if I tried,” Josh says with a shrug, “and by the time I finally got home the next night I was so exhausted I passed out for eight hours.”

The therapist lets out something that might be a laugh, although Josh isn’t sure that’s appropriate in this context. “That’s a very normal amount of sleep for one night.”

“I’m lucky if I get four hours most of the time.”

“Is that a recent problem?”

Josh chuckles. “I’ve never slept much, especially not while working in DC. It’s just the lifestyle, I suppose.”

Dr. Holloway’s face changes, and he puts down his notepad and leans forward. “Josh, I know when we first talked you weren’t particularly interested in this, but I’d like you to consider medication in addition to regular therapy.”

Josh hopes his face doesn’t reveal the dismay he feels. “Is this because of the sleeping thing? Because believe me, that’s not related to the PTSD at all, that’s just how I’ve been forever. I can function on very little sleep, and I…"

“No,” Dr. Holloway says, “I’ve been meaning to bring this up for today’s session. Obviously, you’ve seen significant improvement in acute intrusion symptoms since beginning therapy, which is excellent, but some of the negative effects on thinking and mood may be better managed with a combination of medication and therapy.”

“I just…” Josh stands up and goes to look out the window into the gray parking lot lined with naked trees. “That leaves more of a paper trail than I’m comfortable with. It’s one thing to go to therapy, but it’s another entirely to medicate for it as well. In politics, a history of drug use is so…”

“This isn’t drug use in the controversial sense, Josh,” Dr. Holloway says. “It would be legally prescribed—I’d refer you to a friend of mine who’s a psychiatrist since I can’t prescribe, and she’d meet with you and figure out what would work best—and all of that information would also be protected.”

He grips the window frame. “Can you promise that?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you promise that, if I am prescribed medication, that it won’t come out and be the topic of discussion on the hill? I know you don’t think there should be a stigma around it, and I agree, but there is, and I don’t want to… I don’t want to hurt the President.”

“That’s my legal obligation, Josh,” Dr. Holloway says, “so of course I can.”

Josh doesn’t move from the window.

October 30th, 2001

1:23 PM

“Josh, how do you feel about this? How do you think this situation is affecting your mental health?” Dr. Holloway asks. Josh has returned to pacing the office; it’s not unusual for him to do so in a session, but today he’s been like this for almost the entire session.

“It’s going to look bad for the President, there’s no way around that. This whole thing is about him hiding an illness, and then one of his high level staffers has been hiding something like this? There’s no avoiding how bad it’s going to be, but…”

“That’s not what I asked you, Josh,” Dr. Holloway says with a calm tone.

He turns to face the therapist. “What did you ask me?”

“How this was affecting you. Your thoughts, your feelings. Not the political consequences, although obviously those play a role.”

Josh begins to pace behind the couch again. “It doesn’t matter, that’s not what I’m paid to think about.”

“Well, that’s what you’re paying me to talk with you about,” Dr. Holloway says.

Josh has always appreciated therapists who are willing to be a little more adversarial with him; he respects someone who will push him and fight him. But this last week has been overwhelming and exhausting and he’s had to talk about his mental health more than he’s ever had to in his life and he just wants it all to stop. He wants to go back to how things were before August a little more than a year ago. He had other struggles before then, but they were nothing compared to this overwhelming assault that he has struggled with on and off for the last year. Everything is so loud this week, and sometimes he briefly wonders if when he puts his hand through a window, it might have been better if the rest of his body had followed.

Things were supposed to be better. And they were steadily getting better for a while, but things keep happening to suddenly send him spiraling again, and he wants it all to stop. 

He puts his hands on the back of the couch and leans forward. “It feels like before… I suppose it was the end of April, beginning of May, right before the MS was disclosed publicly,” he says, “and I was a mess then.”

May 10, 2001

6:02 PM

“Thanks for taking me on such short notice,” Josh says, rushing into the office. “I don’t have a lot of time to do this, not really, but…”

Dr. Holloway takes in how exhausted Josh looks, the bags under his eyes and the mess of his clothes, and frowns. “I was told this is an emergency.”

“It is,” Josh replies. “I’ve… in the past two weeks, I’ve had multiple panic attacks, more than a few nightmares, and my body has felt like it’s on high alert almost constantly. So it was bad already, and then I’m not sure if you were paying attention to the news, but the President’s executive secretary was very suddenly killed in an accident and that’s just added to everything so I can’t…”

"Whoa, slow down,” Dr. Holloway says. “Please, take a seat, and it may help you to take a few deep breaths, just to get yourself in a better headspace for this.”

Josh tries to comply, and his deep breaths make him sound marginally less like he’s hyperventilating.

“I’m very sorry to hear about the President’s secretary. Were you close?”

“Not particularly, but she was... she was amazing. Kept the president in line, was kind of like a mother to all of us. My… Donna was very close to her, so she’s having a difficult time with it.”

Dr. Holloway nods. “And Donna’s usually the one helping you out, isn’t she?” He’s heard plenty about Donna in the few months that he’s been working with Josh.

“Yes,” Josh says grimly, “and I want to be there for her since they were closer, but I just… everything is so loud again.”

“You said you were having panic attacks?”

Josh cringes at the thought of the many times he’s had to curl up behind his desk and lock his office door to try and calm himself down and stop shaking. “Quite a few, and at work a lot of times. I’ve made it to my office every time, but they seem to last longer and longer.”

“It can sometimes be hard to tell what induces panic attacks, but do you have a sense of anything that might have been increasing the frequency?”

Josh nods with wide eyes.

“Can you tell me what it is?”

“No,” Josh says, thinking of the worst one, right after the President told him about the MS, where Donna had to come calm him down and take him home before anyone else found him on the floor. “It’s very classified at the moment, but you will find out soon enough.”

“Stress at work, then?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Dr. Holloway nods. “Okay. Well, it's a little difficult when I can’t know the details, but I understand and let’s see what we can come up with to get you through this.”

October 30th, 2001

1:32 PM

“That was the MS, wasn’t it? That’s what was exacerbating symptoms then,” Dr. Holloway connects.

Josh nods. “Yeah. I’m just afraid this might end up being the same thing. And my hearing will be televised, so I’m afraid that I’ll deal with something that I can’t hide on camera. And now that this is all coming out, I have to have a way to prove that I’m better. That I’m handling it, that I’m hardly affected by it.”

“You know as well as I do that you don’t just get cured, but to be honest, Josh, you are functioning well. You have an incredibly stressful job and you do it well. Despite the hearings, you haven’t had an episode in the last few months. There are always things to work on, but I think you can safely say that you are better. You’ve certainly come a long way from where you started. Life stress doesn’t make dealing with this any easier, but you also have a lot more tools to deal with it than you did before. So if that’s all you’re concerned about…”

If that was all he was concerned about, his life would be significantly easier. But yes, he is afraid of having another episode in public. Of showing the public irrefutable proof of his struggles. He’s more than concerned, he’s terrified of losing the people he loves, of losing his job, his reason for being… It helps to know that his therapist has confidence in him, even if he doesn’t have the same confidence in himself. He’s going to be okay. He’s doing well. Most of his symptoms barely show up anymore, aside from the feelings of stress and anxiety that predated the shooting anyway. Aside from the way he's been feeling in the past week, but that's sure a blip and something that will go away soon. If he can prove to the committee and to the public that he really is better, that he has put this behind him, it will make his experience that much easier and will help the administration survive this. And now that he thinks about it, there’s a fairly easy way to prove it.

He doesn’t answer the question, though. “The only reason I’m concerned that you might be subpoenaed is that you talked to me a few times in between when I knew about the MS and when it became public knowledge. It shouldn’t be enough to bring you in, but I wanted to make you aware of that.” Josh squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and walks towards the door. This will be better, he thinks.

“Josh, you’ve got another half hour with me,” Dr. Holloway says, “and I think we have a lot to talk about.”

Josh shakes his head. “I’ve been talking about all of this plenty, and I think if I talk about it any more I might explode. When they ask me at the hearing if I still attend therapy or take medication for this, I want to be able to honestly say no. I want to be able to show them that I came through the other side of this completely fine and ready to continue with my career.”

“Josh, I’m glad that you’re feeling better, but I think we should talk about this rather than just jump into it.” Dr. Holloway says with concern, eyeing Josh’s hand hovering over the door handle.

“Maybe,” Josh says, “but it is in the media. And when I testify, it’s going to be how it works. This is going to be bad enough, but if it’s all in the past, we might just be able to get through it.”

“Josh…”

“Thanks for everything, Dr. Holloway. I might see you again once all this is over, but I have to protect the President. I’ve made enough of a mess of things already.” Josh opens the door and closes it quickly behind him, practically running out of the building before leaning back against the wall.

If he can show in his hearing that he hasn’t been in therapy for a month, perhaps the damage will be mitigated. This is his fault for leaking his own file, so he has to do whatever he can to protect the administration. To protect his friends.

He’ll be okay without therapy, he thinks. Like Dr. Holloway said, he is fully functional in his job and his life, and there’s no reason it won’t continue that way. So he’ll go back to work, maybe actually play a few games of squash, and get himself through the hearings. He’s strong enough for that. He has to be.

Josh walks away from the nondescript building in Foggy Bottom and tries to ignore the bile rising in his throat as the anxiety from his decision threatens to overwhelm him.

This is how it has to be.

Chapter Text

November 1st, 2001

8:19 AM

The cafe is crowded as it often is, being nestled right off the Mall and halfway between the White House and the Capitol. Josh might have complained about the crowdedness and the location, or even argued for a different spot, had it not been Elaine who asked for the meeting.

Elaine (or Congresswoman Leavitt, a title she prefers almost unequivocally—Josh almost wonders if her husband is subject to that rule as well) is one of the few officials in Congress who Josh likes to see outside of the bounds of work. She has worked at his father’s law firm prior to getting elected, and when Josh had moved to DC to begin working, she had been a familiar face. Today, Josh sees her as someone who knew his father, which brings him a decent measure of comfort.

Congresswoman Leavitt is already sitting at a table by the window, a massive scramble set in front of her. She stands up when she sees Josh approach and pulls him into a tight hug; he’s probably a foot taller than her, but he gets the sense she could take him down if she had to. “Joshua!” she exclaims, stepping back to look him over. 

“Sorry I’m late. Senior staff ran late, and I couldn’t exactly duck out on the President.”

She pats his arm fondly. “You don’t look so good. You look too pale.”

“I haven’t really… had time to get outdoors much,” Josh says sheepishly, taking his seat.

“You know what you could do about that? Go to Florida. See your mother,” she replies. It’s funny, Josh thinks, that his mother is still in contact with one of the top ranking Democrats in the house, but he happens to know that his mother will call Elaine (she’s one of the few people on a first name basis it seems) to check in on Josh. He supposes that might reflect a lack of contact with his mother on his part, but considering every phone call seems to leave her more worried than the last, he doesn’t make the effort very often.

The Congresswoman pushes forward the other plate on the table: a somewhat sad looking plate that was probably purported to be the healthy option on the menu. Next to it sits a glass of water, a coffee mug conspicuously absent. “I ordered for you, I hope that’s okay.”

Josh chuckles; he’s not sure he’d be able to say anything if it wasn’t. “How do you know what I like?” he asks, a hint of sarcasm permeating his tone.

“I called your assistant,” she says with a mischievous look. “I hear you’re a fan of egg whites and chicken sausage.”

He can’t help but shake his head and laugh at that. “Well, Donna won that one," he says fondly. “She seeks to control me. Anyway, how’ve you been?”

The Congresswoman frowns. “Josh, this isn't a social visit.”

“Hmm?”

“I have some bad news for you.”

Josh feels his heart pound in his chest, his brain instantly running through a list of possible worse case scenarios. “What? What is it?”

“Oversight’s doing your hearing, and they’ve… your Secret Service file is going around somehow.”

That’s right. How could he have forgotten? Elaine Leavitt is the highest ranking Democrat on House Government Oversight. She’s going to be one of the ones questioning him. And while he likes her and trusts her, she’s not the only one on the committee.

“I don’t know how it got out there,” she continues, “but Josh, there’s a lot of stuff in it. Stuff that I assume you don’t really want out there. And the chairman, he's out for blood.”

He chokes down a bite of his flavorless eggs and frowns. “You read it?”

“Yes, and I’m so sorry Josh, I had no…”

Josh waves a hand and swallows hard. “Don't. It’s alright, you’re not the one who needs to apologize.”

Congresswoman Leavitt sighs and leans forward. “I just wanted you to know because… well, forewarned is forearmed. The questions are going to be coming, and I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”

“Thank you, but I did… I already knew,” Josh says quietly.

“How?”

He looks away and takes a large gulp of water, coughing a little bit as he puts it back down on the table. “I don’t think that’s a discussion you should be having with a witness.”

She reaches out to pat his arm. “It can be a social visit now that we’ve got that out of the way.”

“No,” he replies. “Not until this is all over.” He’s realizing that the more people he’s in contact with that are involved in the hearings, the harder this all is going to be. It’s easier to push people away, easier to distance himself, than to put them at risk.

“Josh…”

“This was a bad idea, Elaine.”

“Congresswoman Leavitt.”

“You should have done this over the phone, or at least somewhere where we wouldn’t be recognized, I mean…” He can feel the rising stress in his body and wishes, not for the first time, that he didn’t carry everything in such a physical way.

She shakes her head. “It’s just breakfast with the son of an old friend.”

“You’re been in DC long enough to know that nothing is that simple,” Josh says, looking away. “I shouldn't have come, I just…”

“I can’t share with you the questions, but I just want to make sure you prepare,” she says, watching with concern as he pushes his seat back. “Talk to the counsel’s office about this.”

Josh pauses for a second and looks at her with confusion. “With Babish there’s no attorney-client privilege.”

“Do you need it? Everything you’d talk about it going to come out in the hearings anyway!” she says, showing some of the fire that had been responsible for her landslide elections. “Take twenty minutes and talk about it with Babish, see what he tells you to do.” She looks at him with pitiful eyes. “If I chaired this committee, Josh, not a word of that file would leave my office. It’s not right, what they’re going to do.”

Josh shrugs. “It’s politics. And to tell you the truth, I’m not convinced we wouldn’t do the same.” He pushes the chair back in and sighs. “Thanks for the breakfast, I have to get back to work.”

“Josh…” She stands up in front of him and looks him in the eyes. “I’ve criticized the President and his staff a fair amount, as I’m sure you know, but I’m behind you here. I really am. You can trust me.”

He nods but doesn’t meet her gaze before brushing past her, muttering once again, “I have to get back to work.”

He wishes he could trust her. He really does, especially when he’s known her forever. She’s someone his father trusted, and that should mean something. It used to mean something, but it’ll be worse for everyone involved if he gets too cozy with members of the committee.

This is the way things have to be, he thinks as he leaves and turns away from the Capitol and back toward the White House.

November 1st, 2001

10:46 AM

He’s ostensibly reading a memo, but the truth is Josh is completely lost in thought when CJ arrives and leans against his doorframe. She stares at him for a minute before knocking on the side of the door, startling him slightly. “You asked for me?”

“Uh, yeah,” Josh says, rubbing his eyes. “Close the door, would you?”

CJ does as she is asked but gives him a wary look. “What’s up?”

“I had breakfast with Leavitt today,” he says quietly.

“That’s a bad idea.”

“I know. Which is why I left after a few minutes.”

She fixes him with a glare, and Josh might have been amused if he weren’t so worried. “She’s going to be questioning you, questioning all of us. That’s not…”

“CJ, I’ve worked in this business for a long time, I know why it was a bad idea. Anyway, she told me the file has reached her and she wanted to warn me about it. Of course I already knew but…” he picks up his coffee mug, cold from the amount of time he’s been lost in thought, and aggressively swallows a large swig of it. “I do think I need to talk to Babish, just to see…”

CJ nods. “You’re a braver person than I am,” she says. “I’m glad you asked for me, actually, because there was something else I needed to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?”

She picks up a couple of empty granola bar wrappers off of Josh’s desk. “Is this all you’ve eaten today?”

“Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Once in a while you might benefit from real food,” she chides.

Josh rolls his eyes and pushes his trash can out with his foot so CJ can deposit the wrappers. “I had breakfast.”

“It sounds like you left before you had a chance to eat it.”

Josh doesn’t respond to that, instead taking the last swallow of his coffee. “Okay, was that your question?”

“No, actually,” CJ says, and she sighs heavily. “Josh, I think you need to tell Leo.”

He frowns. “Leo knows. Leo was the one who made me see Dr. Keyworth.”

“Not about… does Leo know that Congress has your file? Does he know that it’s going to come out?” CJ asks. “Josh, I know you wanted to keep it quiet, but it’s not going to stay quiet forever, and Leo’s going to be a lot happier with you if you talk to him now rather than later,” she says. “Also, whenever you get a chance, talk to Sam or Toby about trying to start drafting a statement. The White House will have a statement of support for you, but that’s something we need to start thinking about.”

Josh bites his lip and nods. “I don't really want to put this on Leo’s plate…”

“If you don’t, I will. He needs to know.”

“I’ll see him after I’m done with Babish today,” Josh says. He supposes CJ is right—Leo does have to know—and if anyone understands what he’s about to go through, it’s Leo, who has been on the same precipice before.

Still, he feels like he might be disappointing his father, and that’s a thought that causes the bile to rise in his throat.

“Good luck,” CJ says. “Let me know if you need anything. And eat a damn sandwich—man cannot survive on granola bars alone.”

“The mess was…” he starts, but CJ is gone before he gets a chance to finish. “…closed this morning.”

November 1st, 2001

3:21 PM

“You can go in,” Margaret says in her matter-of-fact voice, but Josh lingers at the door to Leo's office, tugging on the bottom of his suit jacket as if the tension of the fabric stretching across his shoulders will be enough to relieve the tension within them. “He's waiting for you.”

“Does he have time? I mean…”

“You know you can ask me that.” Leo’s gravelly voice comes from the other side of the partially opened door.

Margaret pushes it open the rest of the way and shakes her head. “No, you should really ask me that. I know his schedule better than he does.”

“Donna knows mine far better than I do, so I can believe that,” Josh says, with a wry grin that does’t quite reach his eyes. “We won’t be interrupted?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the Joint Chiefs at four, and no promises there won’t be an international incident in the next half hour, but barring that I’m supposed to be catching up on my afternoon reading… so take all the time you need,” Leo says, taking off his glasses and sitting behind his desk again.

Josh doesn’t sit down. His anxiety is always worse in situations like this when he has to still himself, and he knows Leo will understand. If anyone understands any of this, it will be Leo. Leo, whose own struggle with an invisible and stigmatized illness was so widely publicized. Leo, who was ready to face down Congress or resign or do whatever it took to serve at the pleasure of the President in spite of his struggles. If Leo can do it, Josh should be able to do the same.

He’s not Leo McGarry, though.

And Leo never actually had to go through with the hearings he was threatened with, whereas Josh imagines his fate on that score is set.

“Josh, what’s wrong?” Leo asks, and Josh realizes he’s been distracted by his thoughts again.

“It’s… my Secret Service file. It’s been leaked,” Josh says quietly.

"All of it?”

Josh gives a sharp nod.

He can see Leo process the consequences of that almost immediately, leaning back in his chair and picking up his glasses to fiddle with them and sigh heavily. “You were right to be concerned about it. I mean, at the time I was more worried about your health, and you being able to get help if something, well, happened, but…”

“It’s not your fault,” Josh interrupts. “Believe me, if it wasn’t this, it would have come out another way.” And he won’t share the exact details of that statement—the fewer people who know about Donna’s diary, the better—but he’s surprised he ever expected to come through these hearings unscathed in the first place.

“You’re okay with this?”

Josh shrugs. “I don't really… have a choice. I’ve been talking to CJ about it, and I went and spoke to Babish this morning to clear up any legal questions, and I’ve been in a little bit of contact with Congresswoman Leavitt, which I know is maybe not the best idea but she reached out to me, and so I’m preparing as best I can but…”

“It’s going to be hard,” Leo finishes.

Josh closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just say I’m not exactly looking forward to having the Republicans try to do a deep dive into my trauma on national television.”

“No, I can imagine not,” Leo says with a sympathetic chuckle, because he knows the anticipation and fear that Josh is struggling with. “Do you know how the file got leaked? Who did it? Because if it was that girl who leaked mine, I mean… I gave her a second chance but if it was her again I’d never…”

Josh shakes his head. “I know who did it.”

“Who? Because I’ll fire their ass without a second…”

“Leo,” he interrupts. He almost has to laugh at the irony, because really, Leo should fire his ass. Should have done it a long time ago, in fact, when he became a liability to the administration. But instead he was the guy in the hole and Leo promised to save his job, and he once again wonders if they all might be better off without him.

That seems to be a constant theme in Josh’s life, that everyone would be better off without him.

“Who did it?” Leo asks, recognizing the tension in Josh’s posture.

“I can’t say,” Josh replies, his voice tight. He stares at the floor.

Leo’s expression softens. “Josh, if it was Donna…”

His head snaps up and he can stop himself from glaring at Leo. “It wasn’t Donna, how could you even…” he shouts before trailing off. In a way, it kind of was Donna. She didn’t leak her file, and he knows she was trying to protect him, but her diary got them into this mess in the first place.

Then again, if he hadn’t acted so rashly, if he hadn’t been so scared for her, maybe the solution he landed on wouldn’t have put him in this mess, wouldn’t have put the administration in such a difficult spot.

“Okay,” Leo says. “Okay. And you’ve been working with CJ on this?”

“She’s the only other one who knows. Besides House Government Oversight, of course,” Josh replies, the name of the committee sticking in his throat uncomfortably. “We’ve theorized that’s why my hearing’s been moved. It’s on a Wednesday, they’re going to leak the stuff in the file on Monday and have a whole media circus to get as many people as possible to tune in when I’m up.”

Leo groans. “That sounds about right.”

“Leo, I suggested this to CJ and she didn’t think it was a good idea but… if you need me to resign, I’ll…”

“As long as I got a job, you got a job,” Leo says firmly. “And if you’re resigning over hiding an illness—one which you had every right to keep under wraps considering you’re not an elected official—then who’s to say the President shouldn’t just up and resign too?”

Josh laughs in spite of himself. “That’s exactly what CJ said.”

“CJ’s very smart, perhaps you should listen to her once in a while.”

“I just… you know how when they were getting us all onboarded, they had us fill out those psychological questionnaires? If I had to do that now, honestly fill that out, I probably would be marked as a red flag. They’d never give me the clearance I have, and so who’s to say Congress won’t pick up on that and…”

“Josh!” Leo interrupts, standing up behind his desk. “Stop it. I trust you. The Secret Service trusts you. The President trusts you. You’ve given us no reason, even in your worst moments, to think otherwise. And if Congress has a problem with that…”

“Which they will.”

“They’re going to have to come through me.”

Josh stares at his shoes; they look terribly scuffed. Just another way he hasn’t been taking care of himself, he supposes. “Leo, I appreciate this, but it’s not just me that gets affected by this. Most everyone else has their hearings before me, which is good, but you… Leo, they’re going to ask me about the drugs. They have all my prescription records. And then they’re going to ask you about your drug use based on that.”

“I know,” Leo says. “Josh, they were going to harp on the drugs and alcohol anyway. If you thought that the Republicans weren’t going to take any opportunity they had to tear everyone apart, you're more naive than I would have guessed. Sam’s probably going to get hit with the call girl thing. Toby will undoubtedly get hit with questions about his divorce. CJ… well I don’t know what CJ’s done personally, but she’s the face of the administration so she’ll have a lot to answer for. Anyone who says these jobs don’t come with a cost…”

Unconsciously, Josh’s hand taps the left side of his chest. “Yeah…”

Leo takes a few steps towards Josh and opens up his arms. Josh hesitates, remembering what happened the last time Leo made a similar gesture. But Leo pulls him into a tight hug, the one he’s probably been waiting to give since that awful August night. “Last time I didn’t do this I regretted it,” he says, and Josh tries not to think too hard about that day where his life took a sharp turn as he melts into the embrace. “You’re still going to therapy, right?”

Josh nods; it’s not exactly a lie, since he hasn’t missed an appointment yet. Perhaps he’ll change his mind and go back next week, but he thinks that he might just be okay without it. He hasn’t panicked, not really, since this whole thing started. Not in the way he used to. Maybe he is doing better, even on his own. He can do this on his own.

He steps back from Leo and gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t stick your neck out for me. And don’t let the President do that, either.”

“I won't let the President do it,” Leo replies, an answer to the other request conspicuously lacking.

“Leo…”

“Get back to work, Josh. I have to meet with the Joint Chiefs soon.”

“Leo, we might need to talk about some things.”

He sits back down and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, Josh. Your hearing isn’t for another month, and there’s not a whole lot we can do right now. It’s going to be okay, believe me. We’ve all weathered worse. Now get back to work.”

Part of Josh wants Leo to be angry. Part of him wants to explain what he did, how stupidly he chose to put himself into this position. He wants the blistering anger, not the pitiful sympathy. He wants Leo to yell at him, to tell him to resign. He wants to feel like he did before, he wants to fight and win, he wants to be okay again.

He thinks that maybe if Leo screams at him, everything else will stop being so loud.

But he forces a smile and leaves Leo’s office, knowing nothing new and barely feeling better. He should feel better, knowing he has Leo's full support, given in that dismissive sort of way that is so authentically Leo.

Josh doesn’t feel any better though. If anything, he feels worse.

November 1st, 2001

3:56 PM

“There you are!” Donna exclaims when he enters the bullpen area. “How did your meeting with Leo go?”

Josh shrugs, not looking her in the eye. “It was... fine.” He tries to hide what he’s sure is a pained expression with a laugh. “I’m not getting, you know, fired or anything.”

“But you can’t tell me what it was about?” Donna asks.

“I can’t tell you a lot of things, you know that.”

“But you do anyway,” she replies with a winning smile. Her face grows serious as she catches sight of something on her desk, however. “Can I come into your office for a second? You just got a message and I think…”

Josh feels his heart start to pick up an anxious flutter. “Uh, yeah…” he says. “What's up?”

Donna steps into his office behind him and closes the door. “It’s from Congresswoman Leavitt. All she said was, ‘You should consider resigning’. Do you know what she… Josh, I thought you were close with her! Why would she want you to resign?” Her voice is bordering on hysteria, and Josh can’t handle that. Not right now.

“It’s fine, Donna,” he says, trying to sound much more calm than he feels.

The Congresswoman had seemed so supportive of him at their breakfast earlier. What has changed? What does she know now? How much worse are these hearings going to get?

“Why does she want you to resign?”

“Because if this whole hearing thing goes awry, she doesn’t want to see me unhireable in politics. She… wants me to work for her,” Josh lies. He’s not sure if Donna will believe him, but it’s better if she doesn’t freak out because he’s already freaking out internally. “It’s fine Donna, I’m not going to resign.”

“Josh…” she almost sounds like she doesn’t believe him.

“You should get back to work. I’ve spent half of my day in useless meetings and I need to get some stuff done,” he says, his tone coming out a little more harshly than he intends it to. He needs Donna to leave before he falls apart in front of her.

“Are you sure it’s…”

“Go!” he shouts. “And close the door behind you.”

Donna gives him a lingering, worried glance but does what he asks.

He heads towards the wall, sinking down against it until his knees are pulled up to his chest. He's not full-on panicking, but he’s on the edge. He tries to focus on his breathing the way he’s been taught, but the words keep running through his head.

You should consider resigning.

He doesn’t disagree. He should. That’s what he’s thought all along, ever since he was diagnosed. He’s a liability now, especially when the administration is in such a precarious position. He should run far away from DC, away from all the people he’s hurt, away from all the damage he’s still causing.

But he’s a coward. He’s too afraid to do that. He’s too afraid of innocuous music to function normally. And he’ll keep hurting the people he loves, putting them at risk, because he’s too afraid to leave them.

If by some miracle they come through this relatively unscathed, he’ll have to explain it to everyone. But for now, it’s all he can do to push everyone as far away as he can bear so that he can protect them as best he can.

You should consider resigning.

He manages to get himself up off the floor and he opens a desk drawer to where the letter he’s had written and rewritten for various circumstances sits.

He’s thought about using a few times, but never so much as in this moment.

He doesn’t leave people. He never has.

But maybe he should.

Chapter Text

November 3rd, 2001

9:13 AM

"Why do they keep scheduling depositions for Saturdays?” Donna asks, looking up from the mail she’s sorting through at her desk. Josh is pouring himself yet another cup of coffee, although he’s already looking shaky to the point where Donna is concerned about caffeine overdose.

“Because House Government Oversight doesn’t respect the integrity of a weekend,” Josh replies tersely, pouring sugar into his coffee for much longer than is reasonable.

“Neither does the White House,” Donna points out. She can’t remember the last Saturday she's had off.

Josh ignores her complaint. “Who’s getting deposed today?”

“Ed. Or maybe Larry. I’m not sure which.”

“Surprised they didn’t get subpoenaed as one,” he remarks, gulping down his coffee in record time and dropping the cup in the trash can. His hands shake with caffeinated energy, and he holds one of them to his forehead. 

He really doesn’t look so good. He never looks well-rested or anything, but today the only thing that could be regarded as color on his face are the dark circles under his eyes. “You feeling okay?” Donna asks, before she can stop herself.

“I’m fine, just… a headache,” he says, rubbing at his forehead.

Donna opens a desk drawer and digs through it, pulling out a small bottle. “Want an ibuprofen?”

“Already took some,” he replies offhandedly. “But I’m fine. I’ll be fine. If Hastings ever gets back to me on this infrastructure bill, that is. I’ve been trying to get him on the phone for two days!”

“He won’t talk to you?” Donna asks, searching her brain for who Hastings is. Congressman from the Iowa 2nd, Republican, but one of the bendable ones. Also on House Government Oversight.

“I can’t get anyone on the damn committee to talk to me, even when it’s completely unrelated to anything about this stupid investigation,” Josh complains. “We’re not going to get a thing done the rest of this term, and then when the election comes around and they ask why we didn’t get anything done…”

Donna takes the few steps over to the coffee maker and puts a hand on his arm. “Hey. Calm down. Go march up to the hill if you need to. You’ll figure it out.”

He takes in a deep breath before pouring another cup, taking a large swallow, and grimacing at the sugarless brew. “Yeah. Listen, uh… schedule me a meeting with the minority leader. Tuesday at one. We’re announcing some circuit court picks on Monday and one of them’s going to be a bitch to get through so I need…”

Donna peers down at the schedule in front of him and interrupts him. “You have something on Tuesday at one?”

“Hmm?”

Donna looks around surreptitiously; there’s no one else in the bullpen. Why would there be? It’s a Saturday morning, and even people who work at the White House sleep in once in a while. Well, everyone but Josh. “You know, Dr. Holloway?”

Josh pauses, pales slightly (as if that were even possible), and swallows. “Yeah. He’s… out of town next week. Some conference or something.”

Donna looks at him with a bit of concern; lately it seems like every other week or so he’s come up with an excuse to skip his therapy appointments. She supposes maybe it’s okay, that going on a year after diagnosis, he's doing well enough to only need therapy every other week, but there’s something that seems off about the way he answers her question. “Okay. I’ll call him up. Anything else?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m… fine.”

“I never said you weren’t,” Donna remarks.

She watches as he stalks back to his office and shuts the door. He’s been doing that more lately and it concerns Donna. It’s so unlike Josh, who is always wanting to be a part of things, always wanting to hear what’s going on outside his office.

Donna likes to think she has a pretty good radar for when Josh is off. Figuring out why, however, is a different story.

November 17th, 2000

Dear diary,

My date tonight sucked. I shouldn’t be surprised. I seem to have an impeccable talent for finding myself the most obnoxious, self-centered egotists that DC has to offer. My boss included…

Todd had seemed so cute and nice at the party, but maybe it was the three drinks and the glow of being at an actual party with people who don’t work in the White House for the first time in who even knows how long. But tonight all he would bother talking about was his job and his accomplishments. Look, I read boring stuff all the time. I slog through budget reports, environmental impact studies, the Federalist Papers, you name it. I can do it without falling asleep, but this guy talking about his job might as well have knocked me out cold.

Not once did he ask me a question about myself. See, I think that’s important in a guy. Not asking any questions demonstrates either an overinflated ego or a lack of interest. In this case, I think it was both. And there was no spark. I don’t know, maybe it’s unrealistic of me to expect that with every guy I date, but I needed there to be a spark. And there wasn’t.

Much as I hate to admit it, I was almost relieved to have to go back to the White House for work. It’s a pretty convenient excuse to get out of dancing and dessert and what I was hoping would come next until I really got to talking to the guy. Well, it would have made things easier any other night, but Josh was so cruel to me tonight that I almost couldn’t decide which was worse: my insufferable date or my insufferable boss.

He ragged on me for my lack of self-worth and my terrible taste in men, which, is not entirely inaccurate but the way he said it was just so harsh. I’m trying not to take it to heart. It’s just not like Josh to say things like that. Sure, his humor is prone to using insults and he’s never been kind about anyone I’ve dated ever, but tonight his rant was lacking any of that humor or levity. It’s almost like there was someone else inside him lashing out. Like that wasn’t Josh talking.

I’m probably overthinking this. He’s only been back at work for a few weeks and he’s been staying much later every night than he’s supposed to and it’s just been such an adjustment from the way things were for the last few months that if he has weird outbursts, which he did before when he was tired too, I guess it’s probably normal?

He didn’t apologize for what he said, but he was awfully sweet when I came back. I’m not going to buy the dress since I certainly don’t get paid enough for that, but it was nice of him to suggest it.

I’m going to let it be a blip. Nothing to be concerned about. Just what Josh does when he’s overly stressed and tired. Because really, he's supposed to be limiting his work hours and getting ten hours of sleep a night still according to his doctors, and considering I left right before three and he still went to talk to Leo, he’s definitely not getting the ten hours he’s supposed to have.

I'm not even getting the five hours of sleep that are barely enough. I’m not planning on going in tomorrow, but I told Josh I’d call him, and usually that results in me going in. But that’s okay. It might actually be reassuring, that maybe tonight isn’t something to worry about.

I should put this down so that I can maybe get a few hours of sleep.

His words keep echoing in my ears though, and I’m not sure if I'm not okay, or if he’s not okay.

November 13, 2001

12:21 PM

Donna peeks her head into Josh’s office. “Minority whip is on the phone.”

“House or Senate?”

“Senate,” she says. “But don’t stay on too long, you have your appointment at one.”

“My…”

“Your uh… squash game?”

Josh’s face lights up with recognition. “Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

There’s something strange about his response, but Donna doesn’t press him. “The pharmacy called too, your prescriptions are in. Do you want me to go pick them up or will you…”

“I’ll get them on my way back,” Josh says quickly. Almost too quickly. “Close the door, please.”

“Okay. You have to leave by 12:45, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses. 

Donna is about to shut the door behind her when she remembers the other this she has to tell him. “Also, Congresswoman Leavitt called and left a message. It was kind of a weird one, actually. She said that Ryland’s proposing a bill in committee to promote more intensive psychological screenings for federal employees?”

Josh’s blasé face transforms into a frown. “I didn’t think I could hate that man any more than I already do,” he says, his voice low.

“It won’t go anywhere, right? Wouldn’t that violate the ADA?”

“Depends on the details,” Josh says, “but no, it’s a publicity stunt. And not even a well-timed one.”

Donna frowns. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says with a sigh. “At least he’s on Oversight, so it’s not a totally out of left field kind of bill. But come on! He’s already gonna start drumming up this thing?”

“What thing?”

Josh shakes his head. “It’s not going to go anywhere. Can you go so I can take my call? I don’t think the minority whip is going to be too thrilled to be kept waiting.”

She nods and closes the door behind her, swallowing hard.

Josh leaves for his appointment ten minutes late and comes back five minutes before he usually does. Donna doesn’t comment on it, but she notes that his demeanor is more harried than it usually is after a therapy session, and that he doesn’t have with him the prescriptions he was supposed to pick up.

It’s not her business, not really, and he’d probably get annoyed with her for asking, based on the kind of mood he’s in.

Still, she can’t get rid of the worry niggling at the back of her mind.

November 20th, 2001

1:18 PM

“I changed your flight,” Donna says, leaning against the door. It had been quite a coup to find a flight with his exact layover specifications, although he’s going to pay through the nose for it. “Did you call your mom?”

“Uh, yeah,” Josh says, looking up from the notes. “When am I leaving?”

Donna glances at her watch. “Your flight’s at five, and you should really get to the airport two hours early unless you want to be sprinting to your gate, so…”

“National or Dulles?”

“Dulles.” Donna raises an eyebrow, still surprised by Josh’s forgetfulness. “You really forgot where your mom lives? You helped her move out of the Connecticut house!”

“Yeah, but I never went to her place in Florida. I would have driven down with her but I didn’t really have the time to take off.”

“Leo would’ve let you.”

Josh shrugs and ignores her assertion. “I've gotta meet the DeKalb DA and try to convince him to let a kid who shot his teacher off so we don’t get to be an international embarrassment.”

“And you don’t feel good about that?” Donna asks, trying to ascertain from his expression his true feelings on the subject.

“It’s not that I want them to kill the kid—I mean, you know how I feel about the death  penalty—but I don’t know. They’re just so young, Donna.” There’s something mournful in his voice, something deeply pained and deeply personal.

Donna furrows her brow. “It was just one kid, right?”

“This time,” he murmurs, standing up suddenly and holding some files tightly to his chest. “I better go talk to Leo. Would you put the Farragut stuff in my backpack?”

Donna remembers two fifteen-year-olds with poisoned minds and access to deadly weapons and thinks that maybe she understands. “Yeah. Do you need anything else before I go?”

She expects Josh to ask her where she’s going—he tends to freak at the idea of her leaving, even if he’s also going to be out of town—but he just stares at her blankly before shaking his head. “Nope. I’m good.”

“Have a good trip,” she says, trying to force a smile that doesn’t bely her concern. “Say hi to your mom for me.”

“Who was deposed yesterday?” Josh asks before she leaves, not responding to her previous statement.

Donna scrunches up her face. “A couple of your assistant deputies. Malcolm, I think, and Lisa, and David?”

“David left last month. Moved to New York to chase a girl and make some actual money, if I remember correctly,” Josh says with a frown.

“He was still here when it all came out, so somehow they found him to subpoena him,” Donna replies.

Josh runs his hands through his hair. “Would you… get me a transcript of his deposition? I need to make sure he didn’t get asked a certain question.”

Donna gives him her best eye roll. “So you do need something else before I go.”

“It's important.”

“It always is.”

November 26th, 2001

8:21 AM

The TVs in the bullpen are constantly droning. Donna hardly ever notices them anymore; they’ve become background noice to her, just another element of the chaos she’s learned to focus in. 

Josh usually ignores the TVs entirely. His job doesn’t have to do with the media, thank goodness, and who needs the pundits on cable when you’ve got a direct line to the President of the United States and every single member of Congress?

This morning, however, Josh comes into the bullpen, back from senior staff, and the television catches his eye. It’s one with a political morning show—one that’s not usually on because CJ has a certain feud with one of the very right-wing hosts—but this morning it’s on and the sound is just a bit louder than ever other TV in the bullpen. And one of the guests this morning happens to be a certain Jacob Ryland, Republican from North Carolina and ranking member of House Government Oversight.

Donna watches as he stands way too close to the TV, his jaw clenched as he watches Ryland go on and on—she’s not quite close enough to hear what it’s about it, but it’s clearly something that’s bothering him.

“Will someone get me the text of this damn bill?!” he shouts, as the segment goes to commercial, the speaker of the TV suddenly swelling to a loud and overly synthesized Christmas carol to promote something. Thanksgiving is over and it’s that time of year again.

“Which bill?” one of the assistant deputies asks.

“Ryland’s,” Josh replies. “The one about… psychological screenings?”

“He’s not releasing it yet,” says another, standing up from behind her desk. “I called his office.”

“He’s not releasing it yet?” Josh sputters. “And yet he’s sure happy to get his time on cable to talk about how it’ll prevent unsuitable Presidential appointees from taking office! Lisa, you’d better call his office again, get the text of that bill, or…”

Donna knows that no one in the office is really all that scared of Josh—for all of his barking, he’s really a good boss when it comes down to it—but Lisa looks absolutely terrified in a way she never has before. “I’ve tried three times, they’re not going to…”

Josh is breathing heavily, his chest heaving and his eyes wild. “Get the bill on my desk in half an hour, do you hear me! Unless you’d rather go work for that bastard and disgrace the American people further!” He stomps towards his office and slams the door behind him.

The bullpen is frozen in shock. Lisa is trying to hold it together, but Donna can see that there are tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, and for a second her blood boils with anger at Josh. 

But Donna knows where she’s seen this before.

It’s not yelling at the President in the Oval Office, but it might be worse considering how many witnesses there are.

“Don’t take that to heart,” Donna says, putting a hand on Lisa’s arm. “Just try to get the bill as soon as you can. I’ll take care of him.”

And isn’t that how it always goes.

She opens the door to his office, not bothering to knock, but not opening it too widely as she’s concerned about what she’ll see. If his back is against the wall, she doesn’t want to hit him, not now, and if he’s having a full-on panic attack, she knows he won’t want any of the other employees to see him like that.

It’s maybe not as bad as she expects; Josh is sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, scrubbing at his head furiously and breathing hard, but he’s still there. At least mostly there.

“What was that?” she asks softly. “Josh, you haven’t blown up like that since…”

“Since ever?” he fills in, raising up his head. His eyes are red and the dark circles are more prominent than ever.

“I was going to say since last December, but yeah, we can go with…”

“I can’t… I really can’t keep doing that,” he says.

Donna comes behind him and rubs the back of his shoulders. “No, you can’t. You’re under a lot of stress, I get that, but you do need to be able to keep it together a little bit better, okay?”

“I’m trying,” he says softly.

“Help me understand, Josh. I’m not mad at you, although I wouldn’t blame Lisa if she is. An explanation isn’t an excuse, but it will help.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t, I’m just… maybe Ryland’s right. Maybe I am too unstable to do the job.”

“You think the bill is about you?” Donna asks, with dawning realization.

Josh doesn’t answer. His breathing is still too fast. He holds his hands to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Josh, how was Florida?”

He opens his eyes again but winces. “Fine.”

Obviously that’s another topic he isn’t interested in discussing, which is a shame because it’s the only thing she can think to ask him about before she has to broach her real concern with him.

Donna takes a deep breath and rubs his back one more time. “Josh?” she asks, her voice small, catching on his name. “Have you been going to therapy?”

This obviously strikes a nerve, because he jumps up and looks at her. “Why would you think I’m not?”

“Well, that little stunt you pulled a few minutes ago aside, you’ve either made excuses for or come back too early from every appointment you’ve had in the last month.”

He focuses a cold, intense gaze on her. The transformation from his earlier contrition is shocking, and almost frightening to Donna.“You have no right to ask me that.” His voice is low, but threatening in a way that almost reminds Donna of someone else, and she shivers.

“I’m asking this as your friend,” she replies quietly, “who cares about you and wants you to be well.”

“Well, you’re not paid to be my friend, you’re my assistant, and this really isn’t any of your business!”

That’s all the confirmation she needs—he certainly wouldn’t be so aggressive about it if he were going to therapy—but Josh’s words sting, and even worse there’s a little bit of a twisted smile behind them. “I’m not trying to pry, I just…” she stammers, before he interrupts.

“Just let me be, okay! I’ll be fine.”

“You’re obviously not…”

“I’m so fucking sick of everyone trying to make sure my windows are intact, trying to make sure I’m not going off the deep end again! I didn’t know what was wrong with me then, I sure as hell do now, and…” he takes a staggering step backwards and presses his back against the wall again, a hand coming to his forehead. He doesn’t seem to have the words anymore.

Donna frowns and takes a step back. “You should apologize to Lisa,” she says softly. “And please, please, go see your therapist. I can make an appointment if you need.”

“Leave me alone.”

Donna looks at him, unable to disguise the worry in her eyes, but realizes she’s not going to get anywhere, not when he’s like this. “I’m here if you need anything. Anything at all.”

She doesn’t want to have to intervene again, but she’d rather him be mad at her than hurting the way he was last December.

Or worse.

November 29th, 2001

11:34 PM

Donna makes it all the way out to the parking lot before she realizes that she forgot her keys.

It’s stupid, and yet she can’t even say she’s surprised. It’s been a stressful day, what with CJ having her hearing, and it’s been a stressful week as Josh has been barely holding it together, and it’s been a stressful month with all of the hearings, and it’s been a stressful year, and a stressful entire term. In truth, Donna can’t remember the last time her life wasn’t stressful. Perhaps the accumulation of all of these things has weighed on her enough to finally break her brain, but whatever the reason, Donna forgets her car keys.

She lets out an audible groan, considers taking the metro home instead of walking all the way back to her desk, and then realizes that it’s already closed and she has no choice. Of course she’s in the farthest possible lot, too.

It had snowed a few days ago, but being November, it hadn’t stayed, except for as slushy puddles that wet Donna’s feet as she crosses the street again. The snow may have melted, but it’s still cold. She shivers involuntarily.

“Back for more?” asks the security guard as she enters the lobby again and flashes her badge.

“Aren’t I always?” she says with an exaggerated eye roll, continuing towards the bullpen. She stops short when she hears two voices rising above the otherwise empty workspace.

“I guess there are worse questions to have to answer in a nationally televised Congressional hearing.”

“Like how many men you’ve slept with since taking office?”

“Okay, shut up. That was totally overreach and I can’t believe that one didn’t just get shut down on the spot.”

“You started to answer it!”

“I gave my lawyer a pleading look first and he didn’t say anything so I thought…”

“You need a better lawyer. You should have taken me.”

“Oh right, Mr. I-have-a-law-degree-from-Yale-but-haven’t-practiced-a-day-in-my-life.”

“I’d still be better than that hack you hired.”

“And you’d also have a significant conflict of interest.”

“Look, CJ, I know you want me, but…”

“I hate you.”

It’s nice to hear Josh laughing; it’s a sound that hasn’t been heard nearly enough these last few weeks. Donna hates to interrupt them, but they’re both sitting on top of her desk, staring at some papers in between them, and CJ’s legs are stretched out over the drawer Donna usually keeps her keys in.

She takes a few more steps towards them and meets CJ’s eyes. “Hi,” she says softly. “Sorry to bother you, I just…”

“Oh, no, no problem,” CJ says, standing up. Josh does the same, his hands clasped tightly together. “We’re the ones stealing your desk. Is anyone else still around?”

“Not that I know of,” Donna says. “I just forgot my car keys. I think my brain is… you know, not working or something.”

“I know the feeling,” CJ says. “Josh, should we go finish up in my office?”

He blinks a few times before suddenly seeming to snap out of wherever he was. “Uh, yeah.” He takes another glance at the papers on the desk. “Donna, if you’re heading out, would you take that back to the file room in the basement? And uh, there are a few pages from it on my desk, too, if you could put those back in.”

Donna’s brain really isn’t functioning because despite her utter lack of understanding of where in the basement he wants the file to go, she nods and says, “Yeah, sure.” She opens the drawer to her desk, fully intending to put the file in, before she registers what he asked.

“Okay. Good night, Donna. Get home safe.” He meets her eyes with a sweet sincerity that is just so Josh, but one she hasn’t seen in far too long. She finds himself lost in his gaze for a second before she shakes her head and watches them leave.

“Good night,” she whispers, although Josh and CJ have rounded the corner and certainly can’t hear her.

Donna picks up the file and opens the door to Josh’s office, noting that his desk is really surprisingly clean, and it’s very easy to tell which papers belong to the file because they’re the only ones out. Still, she doesn’t want to put away something with the file that doesn’t fit, so she takes a look at the front of the file and frowns.

It’s his Secret Service file.

She knows they all have them; she had to go through an extensive background check to be able to work in the White House, even though she’d been on buses and planes with the President-elect hundreds of times and never had a problem. The background check hadn’t been a problem either—well, except for the many parking tickets in her past—but they had needed a lot of information. Financial records, every single address she’d ever lived at, a complete medical history… She’s never seen her file, but she can imagine the kind of stuff that’s in there.

But why does Josh have his?

Donna knows she shouldn’t look at any of this. It’s confidential and sensitive. And yet she can’t help but let her eyes skim over the papers he’s left out as she tries to put them away. Each is an incident report, titled and dated and Donna’s heart skips a beat as she recognizes the dates of the first two.

August 7, 2000.

December 19th, 2000.

She can’t even bring herself to read the first one, to relive that awful night where she thought she might lose Josh and herself all at once. And the second, which she skims over, is a recounting of what she knows from the Oval Office incident, although she hadn’t realized just how bad and even threatening it had sounded from the perspective of the agent posted outside. She hadn’t realized it had been bad enough that it had to be written up. Reading through the account of that day sends chills down her spine.

There’s a third incident report, one with a date she doesn’t immediately recognize as significant. It’s from two weeks ago, from a trip the motorcade had taken for an education speech at a university in Virginia. She hadn’t gone along, but Josh had.

And apparently he’d reacted badly to the sirens.

It doesn’t make sense to her, not really. He’s been in the motorcade dozens of times since his diagnosis and she’s never noticed him struggling with it. She had been worried at first, but he had explained to her that being mindful of the source of the sirens and using some techniques to mentally ground himself in the present moment was immeasurably helpful, that the sirens don’t trigger him in most circumstances.

Other than his outburst a few days prior, she had thought he was doing better.

He is doing better, she has to tell herself, and none of this is linear. But he used to tell her these things. She used to be able to tell. There’s a lump in her throat when she thinks about how he’s been struggling again and she hasn’t even noticed.

Curiosity and anxiety overwhelm her. She can’t help but open up the file and rifle through it, looking through blurry eyes at the records in the back. There’s a prescription record and she notes that he hasn’t gotten a renewal for his Paxil in the last month. Perhaps that was a decision he made with his doctor, she tries to reassure herself. She’s overreacting to all of this. The Secret Service has to make a report on anything that’s a potential liability, don’t they?

Still, there’s a deep pit that settles itself in her stomach that she cannot shake. She shouldn’t be looking at this. She shouldn’t know this. She wishes she didn’t know.

Her hands shake as she opens the top drawer of his desk and shoves the file inside.

Before she can even think about it, she turns out his light, pulls her keys out of the top drawer of her desk, and leaves the building. The biting wind assaults her as she runs to the parking lot again, ice crystals in the air almost like shards of glass coming in contact with her skin.

There are many, many days where Donna wishes she didn’t worry so much about Josh Lyman. But this one might be the worst.

She tries to push the thought out of her mind. She wasn’t supposed to see the file, so she’ll pretend that she didn’t. Sometimes she wishes it was easier to forget.

Chapter Text

November 20th, 2001

9:58 PM

It’s warm and humid standing out on the curb of the airport in Palm Beach, even at this late hour in November, and Josh is suddenly wishing he had changed in Atlanta to something more appropriate for the weather. He slides his backpack off and lets it rest on top of his small suitcase; he’s only here for a few days, and he’s used to packing light.

A car he hasn’t seen before pulls up to the busy arrivals area, but it’s his mother driving it. She had traded the damage of snow and road salt on a Connecticut license plate for the damage of humidity and sea salt on a Florida one.

“You didn’t have to pick me up," Josh says, as he throws his stuff in the backseat and slides in next to her. “I could have gotten a cab. I know you don’t like driving in the dark.”

Rachel Lyman leans over to give her son a kiss on the cheek. “My condo’s pretty hard to find if you don’t know what you’re looking for,” she says. “I didn’t want you to end up back in Connecticut.”

Josh chuckles as she pulls out of the crowded lineup. “Donna told you about that?

“Donna tells me everything,” she replies.

“That’s dangerous for me.”

“Extremely.” She turns onto the highway and tentatively speeds up to match traffic. “Since you can’t be bothered to call me.”

Josh rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Ma, can I be here five minutes before the guilting starts?”

“My very purpose anymore is to guilt you,” Rachel replies with a cheeky smile that Josh can barely make out in the dark car. “How have you been?”

“Good, fine,” he replies reflexively. He’s not convinced of that, of course—the stress of the hearings and the anticipation of what is to come is certainly not making his life easy—but his mother doesn’t need to know all of that. She worries about him enough as it is.

“Hmm. Even with all the hearings going on? I imagine that makes your job harder.

“Many things make my job harder,” Josh replies, “but yes, they definitely aren’t helping. It’s fine though, I’m doing what I can and they’ll be over eventually. Besides, pretty soon we’ll have re-election to focus on.”

Rachel turns her blinker on and pulls off to the exit. “That’s a year away.”

“We never stop running for things.”

“So it seems.”

“I hope we can rely on your vote to help us flip Florida,” Josh jokes.

“If I have my way, this will be the bluest complex in the whole state. I’ve already started filling out extra ballots. I hope you remember what you learned in law school enough to get me off of election fraud charges.”

“The effort is appreciated,” Josh says with a smile.

She takes a left turn and pulls into a well-lit and well-manicured but nondescript condominium complex.“Well, this is it,” she says. “Not as much character as the Connecticut house, but you know, the roof doesn’t have the unfixable leak and the pipes don't freeze so it’s a step up.” She parks in front of her building and Josh gets out, grabbing his suitcase and backpack and following her to the elevator.

“You like living here?” Josh asks.

“Yes, absolutely. I’ve met some dear friends who I play bridge with regularly. There’s a nearby synagogue I’ve been attending, and I’ve been doing some volunteering with the food bank and a charity that helps new immigrants settle in. I've found plenty to do.” She hits the button for the fourth floor and squeezes his arm. “I’m happy here, Joshua. I know you were…”

“Do you miss Connecticut?”

Rachel closes her eyes. “To tell you the truth… well, so many of my old friends have moved away, and after your father… I don’t know, I feel like I spent all my time in that big old house alone and waiting for the next terrible thing to happen. Then the next terrible thing did happen when I got the call that you were…” she swallows thickly as she steps off the elevator, clearly not wanting to think of that awful night. “Anyway, I thought I would, but… I really don’t. I know you were upset…”

“I wasn’t,” Josh protests.

“Yes, you were, and that’s alright, but…” She unlocks the door and pushes it open, letting Josh enter the bright, open living area. “I’m happy here.”

February 24th, 2001

10:17 AM

Josh parks in the driveway, taking in the old colonial that had been his home from the age of nine. He’d spent his earlier years in a different house, but after the fire, after Joanie, they couldn’t have stayed. The costs of repairs were one thing, but the costs of memories were another, and so they’d moved to this house instead.

Josh hasn’t actually lived here for years, not since the summer after his sophomore year at Harvard, but this place is still indelibly home. Here he can still step into his father’s old office and feel like he might come right around the corner, ready to test his son with a question on case law and tease him about not being a real lawyer. Here he can still smell his grandmother’s cooking when she would take over the kitchen for Hanukkah, sit in the chair that his grandfather claimed as his own whenever he visited. Sure, he gets a pang of grief whenever he sees the squirrels trying to get into his father’s bird feeder, but that he can deal with. It’s a bittersweetness that is much easier to swallow when everything else seems solely bitter.

So he’s a little angry at his mother for selling the house, for moving far away from home (to Florida of all places!). He understands, he really does. She doesn’t need the big old house filled with ghosts, and the Connecticut winters are brutal even without a worsening case of arthritis, and many of her friends have made the move already. It’s a rite of passage, she jokes, for elderly northeastern Jews to leave their homes and move to Florida, a final act of shaming their children for abandoning them. It’s the right time for her.

It’s just not at all the right time for him.

A year ago, he could have coped with it easily. But after what he thinks can be called the worst year of his life (and that’s saying something), this is just one change too many for him to comfortably cope with. He hates the idea of his mother not being within driving distance. It’s not as if he drives up here very much, or she drives down often, but it had been reassuring to know that she was near enough if something happened. And when something did happen, she made the five-hour drive down to DC in three. So the idea of her being far away, a flight away, scares him.

His father’s death had been so sudden and he’d been halfway across the country, and then he had to take the most miserable flight of his life. He let himself cry on that flight, spending a very long time in the airplane bathroom attempting to pull himself together, to be strong for his mother. He doesn’t want to have to take another similar flight, especially one where there’s no one to be strong for on the other end.

Josh pushes away the thought. Once again, he has to be strong, he has to be supportive, he has to be okay. A year ago, that would have been easy to do. Today, even after spending his entire therapy session last week working through his feelings about the move instead of the other stuff he’s originally in therapy for, he’s struggling with an anger and a grief that he knows is misplaced but he can’t help but feel.

He opens the door of the car and puffs out his cheeks as an instinctive reaction against the New England chill.

His mother is standing by the front door as he approaches it, holding her arms out wide. “Joshua! You actually made it!”

“You sound surprised,” says Josh, dropping his backpack by the front door and wrapping his arms around his mother. She’s at least a head shorter than him, and yet he can’t help but be bowled over by the strength of her grip.

“You have a habit of inventing crises of national security to get out of coming up here," Rachel Lyman says, her voice mocking.

Josh steps back and shrugs. “There are a lot of crises of national security.”

“That’s… comforting,” she says with something resembling an eye roll. She steps back, her hands on Josh’s arms, and smiles. “It’s so good to see you. And you look… well, let’s just say you look better than you did the last time I saw you.”

Josh chuckles. He thinks back to when the last time she would have seen him was; he supposes it was when he was still in the hospital. She had left a week or so before he was released, reassured that he was in safe hands with Donna and relieved to no longer have to bear witness to her son’s suffering.

Has it really been that long? He supposes it has been; he hadn’t made it home for Thanksgiving and he’d been so busy trying to catch up with work that even a weekend trip had been out of the question. “I would hope so. Fewer machines, at least.”

“How are you doing?”

Josh almost has to laugh; that question should be easy to answer and yet it’s so hard. “I’m doing okay,” he says, smiling so that maybe the words don’t sound so worrying. “Work is busy but it’s… it’s good.”

His mother looks him over and shakes her head. “Well, come on in so I can maybe talk to you for five minutes before you have to rush back to Washington.”

He holds up his hands before picking up his backpack. “I’m yours all weekend.”

“You need something to eat?”

“No.”

“Good, because I’ve completely emptied out the fridge,” she says, leading him into the house.

It’s so… empty. He knew it would be. He knows she’s been selling off furniture, donating unnecessary things, packing everything else up. She has to; the amount of stuff necessary for a four-bedroom colonial is not the same as what she needs for a Florida condo. And yet his heart still constricts when he walks in and the front hallway is not covered with its familiar blue rug, when the console that’s greeted him for most of his life is no longer there.

“I hope you don’t mind if I put you to work right away,” she says, putting a hand behind his back and leading him towards the living room. “There are so many documents and I certainly don’t want to bring ones I don’t need with me, but I think you can figure out what I should keep and what I shouldn’t.”

“Why would you assume that?” he asks, although his smile gives away his teasing.

“I figured we should get something out of the money we lent you to pay for law school,” she replies offhandedly. “Maybe… hmm, I think you should move to the kitchen. Annie's son-in-law is coming by to pick up the couch in an hour or so.”

Josh frowns. “You’re not taking the couch?” He places his hand on the back of it, rubbing his hand against the worn cloth.

“That thing is ancient, Josh, and it’s too big for my new place anyway.”

“So you’re selling it?”

She shrugs. “Annie’s daughter- you remember Lucy, right?” She doesn’t wait for Josh’s answer. “Anyway, they just finished their basement and were needing furniture to put down there, but it’s mostly a playroom for their… I think they have five children now? Anyway, they don’t need anything fancy, and so I was happy to give it to them.”

Josh blinks. He shouldn’t be surprised, and he certainly shouldn’t be upset. It’s a couch, one that they’ve had forever. There’s still a stain on one of the arms from where he spilled a whole cup of coffee after pulling an all-nighter to study for the SAT. And yet there’s something in him that fills with revulsion at the thought of someone else sitting there, of little snot-nosed kids climbing over the specter of his father. “You’re really going to get rid of it?”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

Josh bites his lip, worried that if he says something, it’ll come out in an explosion of unqualified anger that he cannot control. “It’s just…” he starts, sucking in a large breath to keep his cool. “I look at that couch and I can see the hundreds of baseball games I watched sitting there with Dad. I’m sure we could see the imprint of where he sat every morning to read the paper and every night to watch the 11 o’clock news. Selling it feels like we’re… getting rid of that part of him.”

“Joshua,” his mother says softly, a look of quiet resignation on her face. “All I can see when I look at that anymore is your father sleeping there when the chemo took too much out of him. When he couldn’t even make it up the stairs. Or I think of how I sat there for twelve hours, glued to the news, afraid that they’d tell me you were dead before I got a phone call.”

“Mom…"

“They published your obituary, did you know that? Some third-rate political news site. I’m sure everyone was drafting it, but they accidentally published it, not quite finished. They took it down, but not before Lydia Kolvitz called me about it.”

“I… I didn’t…”

She puts her arm around him and pulls him into a tight side hug. “There are a lot of ghosts here," she says, “and that’s not all bad, but it’s time for me to move forward. I can’t hang on to everything just because it’s a tangible reminder. I may be getting old, but there are some things I won’t forget.”

Josh picks up one of the boxes and carries it, setting it down on the kitchen table. “Are you getting rid of this too?” It comes out more harshly than he intended, but if he squints, he can almost see his Harvard acceptance letter sitting there. Ghosts don’t even have to be people. They can be papers, or songs, or bullets.

“Joshua,” his mother says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

There is, but it’s not something to burden her with. He swallows, shakes his head, and opens up the box. “Let me take a look through these.”

When a man about Josh’s age comes by to pick up the couch, Josh agrees to help carry it out, but he feels bile rising in his throat as he steps over the threshold of the house, and without much warning, he drops his end of the couch and runs back into the house, making it into the bathroom right in time to throw up.

Josh has spent entirely too much time kneeling like this over the toilet in the last several months; his sensitive system, it turns out, is susceptible to pain medication and overwhelming emotion as well as alcohol. He grimaces, flushes the toilet, and stands up to look at his blotchy, tired face in the mirror.

“Joshua?”

He takes a closer look in the mirror and sees his mother standing behind him in the open doorway, her brow furrowed.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly.

“You’re clearly not.”

“I must have eaten something bad,” he protests.

“You’ve barely eaten all day.” She rubs his lower back and he feels like he might be eight years old again. “I know this is hard for you.”

He braces his arms against the edge of the counter and leans on it, as if it will expel some of the anxious energy and grief that has been building up within him. “It shouldn’t matter, but it feels like we’re leaving them behind.”

“We're not,” Rachel says, “but sometimes we have to move on.”

“What if I can’t? What if this follows me for the rest of my life?”

Rachel doesn’t know that this is, since Josh does his best to keep that well-guarded from most people, his mother included, but she pulls him into her arms anyway. “Things get better, and sometimes it takes doing what's hard to make them better.”

Josh manages to keep his food down for the rest of the visit, but spends his last two nights in the bedroom of his childhood and youth staring at the ceiling, awash with insomnia, unable to still his heart and mind.

November 21st, 2001

4:23 AM

“Josh?”

His mother steps out of her bedroom and into the bright, fluorescent lights of the kitchen. Josh is decidedly not a fan of whatever kind of lightbulbs they use in new places nowadays, although he’s aware that he probably worked on legislation at one point to switch to something more environmentally friendly. It’s funny how things like that can backfire.

He is leaning against the counter in the kitchen, taking long swallows out of a glass of water. His hands are shaking. He wishes they wouldn’t, but he’s used to this by now.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“What are you doing up?”

“This is when I normally wake up,” he responds, lowing the glass to the counter. It clatters as he releases his grip. He quickly clasps his hands behind his back.

Rachel rubs at her eyes. “I heard you shouting.”

“It was nothing…”

“It didn’t sound like…” She comes up to the counter and leans against it next to him. “Have you been having nightmares?”

He refuses to look her in the eye.

She lets out a heavy sigh and takes his hand, leading him towards the couch. It’s a nice one for sure, new, well-constructed leather, but it’s certainly not as comfortable as what she used to have.

“Josh…” his mother continues, “is this like it was before?”

November 8th, 1969

11:32 PM

There has never been such chaos on his front lawn.

Josh used to think firefighters were cool. It had been between the ballerina phase and the space phase, where he had played with his metal fire truck and sprayed his sister with a hose pretending that she was on fire, much to her dismay.

“People don’t catch on fire, Josh,” Joanie had said indignantly. “And you know what they told us to do in school if our clothes caught on fire? Stop, drop, and roll. None of this hose-spraying.”

Josh had laughed at her, and continued to pelt her with the garden hose as she ran inside screaming about her new dress.

He shouldn’t have listened to Joanie, he thinks. He should have grabbed the garden hose and gone back in and sprayed her with water. She might have been upset but at least they’d be together.

Josh doesn’t fully understand what's going on; there aren't orange flames engulfing his residence anymore, but things are still smoldering, and half of the roof has collapsed. And he hasn’t seen Joanie anywhere. She had told him to run, and so run he did, but he doesn’t know why she didn’t follow.

But Joanie knew to stop, drop, and roll, so she should be okay. Shouldn’t she?

Suddenly he’s swept up in the arms of his father; his father hasn’t held him like this in years, not since he protested that he was too big for it, but Josh can’t do anything but cling tightly to him.

His father’s cheeks are stained with tear tracks, and his grip on Josh is tight. “You’re okay,” he manages to choke out.

Josh squirms to look around; if his father has him, then surely his mother has Joanie. But he can see the back of his mother’s head. She’s on her knees on the ground by the ambulance, clasping the edge of a white sheet. One of their neighbors is there too, her hand on his mother’s shoulder.

He’s young and naive, but he’s seen enough TV to understand. “Joanie?” he whispers. His voice is rough from the smoke he probably inhaled when running outside.

His father’s crestfallen expression is all the confirmation he needs.

He peeks out over his father’s shoulder to see the garden hose on the side of the house, still spitting out water.

“Sir,” he hears, although it’s almost fuzzy, almost as if he’s not part of this world. “We’re from the Westport PD. We just wanted to ask a few questions to figure out what happened. Were you at home at the time of the fire.”

Noah shakes his head. “No. But Josh here was.” He tries to shift Josh in his arms so that he will look at the officers, but Josh leaves his head buried in his father’s shoulder.

“Hey kid,” one of the officers says, tapping Josh’s shoulder. “We just need to ask you a few questions about what happened.”

Josh looks up and stares at the officer, but shakes his head and doesn’t say anything.

“Can you tell us what you remember?”

He doesn’t really remember much; just the popcorn and then Joanie screaming at him to get outside. He can hear the popping sounds and he can smell the smoke, but those aren’t things he can put into words. It’s like there’s a black hole in his memory, one that he can’t describe, one that he’ll never be able to put into a context outside of his mind. Josh has a pretty good vocabulary for an eight-year-old, and he’s reasonably articulate, but for this, he knows there are no words.

So he refuses to speak. He clamps his lips shut and shakes his head, and then buries his head in his father’s shoulder again.

“Does the kid talk?” one of the officers asks.

Noah frowns. “Josh, it’s alright. You can talk to them.”

Josh doesn't lift his head but violently shakes it, wetting Noah’s shirt with silent tears.

“Can you give him a day or two? We’ve all…” he sighs heavily, barely able to keep it together himself. “We’ve been through a lot tonight.”

“We really need to do it as soon as possible after the incident…” one of the officers begins, but his partner pulls him away and lets Noah stand there, his son in his arms and unwilling to let go.

Josh doesn’t say anything for seven days.

The funeral is the next day, and then all the mirrors are covered in the summer house that a family friend offered for them to stay in. It sits right on the beach and the cold wind blows into one of the front windows that hasn’t yet been repaired, but it’s shelter until they can find a new home. A new home since the old one and the young girl who brought so much life to it are no more. They sit close to the ground and there’s a constant stream of people coming in and bringing food and talking and crying and mourning a precious life taken too soon, and yet Josh doesn’t say a word. Instead he clings to his mother or his father and watches all the visitors with wide eyes. For a kid who wouldn’t shut up before, this is very disconcerting. Several of the visitors try to engage him, but Josh doesn’t speak. His parents are too consumed with their own grief to really worry about it; they probably wish they could do the same.

Josh doesn’t sleep much, not really. He can’t fall asleep in the big bed of the second bedroom of the house, so instead he sneaks out of the room once his parents go to bed and lies on the rug in the living room and stares at the ceiling until he passes out from utter exhaustion. He doesn’t manage it every night, but once in a while he’ll be able to slip into blissful unconsciousness.

Seven days pass and the night after the mirrors are uncovered, Josh wakes up in a cold sweat with Joanie’s name on his lips. He rubs at his eyes, but he can still only see the flames. He feels arms come around him, and his mother’s voice in his ear.

“Joanie, get out!” he cries, struggling against her grip.

“Shhh…” his mother hushes him. “Josh, it’s alright. It was just a dream.”

He rubs at his eyes again, and sure enough, he’s still on the floor of the living room of the cold summer house, as the rain and wind beat against the windows. Why did he feel so warm, then? “Joanie?” he asks, his voice cracking painfully.

His mother shakes her head. “She’s not coming back, honey,” she whispers, and there are tears in her eyes too.

“I miss her,” he whispers.

“Me too,” she replies. “Was this the first nightmare you’ve had, Josh?”

He presses his lips together, his eyes wide. “I see fire when I try to sleep,” he admits.

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling him tighter, “it's going to get better. I promise it will.” She sounds unconvinced of her own words, but it’s the sort of thing mothers should say, so she says it. “Do you want to come lay down with me and dad?”

Josh considers this and nods. “Okay.”

“Josh,” she says, her eyes lighting up with realization, “you’re talking again.”

He shrugs. “My throat doesn’t hurt from the smoke anymore.” That’s not why he wasn’t talking—in fact, he probably couldn’t even put into words why he settled into uncharacteristic silence for so long—but it seems to satisfy his mother.

“I missed your voice,” she says, taking his hand. “Come on, let’s try and get some sleep.”

November 21st, 2001

4:27 AM

“If you mean the nightmares…”

“Partly,” Rachel says, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand, something that used to console him as a child. She doesn’t look too closely at it though, or she would be asking more questions.

Josh chuckles. “They never entirely went away, and of course they’ve gotten worse since, but…” He stares at his feet. “What did you mean by partly?”

“After Joanie, you… you didn’t talk for a week. You just refused to open your mouth. I was so worried, I thought it had just… broken something in you. You bounced back, of course, but I just wondered if this…”

“It did,” Josh says, letting the words slip out quickly before he can take them back.

“What?”

He bites his bottom lip so hard he’s afraid he might draw blood. “The shooting. It... you know, kind of broke something in me.”

“Josh, what are you…”

"Last December, I was kind of behaving erratically,” he says quickly. “Yelling at people, reacting badly to music and loud noises, and I, uh…” he wrestles his hand out from under his mother’s touch and holds it up in the light so she can see the scars, “I put my hand through a window. Somewhere in my deluded mind I thought that would make it all stop.”

“Joshua,” she says, his name coming out as a sort of reverent breath.

“Long story short, Leo made me go see someone and I got diagnosed with PTSD,” he says, still not able to look her in the eye. “It’s better now, it really is. I promise.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you get so worried about me anyway. I didn’t want you to have that on your mind too.”

She wraps an arm around his back, as if he’ll slip away from her if she lets go. “Why are you telling me now then?”

He swallows. “Because pretty soon it'll be all over the news.”

November 24th, 2001

12:20 PM

“Josh? I put together some lunch for us to eat before you go,” Rachel calls from the kitchen.

“More leftovers?” he asks. “You know, a twenty pound turkey might have been a little too much for the two of us.”

“Donna says you haven’t been eating enough, so I’m trying to rectify that,” she replies, setting a plate overflowing with the remnants of Thanksgiving dinner.

“You’ve been talking to Donna?”

Rachel takes her own plate and sits down at the table next to him. “Donna and I chat all the time. That’s how I get accurate information about you and how you’re running yourself into the ground.”

“Mom…"

"You are! Anyone could look at you and see that. You look exhausted, and after what you told me earlier…”

“We’re not having this discussion.”

She frowns. “Yes, we are. Josh, I think you need to quit.”

“I’m not leaving the White House.”

“You’re burnt out. Nobody would blame you. Most White House staffers last two years; you’ve already been there three, and I don't think I need to remind you of the extenuating circumstances of your tenure.”

“Please don’t.”

This conversation has become a point of tension between them; even since Rosslyn, Rachel has asked Josh to quit, and Josh has steadfastly refused to even consider the idea. He can’t leave the White House, not when he helped to put the president there. He can’t leave Leo and Toby and Sam and CJ. Not in the midst of the hearings, not in the midst of the obstacles they’re facing. He left his sister in a burning house once and he refuses to do it again.

His mother is giving his a pointed look, and so he sighs in frustration and puts his fork down. “This isn’t going to go anywhere! I love my job and I’m not going to be frightened away from it! Yes, it's hard, but we can and should do hard things. That’s how we’re going to change this country!”

“It's just… Josh, you’re all I have left. And you’re putting yourself in danger by…”

“Mom, the odds of anything like Rosslyn happening again are…”

“You’re a target! Every time you walk next to the president, you end up being a target. You get caught up in the crossfire and then…”

“Do you think I’d be any safer in a private sector job?” he interrupts, his voice rising. “Kids can’t go to school without worrying about whether someone will come in with a gun and shoot up their classroom. Someone goes to their job at a factory and worries that their disgruntled coworker might show up with a semi-automatic to gun down the whole floor. People go to festivals, baseball games, work, school, anywhere in this country, and there’s a risk they might get shot! I can do something about that here. We haven't done as much as I’d like to solve the epidemic of shootings in this country, but I’m in the best position I’ll probably ever be in to do something about it. I can’t do that in the private sector, and I can’t give up this opportunity just because I’m scared.” He realizes that he’s standing now, gripping the back of his chair as if it’s a lifeline. “I walked with the president on a rope line two weeks ago. That was the first time since Rosslyn I’d done that; before I’d either stayed back in the building or left before, mostly by design. And then I had a panic attack in the motorcade on the way back.” He steels himself and looks into his mother’s eyes. “I am scared. And I’m not prepared for that to be a matter of national discussion, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. To quit now would be to go through all of this for nothing.”

His mother looks at him with those pitying eyes that he's grown to hate so much. “I hate to see this for you.”

“What, working in the White House?” Josh remarks sarcastically.

“The hearings. The media. They say such nasty things sometimes, and I just worry…”

Josh finally manages to get himself to sit back down. “I have a thick skin.”

“You’d like to pretend you do, yes,” Rachel replies, “but I know you better than that.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, because she’s right. Because while he’d like to pretend he doesn’t give a damn what others think of him, and in some cases he really doesn’t care, he values his privacy. If he had wanted to be famous, he would have set out to be a politician in his own right, not an operative. He never wanted any of the media attention he got after Rosslyn, and he certainly doesn’t want the attention he’s going to get now.

He is scared. Not just of sirens and gunshots, but of cameras and interviews and representatives who want their five minutes of fame for a grilling that will be broadcast over and over again on the evening news.

You should consider resigning.

Josh wonders if his mother has spoken with Congresswoman Leavitt recently, if she has any idea just how intense his hearing is supposed to be. Just how exposed he will be. He wonders, not for the first time, if they might be right, if leaving might be better than staying.

He can't imagine leaving, not even for his mother, who he would do just about anything for.

“Don’t watch the hearings,” he says softly. “I don’t want to put you through that.”

“Josh…”

“Unplug your TV if you have to, but I don’t want you to see any of it.”

Rachel comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his shoulders, her hands coming to rest over his chest, over his heart. “I’ve seen worse things, Joshua. You know I have. So long as you’re alive at the end of it, I can bear it.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he replies softly, “and I’ve caused you enough pain this year. This lifetime, really. I don’t want to be the cause of any more.”

“You’re still here,” she says, “and that matters to me far more than any pain I might have felt. Come on, let’s get you to the airport. As long as you promise you’ll come back to me soon.”

Chapter Text

November 29th, 2001

11:43 PM

“So. A statement,” CJ says, taking a seat behind her desk. “We can’t necessarily nail down all of the specifics until we know what the press looks like, but we can at least craft a kind of narrative.”

Josh shrugs. “You saw the file. You know how bad it is.”

“It’s… it might not be so bad. What the media decides to pick up on can be so unpredictable, and it might…”

“The media might not be predictable, but Republicans certainly are, and let me tell you, they’re going to be out to get me,” he says. “It’s going to be a narrative of instability and a pattern of hiding important information within the administration.”

CJ shrugs. “They might be a little more sympathetic than that. Go on and on about how tragic you are and then subtly insinuate that you’re unsuited for the job.”

“CJ, I’ve worked with these people for my whole career. Subtle is not in their vocabulary.”

“Still, I can imagine they might be careful not to completely martyr you. We can certainly spin this to get the public’s sympathy.”

He stretches his arms out on the back of the couch. “I don’t know that I want their sympathy.”

“But if that’s the best shot at protecting the administration?”

Josh sighs heavily, rubbing at a fraying bit of cloth on the back of the couch. “Then it’s our best shot at protecting the administration. Although I still wonder if…”

“I swear, if you bring up your resignation one more time I’ll wonder if you actually want to work here.

“CJ…”

“It won’t get you out of the hearings, it will look even worse for you and the president, and,” she pauses, giving him a look that is somehow both serious and loving, “as much as you drive me insane, I can’t imagine working here without you.”

He responds with a tight smile. “I would miss you. And also getting to travel on Air Force One. On the other hand, I might actually get to see my bed again.”

“We’ve got five more years of this, mi amor,” she says.

“You really think we’d win reelection? Even with all this?”

“I wouldn’t count us out. We’re a scrappy insurgency.”

“We’re in the White House,” Josh points out.

She tilts her head to the side. “I’d like to think we’re still pretty good at beating the odds.” Before Josh can respond, she picks up a pen. “Anyway, I think we might need a couple different statements ready based on the media coverage. Something more aggressive if they’re aggressive, something to induce more sympathy if they’re sympathetic, picking and choosing what we reference because I’m not sure what all they’ll emphasize, but…”

“You’re probably right, and since you’re the media savvy one here I’ll defer to you on that.”

CJ bites her lip. “I’m not sure if I’m really the person to craft the language though.”

“You write statements all the time.”

“Yeah, on stuff like the flooding in Michigan or the passage of a new banking bill. When it’s stuff like this… where every word really matters…”

“CJ…”

“I think we need Sam," she says. “I think he’d do a better job writing this than I would. Or you would. I’ll read it, or maybe you’ll read it if you need to, but… come on, you know I’m right. What is it?”

Josh pushes himself up off the couch. “It’s just…Sam’s kind of pissed at me right now.”

“Kind of?”

“He hasn’t exactly… talked to me for two days.”

CJ fixes him with a glare. “Why not?”

“I kind of uh… went off on him," Josh says sheepishly. The pattern on CJ's floor is suddenly very interesting.

“What for?”

 The tops of his shoes are interesting to stare at too. “After his hearing. I mean, you have to admit he was pretty stupid, but he didn’t really deserve what I said.”

November 27th, 2001

6:23 PM

“Hey,” Sam says, standing at the door of Josh’s office. Sam usually manages to look like he’s had a full eight hours of sleep no matter how untrue that is, but today even he has the dark circles under his eyes to match those of the rest of the staff.

“Congress let you go?” Josh asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Did you watch?”

Josh sighs. “Caught bits and pieces. Pretty rough, huh?”

“About what I was expecting,” Sam says with a sigh. “I’m just glad it’s over. I mean, they could call me back, but Gibson already seemed bored of me halfway through. Apparently they lost interest in me as a Congressional plaything pretty early on.”

“You made it pretty easy for them,” Josh says with a snort.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Laurie thing? They ask you one question and all of a sudden it’s the call girl confessional?” His voice raises about an octave on the last bit; he’s been seething about this all afternoon, and while he doesn’t necessarily want to take it out on Sam, there’s something within him that wants nothing more than to tear Sam to pieces for his stupidity.

“What was I supposed to—he insinuated I was an accomplice to criminal behavior! I gave a friend a graduation gift! Sure, she hasn’t always followed the letter of the law, but…”

Josh braces his hands on the desk and stands up. “You spent three minutes detailing your relationship with a prostitute…”

“Call girl.”

“…when all you were asked was whether you were involved in illegal activities. You're a lawyer, you’re more of a lawyer than I am, you should know better, and now the front page story tomorrow is going to be your call girl escapades! Never mind that you were able to show beyond a shadow of a doubt that you knew nothing about the MS, never mind that you didn’t actually do anything wrong, but you gave them all the information they wanted, all the…”

Sam’s brow furrows. “I believe in honesty, Josh. And I did nothing wrong.”

“There’s a higher standard!” Josh says. “Sure, that friendship wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow if you were still at Gage-Whitney where every married partner has a mistress or two on the side and that’s the way things are, but this is the White House!”

“Are you implying…”

“I’m saying that what you did was absolutely idiotic, and that you’ll be lucky if your messages in the morning aren’t all calls for your resignation. This isn’t some cute movie where you get to save the girl, and if you’re trying to defend her honor, you probably just made her life a lot harder too! We have enough actual problems that are going to come out, we don’t need you being stupid and manufacturing them too!”

“I don’t regret it,” Sam says. “I haven’t even spoken to Laurie in two years and yet this innocent friendship is hanging over my head still! I wanted to clear the air, and for the record, I think it made her life easier too. You’re right, I never paid her a dime, so the accusations of prostitution can’t exactly be proven. I did nothing wrong! This was my chance to prove it.”

Josh frowns. He can feel his heart beating faster than it should and there’s a heaviness of anxiety in his stomach that would worry him if he weren’t simply burning with anger. “You did this for you! You didn’t think about the President, the rest of us, the administration, this country! It was selfish and stupid and you’ve got a year to fix it because if the President isn’t reelected next November you won’t have to go any further than a mirror when you look for someone to blame!”

Sam stares at him, his jaw agape. “Josh…”

“Go away,” Josh says, trying to steady his breathing. It’s coming out in rough, shallow spurts.

“I don’t deserve this. Not from you. If we had to discuss the number of times you’ve screwed up, not to mention that I didn’t screw up! I did what I thought was…”

“Go. Away.” Josh’s voice is low and threatening now, and he’s not entirely convinced he won’t just throw something at Sam if he lifts his arms up from the desk.

Sam looks stricken and angry and worried all at once, but he turns around. Before closing the door, he takes one last look at Josh. “I’ll be in my office when you come to your senses and learn how to apologize.”

Josh wants to shout back and tell Sam that he should be the one apologizing, but he suddenly has no energy and somewhere, deep inside him, he knows he’s in the wrong. He’s just not ready to admit it yet.

If only his brain would be quiet.

November 29th, 2001

11:54 PM

“Josh…”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know.”

CJ rubs her eyes. “Even if you didn’t need Sam to help write this, which you really do because it’s tricky to craft, you should apologize to him.”

“I know.”

“I get that you’re under a ton of stress and there are other issues that are going for you on right now but that doesn’t mean you can take it out on the rest of us and…”

“You think I don’t know that, CJ? You think I don’t feel awful about all of this? I'm already beating myself up over what I said to him, so I don’t exactly need you guilt-tripping me when I’m already flat on my face!”

CJ stands up and turns around to stare out the window, although there’s nothing to see since darkness fell hours ago. Josh suddenly feels cold and alone, even though CJ can’t be more than six feet from him. “Go apologize, Josh.”

And this is where it gets hard, because Josh is stubborn. “I wasn’t wrong,” he says. “I don’t want to make a half-hearted apology, but I wasn’t wrong. Sam fucked up and I think I have the right to be mad at him for it.”

“You weren’t just mad at him, Josh, you exploded at him. There are probably still some pieces on your office ceiling,” CJ says derisively. “He may have said something thoughtless…”

“Said something thoughtless?” Josh’s voice rises again, strangled and high and much louder than it should be. “He knew what he was doing, he was just too busy making sure he could feel morally superior to the rest of us that he…”

“Shut up, Josh!" CJ exclaims, causing him to pause for a moment with a stunned look on his face. “Sam stopped thinking like a politician for a minute and a half—it’s not the end of the world!”

Josh balls his hand into a fist, hoping that he can expel the anxious energy within him by digging his fingernails into his palm and that he won’t explode again. Once again, his brain won't stop its running commentary of worst-case scenarios, won’t quiet down when he needs it to. He’s been a master crafter of worst-case scenarios since childhood, but he’s only gotten better at it. Catastrophizing, his therapist calls it. A cognitive distortion. Is it a distortion, though, when the worst case scenarios seem like they might be plausible, even probable? Yet no one will listen to him. “It might be,” he says. “It might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I mean, you and Toby had relatively uneventful hearings but now the media has a story and they’re going to run with it and then next week it’s going to be me and… what if between Sam and then Leo and I, there’s just too much for the public to accept. The MS is one thing, but so many other issues have come to light that would never have otherwise come out and… what if it’s too much?”

“Josh…”

He stares at his feet and bites his lip, trying to let the pain distract him. “I don’t think you understand what’s coming,” he says, swallowing thickly. “Let’s just say I have a source on the committee, and I have reason to be worried.”

November 13th, 2001

1:24 PM

“I didn’t take you for much of a gym goer," Elaine Leavitt says with a raised eyebrow as she sits beside Josh on the bench behind the congressional gym.

Josh shrugs. “I've been a little busy these past few years. Not to mention some neo-nazis left me with the lung capacity of a beached goldfish,” he says, trying to force a wry grin.

“So we’re meeting here because…”

“According to my schedule, I’m playing squash,” Josh replies. “My assistant came up with that one. She said it seemed like the sort of thing a Harvard guy would do. But she’s from Wisconsin, so what does she know?”

“It does seem like the sort of thing a Harvard guy would do,” Congresswoman Leavitt replies.

“Well, Donna kind of knows everything, so…”

“What did you need?” she snaps impatiently. Elaine Leavitt has never had much time for anything other than business. “I’ve got a vote at two.”

Josh frowns. “I wanted to know what your message meant.”

“My message?”

“You told me to resign.”

“I told you to consider resigning,” she corrects.

“Why?”

She lets out a heavy puff that can be seen in the cold November air. “For the moment, I’m going to encourage you to use your fifth amendment rights, because the more I know, the worse your hearing will be. But the Congressional Christmas Party last year. Something happened there, didn’t it? Everyone wrote it off then as just a one-off thing, but obviously if something like that happened in a very public setting, people are concerned about what goes on behind closed doors. About security clearances and decision making. Don't answer me; I don’t want to know at the moment. But think about it.”

“Resigning won’t get me out of the hearing,” Josh says. “It will just make it look like the President might as well resign too. I’m staying where I am.”

Congresswoman Leavitt pushes herself up from the bench. “You're brave, but perhaps not the political genius everyone says you are.”

“I may not be a slave to principle in the abstract, but I don't think I can bring myself to resign a position where I’m able to do some good because of this. The Congressional Christmas Party was a low point for me, but I’m better now. I’ll be able to prove it unequivocally. And maybe then it will be you guys who look bad for preying on someone who effectively got shot in the line of duty,” Josh says. “I’m not resigning.”

“Are you prepared for this? Are you going to be able to handle it? I can tell you, it’s going to be brutal. It’s going to be hours upon hours of grilling you over every little thing, of trying to trip you up, of trying to get you to perjure yourself… The Republicans will go after you of course, but even the Democrats might try and distance themselves if things aren’t going well. If you resigned, there would be a lot of questions you could get away with not answering by pleading irrelevance. But if you still work for the White House, there’s a lot more that’s fair game.”

“I’ll be fine,” Josh mutters. “Thanks for the clarification. I have to go.”

Congresswoman Leavitt frowns. “Josh?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I’m doing what I can, right?”

He doesn’t look back at her. “Yeah,” he says softly, and begins to walk back towards the White House.

November 30th, 2001

12:05 AM

“This isn’t about Sam, is it?” CJ asks. “You’re scared.”

“Of course I’m scared,” Josh replies. “And what Sam said was stupid, but if anyone brings this administration down, it’s going to be me.”

To his surprise, CJ laughs at this. He shoots her a quizzical expression, and she shakes her head and tries to rearrange her face into a more serious expression. “It’s just… you have such a big ego.”

“I… is this about my ego?”

“You think that you’re going to be the thing that brings down the administration? God, I knew you had a guilt complex, but that’s a stretch, even for you.”

“CJ…”

She chuckles again. “If this administration goes down, the President only has himself to blame. He was the one who didn’t disclose it in the first place. He’s not going to look back and blame you.”

“I’ll blame myself,” Josh replies.

“Well yes, you're awfully good at that, but you’re just going to have to come to terms with the fact that the rest of the world won’t blame you. Least of all the President,” CJ says. “This is going to come out whether we like it or not, so we better get moving and figure out how to spin it to our advantage. Make sure we bring up the fact that the president was back in the Oval a week after being shot; that certainly goes against the image of a sickly and feeble commander-in-chief. Having that in the public consciousness could actually help us.” She leans over the desk to scribble something down and then looks back up at Josh. “Is Sam still here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go check, will you?”

“CJ…”

“Get over yourself. None of this was really about Sam, and he deserves to know that. Go tell him what’s going on, get him over here to help with the statement, and apologize to your friend because this next week is going to be a hell of a lot easier if you have the support of your friends,” CJ says.

“You’re awfully… you know, bossy,” Josh says, standing up. “You know I outrank you, right?”

CJ rolls her eyes. “Go find him.”

“Yes, mom," Josh replies, although he’s smiling even as he rolls his eyes.

It’s not particularly surprising that he finds the light in Sam’s office still on; Thursday nights tend to be long as Sam tries to finish every speech and statement on the President’s weekend schedule. He feels that ever-familiar pit in his stomach as he stands in front of the door, waiting to knock. 

Sam looks up from whatever he’s writing. “Josh,” he says, his voice surprisingly cold and tight.

“Hey,” Josh says sheepishly. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

“I think you owe me an apology,” Sam replies, closing his computer.

“Yeah, I’m gonna get to that. But first I need to tell you something, and maybe you’ll understand a little bit better. Only CJ and Leo know this right now, but my Secret Service file was leaked to Oversight. It’s got my diagnosis and my medication records and all of that and so… it’s kind of going to be a shitshow. Which is why I freaked out over yours, because we can’t afford to make any more mistakes with this hanging over our heads. Anyway, CJ and I think they’re going to leak it to the media on Monday and we’re trying to put together a statement, but …we need your help.”

Sam presses his lips together. “How did it leak?”

“Can’t say,” Josh replies.

“That’s…”

“It’s going to be bad, I know. Will you come over and help us?”

Sam tilts his head to the side. “Josh, I really…”

“Right, my apology,” Josh says quickly. “I really am sorry for blowing up on you, Sam. I was frustrated with what you did, but the truth is, it was really more about my anxiety about my hearing than about anything you did. You don’t deserve my anger, not like that, and I really am sorry about it.”

Sam stands up, and for a second Josh isn’t sure what he’s going to do because of the impassivity of his expression. But Sam takes the few steps towards Josh and wraps his arms around him, and Josh melts into the embrace, drawing comfort from his friend. “You can’t do that in front of Congress, you know.”

“I know,” Josh replies.

“I’m sorry this is happening,” Sam says. “I know that wasn’t something… not something you want to be public.”

“No, it’s not.” Josh steps back and shrugs. “But this is how the chips have fallen, so I'm going to do the best I can with it.”

“Well, let me know what you know, and let’s go write a statement,” Sam replies, and Josh follows him out of his office with a weak smile.

He hasn’t managed to drive everyone away yet, and for today, that’s a comfort rather than a problem.

Chapter Text

December 3rd, 2001

5:33 AM

Donna doesn't usually turn the TV on in the morning. She’s always up so much earlier than her roommate, and it’s not like she doesn’t have TVs tuned to every cable news channel blaring near her desk all day. She prefers to start her morning in silence with a strongly caffeinated cup of coffee.

This, she learned very early on, is nothing like Josh’s morning routine. As soon as he is awake, both TVs in his apartment are on, tuned to two different news programs. He’d been very upset when she all but banned him from watching the news after he was shot, and she knows that as soon as the rules were ruled no longer necessary, he went immediately back to his routine of morning TV.

For some reason, however, Donna turns on the TV this morning. Or maybe she doesn’t turn it on—maybe her roommate just never turned it off last night—but she’s really too sleepy to remember.

She doesn’t pay it much attention as she puts the grounds in the coffee maker, rubbing at her eyes sleepily. She slept last night, more than usual, but there’s still a persistent exhaustion that she’s not entirely sure she’ll ever be rid of.

But then she hears his name.

“Now look, I sympathize with Josh Lyman, I really do.” It’s Congressman Ryland, member of House Government Oversight and one of Donna's least favorite people in the House. “I wouldn’t wish what he went through on anyone, not even my worst enemies. But there comes a point where you have to wonder… can we really afford to have someone so mentally unstable in the White House?”

She feels her stomach drop. She never wanted this to happen to him, ever. She lied about her diary to protect him from this very thing, and yet here’s his worst nightmare being broadcast on cable news for the world to see just days before his hearing.

There's no way he isn’t watching this unfold right now; she knows he usually gets up earlier than she does, and of course his TVs will be on. She swallows, turns off the TV, and picks up her phone, dialing his number. It rings several times but he never picks it up, and Donna puts it down with a sigh.

Perhaps he's already in the office, already trying to figure out how to deal with this. Perhaps it’s not so bad as she thinks.

But the sinking feeling in her heart tells her it’s probably worse.

“It’s one thing thing to have bad memories from something like that, I mean, who wouldn’t? But when your behavior is that irrational and you're screaming at the President in a way that even worries the Secret Service, now… is that the kind of guy we want having access to state secrets? Not to mention it follows a pattern in this administration of hiding significant issues from the public.”

Donna knows she should probably watch more so that they know what they’re dealing with, but she can’t stand Ryland and his stupid exaggerated southern accent (there’s no way he actually talks like that when he grew up in California) and how outright wrong he is about Josh. So she turns off the TV and picks up the phone again, dialing Josh’s office number.

Still no response.

Donna tries to swallow her coffee, but it’s like there’s a lump in her throat that blocks any of it from going down, so she spits it out in the sink. This is worrying. Josh is never not awake at this time of morning, and he is very good about answering his phone. She doesn’t think he would do anything drastic, not immediately, but ever since he put his hand through a window she fears he might do it again. He’s better now, yes, or he should be, but she thinks back to the last few weeks and the way he’s been snappy and irritable, almost echoing those awful few weeks before Christmas last year, and she can’t help but wonder if he really is better.

She tries both his apartment and his office again, but neither yields results. She’s tempted to drive to his apartment when she realizes that perhaps he might not be the only one in the office.

Donna picks up her phone one more time and dials CJ’s office number.

“CJ Cregg,” comes the voice on the other side of the phone.

“CJ, it’s Donna. Is Josh there?” she asks, hoping she doesn’t sound as breathless as she feels.

“Yeah, he’s here in my office,” says CJ.

“You’re watching the news coverage?”

“Yeah,” CJ says, and Donna can just barely hear her whisper, “Donna knows,” presumably to Josh.

Donna wants to breathe a sigh of relief, but she still can’t shake the worry that seems to have consumed her ever since she saw the news. “Is he okay? Can I talk to him? Do you know how this happened?”

“Calm down, Donna,” CJ says, and Donna doesn’t quite understand how she can be calm in the face of this. “How about you come on into the office? I think Josh is going to need you today.”

December 3rd, 2001

6:10 AM

He’s still not in his office when Donna arrives, after what felt like the longest drive of her life. It probably wasn’t—the one advantage of how early she gets to work is that the traffic on the way in is reasonably light—but she is beyond anxious to see him. To make sure he’s okay, because she’s not entirely sure she is. She drops her bag at her desk and heads towards CJ’s office.

Her door is closed, but Donna doesn’t bother knocking, instead pushing it open to find Josh sitting on the couch with his head in his hands and the TV blaring in the background. “Josh,” she says, softly, and he looks up at her. His eyes are red and she’s not entirely sure if it’s just from lack of sleep or if he’s been crying. “Oh my god, Josh, are you alright?” Before he can answer, she sits down on the couch and wraps her arms around him. It’s not something she would normally do—they typically engage in a delicate dance in terms of touch, not wanting to cross the line of platonic demarcation—but he needs it this morning, and she’s hugging him before she's even thought about it.

Josh blinks a few times before gently worming himself out of her grip. He doesn’t normally do that; he usually seems to relish touch like this. “I’m okay,” he says tightly.

“How did they… how did they get that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies.

“You could… you have to sue them, or something. Those are your private records! They got Dr. Keyworth’s notes, those are definitely illegal for them to have. I mean obviously it’s out now and that can’t be taken back, but…”

“Donna," is all he says to stop her rant.

“You should sue them,” she says again. “Whoever it was who released this, it’s… I can’t… Do you know who did this?”

Josh shrugs. “Yeah.”

“What?! Who did it? What happened?”

He shakes his head. “It’s… it’s not something I can talk about at the moment,” he says quietly.

Donna looks to CJ for a contradiction, but CJ just nods and sighs. 

“How’s the news coverage?” she asks, trying to change the subject. She’s certainly not going to drop the question of who did this to Josh, but she can see she’s not going to get anything from him now.

“Well, there’s a massive blizzard in the Midwest which kind of came as a surprise since it’s on the early side, so that’s been the majority of the coverage this morning, and some big-name WWE wrestler got arrested for murder, so mercifully there are a couple news stories drowning it out in the wider media, but… the political shows are all jumping on it,” CJ says. “The President is announcing a new military pay structure proposal later today which should get some coverage tonight, but…”

“Everyone and their mothers are going to be clamoring for a chance to comment,” Josh fills in.

“Josh…” Donna breathes softly, unsure what else to say.

“You sure you want to stay here today?” CJ asks. “Will you be able to get anything done?”

“I’m a professional,” Josh argues. “Of course I can get stuff done. In fact, I probably should go and…” He stands up, an absent look on his face. “CJ, let me know when the statement is ready.”

CJ nods. “Will do. And Josh…”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to talk to any reporters today.”

Josh raises an eyebrow. “Believe me, I’m not planning on leaving my office.” He pushes the door open and stalks out, his head down and his usual swagger gone.

Donna stands up to follow him but stops for a minute to turn to CJ. “You really don’t know why this came out?”

CJ shrugs. “He knows, but he’s not particularly forthcoming about it," she says softly. “It’s going to be okay, you know. He’s gotten through worse.”

“Not with the whole American public watching,” Donna replies. “This is going to make the hearings so much harder, and he hasn’t been in the best mental space lately anyway, and I don’t think he’s been going to therapy, and…”

CJ takes a long sip of her coffee. “All we can do now is support him,” she says quietly. “Maybe we ought to take him out tonight, try to get his mind off of it. Keep him away from the evening shows.”

“Will he want to go out?”

“Probably not, but between you, me, Sam, and Toby we can probably drag him out of here without too much trouble.” CJ looks up and locks eyes with Donna. “Take care of him today. I mean, I know you will. You always do.”

Donna bites her lip and nods. “Okay. I’m gonna…”

“Yeah, go,” CJ says. “And don’t let him watch too much of the coverage, alright? I’ve got my people on it, and he doesn’t need to work himself up like I know he’s going to.”

“Don’t worry,” Donna says. “TVs are going to stay off today.”

December 3rd, 2001

3:22 PM

Donna is not able to keep her word, as Josh insists on having every single TV in the bullpen and in his office on and at full volume. She’s not sure how he’s able to concentrate with criticisms of him coming full blast from every corner of his area, but she certainly isn’t. Every time she tries to do something, her mind drifts to focus on what’s coming from the TVs.

“Am I surprised by this? Not at all.” Donna’s blood practically boils when she hears Claypool talking on Fox News. He’s sued the White House yet again, this time for concealing President Bartlet’s MS, and apparently that’s enough of a qualification to be interviewed on this subject. “You know, I’ve deposed Josh Lyman several times, and I think it’s clear to anyone who has worked that close with him that he’s… not exactly stable. I know this better than most, though. At one deposition he gave me, he ended up brutally attacking me on the way out. If Sam Seaborn hadn’t stepped in—obviously to save the White House’s reputation rather than to protect me—I might have been seriously injured. Josh Lyman has to meet with diplomats, with all sorts of people who may be hostile to his goals. Who’s to say he’ll be able to control himself in that sort of scenario?”

“Mr. Claypool, your concerns are certainly valid,” says the interviewer. “What do you think the White House should…”

Claypool interrupts the interviewer and continues, “You know, what’s interesting is that the deposition in which Mr. Lyman assaulted me occurred prior to the shooting at Rosslyn. Of course, I’m sure that didn’t exactly help curtail his aggressive tendencies, but to me, it is clear that even prior to the shooting he was not exactly mentally stable. Which is why I’m going to sue for the release of Josh Lyman’s full medical and mental health records.”

“You already have them!” Donna hears from Josh’s office. 

She stands up and peeks her head in. He’s running his hands through his hair so aggressively it’s a miracle he has any left, and he’s hunched over his desk, his eyes looking frightened and wild. “You should keep the TVs off today. CJ said she’s got people watching each channel, and they’re all taking notes on what to refute.”

Josh sighs. “I can’t… I have to keep an eye on it. To know what I’m dealing with when I get to the hearing,” he says, turning back to the TV. “But if this asshole would get his smarmy little face off…”

“Did you assault him?” Donna asks.

He looks down at the desk. “I may have pushed him up against a wall…”

“Josh!”

“You wouldn’t believe the things he said about Leo! I just couldn’t…” He sighs heavily. “Yeah, I can’t exactly deny that allegation. I mean, I didn’t hurt him or anything. I wasn’t going to go any further. I just…”

Donna comes behind him and begins to rub his shoulders, feeling the tension in them. “Seen any support?”

He frowns. “Republicans are thrilled to offer their opinions, Democrats want to distance themselves. So not really. There was one congresswoman who was marginally supportive on NBC, although it was definitely more about her and her mental health funding initiative. She’s just capitalizing on the opportunity to talk about it.”

“Better than nothing,” Donna says. “Is CJ going on anything tonight? Or one of the deputies?”

“CJ’s doing one of the national shows at six and there are deputies who are on the others, but I’m not sure what a difference it will make,” he replies. “They’ve been blasting me all day, and enough of what they say is rooted in truth that it’s hard to deny anything.” He turns his eyes back to the news, and Donna follows his gaze.

“What do you think the White House should do?” the interviewer asks Claypool.

“Well, if you’ve read the Secret Service reports that were released, it’s very clear that Josh Lyman does not have the mental stability to be in such a powerful position in the federal government. He should have resigned last year, but based on the statement released from the White House this morning, he has no intention of resigning—yet another delusion from this so-called political genius. The White House should fire him immediately, or at the very least strip him of his security clearance and access to the President. We’re dealing with a potentially dangerous situation here, and there’s really no time to lose.”

“Thank you, Mr. Claypool. Our next guest, former Secretary of Defense Harold Dahlmer. Mr. Secretary, Mr. Claypool expressed some concerns about the Deputy Chief of Staff’s involvement with foreign policy and national defense. Could you tell us what all might be involved in that position?”

“Job responsibilities change significantly from administration to administration; in the Lassiter administration, I worked closely with the President's Deputy Chief of Staff, Jonathan Hagers, because Jon had significant foreign policy experience and often was delegated tasks such as those. Of course, in a White House with Leo McGarry at the helm, I imagine he doesn't often have his deputy on that, not to mention Lyman’s complete lack of foreign policy credentials. Still, I happen to know he’s frequently involved with diplomatic ventures—the AIDS funding summit with Equatorial Kundu, for example, and the extradition of Blake Whitmer from Italy last month. Obviously these, are sensitive cases and frankly, I’m not sure that our country wants these sort of things resting on the back of Josh Lyman.”

“Mr. Secretary, it was during your predecessor’s tenure at the DoD that the US Military recognized PTSD as an area of major concern within its members, although you made the choice to roll back funding for mental healthcare for active duty military members. Obviously you have some experience dealing with this so I’m wondering what your thoughts are on the diagnosis of PTSD specifically.”

“I don’t buy it,” the secretary says, and Donna winces. She looks over to Josh, but his face is impassive. “I think if Josh Lyman had to see what some of our men and women in uniform go through, he’s agree that he’s got very little to complain about. And most of them come back totally fine. Of course there are cases where guys struggle when they come back—it’s a different world out there—but they’re really much less common that you would think. If Josh Lyman can’t handle a cushy desk job surrounded by armed guards—well, I think it’s offensive to the men and women who fight to keep this country safe and suffer the consequences. His claim to this diagnosis delegitimizes what the good people of our military contribute for the safety and security of our great nation.”

Josh sighs and buries his head in his hands.

“So wait… he’s saying that you shouldn’t be doing the job because you have PTSD, and yet it’s offensive to soldiers to say you have PTSD? If he tried to contradict himself anymore I think he might turn into a pretzel,” Donna comments, trying to laugh.

“Donna…”

“This is bullshit. This dude is spewing complete bullshit. We let him run the DoD?”

“We didn’t. Republicans did,” Josh replies, groaning.

Donna walks up to his TV and turns it off. “I know these guys like to get their faces on TV, but who knew that they could come up with so many stupid things to say to get there.”

“Turn it back on, Donna,” he says.

“You have work to do, and you’re clearly not getting any work done if you’re listening to this imbecile,” she replies.

“Donna…”

She raises an eyebrow. “It can come back on… if you agree that you’re leaving by eight tonight and you’ll go out with us tonight.”

“Who’s us?”

“You know, me, CJ, Sam, Toby…”

“I don’t know if I can… you know, go out in public,” he says with a grimace. “Besides, I haven’t had a drink in months.”

“Why?”

Josh shrugs. “Too many things I have to keep my mouth shut about.”

“We’ll get our usual booth in the corner, we’re all buying you drinks because you absolutely need them, and I’m not going to stop standing in front of this TV until you agree to come.”

Josh rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“Excellent,” Donna says. She heads towards the door of his office.

“You said you were going to turn it back on,”

Donna shrugs. “I said it can come back on, not that I was going to do it. You should go down to the mess and get a snack, anyway. You haven’t eaten all day and when we go out tonight, you’re going to get drunk on all of two beers and frankly it’ll look a little pathetic.”

“You sure know how to buck a guy up, Donna,” he murmurs.

She gives him her most winning smile, although trying to plaster it onto her face is almost physically painful. “You know it!”

She leaves his office and takes a seat at her desk, trying to think without hearing all the idiocy from the news. Her head is still spinning a bit, trying to reconcile what has happened. How could Josh’s information have gotten released? It wasn’t her diary, she knows that much, since she burned it as soon as Josh told her to never mention it again. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest move, but she couldn’t bear the thought of it causing him problems.

It’s a Secret Service file of some kind, or at least that’s what it sounds like. She knows what’s in his Secret Service file, but she can’t comprehend who might have had access to it, who might have released it. Leo had a similar issue, and she hopes it isn’t that same girl who leaked Leo’s. 

She feels sick. Despite her best efforts, despite everything she did to protect him, this still became an issue. And even though it’s not her fault, there's a part of her that worries that it actually is.

Still, she pushes that aside and turns back to her work, although the words of aggressively partisan Republicans who hate Josh for being Josh and will use anything against him ring in her ears.

December 3rd, 2001

8:44 PM

“I think we all need another. But especially Josh,” Sam says, downing the last of his beer. The bar is not particularly crowded, mercifully, and they’re found a usual corner booth, meaning they can drink in peace without the paparazzi or media swarming them. Josh still looks on edge and keeps glancing around to make sure he doesn’t recognize any reporters.

Donna presses her lips together. “He's had three on an empty stomach, his tolerance is half what it was because of his meds, and it’s not like he ever had a high tolerance to begin with.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you continued talking about me like I’m not even here,” Josh murmurs. 

“Sorry.”

“And anyway, I’m not on those meds anymore, so my tolerance is…”

“You went off your meds?” Donna asks incredulously. “Josh, you can’t just stop those!”

“I talked to my doctor about it, I’m not entirely stupid,” he responds, his voice brimming with vitriol. “Sam, I’d love another. Or is Donna going to physically block me from…”

Donna rolls her eyes, trying to bely the deep concern that is consuming her soul. “Josh.”

Sam blinks a few times before saying, “Okay. Guess it’s my round, anyone else want something?”

“I’m good,” Donna says, because if Josh is going to get wasted tonight, she better stay sober.

Sam heads off to get more drinks, and Donna takes in CJ, who is practically slumped against the corner of the booth, looking much more weary and exhausted than Donna thinks she’s ever seen her. “How was the evening show?” Donna asks. She had managed to keep the TVs off and had gotten Josh into a meeting so that he wouldn’t watch.

“The hosts got a little combative,” CJ replies. “I get the sense that my word doesn’t mean a whole lot to them since Josh is such a good friend of mine. I might have done more harm than good.”

Josh sighs. “Well, probably better than if I had gone on to defend myself and torn their heads off.”

“Mary Marsh did a whole thing about it, she looked positively unhinged,” Toby brings up. “Josh, a lot of these people are idiots who no one takes seriously.”

Josh shakes his head. “Lassister’s Secretary of Defense? Half of Oversight? Like sure Ryland is an idiot and Gibson is a partisan hack, but people take these guys seriously. I’ve got half the country calling for my resignation, and I can’t even defend myself until my hearing on Wednesday, and even then it’s going to be to the tune of the questions people like Ryland and Gibson ask me!”

“You could do an interview tomorrow,” CJ suggests.

“I told you, I don’t want to do the fucking interview!” Josh says, banging his hand on the table.

Everyone responds with a sort of stunned silence at Josh’s raised voice as Sam comes back to the table. “Hey buddy, is that something you want the whole bar to hear?” Sam asks gently, putting a beer in front of Josh.

Josh glares at him, but takes such an intense swig of the drink that he ends up coughing trying to get it down.

“You okay?” Toby asks.

“Fine,” he sputters, barely pausing before swallowing again.

It’s a kind of awkward silence after that, occasionally broken by spurts of inane conversation; no one really knows what to say anymore, especially not to Josh. So they drink in relative silence, and Josh consumes his drink with a speed the rest of them didn’t know he had in him. True to Donna’s expectations, it is that drink that puts him over the edge.

“I think we should go," CJ says, pushing her empty glass to the center of the table. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

“I could go for another drink,” Josh says, although he’s slurring his words.

“No, I’m taking you home,” she says. “You’re already doing a number on your sensitive system.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” he mutters, although he slides out of the booth and starts towards the door. Donna puts her arm behind her back to steady him since he clearly is not going to be able to walk in a straight line. “It’s barely even late.”

“You have an early morning tomorrow, and I know for a fact you didn’t go home last night,” Donna points out as she guides him out the door. “So you’re going to go home and get some sleep and that way you’ll be much more ready to face tomorrow.”

He looks like he wants to scoff at that, but he doesn’t push her away as they make their way out the door of the bar.

December 3rd, 2001

10:24 PM

Donna is surprised to see what a mess Josh’s apartment is. It's never been the neatest place in the world—she’ll usually find books and papers all over every surface and the bed is never made—but this is a new level of messy. The sink is filled up with dirty dishes, the trash can is close to overflowing, and clothes are strewn across the couch, the chair, and all over his unmade bed. She’s not even sure how it got this messy, considering he’s barely been here, but there’s a part of her that isn’t surprised that he hasn’t had the energy to clean.

Even if she’s not surprised, she’s certainly concerned.

Josh sits on the couch, right on top of a pile of shirts, and leans his head back. Donna can’t help but stand in the doorway and stare at him for a minute, taking in his weariness. He’s been so difficult, so distant lately, and while she understands why, it’s been hard to be sympathetic. Seeing him like this, however—exhausted, worn down, his worst struggles publicly exposed—breaks her heart.

The water filter in his fridge is empty, so she fills it up and pours each of them a glass of water. She comes back into the living room and hands one to Josh. “Drink. Or you’ll have a killer hangover in the morning.”

“At this point, I think that’s unavoidable,” Josh mutters, but he dutifully accepts the glass and takes a drink.

“You okay?” she asks softly. “I mean, obviously today has been a lot, but do you need…”

“I’m fine” he mutters.

“Really? Josh, you don’t have to lie to…”

“I’m. Fine.” he says more aggressively, taking another sip of water.

She presses her lips together and stares at the blank TV. It turns on, tuned to a late-night news show where his name is on the chyron at the bottom of the screen. “You don’t need to watch this, you know,” she says. “You know, some actors never look at what people say about their work. It can really mess with your head.”

“I’ve got enough things messing with my head already,” Josh says.

“So don’t watch it.”

He shakes his head. “I have to see what this has done to me.”

She blinks a few times, before asking the question that has been bouncing around in her head all day. “Do you… do you know how this happened?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyes still trained on the TV.

She furrows her brow. “It was your… your Secret Service file,” she says, searching for confirmation.

“Yes.”

“How did that… how did it get released?” she asks again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Josh says.

“Of course it matters, Josh! These people have invaded your privacy, they’re spreading lies about you, they're trying to attack you and the President, and you don’t want to do something?”

Josh finally tears his eyes away from the TV and turns to Donna. “What do you want me to say? Who do you want me to accuse of this? The entire Republican Party? They’ve been the ones going after me, but it’s not just them. I could blame the Nazis who shot me and fucked me up in the first place, but that doesn’t really account for everything else. I could blame the President for not telling us about his MS and making all these hearings happen. I can and do blame myself for all of it.” He takes a deep breath and stares her down, his eyes gleaming with intensity and anger and perhaps some tears. “But what do you want me to say, Donna? Do you want me to blame it all on you? Because that I can do. When I look back at all of this, all roads lead back to you, Donna. It all comes down to what you did.”

His words seem to freeze her completely before searing through her like a knife; she stills and stares at him, not even moving her mouth to react as she tries to process what he’s said. “Josh, you don’t mean… You’re drunk, Josh, you can’t possibly… You’re not serious, right?”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are still trained on her, and while he’s definitely drunk, he seems utterly serious.

“Josh, explain to me what I did? I never would have wanted this for you, I did everything I could to prevent it!”

He still doesn’t respond.

“You really think this is my fault?” she asks. There’s a tremor in her voice, the words struggling to come out.

Josh turns to the TV, unable to meet her eyes. “Yes, Donna, of course it’s your fault.”

“How could it have… what did I do?”

He taps his fingers on the side of the glass. “Something so inconceivably stupid… god, Donna, I can’t believe you didn’t think it through.”

She has to keep it together. She can’t cry. She wants to be there for him, desperately, but if he thinks that she did this to him, then she’s not sure she’ll be much of a comfort. “Is there… something I can do to make it up to you?”

“No.”

“Josh…” She looks at him expectantly, hoping he’ll say more, hoping he’ll explain, but it seems as if he’s in no mood, in no state of mind to do so. Underneath a very thin veneer of calm he seems to be getting more agitated by the minute. She can’t put him through this. So she asks the one thing she doesn’t want to hear the answer to, for his sake rather than for her own. “Do you… do you want me to leave?”

“Yeah, otherwise you’ll just fuck things up again,” he says, his voice cold.

Donna doesn’t know how to respond to that. She knows that he doesn’t mean it on the one hand, but it still stings. If he’s going to be in this kind of cruel mood, it won’t do her any good to stay tonight.

She stands up and takes her glass back into the kitchen. She washes it out, fills it up one more time, and places it next to his bed, along with a few ibuprofen since he’ll need that in the morning. Before she can consider it, she turns his alarm off; she’ll tell Leo that he’s coming in late the next morning.

“Goodnight, Josh,” she says softly, as she stands at his door. “Get some sleep.” Hanging on his coat rack is her jacket, the one she always leaves behind. She grabs it and takes it—if she needs an excuse to come check on him, she’ll have to come up with something else.

Donna closes the door of his apartment behind her and finally allows herself to cry, although her mind is still going a million miles per hour.

This is her fault.

It wasn’t the diary though, she knows that much. And there are plenty of people who have access to his Secret Service file. She’s seen it, yes, but she certainly never took it out of the building.

When did she see it? She had tried to wipe that from her brain, since she really shouldn’t have seen it, but she knows she did. It was late, she remembers, and she was tired, but…

Oh god. She never took it back to the Secret Service office in the basement like he asked her to. She left it out, she left it somewhere not secured, and anyone could have easily taken it. A Congressional aide coming to meet with Josh, or an unfriendly lobbyist, or even a janitor with an ideology from the other side of the aisle.

She’s pretty certain she left it in the bottom drawer of her desk, but if it’s not there…

Donna steels herself as she leaves his apartment and heads back to the White House.

December 3rd, 2001

11:48 PM

The file is not in her drawer.

She’s certain that if it’s anywhere, it’s at her desk. Of course it is. That’s where she found Josh and CJ talking, that’s where it was sitting, and she can’t remember taking it anywhere. She’s practically cleaned out her desk, taking every single thing out of all the drawers in her desperation to find it.

She's been unsuccessful.

This is her fault. Not by malice, of course, but by her own stupidity and irresponsibility. She did this to him, to the administration.

Her desk is already practically cleared out thanks to her frantic search, everything in there stacked on top of it or on the floor next to it. Something about the empty desk strikes a chord within her, and suddenly she knows what she has to do.

She can’t stay, not when she’s done this to Josh. It’s a miracle he hasn’t fired her already, but clearly he doesn’t want her around. No wonder he’s been so difficult, so cold to her lately. She can’t stay.

Working here, working with him… it’s been the opportunity of a lifetime. She wouldn’t change it for the world. The very thought of leaving makes her heart constrict. But she knows her own feelings don’t matter in this, and she’s ready to face the consequences of her actions.

She’ll go back to Wisconsin with her tail between her legs, and she’ll see the disappointment on the face of her parents, and she’ll face the disappointment of everyone around her. But she can’t bear to face his disappointment in her. She can’t come to work tomorrow and watch him spiral and know she did this to him.

She manages to find an empty box and loads it up with things from her desk, memories of the last few years. A picture of her and Josh together. How can she leave this behind?

Donna pulls out a piece of paper and tries to keep her hand from shaking as she begins to write.

Dear Josh, I hope you can forgive me.

He can read between the lines. He’ll know what it means.

She puts the note and her badge on top of her now empty desk, swallows thickly, and slowly leaves the White House. Leaving the White House isn’t nearly so difficult as the thought of leaving Josh, but she has to do both.

Chapter Text

December 4th, 2001

9:34 AM

His head hurts.

Josh blinks against the light streaming in through his curtains. Light, he thinks in his fuzzy head. That’s a strange thing to wake up to. His alarm is always set to go off before dawn, and even on the rare days where he doesn’t set an alarm, his internal clock wakes him long before the sun peeks over the horizon, especially on these long winter days.

His hangover must really be slowing down his brain, because it takes him a few minutes to roll over and look at the clock, and much longer than it should to process that he’s overslept by about four hours.

He swears under his breath and pulls the clock towards him, knocking over the glass of water on his bedside table in the process. How did he not set his alarm? Sure, he’s forgotten to do that a couple of times, but Donna always calls him to wake him up if he's even a few minutes late to work, so it seems odd that she hasn’t yet.

Josh grabs a couple of towels from the bathroom and throws them onto his soaking bedside table, grabs the suit he wore yesterday from the floor, and puts it back on. It still kind of smells like beer, and he wrinkles his nose at the scent, but he doesn’t have time to find anything else to wear. He grabs his backpack and his keys and runs out the door.

It's so strange that Donna hasn’t called him yet.

There’s that ever familiar pit in his stomach as he drives to work, and as he runs from the parking lot to the White House. He’s gotten used to that, but he is still trying to fight off the feeling of panic. His lungs feel tight, like they’re choking him from within, and he has to stop right outside the door to catch his breath not because he’s out of shape but because his lungs are refusing to cooperate.

He pulls himself together, wipes his watery eyes, and tries to flash a smile at the security guard when he comes in.

The bullpen is busy, as it always is, but everyone seems to be intentionally averting their eyes, not looking at him. The TVs are conspicuously quiet; perhaps having your boss lambasted on high volume in the background does not make for a productive working environment. He is about to enter his office when he notices that Donna's desk is empty.

Donna’s desk is empty.

Not just absent of her presence, no. Her desk is completely cleared off. Gone are all the affectionate photos, the quirky mug, the Hawaiian hula dancer doll that he’s never quite understood. It’s almost as if she was never there.

Instead, there is a single note scrawled on a piece of paper in Donna’s nearly illegible handwriting.

Dear Josh, I hope you can forgive me.

Forgive her for what? What has he done to make her think he’s angry with her?

Donna left. It’s all that can go through his head, all that he can manage to formulate. Donna left.

He tries to think back to last night, but the truth is, he doesn’t remember anything that happened after being at the bar. He obviously got home somehow, but… what did he do to her? What did he say? How did he screw this up?

Somehow he finally managed to drive her away. And now he wishes that he had never had.

He picks up the phone to call her, but only gets her voicemail in response. Donna has the most obnoxiously loud ringtone in the world, so if she’s not picking up her phone… He can feel his blood pressure rising, his chest constricting, and the sense of panic beginning to set in once again.

Josh has had plenty of practice of trying to hide his anxiety; he’s gotten much better at it. He's had more than a few panic attacks while walking down the street or sitting at his desk, and he’s fairly confident no one has noticed. No one but Donna, and she’s not here, and she’s the reason he feels like he’s about to pass out or cry or scream or all of the above.

He's about to head straight to Donna’s apartment, bang on the door, and demand that she tell him why she’s gone. How long she’s gone. Where she’s going. How she could leave him at a time like this. He doesn’t care that he's already hours late, that he's probably going to be yelled at, that he has a Congressional hearing tomorrow and he hasn’t even met with his lawyer yet. This is more important. It has to be.

But as he heads towards the lobby, he feels CJ grab him by the arm. “Where have you been?” she hisses.

“Donna’s…" he starts, but he stops when he sees something in CJ’s eyes. “What’s going on?”

CJ grimaces. “Come to the Oval. We’ve got a situation.”

December 4th, 2001

10:12 AM

“What’s going on?” Josh asks, as he and CJ enter the Oval. He’s out of breath and he kind of wants to throw up, but he swallows and steps into the office.

Leo frowns. “Shooting,” he says thickly. "At the VA in Seattle.”

“Oh god,” Josh hears CJ whisper. “When?”

He definitely wants to throw up now.

“Reports started coming in half an hour ago, but we only just got them confirmed. Hospital’s still on lockdown.”

“Do they have the guy?” Toby asks.

Leo shakes his head. “Don’t know at this point. All we know is that something happened.”

“Should I brief now or wait until we have more information?” CJ asks. She shoots a concerned look over to Josh. All of his practice at hiding how he’s really feeling is failing him now.

“Wait,” Leo says. “This hasn’t gotten out to the press yet, and we don’t have many details. But since it’s happening in the VA, it’s going to require even more of a response from us. We’re going to need to coordinate a visit from the President, and a statement, and Josh, if you could get the chairmen of Armed Services and see if they’d come as well.”

Josh grips the back of the couch to steady himself. “Yeah,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as strangled as it feels.

“Let us know when you get more information,” the President says, dismissing everyone. It takes Josh a minute to gather himself, his mind racing. It’s almost as if he can hear the gunshots echoing down the hall. “Josh? Are you alright?” he hears the President ask.

He straightens up and nods. “Yes sir, just…uh… you know.”

“I was sorry to hear about your Secret Service file leaking,” the President says.

“I know that makes me a liability, and I do apologize for that,” Josh says quietly. “I really should have offered to resign once I knew this would happen but I talked to CJ and Leo and they said…”

The President shakes his head. “I would not have accepted your resignation, so it’s just as well you didn’t.”

“Sir…”

“You feeling prepared for the hearings tomorrow?”

Josh shrugs. “I’m meeting with my lawyer today, but I’m not sure I’ll ever feel prepared.”

“You’re my professional hostile witness, so go out there and kick some Congressional ass, huh?” the President says with a wry grin.

Josh tries his best to smile back. “Yes, sir.”

He closes the door of the Oval behind him before his pounding head and his nausea threaten to overwhelm him.

The bathrooms of the White House are small and old and never seem clean despite their constant janitorial closures, but Josh can hardly bring himself to car about the odd stains on the floor as he rushes into a stall just in time to throw up whatever little was in his stomach; he can't quite remember when the last time he ate was. He probably should eat something. He definitely should eat something, but his stomach is twisting too much to even comprehend that.

He doesn’t have the energy to get off the ground, so he rests his back against the corner of the stall and pulls his knees to his chest, hoping that maybe that will make him feel safe again. Donna’s gone and he’s probably still being publicly eviscerated for his mental health and he’ll have to face Congress tomorrow and there are people on the other side of the country who are probably being shot right now, so how could be possibly feel safe?

The door to the bathroom opens and of course Josh startles at it, and he makes some sort of strangled noise, because he seems to have no control over his body or his voice or his emotions.

“Hello?” It’s Toby’s voice. At least it’s Toby.

Still, there are no words that come to him.

“Josh?” Apparently Josh never managed to lock the stall, because it swings open and Toby finds him. And for the briefest second, Josh wishes Toby would quit finding him. If Toby had never found him in Rosslyn, perhaps everything would be easier for everyone else. “Josh,” Toby says again, crouching next to him, “are you alright?”

To his mortification, Josh realizes that he’s crying. “I’m…”

He hasn’t flushed the toilet yet, and Toby wrinkles his nose at the scent. “Are you sick?” he asks gently.

“Hungover,” Josh mutters.

“That’s not it though, is it," Toby replies. “I mean, I know you have a sensitive system, but I don’t think panicking on the bathroom floor is a symptom of a hangover.”

Josh shakes his head. “Uh… Donna left.” Those words seem to tear his very heart out.

“Donna left? To go where? Why? For how long?”

Josh still can’t look up at Toby. “I don’t know. She won’t take my calls, she only left a short note, and I…”

Toby squeezes Josh’s shoulder. “You’re gonna try and call her again?”

“Yeah,” Josh says. “I can’t… Toby, I think I did something or said something to her last night, but I don’t remember, and I’m just afraid…”

“Yeah, I know,” Toby says, letting a silence fall between them. “Just so you know, your lawyer for tomorrow is waiting in your office. You gonna be okay today?”

Josh blinks a few times. “Uh, yeah. I’d better… do I look okay?”

“You look like shit,” Toby says, “but I think you get that a lot.”

He almost manages to laugh at that, and feels some of the tightness in his chest release a little bit. “I do," he says softly.

Toby gives him a hand off the floor. “That the suit you wore yesterday?”

“Forgot to set my alarm,” Josh replies with a shrug. “It’s been a long day.”

“It’s not even eleven.”

“It’s going to get longer, I guess.”

December 4th, 2001

10:43 AM

By the time he gets back to his office, Josh is able to breathe again, although his stomach still feels like it’s trying to be an Olympic gymnast. He grabs a donut from the tray and shoves it into his mouth, hoping that it might get rid of the aftertaste. If Donna was here, she’d chide him for it, but Donna isn’t here, so he eats the whole thing in three bites.

He steps into his office to find a woman sitting in his visitor chair.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, got pulled out to deal with something. It’s possible I may be pulled out again,” he says, holding out his hand. “Josh Lyman.”

“Yes, I know,” she says blankly, standing up to take it. Her grip is intimidatingly strong. “Suzanne Beasley.”

“Yes, great, good to meet you Suzanne,” Josh says absently. “And you’re an expert in constitutional law and Congressional procedure? Or so I’ve been told.”

“That I am.”

“I worked in Congress for a number of years myself, so I’m kind of an expert on procedure, but…”

She raises an eyebrow. “So are you going to let me represent you or not?”

“Of course,” Josh says quickly, swallowing. “You’re supposed to be one of the best.”

“Yes, you would do well to listen to what I say. Now you, you’re a complicated case, because with this file you’re going to get plenty of questions that you’re not necessarily obligated to answer. I’m going to need you to trust me on what you will and will not answer.”

“Naturally.”

“Really? Because your friend Sam Seaborn seemed to have some trouble with the idea of not oversharing,” she replies.

Josh shrugs. “Yeah, and believe me, I let him know that. I’m not Sam. Believe it or not, I’m really not looking forward to having all of my secrets aired on national TV. You’ve read the potions of my file that got released, I presume?”

“Naturally.”

“Have you read the unleaked portions?”

Suzanne shakes her head. “No. Do you think I should?”

“You’re the lawyer,” Josh replies flippantly.

“I happen to see a law degree on your wall. Yale, huh? Decent school.”

Josh sighs. He hadn’t expected his own lawyer to be so aggressive, but he knows that will only benefit him in the hearings. He’d rather have someone like her on his side than on that of the enemy. “Do you need access to the rest of my file? Because I can…”

“Yes, that might be helpful,” she replies.

He’s about to say something else, but he’s interrupted by the phone ringing. “Donna? Who is it?” he yells, before realizing that Donna isn’t out there, and his stomach does another flip. He picks up the phone, and it’s the president’s secretary telling him to come to the Oval. “Okay, sorry," he says to his lawyer. “I have to go for a few minutes. I’ll get the file on the way back.”

“You’re the one paying me $400 an hour, so I’m happy to wait,” she says with a smile. Truthfully, Josh would usually admire this kind of frustrating cheekiness in a lawyer—he recognizes it as a useful skill to have—but today it’s just one of the many things that seems to be driving him insane.

December 4th, 2001

11:02 AM

“It's over,” Leo says as the senior staff file into the Oval.

“They got him?” CJ asks.

Leo shakes his head. “Turned the gun on himself. So far, reports of six dead, not including the shooter, and eleven injured.”

Josh hopes no one notices how he flinches at that, how for a brief moment he feels the stinging pain of the bullet, how his hands move to his chest as if maybe this time they can stop it. He wishes, not for the first time, that this was abstract to him.

“Do they… is there any sort of motive?” CJ asks.

“I don’t want to speculate,” Leo says. “FBI's working on it now.”

"But you know something,” CJ concludes. “Look, I’m going to get the question. If there’s something concrete we can give the press, it might keep them off our backs on this for a little while.”

Leo frowns and gives a furtive glance over to Josh before clearing his throat. “Well, this is not an indication of cause and we should be careful not to paint it as such,” he warns, “but it was at uh… a therapy group that the gunman was partaking in.”

Josh stares at his feet uncomfortably.

“He was a veteran, so the Pentagon was able to pull his file,” Leo continues, “and he had a significant history of mental illness. But CJ… don’t release that information. The media will be quick to draw conclusions that are not there to be drawn.”

And they’ll connect it to me, Josh finishes in his mind. Of all the days for this to happen, it had to be today. As if things weren’t bad enough.

“They’re going to get it somehow,” CJ says quietly. “The Pentagon probably won’t be as tight-lipped.”

“Still, if they can find another motive first, that will be best,” Leo says, “so don’t volunteer that information at this point.”

Josh can feel the way everyone is conspicuously avoiding looking at him. He knows why, and he understands, and he doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t close his eyes or put his head down however, because he knows if he closes his eyes, he won’t be in the Oval anymore. He takes a deep breath and balls his hands into fists and stares at the wall, unblinking, trying to focus on the details of the paintings so that he can ground himself. If he’s hyperaware of where he actually is, he might be able to avoiding slipping away.

“I’ll go brief them now, then,” CJ says. She grabs Josh’s hand and squeezes it on the way out, a touch that he is exceedingly grateful for, since it seems to drop his blood pressure five points and snaps him out of the edge he’s been balancing on since he entered this room.

“Leo, my lawyer’s, uh…” Josh starts, as he follows CJ out. Leo waves him off with an understanding nod.

CJ falls into step beside him. “You doing alright?”

“Yeah,” he says, although he’s sure CJ isn’t convinced by his strangled voice.

“Would you tell Donna that I’ve got cash to pay her back for…”

“Donna’s gone,” Josh says. He’s trying to sound casual and unaffected, but it’s certainly not working.

CJ stops short. “What? Just for the day or…”

He shrugs. “I came in this morning and her desk was cleared off. I’ve been trying to call her but I haven’t heard anything… I was going to go to her apartment but, you know, things keep coming up.”

She looks as devastated as he feels. “Oh my god, Josh, she just left without any warning? That doesn’t sound like Donna, what do you think…”

“I don’t know,” Josh says quietly.

“Are you going to be okay?”

He laughs, but it is entirely without humor. “My assistant left without a word, there’s been yet another mass shooting in this country, all the major networks are discussing my mental illness, I’ve got a fairly hostile lawyer waiting in my office and charging me a thousand dollars for it, and I’ve been subpoenaed to appear in front of Congress tomorrow. Everything is just great.”

“Josh…”

“Go brief,” he says.

“I’m going to try and avoid the…”

“Go brief and tell the truth. Don’t worry about me.”

CJ squeezes his hand again. “Let me know if you need anything.”

December 4th, 2001

11:44 AM

“Sorry about that,” Josh says as he peeks into his office. “We’re dealing with a lot of stuff today. The news cycle from hell, as it were.”

“All looks the same on my bill,” Suzanne says with an insincere smile.

“It’s strange, they didn’t teach us how to be belligerent and inhospitable at Yale Law,” Josh remarks.

“Well then, you went to the wrong place.”

He puts a packet of photocopied papers on his desk in front of her. “As it turns out, there’s only a single copy of my file down in the basement; there’s supposed to be at least two, and they don’t let us take the last copy so I had to improvise.”

“Was the other copy the one that leaked?”

Josh shakes his head. “They had a new file made after that. This one… I’m not sure, I took it out to look it over when I needed to craft a statement, but I’m honestly not sure where it went.”

“You’re not very careful with this private information, are you?”

“Guess I didn’t feel the need to be when it’s already been made public,” Josh replies.

His lawyer takes the papers. “I’ll make some notes tonight. Now, let’s make a game plan, because boy do you need it.”

December 4th, 2001

8:11 PM

He can’t remember a longer day than this.

Sure, he’s had longer days than this many times. He’s no stranger to coming into work an hour before sunrise and leaving hours after sunset. But no day has felt longer.

The hangover from the night before is just one layer of his general misery, but it’s still making itself known, the pounding headache and nausea unabating. That pales in comparison, however, to the anguish of everything else. His meeting with his lawyer has made his blood pressure rise to what he’s sure are dangerous levels, trying to deal with the fallout of the shooting has overwhelmed him with memories he does not want to relive, and being without Donna… well, he can even describe what that’s doing to him, but it’s nothing good.

So he decides he’s finally had enough. It’s only eight, but he’s not realistically going to get anything done. Besides, tomorrow he has to face Congress, so tomorrow will be even longer.

But most importantly, he has to find Donna.

She’s been in the back of his mind all day, and there’s a part of him that regrets not immediately going to her apartment as soon as he realized she was gone, but he can’t worry about that now. His job has always come first.

Still, he’s not sure he can face seeing her alone.

“CJ,” he says quietly, poking his head into her office. “Is it safe here? No reporters?”

“You wouldn’t believe the number of reporters asking after you today,” CJ said. “Don't worry, I told them you weren’t open for comment. Some of them tried calling your office, but no one picked up the phone all day.”

“Because Donna was gone,” Josh says.

“You should at least get a temp.”

"I don’t want a temp, I want Donna.”

CJ puts down her pen and fixes her gaze on him, really taking him in. “I know. Did you need anything?”

“I’m uh… I want to go to Donna’s apartment. Try to talk to her. She won’t answer my phone, so I have to… but anyway, would you come with me?” The truth is, he’s not sure Donna will want to see him. He’s not sure if he’s ruined things between them irrevocably for a cause that he can’t recall. “You said you’ve got to pay her back for something, and I can’t…” he sucks in another breath and lets it out heavily in a feeble attempt to relax himself, “if she’s not there, I can’t face it alone.”

CJ stands up and picks up her bag. “Of course,” she says. “Just give me a minute. I’ll drive.”

December 4th, 2001

8:40 PM

“You all didn’t have to come,” Josh says, turning around to make eye contact with Toby and Sam in the backseat. CJ’s minute had taken longer than anticipated, but she had come back with a very determined Toby and Sam. Josh isn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or grateful.

“After I found you on the floor of the bathroom throwing up today?” Toby sounds sarcastic and flippant, but there is very real concern behind his words.

Sam stops short. “You were throwing up?”

“I was hungover,” Josh mutters, hoping that Toby hears his silent plea to not elaborate on what happened in the bathroom. “Those beers last night did me in.” He’s about to finish with Donna’s ‘sensitive system’ quip, but even just thinking that causes a pain in his chest that he knows isn’t physical.

“Anyway, it’s been a hell of a day, so we figured we'd crash your front stoop once we find Donna,” CJ says.

Josh frowns. “It’s December.”

“Or your living room.”

Josh tries to remember the last time he put laundry away, and shakes his head violently. “Front stoop it is.” They all can see what a mess he is, but they don’t need the visual reminder.

Miraculously, there’s a parking space open in front of Donna’s apartment, but Josh frowns as he doesn’t see her car anywhere.

“Do you want us to go up with you, or do you just want it to be you?” Sam asks.

“Uh… I guess it should probably just be me, if you guys don’t mind waiting down here. Anyway, she might not even buzz me up, so it doesn’t really…”

Sam reaches forward to squeeze Josh’s shoulder. “May as well get it over with.”

While Josh is suddenly griped with an intense fear of ringing that buzzer, he knows that Sam is right. That the longer he delays this, the worse it’s going to be. He opens the door, shivers in the November chill, and climbs the steps to the door of her apartment.

The buzzer at Donna’s apartment has an on and off relationship with doing the job that it’s meant to do, but mercifully it isn’t taped over today. Josh presses the button and puffs his cheeks out, as if that will help relax him or shield him from the cold.

He tries to say something, but the door opens before he can get a single word out.

Donna should really be more careful about who she lets into her building, but Josh can’t worry about that right now, not when he’s a couple of staircases away from making things right.

He races up the stairs, knocks on the door, and it opens.

It’s not Donna.

It’s a dark-haired woman wearing nothing but a lingerie robe and a full face of makeup. “Oh my god, you’re not Derek,” she says, pulling the robe tightly across her body. It must be Donna’s roommate, Josh reasons. He’s heard plenty of stories of her and her rotating crew of boyfriends.

Josh winces. “I’m uh… looking for Donna. Callie, right?”

Callie nods. “Donna left.”

“Like, left for the evening, or left for…”

She shrugs. “She left a few hours ago. She’s driving back to Wisconsin right now. Didn’t tell me why she was going, just said she’d keep paying her part of the rent and would be back at some point for the rest of her stuff.” The buzzer rings again, and Callie presses the button. “That would be Derek. Now if you’ll…”

Josh steps back, unable to keep staring at the door. His lips are moving but he can’t think of words to say, so he chokes out a "thank you,” and rushes back down the stairs, running into a very fit man who seems to have forgotten a shirt in the December chill.

Toby gets out of the car when he sees the door open. “Is she…”

Josh shakes his head; there aren’t words for him to say.

“Get in the car, we’ll figure it out,” Toby says, patting Josh’s shoulder. The touch reassures him in a way, although he’s still trying to process what he’s just heard. It’s as if his brain has frozen completely, turned to mush.

“She's not there?” CJ asks as Josh climbs in.

“She uh… went to Wisconsin, apparently. Didn’t tell her roommate why,” Josh manages to say, although he’s not entirely sure how he managed to even form those words. “It sounds like… it sounds like she’s gone for good.”

December 4th, 2001

9:12 PM

It’s freezing cold on his front stoop, and they’re all bundled in their warmest clothes, but Josh doesn’t want any of them inside his apartment, and none of them seem willing to leave him alone.

He can’t complain, really. How lucky is he to have friends like these? Still, a part of him just wishes they’d leave him alone in his misery.

“Do you all want some hot chocolate to drink?” Josh asks, as a pressing silence falls over them. No one really knows what to say, so he adds, “It’s probably a year old, but it’ll be warm.”

“Sure,” CJ indulges him. “That would be great, Josh.”

“Spike mine, would you?” Toby requests faux-seriously.

“After last night, I don’t think any of us should be getting drunk tonight,” Josh replies, trying to laugh. It’s hard though, because he still doesn’t remember what happened last night, and he’s almost certain that it had to do with Donna’s departure.

He makes a pot of watery hot chocolate and thinks of Donna using what was probably the same tin, making some for him right after his diagnosis. Almost a year, he thinks, and things might even be worse. Now he doesn’t even have Donna to help him through it.

Josh balances the four mugs in his hands and steps back out onto the stoop, handing a mug to each of his friends.

“She’s going to come back,” CJ says softly. “I promise you she will.”

Josh sits back down and takes a sip. “In my experience, when people leave they don’t usually come back."

Chapter Text

December 5th, 2001

10:00 AM

“State your full name, please.”

Congressman Bruno, the chairman of the committee, has a microphone that is just a little too loud, and feedback echoes through the chamber. Josh winces at the sound. There are so many people in the room, and yet it’s silent except for the chairman breathing heavily into his microphone.

“Joshua Lyman.”

“Identify counsel, please,” the chairman continues.

Josh takes a look over to the woman on his left. “Uh, Suzanne... Beasley, I believe. I may have gotten that wrong. We’re not very familiar.”

“You’re right,” she says, jotting down a few notes. She looks up and smiles tightly at the committee.

It’s not that Josh isn’t used to sitting in the midst of flashbulbs and cares and microphones—it’s just that he is unfamiliar with having them pointed at him. It’s the flashbulbs that really get him, bright lights and loud clicks that threaten to overwhelm his senses. He stares at the table in front of him, at his notes that he knows he’ll probably never reference, and grips the side of his chair until his knuckles are white.

“This has become a familiar process to most of us over the past few weeks,” the chairman begins, “so I’ll refrain from an extended opening statement, but as a matter of congressional record, I must answer the question: why are we here? What are we doing here? The committee, along with I presume the American population, was shocked and dismayed to hear that the President concealed his diagnosis of relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis from the public throughout primary and general campaigns for high office. While the release of such information is not necessarily a legal obligation, the fact that such a secret was kept from the American people in an age where the globalization of communications and the accessibility of information makes such a feat nearly impossible, is frankly, astounding. The committee is concerned that ethical or legal regulations have been broken in the process of ensuring this information did not come out. So our goal here today is to find out who knew what when, and ensure that the behavior of this campaign and administration has remained ethical. Mr. Lyman, thank you for appearing here today. You’ll be questioned first by the majority and minority counsel, and then each member will have five minutes, alternating between the majority and the minority. Mr. Calley? You may begin.”

Josh squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to block out the flashes.

“Mr. Lyman, my name is Clifford Calley,” he says, as if they’ve never meant, as if they hadn't met in a seedy suburban bar to make a deal, as if Calley isn’t the whole reason that he’s here. “I’m the majority counsel. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Josh manages to say. He hopes he isn’t glaring at Cliff too much, because right now it feels as if he wants to shoot lasers out of his eyes, but that likely wouldn’t go over too well on TV.

“Mr. Lyman, what is your current job title?”

“White House Deputy Chief of Staff.”

“And your previous job title?”

“Senior political director, Bartlet for America.”

“When did you first meet the President?” Cliff asks.

Josh shrugs. “At a VFW dinner in New Hampshire where he was speaking. Would have been November of… 1997, I believe.”

“You didn’t know him before that? Not when he was a representative?”

“I believe his final term might have overlapped with my time as a staffer for Congressman Brennan, but there are 435 members of the House of Representatives, as I’m sure you’re aware, and unless you share a committee or co-sponsor a bill, it’s not as if you get to know every single one of them.”

Suzanne gives him a look, but Josh chooses to ignore it. Deflection and sarcasm won’t endear him to the committee, sure, but they make him feel a little bit safer, a little bit more protected, so he figures they’re worth the bad will.

“So you never met President Bartlet while he was in the House?”

“I may have met with his staff once or twice to court a vote, possibly run into the man himself, but not in any meaningful capacity, no,” Josh says firmly.

“Prior to your work on the Bartlet for America campaign, what was your position?”

“I was a senior staffer for then-Senator John Hoynes,” Josh replies.

“Who was, at that point, the leading contender for the Democratic nomination.”

“Is that a question?” Suzanne asks before Josh can say anything. “As I recall, Mr. Calley, your job is to ask questions, not to comment on past primaries.”

“Fair enough,” Cliff says, raising his hand in acknowledgement. “Mr. Lyman, why did you leave the frontrunner for the nomination to go work for President Bartlet, a man you had never met before that month? How did that even cross your mind?”

“Uh… Leo McGarry asked me to come see Jed Bartlet speak. I was impressed with what he had to say,” Josh says.

“What he had to say made you decide to leave the frontrunner’s campaign to work on one that likely wouldn’t make it to Super Tuesday?”

“Again, hypothetical commentary,” Suzanne mutters into the microphone. 

Josh doesn’t wait for Cliff to correct himself, however. “He was unlike most other politicians I’d seen. He openly admitted he screwed over farmers in his state to ensure that children in poverty could buy milk. As an operative, I would have told him that’s political suicide, but as an observer I couldn’t help but admire his integrity. I could tell Jed Bartlet was the real thing, and even through all of this, I still think he is,” Josh says, and he hopes the President is watching. He might be bringing down the administration in other ways, but he can at least defend the man he admires so much.

“Integrity is worth that much to you? That you’d leave a practically guaranteed White House position for a nobody’s campaign?”

Josh shrugs. “Well, I now have a White House position, so I think it was a risk that worked out okay.”

Cliff seems satisfied with this, and leans back in his chair. “I’m going to hand it over to the minority counsel now, Mr. Chairman, although I request the opportunity to engage in follow-up questioning following further testimony.”

“Request granted,” Congressman Bruno says. “The questioning now goes to the minority counsel. Mr. Robinson? You may begin.”

December 5th, 2001

10:46 AM

“The committee recognizes the gentleman from Florida,” Congressman Bruno says, and all the eyes and cameras turn to David Fielding, congressman from Florida, second-highest ranking Republican on the committee, and perpetual pain in the ass of the White House. 

So far, Josh has been questioned by the minority counsel and Congressman Bruno himself, both full of easy, softball questions. He doesn’t necessarily like Bruno, but he can at least respect him, which is more than he can say for Fielding, who seems to have no sense of morality or empathy, simply a cutthroat and finely tuned sense of political gain.

“Mr. Lyman,” he starts, an almost gleeful tone to his voice, “when did you first find out that the President was diagnosed with this devastating and debilitating disease?”

“Did they ever teach you about the dangers of using strong adjectives in law school? Oh, that’s right, you never even made it through college,” Josh replies. Perhaps he shouldn’t taunt him, and he’s definitely not making his case any better by sounding elitist, but Fielding is fairly easy to knock off his game and he might be one of the more brutal of the questioners, so he’ll take any victory he can get.

Still, his comeback gets him a glare from the entire committee and also his own lawyer.

“Answer the question, Mr. Lyman,” the chairman says.

“He and Leo McGarry talked to me in the Oval Office," Josh says, “and informed me of his diagnosis.”

“And when, exactly, did you learn of this?”

April 25th, 2001

9:29 PM

“Josh, Leo needs you for a few minutes.”

Josh looks up, and surprisingly he sees Toby there. “Leo’s sending you to do all his fetching now?”

“No, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be in my office when you’re done,” he replies, sounding grim and serious. Toby always sounds grim and serious, but there’s a particular gravity to his expression today that unnerves Josh.

Josh nods and closes up his file. “Yeah, where does he want me?”

"In the Oval," Toby says. He puts a hand on Josh's shoulder, which is even more unnerving since Toby is never tactile like this.

“Thanks,” Josh says, and he practically jumps out of his seat, because the way Toby is going about this is just a recipe to make him especially anxious. Josh has always walked fast, but he practically jogs to the Oval, trying to think of what could possibly need his attention tonight. Is he going to get fired? As far as he knows, he hasn’t committed a fireable offense lately, although he’s never entirely sure. “Hi, Mrs. Landingham,” he says to the older woman sitting at the desk outside the office.

“You can go on in, Josh," she says. “The President recommended I offer you a cookie first, though.”

He reaches into the jar and takes one; it’s oatmeal raisin, which might have been disappointing except for the fact that Mrs. Landingham’s cookies never disappoint. “Thank you,” he mumbles through the crumbs.

He pushes open the door to the Oval to see the President and Leo sitting on the couch. “Josh, come on in,” President Bartlet says, his tone warm. “Take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir,” Josh says reflexively, as he slowly lowers himself to the couch across from them.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you here tonight.”

“You have made it rather suspenseful, I’m afraid,” Josh tries to joke.

“Did anyone see you coming here?" Leo asks.

Josh shrugs. “Toby told me to come, Mrs. Landingham saw me just now, and I guess Donna probably noticed that I left.”

“Okay. Just as long as you didn’t run into any reporters or anything.”

Josh frowns. “What is this about?”

“Well, I won’t delay this any longer than necessary; the crux of the matter is that eight years ago I was diagnosed with a relapsing-remitting course of multiple sclerosis.”

Josh blinks a few times. “Sir…”

“Well, I’ve never known you to be lost for words, Josh, I would think that…”

“Sir, what does this… what do you mean? What does this mean? Why are you telling me now?”

The President frowns. “You're a smart guy, Josh, surely you can understand why there might be some fallout from something like this.”

“Well… yes, of course. I mean I don’t… you know, I don’t know a whole lot about MS, but I just don’t understand…”

“Why now?” the president finishes. “Yeah, I’m wondering that myself. Toby figured it out, or he was on the verge of it anyway, and we’d come to the realization that…”

“Toby knows?” Josh asks. Suddenly what happened in his office earlier makes sense.

The president sighs and leans forward. “Yes. You are the 19th person to know. Toby’s a pretty smart guy, but there are other smart people who don’t like us nearly as much in this town, and they could probably figure it out too. So we’ve decided it's better to come clean.”

This is an enormous amount of information to process, and Josh frankly isn’t sure what to say. The president is sick, he’s been keeping it a secret for years, and it's something that is potentially damaging. Josh hardly trusts his emotions at the best of times, and this is anything but. His ears are ringing, and he can feel the tug of his mind trying to pull away from his body, but he takes a deep breath, digging his fingers into the cloth of the couch and feeling the fibers underneath his fingertips to ground himself. He turns to politics; that’s all he can do, because if he thinks too much about what he’s been told, he won’t be with them too much longer. “Sir, this could mean the end of your presidency.”

“I know.”

“Seriously, the minute this comes out, there goes any leverage we have with Congress. There goes education, there goes healthcare, there goes campaign finance reform…”

Bartlet shakes his head. “Josh, I’ve worked in politics for a good chunk of my life, you think I don’t understand the implications of this?”

“No, sir,” Josh says quietly, “but I think you’re being naive. You’ve put yourself in an impossible situation. If you had disclosed this at the start of the campaign, you might not have made it out of the primaries. If you disclose it now, you’re an ineffective, scandal-ridden lame duck. If it comes out from someone else, you’ve committed an impeachable offense and we get John Hoynes for President.” His voice is still even, still calm, and he’s not even sure how he’s doing it. He’s certainly not thinking these words. His mind is too fuzzy to think anything, and ye the political analysis just pours out of him like muscle memory. There’s something boiling in him, too, but it’s below the surface enough to appear as restraint.

The president nods soberly. “So, how do you think we go about this?”

“I’m not the guy you ask for statements, or consult on image,” Josh warns bluntly, defensively.

“No, but you know whether or not something will fly politically,” the President says. “So walk me through the political consequences, and we’ll figure out where to go from here.”

Josh’s head is spinning. The president is sick. The president lied. He’s going to tell the world that he’s sick. He’s going to tell the world that he lied. The president lied. The president lied. Josh can’t stop the internal monologue that runs through his head at lightning speed, even if he doesn’t register any of it, and he certainly can’t focus on telling the president what he should do. He’s managed enough so far, but he can feel his fingers tingling and his heart rate rising and his head feels like it might explode. He has to go before they have to pick pieces of him up off the floor of the Oval Office.

So instead, he stands up and nods. “Let me… uh, let me go think about it.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Leo says, and Josh wonders if Leo can sense how this whole think has thrown him off kilter. “Josh, you’ll need to meet with Babish first thing tomorrow morning, and it’s probably best if you do it before you say anything or give any advice. I’ll clear your schedule.”

“Is it that serious?” Josh asks. “Legally, I mean?” He hadn’t even thought about that part of things, of the fact that anything he says or does from now on could be an issue. For a second, he hates the president for telling him this. Things have been going better, but he’s not sure if another crisis will knock him down.

“It’s serious, but not fatal,” Bartlet says slowly, looking Josh in the eye. “Go ahead.”

Josh backs out of the room slowly.

It’s unreal, almost dreamlike. If he tries hard enough, he probably could convince himself that he made the whole thing up, that it’s simply part of his ability to catastrophize, that he’ll pinch himself and it won’t be real. Perhaps that’s why he isn’t panicking externally right now, why he didn’t explode on the president. Because this doesn’t feel real.

“You okay, kid?” Leo asks gently, and Josh almost jumps at the unexpected contact.

He swallows and nods. “Yeah.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re gonna get through this, okay?”

Josh hasn’t had time to make his own expert judgment on that statement, but he’s not certain he believes Leo.

December 5th, 2001

10:53 AM

“The committee now recognizes the ranking member. Congresswoman Leavitt?”

“Thank you Mr. Chairman. If I may, I have a statement prepared.” Elaine Leavitt sits at least a head shorter than Congressman Bruno, but her posture is flawless and her demeanor shows an aggression unmatched by anyone else in front of Josh.

“Proceed.”

“The voters have entrusted us with many duties, none of which I take lightly. We make the laws, we choose how to spend tax dollars, and we are entrusted to keep the other branches of government accountable. Well, I am a big believe in checks and balances, which is why I think this whole series of hearings makes a mockery of our sacred responsibility to the voters. These hearings are blatantly partisan grabs for political support, and tend to expand far beyond the scope of the investigation. We are not here for a free-for-all dig into the personal lives of people who work long hours for little pay to keep our country running, but you wouldn’t know that from the likes of some of you. Mr. Lyman, I have a single question for you. Did you participate in any illegal activities with the goal of concealing Jed Bartlet’s MS from the public.”

Josh blinks a few times, looking at her gratefully. “No.”

“That’s all the answer I need,” she says. “But I still have three minutes, so if you don’t mind, Mr. Lyman, I'm going to take all of it.”

He almost grins, although it’s restrained; there are several cameras on him. “That's up to you, Congresswoman Leavitt.”

Part of him wonders if she might have been better asking him questions to paint him in a sympathetic light, but he admires her spunk and he can’t help but appreciate what is almost a mini-filibuster as she continues to expound on the uselessness of the hearings.

If all people in Congress were like Elaine Leavitt, perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad.

December 5th, 2001

11:23 PM

“The committee recognizes the gentleman from Illinois,” Congressman Bruno says, and it’s Rathburn who sits up a little straighter.

“I'll skip my statement if it’s alright with you, Mr. Chairman,” says Rathburn. “Unlike some people, I have many questions to ask and would like to find justice somewhere in the course of these hearings.”

Josh watches Congresswoman Leavitt stiffen a bit at that and give an aggressive glare.
“Go ahead, Mr. Rathburn.”

He looks straight at Josh and for a moment, looks as if he is about to laugh. “Mr. Lyman,” he says, “I’ve had the opportunity to look over your Secret Service file as it was presented to the committee as evidence. There are certainly some interesting things in there, but what I’m curious about is a certain report. I’d like to take you back to December 19th of last year. Do you remember that date?”

“Not particularly, no,” Josh says, although he thinks he knows what’s coming. It’s not a question he’ll say yes to.

“Well, you had a meeting in the Oval Office with the President.”

“I do that frequently.”

Rathburn sighs. “This one was a little different, however. There’s a report from a Secret Service agent stationed outside the Oval. It claims that there was intense, heated yelling coming from inside the Oval. Coming from you. While he couldn’t make out the words, he noted that the lack of restraint was, and I quote, “highly concerning from someone with significant clearance and influence,” and that he was preparing to step in to protect the President when Leo McGarry pulled you out of the meeting.”

Josh sighs heavily. He knew this was coming. He knew it from the moment he handed the file over to Cliff. And yet he’s not sure he’s prepared to face it. “Is that a question connected to the investigation?”

“See, Mr. Lyman, upon reading that report, I suspected that the cause of your aggression was due to the reveal of some news that bothered you significantly. Now, unless this administration is hiding other significant secrets, the only thing of that magnitude I can imagine the meeting being about is the MS. I would not be surprised if you were that angry about it; I would be if I were in your position.”

Suzanne frowns. “Congressman Rathburn, that’s quite a leap of conjecture you’re trying to make there. I don’t believe that passes muster as a legal question.”

“Well then, here’s my question. Mr Lyman, what provoked the incident in the Oval Office?”

Josh sucks in air, trying to allow his lungs to expand as much as they can manage. This is it. This is the moment he’s been dreading for the last month. It shouldn’t be so bad, not when everyone already knows the answer. Everyone on this committee has read his file. Every person watching this on TV has heard the pundits on CNN. This is not news.

And yet there’s something different about him admitting it in front of everyone.

“I don’t remember,” he says. It’s the truth; those few weeks in December where he was in such a spiral are so fuzzy to him nowadays. He’s been told that’s normal, that PTSD often is related to memory loss, especially memories surrounding the trauma. But in a way it bothers him that he doesn’t remember, that his tipping point was something so arbitrary he can’t even bring it to mind now.

“You don’t… remember?” Rathburn asks, a look of mock surprise on his face. “I should think that it would be something important enough to remember, if it became that heated. Do you think that President Bartlet would remember the subject you were discussing?”

“Most likely. As much as you might fight to portray him otherwise, he’s still as sharp as ever," Josh retorts. Sarcasm is safe, and he hates this guy, so it’s easy enough to employ.

Rathburn clears his throat. “Mr. Lyman, I’ve found another interesting thing in your Secret Service file. I’m no detective, but if this incident were not related to the reveal of the MS, then I can only think of one other explanation. Five days after this report, you were diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. Is that correct?”

Josh swallows. Everyone knows this, so why is this so hard to admit? “Yes.”

“Was the incident related to this diagnosis? Did it occur while you were having a episode?”

There’s a part of Josh that wants to be snarky, that wants to lecture Rathburn on the way PTSD works and his misuse of terms, that wants to be defensive and scream at him, the part of him that wants to run up to the front and pummel the Congressman with no mercy. He restrains all those parts of himself, however. This is going to be a long hearing, especially now that they’ve turned this into a subject of investigation. But it does him no good to extend the topic, and he knows Rathburn’s time is just about up.

He takes a deep breath, waits as time seems to slow and then run out, the flashing light blinking to indicate the last few seconds of Rathburn’s time, and finally nods. Rathburn can’t ask him anything more, can’t follow up with that, but he’s done the damage he’s set out to do.

Josh looks up at the committee before him, clears his throat, and leans into his microphone, not breaking eye contact with Rathburn.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

December 5th, 2001

11:56 AM

“Seems a little early for an hourlong recess, don’t you think?” Josh says casually, leaning back in the chair in the room that’s been provided for them to recess in.

“Rathburn came out a little more aggressively than the other Republicans were planning on,” Suzanne says. “I think they want to regroup, figure out what the best way is to attack you without making you sympathetic.”

Josh chuckles and shakes his head. “Just what I like to hear,” he says. He’s surprisingly not feeling too cut up about this; he supposes the month of mental preparation he had for this reveal is helpful.

“The legal precedent for many of the questions I assume you will be getting after this recess is… questionable, at best. Your mental health is not the purpose of this investigation. Legally, there are very few questions on that topic that we couldn’t avoid answering. That’s the legal side of things. Now, I’m not a politician, but there’s that side to consider as well,” she continues.

“If I refuse to answer questions, it’ll look like I’m hiding something when I’m not,” Josh says succinctly. “I know how this works.”

“The fifth amendment is your right, but it may not be your best move as a politician.” 

Josh sighs heavily. He knows that Suzanne is right; he’s known it from the very start. He could get away with not answering any of the questions about himself on the basis of legal precedent, but politically that would make him look as if he was hiding something. He’s not going to be able to actually hide anything, since his file has been released, so politically it is to his benefit to tell the truth, defend, deflect, and ensure that people who do not understand might understand a little bit better. If he tries to take control of the hearings, he might find fairer representation in the media.

But that means he has to answer probing questions.

“So I should answer everything,” he says flatly. It’s not really a question.

Suzanne shrugs. “You can always fall back on the fifth amendment, but you may want to answer their questions so they can’t accuse you of obfuscation.”

Josh presses his lips together and stares out the window. There’s some gray, sleety mix of precipitation coming down outside, and even though the building is heated, he shivers. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Eat some lunch,” she says, pushing towards him sandwich that’s on the table. “You’re going to need it.”

December 5th, 2001

12:12 PM

“Next time we take a recess, let’s try to keep it brief,” Congressman Bruno says. “Unless we pick things up, this hearing is going to stretch out to another day, and I’d like to prevent that if at all possible.”

Josh would concur with that desire, but based on how many representatives have forcibly talked over their time limit so far, and the number of recesses taken, he holds little hope that this will al be over today.

“The committee now recognizes the gentleman from Iowa.”

Congressman Hastings nods. He’s certainly not the worst of the Republican contingent, but that doesn’t mean Josh is looking forward to his questions. “I think there is little to be said by me or others that has not already been said by my colleagues, so I will go straight to the questioning if that is alright.” At Congressman Bruno’s nod, he adds, “Let the record show an affirmative response. Now, Mr. Lyman, thank you for being here today. Obviously, the incident that Congressman Rathburn brought up is a concerning one and I think the committee and the nation as a whole would benefit from your transparency, if you are willing to work to with us.”

Josh meets eyes with Hastings. “I will be transparent for those who go about this honestly,” he says.

“Then I don’t think we’ll have any problems, Mr. Lyman,” Hastings replies. “I will concede that I have no expertise in psychiatry and that I am aware the field of mental health is widely misunderstood. I’m certain I’m not the only one on this committee who feels this way. So my question for you is rather broad; how do you think that your psychological disorder affects your work at the White House?”

That is a broad question, and Josh cringes at the many ways it could be misinterpreted or misrepresented. “I’d like to be very clear that I am not obligated to answer this question legally,” Josh says, looking her at Suzanne, who nods her approval, “but in the interest of setting the record straight, I will answer. It doesn’t.”

“It… doesn’t?” Hastings questions.

“I have been just as effective at my job after Rosslyn as before it,” Josh says. “If you’re trying to say that my behavior has been intense or my pursuit of this administration’s goals unrelenting, then I’m pleased to be able to tell you that I’ve been that way all along. Perhaps I haven’t leaned on you hard enough, or you would have noticed that by now.”

There's a low whistle from somewhere across the room, and Josh lets himself smirk a little bit. This is painful, of course, but the less he lets that show, the better. He's Bartlet’s Bulldog. Adopting that persona might protect him in here.

“Still, your behavior has apparently been a cause for concern, at least for the Secret Service,” Hastings says. “Are you concerned that may be consequential for the administration?”

“Again, if you provide an example of where you have noticed this affect my work, I may be able to expand on that, but since you have none, I think the only way this affects the administration is that it’s just another domino in your witch-hunt. It’s another mountain made out of a molehill. Whatever overused cliche I might use, the fact remains that my mental health has nothing to do with the job.”

He’s kind of enjoying this combative thing. He is, after all, a professional hostile witness.

Hastings sits back and nods. He’s reasonable, Josh reminds himself, and he’s not easily provoked. “I haven’t seen any evidence of anything out of the ordinary,” he says, “and again, I am no expert but I am concerned about the implications of pathologizing normal human behavior. I can see that my time is just about up, so I will hand it back to the chairman.”

Josh sighs in relief. If this is what he gets from the Republicans, it won’t be nearly as bad as what he expected.

“The committee will now recognize the gentleman from California.”

“That wasn’t so bad,” Suzanne whispers to Josh. “You’re doing good. You might get on their nerves, but you're answering the questions well.”

Josh puts his hand over his microphone. “I’m a professional at getting on their nerves,” he replies with a smirk. “This guy isn’t even getting the half of it.”

A fake, put-upon confidence can transform into real confidence, he reminds himself. Sure, it’s a persona he’s intentionally cultivated, but if he leans into that, things might go better. So he smiles and begins to answer the Democrat from California's questions with a smile and a swagger, hoping no one will notice the way the flashing lights of cameras cause him to jump or that there’s a soundtrack of siren songs playing in the back of his head.

December 5th, 2001

12:32 PM

“Mr. Lyman, as I’m sure you’re aware, I have been an advocate of more stringent psychological screenings for federal employees to keep our offices safe. After all, we only need to look at the tragedy yesterday in Seattle to be reminded of why this is a necessary step.” It’s Congressman Ryland this time—there are a lot of people on the committee that Josh doesn’t like, but Ryland may be his least favorite of them all—and he’s got a powerful smirk on his face.

Josh shakes his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.” He knows exactly what Ryland means, but he’s going to make him explain his weak reasoning.

“Well, I’m sure you heard that the perpetrator of the mass shooting at the VA was there to attend a therapy session, having been diagnosed with multiple mental health conditions, PTSD among them,” Ryland says. God, he is the most obnoxious, arrogant prick.

“There’s a little phrase people like to use in scientific research: correlation does not equal causation. Of course, since you don’t believe in science, I’m not sure you’ve heard that phrase before, but…”

“Congressman Ryland, Mr. Lyman, let's keep this a civil hearing please,” the chairman interjects as Ryland tries to sputter out a response. “Continue.”

Ryland reasserts himself, sitting up a little bit straighter. “You completed a psychological screening as part of the entry clearance process for the White House, is that correct?”

“It is,” Josh says warily.

“Before you were diagnosed with PTSD.”

“Well, that was before I got, you know, shot, so yes.”

Ryland raises an eyebrow in his obnoxiously condescending way. “Were there any red flags on that psychological screening?”

“Apparently not, because I do have unfettered access to the President,” Josh retorts.

“Should they have found something?”

Josh frowns. “I'm not sure why you think they should have.”

“Because the medical records in the file indicate that you sought treatment with a psychologist multiple times prior to the start of the administration, with the greatest frequency occurring during the transition,” Ryland says.

Shit. He hadn’t even thought about that being in his file. This had been the very reason he’d stopped seeing a therapist initially, only going back the once when the NSA card had rendered him practically incapable of functioning until he worked through why it bothered him so much. He hadn’t wanted any of that to come out.

Josh takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to have to talk about this, not in front of everyone, but it seems he has little choice. “I uh… I lost my father very suddenly during the campaign. We were very close, and I didn’t exactly have time to process his passing, so I sought counseling when I was struggling with the grief again. I wasn’t diagnosed with anything, and I’m pretty sure seeking healthy ways to process grief is a sign of maturity and not at all a red flag.”

Ryland frowns. “Still, who’s to say you didn’t share classified secrets with any of the therapists you’ve seen since assuming office?”

“I think you could talk to any of the therapists I’ve seen since assuming office and they will tell you I’ve specifically avoided classified topics. Of course, they wouldn’t tell you this, because confidentiality is part of their ethical obligation, as well as legal because I’ll remind you there’s something called HIPAA. As I recall, you voted against it.” Ryland opens his mouth, but Josh holds up a hand. “Don’t give your reasoning, you’ll just make yourself look stupid.”

“Again, Mr. Lyman, please attempt to engage in some civility,” Congressman Bruno says. Josh wants to retort, his fight-or-flight reflex learning far more towards fight at the moment, but he manages to keep his mouth shut. Ryland is one thing, but disrespecting the chairman will make his life significantly harder.

“All I’m wondering, Mr. Lyman,” Ryland continues, “is if you were to honestly complete a psychological screening for this job today, would you be cleared for the position that you currently hold, for the clearance and privileged access you possess? If my bill for more stringent screenings passes, I can assure you that you would not. I can see the light blinking, so I will give the floor back to the chairman, but I urge the committee to consider these concerns.”

Josh doesn’t get a chance to respond.

December 5th, 2001

1:29 PM

“Mr. Lyman, what does it look like when you’re experiencing symptoms of PTSD?” Congresswoman Sindelar asks.

The hearings have really gotten off track; Josh isn’t sure he’s had a single question related to the President or to the MS in the last hour. If he had flatly refused to answer any questions that were irrelevant, perhaps he could have been done with this hearing already. And yet he so desperately needs to set the record straight, to explain what he’s been through so that people will understand and so that maybe he’ll have a career when all of this is over. 

“It doesn’t really look like anything; it’s more about what I’m feeling. Sometimes it’s flashbacks, where I feel like I’m reliving the shooting, although those are very infrequent anymore. More often it’s a kind of panic, where I feel physical symptoms, like my chest getting tight and my blood pressure rising. But even that is rare,” he says, and he hopes it’s not a lie.

“So theoretically, you could be having an episode in the Oval Office and the President would not know?” Sindelar asks.

Josh chuckles. “Sometimes I wish that were the case. Jed Bartlet is a perceptive man; he usually notices when something is off.”

“But theoretically…”

“Theoretically, I could have an episode unrecognizable by the casual observer, yes,” Josh says quickly.

Congresswoman Sindelar frowns. “That seems like a liability considering your significant clearance and how closely you advise the president.”

“I wouldn’t consider myself to be a liability, ma’am. I have never had an issue. You’ll notice that despite what you found in the Secret Service file, there has never been a call for a review of my clearance; once they were informed of the circumstances of the incident in the Oval Office in December, and aware that I was receiving treatment, they had no further concern.”

“And what treatment did you receive?”

Josh sighs heavily. “I had weekly therapy, and was prescribed anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications. That’s all there in the file.”

“Had? Do you no longer receive treatment.”

“No, ma’am,” Josh says, and it is with great relief that he says that.

“Then are you cured?”

He has to choose his words carefully, but perhaps this will get the media off his back. Perhaps this will be the story. “There’s no cure, but I have very few symptoms anymore even having stopped medication and therapy, so I think I can safely say that I’ve gotten better.”

As long as he ignores what he’s felt the last few weeks… but no one on the committee knows about that.

He tries to smile, although he's worried it might look more like a grimace.

“Thank you Mr. Lyman. I suppose my time is up.”

December 5th, 2001

3:13 PM

“The committee recognizes the gentleman from Michigan. Mr. Gibson?”

Gibson’s a problem, Josh knows, but it’s more what he has on Leo that’s worrying. Still, Josh can’t help but shudder slightly in anticipation of what he will ask.

“Mr. Lyman, I’m sure you can understand why many of us on the committee are frankly, quite concerned about this recent revelation. It points to a pattern of the Bartlet administration hiding significant issues from the public. Which is why I would like to know why you decided to hide your diagnosis?”

Josh blinks a few times in confusion. “I didn’t… hide my diagnosis.”

“You didn’t tell anyone about it,” Gibson says.

“I’m a private citizen, not an elected official. The public isn’t necessarily entitled to information about anyone’s health, but I cannot comprehend in what universe they would be specifically entitled to mine.”

Gibson frowns. “Between McGarry’s alcoholism and your…”

“Please don’t bring Leo into this,” Josh interrupts.

“You can talk about Mr. McGarry all you want at his hearing in a few weeks,” Suzanne adds.

Gibson settles back in his chair. “Very well. It’s unfortunate that this administration does not seem to value transparency…”

“I would like to point out, for the record, that I have answered every question asked of me despite having no legal obligation to do so in the interest of transparency and as a way to set the record straight,” Josh retorts.

“Perhaps you can be a little more transparent with us then, Mr. Lyman, and elucidate for us what exactly the severity of this condition is. You seem to be trying to paint it as no big deal, and yet if the Secret Service felt the need to get involved, there is clearly cause for concern. How severe was it then? How severe is it now? There’s one question I will ask that might help me and the rest of the committee understand better, and I apologize for the sensitivity of it.” His voice indicates that he is hardly apologetic at a ll.  Gibson takes a lingering glance around the room, clears, his throat, and begins his question. “Mr. Lyman, were you at any point suicidal?”

January 3rd, 2001

9:20 PM

Maybe it was a mistake to schedule so many meetings the afternoon after his first appointment with his new therapist. Josh tends to find distraction a useful coping mechanism, but having to meet with three different lobbyists and two senators this afternoon seems to have drained him beyond his capacity. His office is dark but he can’t be bothered to stand up and turn on the light; the cold has made his side stiff and achy and his healing hand still stings with a vengeance, especially since he ran out of the prescription painkillers and is trying to dull the pain with Tylenol.

He had forgotten just how draining therapy is, just how far into himself he has to dig to answer the questions that are asked of him, just how much mental energy it takes to try and delve into his issues and figure out solutions. It’s a good thing and he needs it, but for someone who’s used to pushing through, it’s very disconcerting just how much it takes out of him.

So he has elected not to move. Maybe he won’t leave this chair all night. That would be fine, except it probably wouldn’t be because he’d mess up his back so bad he won’t be able to walk the next morning. As it turns out, getting shot screws up your body on many, many levels, and it’s frustrating that the things he used to shake off easily now torment him for a long time, or the things he used to be able to do without a second thought can be so difficult. He had expected the physical frailties to disappear once he was pronounced fully recovered and allowed to go back to work, but much to his frustration, he hasn’t quite bounced back. He’s starting to come to the conclusion that he probably never will.

There’s a knock on his door, and it takes all that is in him not to groan. “Come in,” he mutters.

Donna peeks her head in. “Hey, everything okay?” She lingers in the doorway, as if there’s some sort of invisible line holding her back from approaching him.

“Sure,” he says, reaching for his water bottle to take a drink and wincing as his wounded hand makes contact with it.

“Can I… come in?” she asks, tiptoeing towards him.

He sighs. He really doesn’t want to be around anyone right now, but he supposes Donna is the exception. In those long three months he spent recovering, there was not a single instance where he wished she would go away. “Yeah,” he says, putting the water bottle back down gingerly.

Donna gives him a tight smile and shuts the door behind her. “How’s it going?”

Josh shrugs. “Fine.”

“How was therapy?” she asks tentatively. “Did you like the new guy?”

“Not as much as Dr. Keyworth, but I suppose I’ll get used to him,” he replies offhandedly. “It’s fine, I know it’s good I’m going and I know I need it, but it’s just... I don’t know, I’m still kind of coming to terms with this thing. I’ve been in and out of therapy all my life, but now… now I have this diagnosis hanging over me, and it’s not a quick or easy fix, and that’s hard,” he says. He's surprised he shared that much information with her, but there’s something about Donna that makes him open and vulnerable.

“I can see that,” she says softly. “Did you figure out a schedule?”

“I’m going to go twice a week for the first month, and then apparently we’ll see how I'm doing and reevaluate from there.”

She nods, reaching backward to the wall to turn on the light that he’s been ignoring since the sun set. “Good, good." She stares at her hands, enduring a pregnant silence, before finally saying, “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Donna, I don’t think I need to list for you the number of insanely personal things you’ve done for me this past year,” Josh deflects.

“No, it’s just… god, this is so hard to ask, but I keep thinking about it and worrying about it. But if you’re not comfortable sharing, or if it’s too much, or anything then don’t worry about it, but I just…”

Josh shakes his head. “Donna, you’re stressing me out with this.”

“Sorry, I…” she closes her eyes, unable to face him fully. “When you put your hand through the window, did you… were you trying to kill yourself?”

He blinks a few times. The question itself isn’t even shocking—every therapist he’s talked to has asked him in one form or another—but he’s not sure what to think about it coming from Donna. He’s not sure what to say.

The truth is, he doesn’t know. That’s not the answer Donna is looking for, but that’s what he has.

“I… I told Stanley I wasn’t, that I wasn’t suicidal,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t think that was going through my head at that moment.”

“So you’re not… you weren’t suicidal? I’m sorry, I know it’s… I’ve just been so worried about it, you know, and…”

Josh bites his lip. “I’ve never really thought about it. Like sure, there are days I wonder about it, where I wonder if the people around me would be better off if I weren’t there, if things might be easier that way, but that’s a thing most people wonder about, right?”

Donna stares at him, her big, sad doe eyes fixed on him as she shakes her head. “Josh, that’s not normal.”

“I never had a plan or anything, or even considered it, really. Just the vague sense that if things got too bad, it might be an option,” he says, and while he feels very calm, it doesn't escape his notice the way his voice is strangled.

“Josh, you need to tell your therapist that.”

“What, so I can get locked up in a mental hospital? I can just imagine the headlines now.”

“Josh…”

He lets out a heavy breath and stares at the desk. “I swear to you, Donna, it hasn’t gotten that far. It won’t. It’s just… two times in my life, I really should have died and yet somehow I survived. I think sometimes my mind and body know that, somehow they think I’m in the wrong place, that there’s been an accident and I really should be dead. So when I get that thought, it can be kind of hard to make it go away. But I don’t act on it, Donna, I never have, and I’m never going to. And when the thing with the window happened, I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinking about that at all. I wasn’t really thinking at all, I just… maybe I thought that maybe the physical pain would make the noise in my head stop. That’s it.” He shrugs. “I’m okay now, Donna, I really am, and I don’t even think like that very often. Ever, really. That’s not what I’m thinking now, okay?”

She looks as if she's trying to hold back tears and Josh suddenly wishes he hadn’t turned on the light, that he hadn’t decided to share all of it with her. He should have just said no and moved on. But it’s almost a relief to get that off his chest, as it’s been something he’s felt so alone in feeling.

“I know that’s not really reassuring,” he continues, “but I’m okay. I’m going to be okay. And I have discussed it with my therapist. They always have to ask and so... it's really okay now.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” Donna whispers. "I know it’s hard to talk about, but I…"

Josh reaches out and puts his hand on top of hers. “It's okay, Donna. You can ask me anything.”

“I’m here for you, you know. If you need anything,” she replies.

“Thank you. You ready to go home? I am drained today,” he says, trying to push himself up out of his chair.

“Home sounds good,” Donna replies, and she tries to force a smile. “Thank you for sharing with me. I know it’s hard…”

“It is,” he interjects, “but not so much when it’s with you.”

December 5th, 2001

3:16 PM

He had been doing so well all day. He had been full of acerbic retorts, he had kept his head on straight, and he hadn’t felt any of the symptoms he’s struggled with in the past coming on throughout the whole process of the hearings.

And yet something about Gibson’s question gets to him.

It’s not as if his answer is going to be bad. He isn’t, nor has he ever been actively suicidal. It’s a little more complicated than that, of course, but he could easily say no and be telling the truth.

It’s not the question, really. It’s the memory it brings up. It’s making him think about Donna, and how she’s gone.

The only person he’s ever talked to about this, aside from his various therapists over the years, is Donna. She’s the only one who knows, the only one who understands, and the only one he actually wants to talk to about any of this. He definitely doesn't want to discuss with Congress, with half the country watching on C-SPAN.

He can feel his chest begin to tighten and his ears begin to ring, tell-tale signs that things are about to get worse. Take a deep breath, he tells himself. He rubs the inside of his wrist, a trick that doesn’t usually seem to work but one he figures he might as well try. 

Before his eyes can start watering, he leans over to Suzanne. “I’m going to answer this, but can we get a recess after?”

“I can try my best," she replies. “Are you okay?” It’s the most humanity he’s seen from her this entire time, and it almost makes him laugh.

“I’m fine, I just… I need to get out of here for a little while.”

“I’ll try and get it concluded for the day.”

Josh uncovers his microphone and looks Gibson in the eye. “No, I was not suicidal,” he says shakily. “I fail to see what that has to do with my job, or with the President.”

“An indication of a lack of inhibition, perhaps?” Gibson replies, and Josh has never wanted to punch anyone more.

“The answer to your question is no,” Josh says, hoping he sounds steadier than he feels. His hands are beginning to shake. He misses Donna and he’s not sure why it’s so acute at the moment.

“Mr. Gibson, your time is up,” the chairman says.

“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman," Suzanne interrupts, “There are still nearly twenty members of Congress who have yet to go. At our current rate, that would result in this hearing being finished late at night. I will remind you that Mr. Lyman has not requested a recess this entire time, while nearly every member of this committee has, and motion that we table this hearing for the day and pick it up tomorrow morning, as it will inevitably extend until then anyway.”

Congressman Bruno stares her down, and then takes a look at Josh. Perhaps he can see just how antsy Josh has become, how he’s practically jumping out of his skin, and maybe he takes pity on him. “Very well. Thank you for your appearance today, Mr. Lyman; we will pick this up tomorrow morning at ten sharp.”

“Thank you,” Josh whispers. He stands up and ignores the onslaught of flashing cameras the way reporters are trying to crowd around him and ask him questions. He has to focus on leaving or he will break down in the middle of them, and there’s nothing that terrifies him more.

Thankfully, the reporters have the good grace not to follow him into the nearest bathroom, where he goes to stand with his back against the wall and squeeze his eyes shut and try to swallow down the anxiety that is welling up within him. Why did that question trouble him like that? He doesn’t want to die, he knows that. He’s doing his best to take care of himself, to work on getting better, and to live his life to the fullest. That’s not his problem. There are very few things he’s certain of, and maybe this time last year he wouldn’t have been so sure of it, but a year of therapy has at least helped him in that respect, even in the face of something like this.

Maybe it’s not the question so much as the associated memory. Maybe it’s the fact that it got him thinking about Donna again. He still hasn’t had time to process the fact that she’s gone. She just left yesterday. He’s barely made it a single day without her.

He’s angry, too. Angry at Gibson for thinking that was an appropriate question to ask, angry at every single person who helped make this mess, angry at Donna for leaving, and most of all angry at himself. He’s not sure for what, but he’s tired of feeling like this.

Maybe he does need to go back to therapy. Maybe his mother is right and he needs to quit for the sake of his sanity.

Or maybe he just needs the soundtrack of sirens to stop playing in his head.

Chapter Text

December 5th, 2001

4:29 PM

He goes back to the office. For whatever reason, he goes back to the office, even though he doesn’t want to have to talk to anyone and he certainly doesn’t want to see Donna’s empty desk, not when the very idea of her being gone has him panicky and sweaty.

Maybe he goes back because he’s hoping against hope that Donna will be there. That she will have changed her mind and driven back from Wisconsin, that she will have sensed just how much he needs her. It’s not realistic, he knows that, but he feels his heart sink when he sees her empty desk anyway. Leo told him they’d get him a temp, but Josh has refused so far; if he accepts that, it’ll be proof that Donna really is gone. It’s not as if his office is going to get anything done this week anyway, so he’ll put off that for as long as possible.

There are some things he needs to pick up and take a look at; it’s almost reassuring to know that the business of government did not stop to watch him feel naked and exposed in front of Congress. There are six new bill proposals he has to look at, three new reports, and about a thousand phone messages that normally Donna would have gone through and screened, just giving him the important ones.

He guesses he’ll have to deal with that, at least until Donna gets back.

It’s a pipe dream to think that he’d be able to come back to the office without running into anyone, without talking to anyone, without getting weird stares from his employees who doubtless have been watching his torture on TV all day. He manages to get all the way to his office without a conversation, but when he opens up the door to his office, his hopes of solitude are dashed.

At least it’s CJ who is sitting at his desk. Of all people, he can deal with her today.

“Joshua!” she says brightly, as if she hasn’t intently watched everything go down today.

“What are you doing in my office?”

“Hiding from reporters,” she replies pertly, picking up a stack of papers.

Josh frowns. “That’s… kind of part of your job description.”

“Yeah,” CJ says, “but I told them I’d talk to them in the press room and they kept trying to come to my office. Apparently they’re quite fascinated by you.”

“Oh god,” Josh murmurs.

CJ sighs and stands up. “I’m trying to keep the wolves away Josh, I really am, but there’s only so much I can do. It’s getting a lot of media attention. I know you said you didn’t want to do this, but…”

“I don’t want to go on 60 Minutes and cry and beg for sympathy,” he replies derisively. “I  don’t want any of this attention, and I especially don’t want it for this reason.”

“You could stand to be a little more sympathetic.”

Josh tilts his head to the side and raises a defensive eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You’re doing your whole hostile witness thing. You’re combative, you're acerbic, and maybe that works to make Congress look cruel and stupid, but it doesn’t work to make you look sympathetic. You didn’t talk about Rosslyn at all, and I…

“I wonder why I didn’t talk about Rosslyn,” Josh interrupts, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I wonder why I didn’t bring up the details of what it felt like to be shot, the hell that was my recovery. I wonder why I didn’t launch into all of that unprovoked.”

“Josh, I get it.”

“You can’t possibly…”

CJ blinks a few times, unable to meet his eyes. “You weren’t the only one who suffered that night. I mean, obviously you suffered the worst out of all of us, but we all… I can’t even tell you how terrified I was that night. It’s frightening enough to be shot at, and then we almost lost you, which was the most frightening part of all. I get why you don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t think any of us ever will. But for the sake of the administration, you might have to.”

He looks down at the floor. “They’re not going to ask me questions about it. At least the Republicans aren’t. They want to steer clear of the fact that I have this diagnosis because of Rosslyn, because you’re right, it does make me look more sympathetic.”

“You might have to bring it up, then,” CJ says. “Bring the conversation back to it. Do your best to point out that the President was also shot, and still went back to work a week later; not too bad for a guy they’re trying to present as frail and incapable of his job.”

Josh sighs. “I know, it’s just… CJ, I almost had a panic attack right there in front of Congress. I can’t do that. I really can’t do that. And the more I have to talk about that, the more likely it is.”

“I know,” CJ says, “so the other best option is to do an interview.”

He sighs heavily. “Maybe the pundits will be kind tonight.”

“Unlikely,” CJ says, “but I’ve got my people watching every news show known to man tonight to check in. Are you staying this evening?”

Josh shrugs. “I’ve got stuff to catch up on.”

“Take it home,” CJ says. “And don’t turn on the TV. I’ll get you an update on things later tonight.”

There’s a part of him that wants to watch the political shows tonight; it’s hard not to watch a train crash, especially when you’re the reason for it. But he knows CJ is right. He’s already in a precarious enough space today, and fueling an already burning anger could put him over the very thin edge that he’s on.

“Thank you,” he says. “Did Leo want to see me?”

“Leo wants you to go home, read those files, and get a good night’s sleep. As does the President. As do we all,” CJ replies. “And ask a security guard if they’ll walk you to your car. I don’t want you getting mobbed. I’m sure you’ve had enough of that today.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t actually talked to any reporters,” he says, cracking something that could be a grin if you squinted hard enough.

“I’ve trained you well. Talk to you later,” she says, and before he can pick up the files and leave, she engulfs him in a hug.

CJ’s hugs are always warm and reassuring. Maybe it’s her height—Josh isn’t used to hugging people taller than he is—or maybe it’s just the fact that he knows she’s doing it out of genuine love. Either way, it’s an immense relief to bury his head into her shoulder for a second and breathe out.

She’s not Donna, but at least she’s still here.

December 5th, 2001

5:20 PM

It was a fantasy to think he could concentrate, to think he could be productive. Josh has never particularly struggled with focus—in fact, sometimes he focuses too much and forgets to do things like eat or sleep—but it’s almost impossible to focus tonight.

His apartment is much the same as it was when Donna came over, but the trash has had a few more days to build up and start overflowing, so there’s a rather unpleasant smell that wafts over to his living room every once in a while. He should take it out. He should really clean this whole place up, or at least hire someone to do it. Donna had hired someone when he got home from the hospital, claiming that while she was willing to help take care of him, she wasn’t willing to be his maid. Josh’s apartment had never been cleaner. He supposes he could call again, see if the house cleaner would be willing to come back, but Donna was the one who had set it all up, back when when simply dialing a number on the phone zapped all of his energy, so he’s really not sure where to start.

He supposes he could call Donna.

He wants to call Donna. He desperately wants to call Donna. He needs to hear her voice, hear from her, draw strength from her like he has in everything since last August. He needs to apologize, although he still can’t remember what he said or did that night. He knows it was something awful. Something bad enough for her to leave.

It’s a curse, forgetting. He’s been told a few times to expect a kind of selective amnesia, especially with things surrounding the trauma. Unfortunately, remembering is also a curse; you’d think selective amnesia would erase the most torturous of memories and not the memories that he actually needs.

He would feel guilty about something he doesn’t even remember, wouldn’t he?

Before he can think about it any further, Josh picks up the phone and dials Donna’s number. He knows very few numbers off the top of his head—he usually makes Donna look them up—but hers is one of them.

Ring.

He’s not usually an angry drunk, he knows that much. He gets sleepy and loopy and can’t walk straight after a few drinks, but he doesn’t yell or break things or hurt people. Then again, he hasn’t had whole lot of drinks in the last year; he’s had so many medications that he couldn’t mix with alcohol, and then he had been so scared of revealing his secret, revealing what really happened with Donna’s diary. So maybe that night he was an angry drunk.

Ring.

He wonders how she would react to all of this if she knew the truth. Would she be angry that he made a deal behind her back? Or would she be grateful and relieved that he prevented the subpoena of her diary and an indictment for perjury? Maybe it should be the latter, but Donna tends to get upset about principles. This was really better for both of them, he reasons; either way, if Donna’s diary was subpoenaed his diagnosis would come out, but then she might go to prison. He couldn’t protect himself, but he could protect her. Would that make her angry if he framed it that way?

Ring.

Her note had been so cryptic. I hope you can forgive me. So maybe it wasn’t something he did, but something she did? What could she have done? He knows she didn’t give his file to the committee—that was on him—but did she know that the diary was connected? That her night with Cliff was the catalyst for all of this? She couldn’t possibly have put that together, right? Or perhaps she was just asking for forgiveness for leaving. But then again, that doesn’t tell him why she left. Or whether he can have a hope of her coming back.

Ring.

Her phone goes to voicemail. No answer. Josh begins to say something, and then thinks better of it. He doesn’t know what he could say, except to ask her to come back. That wouldn’t be convincing.

Josh settles back against the couch cushions, grimacing against the sudden sick feeling that floods his body. He’s very familiar with legitimate physical pain, but the way his body reacts to his emotions is almost as cruel. His stomach tears itself from the inside out, his chest feels like there’s an elephant sitting on top of it, and his head pounds with a vengeance, all because his brain decided to interpret something as a threat. He’s so tired of it.

He picks up one of the files sitting on his coffee table and tries to read it, but the words all blend together and he’s pretty sure he’s never heard of a single term in the document before. There’s no chance this reading will get done, not tonight.

The thought of eating something turns his already hurting stomach, but he knows it’s not a real pain, just another less than enjoyable effect of the anxiety that is overwhelming him, so perhaps if he eats, things will be better. His fridge, unsurprisingly, is practically empty; he can’t really remember the last time he went grocery shopping. The freezer is similarly bereft, although there’s a tub of ice cream. It’s mint chocolate chip. Donna’s favorite flavor, not his. It must be pretty old, he figures, since she would have bought it and left it here when she was still practically living here during his recovery. Still, she’s certainly not going to come back for it, not now that she’s gone, and it’s something with calories, so he pulls it out of the freezer and grabs a spoon.

Josh seats himself on the couch again and points the remote to the TV, turning on CNN, where he’s met with a clip of himself from the hearing.

He shouldn’t watch this, but it’s as if he can’t look away.

December 5th, 2001

7:53 PM

The container of ice cream is empty. He doesn’t even like mint chocolate chip—it tastes like toothpaste—but somehow he’s eaten the entire thing. It hasn't settled his stomach at all; in fact, the churning is more violent than ever and now there’s a physical explanation beyond his emotional turmoil. The ice cream leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth and the smell reminds him of Donna.

Then again, everything reminds him of Donna.

He’s tried to call her three more times, but there’s been no answer. The last time, it only rang once before going to voicemail, and Josh wonders, painfully, if she might have gone ahead and blocked his number.

There’s a glass of scotch in front of him now, his second of the night. The TV is still playing, the programming an intimate look at the madness of Josh Lyman. He really is mad, he thinks, because he’s switched from CNN’s tacit disapproval and concern to an outright assault on his character and sanity over on Fox News. He's done this to himself.

He did all of this to himself.

He reaches forward and takes another drink, feeling the alcohol burn as it goes down. The light catches on the glass, pulling his focus, and he can’t help but look at the scars on his hand. They’ve faded over the last year, more white than red now, subtle enough that someone who wasn’t looking for them might not notice, but he notices. Of course he notices. They’re certainly not as dramatic as the scars on his chest, but the self inflicted nature makes them almost more painful to consider.

Fox News goes to commercial after featuring an irrelevant congressman who's not even on the committee ranting about how the shift away from inpatient treatment for mental health issues is the biggest cause of crime increases in the US. He’s absolutely wrong (because first of all, crime has been on a steady decrease, not to mention that people with mental illness are more likely to be the victims of a crime than to commit one) but Josh barely even has the energy to yell at the TV.

He knows he’s on edge, but he's shocked by just how much the first commercial they show jars him. It’s an advertisement for a Christmas performance at some megachurch, with the soundtrack of a loud and not particularly impressive choir almost drowned out by a brass-heavy orchestra playing a Christmas song that Josh can’t quite identify. He’s probably too Jewish to know it, but more than that, the tune is indistinguishable. The trumpets grate on his ears, and sound more like sirens than anything else.

He feels a stinging pain in his chest, in the fifth intercostal space, and he reaches to touch it, half expecting to feel his hands come away bloody. They don’t, and the pain stops for a moment, but then it hits him again, taking his breath away. The sirens are getting louder, closer, and if he closes his eyes, he knows he won’t be in his apartment anymore.

Josh knows, intellectually, what this is. It’s not like last year, when he didn’t have a clue what was going on inside him. He knows that music can be a trigger for him (although he thought he’d worked through that), and he knows that his brain is wired for the worst possible kinds of stress responses, and he knows that the pain isn’t real, and he knows he’s not going to find blood, but he’s still overwhelmed by it all. Knowing something and believing it are two entirely different beasts.

He can’t find the remote to turn off the TV (how can this commercial be so long?), and he can’t focus enough to get the presence of mind to look for it, but somehow he manages to push himself off the couch, and take the last swallow of his scotch. His eye catches the window; it still looks new, visibly different from the others, a reminder of what happened before. It’s been a year, and there’s still a voice in the back of his head telling him to put his hand through it. That would make things quiet. It worked last time.

Josh steers himself away. He wants to—god, he wants to, if it’ll make the sirens stop and take away the stinging pain that keeps hitting his chest—but he can’t show up to his hearing tomorrow with another badly bandaged hand, with another confirmation that he’s not all there. He makes his way to the kitchen, where he can’t see the window. Where he can’t be tempted.

The second drink is really going to his head, and so his balance is unsteady, his feet seeming to move under him aside from his will. His glass is still in his hand, but it’s shaking violently. The music is long gone, but the sirens are getting closer. He hopes they’re not coming for him.

His perception of time doesn’t allow him to really understand what happens next, but somehow when he makes it to the kitchen. He is holding his glass, the grip tight and bloodless, and then it drops.

Time slows. It’s almost as if he watches the glass fall to the floor in slow motion, the sirens screeching in the background.

His glass, a nice one that his dad gave him for his 21st birthday in hopes that he’d drink something better than cheap beer, falls to the ground and shatters, broken glass and the remnants of scotch coating his kitchen floor. There's a loud crash, and then everything is quiet.

Everything is quiet for just a second.

Josh lets out a shuddering breath as he looks at the destruction, blinking quickly because he thinks there might be tears coming, although he can’t feel them. He loses the quiet, hearing a siren again that he can’t quite pinpoint the reality of, but there’s an anger burning inside him that’s surfacing, and suddenly one glass isn’t enough. He opens his cabinet and pulls out another glass, throwing it on the floor with as much strength and anger as he can muster. Then another, then another, until all that’s left is plastic and metal. His kitchen floor is covered in shattered glass, and he’ll certainly lose his deposit over all the denting, and his super will have yet another story about his insane tenant, but he opens up the next cabinet and begins to pull out the plates. They shatter less satisfyingly, breaking into large pieces, but it’s loud enough to stop the sirens.

It’s also loud enough to not hear the knock on the door.

He’s not very good about locking his door when he’s home, and his friends got used to letting themselves in, especially when he was in recovery and getting up to open the door was an almost impossible feat, so it shouldn’t be shocking that someone can just come in.

He’s holding another plate, about to throw it down on the floor, when he hears a voice that makes him stop in his tracks.

“Oh my god, Josh!”

It’s CJ, standing there on the edge of his kitchen, her eyes wide. Her mouth would be agape if she weren’t covering it with her hands.

He freezes, the plate still in a vice-grip.

Josh watches as CJ takes it all in. The broken glass littering the floor, his frenzied state, Fox News playing at a high volume in the background. And suddenly he’s back to reality. The sharp pain is gone, and the sirens are only barely audible, and he’s overwhelmed by a crushing sense of horror and guilt.

He surveys his floor with disdain. “I guess I need some new dishes,” he says quietly. It’s all he can say. He doesn’t have an explanation, or an excuse, or anything. He just needed things to quiet down again, and destruction can quiet by overwhelming.

He’s never seen CJ cry, or at least he doesn’t remember seeing her cry (she probably has around him, but that has been consigned to oblivion thanks to morphine), but there are tears in her eyes now. “Are you hurt?” she asks, her voice choked and tight.

He looks down at himself and shakes his head. “I’m okay.” Physically, at least. He didn’t put his hand through a window.

“Can you get through to me without stepping on glass?”

He considers the floor ahead of him, and reaches out to grab her outstretched arm before taking a large step over the pile of broken glass ahead of him. “Why are you here?” he asks.

“I told you I’d come by,” she replies. “And I’m glad I did. Josh, you can’t stay here. Not alone.”

“CJ, I’m sorry, I just…”

“Do you want to be alone?” she asks pointedly.

Josh swallows and realizes just how alone he had been. And just how lonely he had felt, how lonely he feels without Donna. “No,” he admits, putting his head down. “No.”

“Stay at my apartment tonight,” CJ says. “We’ll deal with this tomorrow, okay?”

“I still have the rest of my hearing tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll want to have a good sleep.” CJ puts her hands on his shoulders and turns him around, turns him away from the broken glass that looks an awful lot like what he imagines his mind to look like. “Let’s go to your room. Can I help pack you a bag?”

It’s remarkable how calm she is, Josh thinks, but it’s also remarkable how calm he is considering he just destroyed the vast majority of his dishware and he can’t even verbalize why. He doesn’t have the auditory hallucinations anymore, which is a relief, but there’s adrenaline coursing through him as he tries to follow CJ to his bedroom. He’s still scared, although of what he couldn’t say.

It’s ridiculous, the way he was so certain he was okay, that he had this under control. He very clearly doesn’t. He couldn’t keep it together for one more day. At least it’s CJ who found him and not some reporter.

Josh watches as CJ pulls a suit out of his closet. It’s an old one and he knows it’s much too big for him—most of his suits are big anyway and he never put back on all of the weight he lost after the shooting—but looking around at the clothing littering the floor, it’s probably the only one that’s clean. So that’s what he’ll face Congress and the nation in tomorrow.

“This good?” she asks, packing it up along with the giant pajamas she bought him and an extra set of underthings. It doesn’t occur to him to feel weird about CJ going through his underwear; she’d just caught him in the middle of something significantly more embarrassing. At his nod, she tries to force a smile. “Okay. Let’s head back to my place. You sure you're... I don’t know, is there an emergency therapist line you should call or anything?”

Josh probably could call Dr. Holloway or even Dr. Keyworth, but not after leaving the way he did. He’ll go crawling back at some point—this night has made it very clear that he needs to—but not tonight. “I’m okay, CJ. I just need…” He can’t put into words what he needed, so he exhales and forces a smile. “I didn’t hurt myself. I didn’t try to hurt myself. I’m going to be okay.”

CJ puts her arm around him and pulls him into another hug. “I hope so.”

Josh doesn’t sleep that night, not really. Maybe he dozes, but the adrenaline is unrelenting and his mind will not be quiet. But he can hear CJ sobbing quietly in the other room and wonders how numb he must be to not be crying too.

Chapter Text

December 6th, 2001

7:07 AM

CJ’s guest room is cluttered with things she probably just never ended up unpacking when she moved from California. She had cleared off the bed for him, but every other inch of the room is covered in half-emptied boxes. She had been sheepish about the mess, but Josh figures his whole apartment is infinitely worse.

He wakes up (if one can call being startled out of a vacant doze waking up) when CJ opens the door with an apologetic smile. “I have to do a morning briefing, otherwise I’d drive you in” she says, as he pushes up on his arms to sit up. “Feel free to eat whatever for breakfast, and Sam’s going to pick you up this morning, okay. You’re going to be alright alone, right?”

Josh stares at her for a second, trying to get his exhausted brain to process her words. “Uh, yeah.”

“I really don’t want to leave you but missing my briefing would, you know, bring up more questions than we really want to answer,” CJ says. “But if you’re not…”

“I’ll be fine, CJ,” Josh says. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to go breaking your dishes too.”

“Josh…”

He plasters on the brightest smile he can muster, despite his pounding head and churning stomach. He’s deeply regretting the tub of ice cream from last night, although that’s probably the least of his regrets. “What time is Sam going to be here?”

“Eight,” CJ says. “Josh, if you don’t feel comfortable being alone, I really can stay.”

“No you can’t,” Josh says, “and I’m fine. I am now.”

“Forgive me for not being convinced of that, Josh, but I did find you in the midst of destroying your entire tableware collection last night,” CJ replies pointedly.

He shrugs. “I think my therapist would call that a marginally healthier coping strategy than putting my hand through a window again.”

“Your therapist who you haven’t been seeing lately?”

“How did you know that?”

CJ puts her hands on her hips and frowns. “You literally told the US House of Representatives that, unless you were committing perjury, which, if that’s the case I don’t want to know.”

Josh sighs. “I wanted to be able to say that,” he says quietly. “I figured it would be less damaging if it looked like I was, you know, completely better. And I was better. I really was. It’s just been with the stress of the last few weeks, and then…”

“Donna leaving,” CJ fills in. “I’ve tried to call her too, you know. She hasn’t picked up.”

He isn’t sure if that’s a relief—that Donna’s not just ignoring him—or if it frightens him. He immediately wonders if there’s another reason Donna isn’t answering. She's a young woman driving across the country all alone in a car that has seen better days. What if her car broke down? What if the brakes failed and she drove into a ditch? What if someone took advantage of her, or kidnapped her, or murdered her at a midwestern rest stop? He swallows and tries to put that out of his mind, but he’s prone to worst case scenario thinking. “I keep thinking about it and thinking about it and I don't know why,” he says quietly. “She came back with me to my apartment the night before she left and I… I was definitely drunk, and maybe I said something to her, but I don’t remember what happened and I’m afraid I might have ruined everything.”

“Oh Josh,” CJ breathes. “You know how much Donna cares about you, right? She’ll come back to you. I’m sure of it.”

Josh wishes he could share her faith.

December 6th, 2001

9:22 AM

“Think they’ll actually get back to the subject of the President today?” Josh asks casually. He leans back in his chair, eyes trained on Suzanne. They have to leave for the House chamber pretty soon, but they have a few minutes to discuss first. He wonders if Suzanne even realizes what a night he had last night; he certainly hopes not. That’s the blessing and the curse of mental illness; it’s largely invisible. “I’m a little tired of these hearings being about me.”

“I can try and guide their questions more that way,” Suzanne says.

Josh shrugs. “The most antagonistic of them already got their shot at me, I think. Dearborn's dumb as rocks, so his questions will probably be similarly unintelligent, but hopefully easy enough to get around, so…”

He’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he says. For a very brief second, he hopes that it’s Donna. There’s no reason to hope that it would be, but she’s never far from his mind.

The door opens, and it’s Congresswoman Leavitt’s chief of staff, a tall, balding man with sharp eyes and no color on his face to speak of. Josh has had to interact with him several times, but there’s no good reason he should be here right now.

“David,” Josh says, standing up with a fake joviality. “The hearing is in less than an hour; it really isn’t such a good idea for us to interact.”

“That’s why Congresswoman Leavitt sent me,” he replies curtly. “She wanted to talk to you herself; I had to talk her down. She’s very stubborn, you know.”

“Oh yes, I know.”

“Already has so much on her plate, especially since we lost two of our legislative aides this last week. The hearings were too much for them, I guess, and she’s been doing a lot of what they did herself.”

“Sounds like her,” Josh says. “What did she need?”

David frowns. “She asked me to warn you that you will be asked if you knew that the committee had your Secret Service file ahead of time.”

Josh gulps. That will be tricky to answer. If he shares the whole truth, then Donna becomes a part of this again, which is exactly what he has been trying to avoid this whole time. While what he did was maybe not technically illegal, it was certainly legally and ethically sketchy. The only thing he has going for him is that Cliff was a willing participant, and he won’t want this to be a point of discussion either. “Thank you for letting me know,” he says.

“Now, Congressman Leavitt knows you knew,” David continues, “and unfortunately she’ll be obligated to bring that up if you commit perjury.”

“You knew?” Suzanne asks incredulously. “Those are the sort of things you’re supposed to tell me!”

Josh sighs. “Yes, I understand.”

“So she wanted to tell you to tell the committee that it was her who told you about the file.”

“She can’t… that’s going to get her in trouble,” Josh says. “It could be seen as a sign that she was messing with the investigation. She could lose her membership on the committee over that!”

David shrugs. “I tried to tell her that. But you know her—she won’t listen to us. She said McKenna is going to ask it. Phrase your answer carefully. But remember, she did tell you that your file was in the possession of the committee,” he says cryptically. “Hearing starts in half an hour.”

“Thank you,” Josh replies tightly as David leaves.

“How long did you know about the file?” Suzanne asks.

Josh winces. “See, the US House of Representatives doesn’t tend to give a damn about attorney-client privilege, so I would really rather just not say anything.”

“That’s going to be tricky to answer,” Suzanne says.

“Yeah, but if it gets too tricky, the majority counsel is going to put a stop to it,” Josh says. “Frankly, it’s the least of my worries.” It is, like everything else, a worry of his, but images of Donna’s car in a ditch on the side of the road in Ohio and the fact that his kitchen floor is coated in shattered glass are both more distressing to him at the moment. 

“How do you know that?” Suzanne asks.

“I won’t say, but believe me, I wish I didn’t.”

December 6th, 2001

10:04 AM

“Thank you for appearing here again today, Mr. Lyman,” Congressman Bruno says as the room begins to quiet down. There are still plenty of bulbs flashing in Josh’s face, and they’re bothering him much more than they did yesterday. He hasn’t yet found an even keel again, not since last night, and the tension seems to physically arrest him. “Now, I want to be conscious of everyone’s time, and move on with the business of governing, so we will be keeping each person’s questioning to five minutes and we will take as few recesses as possible. In light of that, I’d like to begin right away by recognizing the gentleman from Utah. Congressman Dearborn, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.” Paul Dearborn, six term Congressman from Utah, and quite possibly one of the dumbest people in government (which is saying something) looks up from his notes. “Mr. Lyman, I’d like to ask you some questions about the assassination attempt on President Bartlet.”

“It was not an assassination attempt on President Bartlet, but on his body man, Charlie Young,” Josh corrects.

“Okay. Fine,” Dearborn says, clearly annoyed at the correction. “You and President Bartlet were both injured that night, yes?”

Josh has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes and telling him to look at a newspaper once in a while. “Yes,” he replies.

“Since you were in the hospital at the same time as President Bartlet, perhaps you have an answer for me about this; how did the President keep his MS a secret while he was being treated for a gunshot wound?”

Josh stares at the Congressman incredulously for a second before bursting out into laughter. It's not funny and it’s certainly not meant to be funny, but the question is so ridiculous that he can’t help but find the humor in it. “You’re not serious, right?”

Dearborn frowns. “Why would I ask a question if I wasn’t serious?”

“You really think I would know the answer to that?”

“You had a similar experience, and I would assume you were in close contact with the President during that time.”

Josh chuckles. “Let’s look at it this way; I was in surgery for fourteen hours. Any initial evaluation stuff, which by the way, I certainly wouldn’t have been a part of even if I weren’t under general anesthesia, would have been long completed by the time I was even out of surgery. The President was released from the hospital two days after the shooting. I had maybe woken up twice at that point but I definitely wasn't coherent enough to… actually speak, and certainly wasn't up to participating in any sort of conspiracy as you seem to be trying to allege I was.” He looks down at the desk and shakes his head. “Congressman Dearborn, I’m not sure if you genuinely don’t understand how things like healthcare, hospitals, or anesthesia work, or if you’re trying to trip me up with the stupidest questions possible, but I’m about the last person who can tell you about anything that went on that night. I will take this opportunity to point out, however, that the President was in fact home two days after his gunshot wound and surgery and working from the Residence; he would have gone back to the Oval Office that very day if it weren’t for the team of doctors, including his wife, warning him that the normal recovery period for a wound and surgery like his was three times what he was giving himself. Now I know you all want to portray the President as frail and incapable due to his MS, but I’m not sure where you're getting that impression because that doesn’t seem like a mark of frailty to me. Perhaps it’s just not the big deal you all are trying to make it out to be.”

Congressman Dearborn doesn’t seem to have a response to that, stuttering inelegantly with his face half turned away from the microphone. Finally he shakes his head. “That’s all I have, Mr. Chairman.”

Josh leans back and breathes a sigh of relief. He’s amazed at how easily he was able to talk about the shooting, really. Maybe the question was removed enough that he didn’t have to ruminate on it too much, but either way, he’s relieved. He said exactly what CJ wanted to say and defended the President. Perhaps this day will be okay. Maybe he’ll get through this.

December 6th, 2001

10:25 AM

Congresswoman Everton is sharp, there’s no doubt about that, but Josh has still not figured out whether or not she has a soul. She gives Josh an insincere smile as Congressman Bruno introduces her. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Mr. Lyman, it’s good to have you here today. Now there are many of us up here who would be utterly useless without our assistants; they are the brilliant backbone of our government. Don’t you agree, Mr. Lyman?”

Josh winces. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “Yes, ma’am, I would agree.”

“Your assistant, what’s her name? I know she was deposed, but I…”

“Donna Moss,” Josh says softly. He considers adding that she no longer works for him, but she’s still technically in the system so he supposes that would be additional and unnecessary information. He sees Cliff stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you share things with Ms. Moss? Obviously you do to some extent, but do you trust her, for example, with government information that may not be available publicly?” Congresswoman Everton asks.

“Anybody who works in the White House has some level of clearance, and obviously a greater awareness of the inner workings of government than someone who does not work there, but I don’t share classified information with her, no.”

“How about the secret of the President’s MS? Did you tell her that?”

Josh winces. He wishes he had. “No.”

“How did she find out?”

“Toby Ziegler told her.”

“Why?”

Josh sighs. “If I knew any of Toby’s reasons for doing anything, this government would run a whole lot more smoothly.”

Everton seems to accept this. “Do you trust your assistant?”

What a loaded question. Of course he trusts her—he's trusted her with the key to his apartment, with his credit card, with his life—and yet she left him. Josh knows a lot, and understands a lot, but disloyalty is something that he cannot comprehend. It stings him to think of Donna as disloyal, but that’s where the facts point. She left him before, he reasons, but then she came back. This time, he’s not sure she's going to come back.

Congresswoman Rebecca Everton, Republican from Florida, doesn’t need to know any of this though. So he nods and answers with an unequivocal “yes”, even if it doesn’t reflect his inner turmoil.

“Then why didn’t you tell her about the MS? Why did Toby Ziegler do it instead?”

This is a good question. A pointed one. A question that is hard for him to get out of without looking guilty of conspiracy. He covers his mic and leans over to Suzanne. “I didn’t tell her because I was told not to tell anyone,” he says with a grimace.

“That sounds conspiratorial,” she whispers back.

“I know. I have to answer though. Perhaps… I’ll say I didn’t want to burden her with it. Because I didn’t.” He thinks back to all the things he hasn’t told Donna, especially lately. That’s usually the reason, that he doesn’t want to burden her.

He clears his throat at Suzanne’s nod, uncovers the mic, and meets eyes with Congresswoman Everton. “Donna is a very empathic person; I rarely want to concern her more than necessary. At the time Toby Ziegler told her, it was only senior staff who were aware. This was a day before the President’s formal announcement. I believe he told her because he needed her help with a task related to it.”

“Is she not your assistant?”

“Yes, but she’s… well, let’s just say she’s very competent and some of my coworkers like to steal her.” He’s unable to help the nostalgic grin that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Did you tell anyone else about the President’s diagnosis between the time you knew and the time it was publicly announced?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Josh shrugs. Again, she’s doing a very effective job of painting a sort of conspiracy. It’s almost impressive. “I was asked not to.”

“And you felt alright about keeping that kind of information from the public?”

“I knew it would be publicly released, so I felt no compulsion to leak it; it did not feel like keeping information from the public because while I knew about it, there was always a plan to release. We, the senior staff, were brought onboard largely to help with the timing and messaging.”

Congresswoman Everton frowns. “You didn’t trust your assistant enough to tell her?”

This question almost hits Josh in the gut, an aggressive realization of what he’s done wrong. Not with the MS—he doesn’t regret not telling Donna about that any earlier than she needed to know, although he does regret not being the one to tell her himself—but with the hearings. With the diary. He thought not saying anything might protect her, but maybe it drove her away. Maybe she got so frustrated with his evasiveness, with his anger, that she couldn’t stand it anymore. Maybe if he had trusted her, she wouldn’t have left. Still, he steels himself and answers, “I wanted to spare her the distress for as long as possible.” And perhaps that was true then, but it’s certainly true now.

December 6th, 2001

11:02 AM

“Mr. Lyman. As our records show, you were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder last December. Was President Bartlet informed of this?” Congressman Erickson looks over the top of his glasses, which are far too small for his face.

Josh swallows. “Yes.”

“How was he informed?”

“I told him.”

“How soon after your diagnosis?”

“Two days after,” he says with certainty.

“Why did you tell him?”

This is leading somewhere and Josh knows it, but he steels himself to answer the question. “I had to apologize for yelling at him in the Oval Office. He deserved an apology and an explanation.”

“What happened in that discussion? Did you offer your letter of resignation?”

Josh glances down at the table in front of him. “Yes.”

“And did he accept?”

“I think the answer to that can be figured out pretty easily through basic deductive reasoning.”

“Mr. Lyman, answer the question please.”

Josh rolls his eyes. “No, he did not.”

“Did he say why not?”

Josh screws up his face trying to remember. He can only remember one phrase from that night—“Do you think you’re the only one with issues you'd rather keep private?”—but of course that wasn’t the rationale that he wanted to present, and he knows it wasn’t the main rationale of President Bartlet’s decision. “He said… he said that I got shot and struggled with some issues from that, and that it wasn’t a reason to fire me,” Josh sputters.

“Do you think President Bartlet had the cognitive faculties to understand what a dangerous condition you have? What kind of risk you might pose to the government?”

He flushes with the anger that rises up within him. He hasn’t been any sort of risk, except maybe to himself, and he stifles at the accusation. “I don’t think I’ve give you or anyone on the committee reason to call me dangerous,” he says in a low voice, “and I feel honored to have the trust of President Bartlet. I do not take that lightly.”

“Who else knew about this?” Erickson asks, and Josh hears the real question behind it. Who was keeping you in check?

“Leo McGarry, CJ Cregg, Sam Seaborn, Toby Ziegler, and Donna Moss,” he says.

“And why did you tell them?”

Josh really doesn’t want to get into this. “Because they were the ones who noticed something was wrong, and they deserved to know why. And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter because these questions are insanely personal. Perhaps I can indulge the idea that your question about the President has general relevance, but the rest has to do with my own personal relationships, and nothing to do with the business of government.”

“When you work for the President of the United States,” Congressman Erickson says, “everything has to do with the business of government. And if you’re not comfortable with that, I know some other people who would be thrilled to take your place.”

December 6th, 2001

11:19 AM

“Mr. Lyman." Congressman McKenna, Republican from Virginia, has a deep voice and eyebrows that seem to take up his entire face; he manages to be somehow simultaneously intimidating and cartoonish, which usually catches people off guard. Not Josh, though. Josh knows how dangerous he can be. Josh hates him with a burning passion. “My questions for you are somewhat more procedural.”

Josh swallows. “Go ahead.”

“Your Secret Service file was leaked to the committee in advance of the hearing. Now, I wanted to subpoena the files altogether but was told that the information within them could lead to a catastrophic security breach for the President.”

“For the President, yes,” Josh repeats.

“But yours got leaked.”

Josh looks down at his hands, his eyes following a pinkish line on the back of the right one. “It did. Thankfully, I have far fewer people out to kill me than the President does. When they try, it’s usually on accident.”

McKenna does not appreciate cheekiness, and so his eyebrows furrow further. “How did the file get into the hands of the committee?”

"I don’t know,” Josh says, and it’s not technically a lie. He knows, but he had directed someone else to leak the file, so the exact process is unknown to him.

“Did you know about the leak? Did you know that this information would become public?”

Now this he has to answer carefully, but thankfully, McKenna phrased it in a way that allows him to obscure reality. Josh may not be a real lawyer, but he went to law school and he knows how to work around potential perjury. “I was told about it, yes.”

“Who told you?”

This is the question he needs. This is the easiest question to answer, and yet it’s so difficult. Josh balls his hands into fists and looks up to make eye contact with Congresswoman Leavitt. This is going to cause trouble for her. This might even make her lose her seat as ranking member. But this is what she asked him to do, and if he can’t protect everyone, he can at least protect the President. “Congresswoman Leavitt told me about it,” he says.

The chairman turns to the woman sitting next to him. “Congresswoman? Is this true?”

Leavitt makes eye contact with Josh for a second before turning to Bruno with a tight smile. “It is.”

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Lyman deserved the chance to prepare. Because had we brought up this topic unexpectedly, it would have been unfair to him. Because you all are trying to make this into an interrogation of the personal lives of White House staffers instead of an investigation to discover if there was any wrongdoing by the President. And I don’t think that’s fair. So yes, I did warn Mr. Lyman that this might come up, and I don’t think I broke any kind of rule or regulation by doing so. Feel free to investigate me for it, but the American people are watching and if they see how much time we waste investigating each other for being human beings with hearts, they may figure out that they’re paying us far too much for what we do,” Leavitt says.

Josh can't help but admire her.

“Excuse me, but this is my time,” McKenna interrupts. “I’m amazed that Representative Leavitt would break ethical and legal boundaries both egregiously and proudly, but I’m not sure she was the only one on the committee that you consulted with prior to this hearing. Not to be a stickler, but the way this hearing has been conducted has been a disgrace to the purity of legal process, especially when those on our side have…”

To Josh’s surprise, it’s Cliff who clears his throat. “Congressman McKenna, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re going to take a brief recess.” He makes the briefest eye contact with Josh before standing up and beckoning to McKenna and Bruno to follow him out of the room.

Josh reaches for his glass of water and feels it burn going down. God, his stomach still is churning and his head aches and his eyes are somehow dry and stinging at the same time. He’s going to need to sleep for a month after this, he’s so exhausted, and yet he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to sleep again. 

“You alright?” Suzanne asks, showing an almost human-like sympathy he didn’t know he could expect from her.

Josh rubs his eyes tiredly. He’s not alright. He hasn’t been alright for a very long time now, but having to admit that in front of Congress makes things worse. “I’m fine,” he says. “How many more do we have?”

“Just a few,” Suzanne replies. “You’re almost done. Do you have your final statement?”

He does. It’s a single piece of paper filled with a critical but measured text on the value of Congressional investigations and the waste of time that this one is. Sam wrote the vast majority of it.

Before he can answer Suzanne, however, McKenna and Cliff come back and take their seats, and the hearing resumes.

McKenna has a few more questions for him, but they’re unrelated to the previous questions and he seems more subdued. Whatever happened during that recess made an impact, Josh thinks, and he’s grateful for that.

He’s almost made it through.

December 6th, 2001

12:34 PM

The lights are too bright.

Leavitt is giving her closing statement, and Josh is sure it’s great—fiery, intense, brilliant, all those things he knows that she is—but he can’t focus on it. Instead he hears the crackle of her microphone, and Dearborn breathing heavily into his which he forgot to turn off, and the hum of whispered conversations behind him. And the lights are so bright. It’s strange, the room had seemed dim before, but maybe it’s the flashbulbs of the photographers that are still going, or maybe it's just that his senses want to overwhelm him.

He just wants it to be over.

He’s so close. All he has to do is read the piece of paper in front of him for his closing statement. That’s it. Then he can go home (or maybe not, since his kitchen is covered in broken glass) and hope that they aren’t saying too much about him on TV and hope that this all goes away and is forgotten soon. Politicians have long memories, he knows, but the public does not. 

It’s beginning to hit him, the injustice of this. He’s never been particularly comfortable being diagnosed with a mental illness, with the four letter label that will always follow him. He never wanted to talk about it, never wanted to express it publicly, but that was far more due to his own preferences than anything else. He’s allowed to be uncomfortable with the label. Congress, on the other hand, does not have the latitude to be uncomfortable for him.

“Mr. Lyman,” Congressman Bruno says, interrupting Josh’s thoughts, “do you have a closing statement for us?”

“I do,” Josh says, and he looks down at the paper before looking up. The words on the page dance in front of his eyes. He can’t focus. The lights are still too bright, and the room seems to spin around him, and he feels like throwing up. He squints, trying to make out the first sentence, but he can feel all the eyes of the room on him, and his own eyes won’t make out the first words.

He has to say something.

He takes a deep breath and looks up. “I think this whole thing has been a disgrace,” he says. “My private life is my private life. Contrary to the beliefs of some on this committee, my personal life is not a major factor in my job performance.” He takes a deep breath, hoping the words will reappear. They don’t. He has to keep going. “I got shot,” he continues, “and that’s pretty damn traumatic. I got shot while serving my country, and here you are eviscerating me because I couldn’t just suck it all up and deal with it by beating my wife or something. I’m wondering if you'd be questioning a veteran who had PTSD from a war that YOU voted for if you’d be so critical, if you’d show such horror that someone who is in the government might have a mental illness. I’ve got news for you—it’s way more common than you’d think! Most of this has had nothing to do with the President, or the President’s MS, it’s just been a way for you to get off on the suffering of your political enemies, to score cheap points with your followers. I answered every one of your damn questions even though I could have pleaded irrelevance on about 90% of them. I answered them because I wanted to set the record straight. I hope America sees that. I hope they see what the terrible people they’re electing will put someone through just because they’re on the other side of the aisle. My mental health does not affect my professional functioning, I was not part of some wide conspiracy to hide the President’s MS from the nation, there was no such conspiracy, and these hearings are an absolute waste of time and money when we could be doing things like improving roads or funding healthcare or, I don’t know, figuring out how to make sure white supremacists don’t get guns so no one has to go through what I went through!” Josh is on his feet now, although he can’t remember when he stood up, and his voice is raised, and suddenly he’s consciously aware of his chest heaving and his lungs aching and his head pounding. He can’t go on with it. “That’s what I have to say,” he finishes, his voice suddenly lower and strained.

There’s a stunned silence in the room, but Josh doesn’t hear it because somehow, even this deep into the building, he can hear sirens, and no matter how loud they are, it seems like they’re always drawing closer still.

December 6th, 2001

1:32 PM

“Josh.”

There’s a crowd exiting the room, and chatter bounces off the walls of the old stone building, echoing through the chamber and intermingling with the sirens that have diminished but have not fully gone away. Josh is surprised he even hears his name, but he turns around to see Cliff Calley standing next to one of the benches by the wall.

“What do you want?” Josh asks.

Cliff sighs. “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry for all this.”

Josh frowns. “Are you?”

“I didn’t want it to get that bad. Really, the number of memos I send out about not deviating from the actual purpose of the hearings… that was all I could do, but I tried to stop them from harping on it. I really did.”

Cliff seems sincere, although why he would be is a mystery to Josh. He thinks back to earlier, about how he interrupted McKenna and called the recess. “What did you say to him?” Josh asks cryptically.

“To…”

“You know what I’m talking about. You and your little recess.”

“I saved your ass with that,” Cliff replies.

“And your own ass. If you had been linked to it then…”

Cliff shakes his head. “I know. I know. It would have screwed over pretty much everyone, which is why I talked him down.”

“What did you say?”

“I can’t… it doesn’t…” Cliff stutters, but before he came come up with a valid excuse, the door opens beside them, and Congressman McKenna steps out, looking angry and intimidating, as he often does.

The hallway is emptier now, most of the journalists having left to file their stories and the observers gone now that the entertainment is over, but there are still plenty of people around, plenty of people that shouldn’t be hearing this conversation. 

“Ah, well this explains some things,” McKenna says, stepping towards Josh and Cliff. “My god, Calley. I had my doubts about you and your commitment to the party but I’ve never been closer to reporting you to the RNC than I am today. If you’re going to be so enamored with the very people we’re questioning, then perhaps we should make sure you never work for the party again.”

Cliff bites his lip. “I think I explained myself clearly. Why that would be bad for the integrity of the hearings as a whole.”

“What integrity?” Josh mutters. Why does he feel like he’s about to boil over? He's managed to stay in control all morning, aside from his final statement, but it’s getting harder and harder not to just scream out all the things that are inside of him.

“What integrity indeed,” McKenna repeats. “But a bold thing to say, coming from you.”

Josh frowns. “How so?”

There’s a smirk that starts to take over McKenna’s face, and he lifts one of his eyebrows. “Well, the integrity of any of this was ruined the second your slutty assistant slept with Calley here.”

Josh has always thought that seeing red was a metaphor, but the whole room seems to change colors on him as anger rises within him. “What the hell did you just say?”

“Of course,” McKenna continues, still wearing that stupid smirk, “at least you fired her. Or I've heard she’s gone, at least. Too bad it took you so long. I used to have a slutty assistant like that, far more trouble than she’s worth.”

Suddenly, it’s like he’s lost all conscious control of his body. His arms and his legs move of their own volition, and he’s pinned McKenna up against the wall with a strength that he didn’t know he had. “What the hell did you just say!?”

McKenna doesn’t even look scared. He almost looks smug, self-satisfied. “That your assistant’s a slut? Didn’t think that would bother you so much, although I suppose if you’re upset she’s sleeping with everyone but you…”

“You fucking bastard.” Josh’s voice is low and threatening, although his instincts tell him to scream. His instincts also tell him he should back off and not publicly threaten a Congressman, but he can’t see them through the anger that clouds his judgment. “You fucking bastard!” he repeats, and he thinks he might be raising a fist to make contact with McKenna’s face 

It’s all a blur then, but somehow he gets pulled off of McKenna, and somehow he’s able to breathe again, and then he notices, out of the corner of his eye, that there’s a decent crowd gathered in the hallway, and there’s someone with a television camera.

Fuck.

McKenna brushes himself off, giving Josh a self-righteous look. It seems like the punch didn’t even hurt him. “So much for your illusion of stability,” he says, beginning to walk away.

Oh god.

Josh turns to take in all the people gathered to watch, and feels the nausea rise up within him. He can’t do this. He can’t face this. He takes a deep breath and turns, running down the hallway, the sirens still chasing after him as his brain seems to overwhelm him with unrelenting chaos.

Chapter Text

December 4th, 2001

3:46 PM

Donna’s car is a piece of crap.

She hasn’t used it much lately; it’s such a shame to lose a good parking spot and some days it’s just as fast to take the metro as long as she knows she’ll be able to get home before it closes. It had been sitting out in the cold for days, so no wonder it takes her an hour and a jump from a disgruntled neighbor to get it started.

Still, that is just one of the many things that made it hard to get on the road. She had hoped to leave early in the morning so that she could make it back to Wisconsin in a single day, but she had come back to her apartment after leaving the office and had fallen onto her bed and passed out with her shoes still on. When she had woken up, it was already far past the time she had planned to leave, and she still had to do things like pack up the necessities, clear out her stuff from the fridge, and somehow get her car started.

She had also spent a good hour agonizing over what she was doing. She doesn’t want to leave, she really doesn’t, but she knows how angry Josh is with her, and for good reason. She can’t live her life and do her work watching him suffer because of what she did, and she figures her presence will be an unwanted reminded of how she betrayed him and somehow exposed his pain to the whole world. As she tries to leave DC, however, she finds herself driving to the White House, and taking a right instead of a left to head west rather than back to work is a physically painful task.

She’s on the road now, in rural Pennsylvania, and she figures if she just keeps going and doesn’t stop overnight she’ll get to Madison very early in the morning. Her parents will be shocked and confused and probably won’t be able to refrain from saying ‘I told you so’, but she’ll have somewhere to stay while she figures out what’s next. Will anyone hire a disgraced White House staffer? She wouldn’t trust herself, so why should she expect an employer to?

The radio in Donna’s car has been stuck on the same AM station since she bought it for a thousand dollars five years ago. In most places she’s driven to, it’s usually a sports radio station, which doesn’t particularly interest her, but she turns it up now just to check and notes that in this area, the frequency is a news station.

And they’re talking about Josh.

A part of Donna wonders if she’s not just imagining this, if it’s not just her guilt causing her to experience auditory hallucinations. She can’t bear to hear other people talk about Josh, not in the negative way she’s sure they will, so she turns it down again.

It’s silent in the car (except for the rattling of the engine) and she’s stuck with her less than pleasant thoughts, but she’s headed home and that should make everything better, right? Perhaps then she won’t have to think again about how she betrayed Josh, about how she betrayed the administration. About everything that she’s screwed up.

December 4th, 2001

9:28 PM

She's almost out of gas and her bladder is about to burst, so she pulls off when she sees a dilapidated gas station on the side of the highway in eastern Ohio. It’s sketchy and the gas is far more expensive than it deserves to be, but better to stop here than to get stuck a few miles down the road.

She parks her car next to a pump and grabs her purse to go inside and pay. As she reaches in to grab her wallet, she pulls out her cell phone instead. She has consciously tried to avoid it all day, both because she’s afraid Josh will call her and because she’s afraid Josh won’t call her. If he does call her, she’ll have to explain herself, but if he doesn’t, that will just confirm his anger. Josh only becomes silent when he’s really angry, and Donna’s not certain she can bear that kind of silence.

She flips it open and notes that she had seven missed calls—five from Josh and one from CJ and one from her roommate. She tries to listen to the voicemails, but it’s rural Ohio and there is no cell service. Still, she tries to call Josh back, knowing that it won’t work. She walks into the gas station with her phone to her ear to hear the beep signaling a dropped call.

The cashier gives her a strange look as she walks up to the counter, the phone still pressed to her ear. “You aren't gonna get a call through here, you know,” she says.

Donna grimaces. “Yeah, but I figured it was worth trying.” She her purse down on the counter, puts her phone back in it, and pulls out her card. “Fifteen on pump three, please.”

“Our card reader’s not working. You got any cash?”

Donna grimaces. She hesitates to carry much cash on her—it’s never a good idea in the city, especially when she’s walking home late at night—so if she has any, it’ll probably be a bill or two or change at the bottom of her purse. She begins to dig, but because her purse is right at the edge of the counter, the motion causes it to fall over and spill its contents all over the floor. “Dammit,” Donna mutters, and for a second she thinks she’s about to cry. Not over the purse, although that’s annoying, but over everything that has happened this week.

She’s not going to cry. Not on the floor at a gas station in the middle of nowhere Ohio. She picks up her stuff as best she can, although it’s scattered everywhere, and manages to find a five-dollar bill. “Will this get me to the next gas station at least?” she asks, popping up from behind the counter and handing the cashier the bill.

“That’ll do it,” the cashier replies.

Donna gathers up the rest of her things, dumps them into her unorganized purse, and heads back towards the car to pump some gas. The gas station is getting eerier by the second and she wants to get out of here as soon as possible.

December 5th, 2001

12:13 AM

Despite four cups of coffee over the course of the day, Donna can feel the exhaustion building up within her as she crosses into Indiana. Perhaps, she thinks, she’d better take a break so she doesn’t drive off the side of the road. She’s driven this long on her own before—Wisconsin to New Hampshire, and then carting signs and documents all across the country to campaign stop after campaign stop, and then back to Wisconsin and back to campaign headquarters again. But this drive feels longer, feels worse, and she’s afraid she’s about to swerve off the road if she keeps going any further.

She pulls off to a rest stop that is at least well lit and has an attached McDonald’s—it’s certainly one of less sketchy ones she’s seen. If she has to take a nap in a parking lot, she wants it to be as safe as possible. Between her stint in one of the seedier parts of Madison and her years of riding the Metro at odd hours of the night in DC, Donna has gotten used to watching her back.

She figures that she’s close enough to South Bend to have cell service, and while it’s too late to call anyone back in DC (well, it’s probably not; she’s almost certain Josh is still awake), she can at least check and see if she’s missed any calls.

Donna reaches across the front seat to grab her purse. When she doesn’t find her phone by touch in her mess of a purse, she turns on the light in her car and digs through again. When even that isn’t successful, she dumps the contents of her purse out onto the seat behind her—it needs to be reorganized anyway—and combs through what she has.

She doesn’t have her phone.

It must have fallen out of her purse when she dropped it at the gas station and is now probably residing under a chip rack or mini fridge full of energy drinks.

It’s at least two hundred miles back at a gas station in Ohio that Donna isn’t sure she could identify even if she tried, so it’s effectively lost forever.

She turns out the light in the car—she can’t let the battery run down again—and reclines her seat back. She can’t warn her parents she’s coming, and she’s all alone, and she screwed up everything for Josh and his hearing is tomorrow and she’s exhausted and overwhelmed and she just wants to cry.

Against her will, her face scrunches up and she begins to cry.

She’s just tired. And overwhelmed. And she made a mess of all of this.

She manages to catch a few hours of sleep, enough to make it back to Madison on, and mercifully her car starts without too much coaxing. Now she has to go face her parents, and what she’s sure will be thinly veiled disappointment.

December 5th, 2001

8:36 AM

Donna had forgotten just how much she hates the kitchen in her parents’ house.

When they had bought the house, after Donna’s older siblings had moved out and Donna was close to her high school graduation, it had been decked out in the worst of 70s glamour, with hideous orange wallpaper and laminate cabinets that looked as if they were trying to be orange but weren't quite there and the ugliest faux tile flooring Donna had ever seen. Her mother had always talked about renovating it, but they’d only gotten as far as tearing down the wallpaper and replacing it with a bland, inoffensive off-white that didn’t hurt the look, but certainly didn’t help it. Her mother’s questionable taste in decorations certainly didn’t help either, and Donna now picks at the hideous floral tablecloth with derision. Her apartment’s kitchen may be a hundred years old and look it, but at least she has actual wooden cabinets.

Not that she’s going to live there anymore.

Her mother comes back to the table with two cups of coffee and a bottle of that awful off-brand hazelnut creamer. “Your father is at work," she says, “but he’ll be home at six. But tell me why you’re here.”

Donna shrugs. “There’s not much to say. I screwed up, and so I had to leave.”

“You got fired?” her mother asks.

"No," Donna replies indignantly. “No, I didn’t get fired. I left. Maybe I would have gotten fired if I had stuck around, but…”

“Donna,” her mother interrupts, “did you leave because of… well, you know. I’ve been hearing about your boss on the news, and how he’s, I know I’m not really supposed to use this word, but he's a little crazy, and I…”

“That isn’t it,” Donna interrupts, her voice insistent. “Josh isn’t crazy, and it has absolutely nothing to do with any of that.” It does, of course, but certainly not in the way her mother thinks it does, and Donna doesn’t particularly have the energy to explain to her mother why it’s actually her fault that Josh’s diagnosis became public.

“I understand, it must be hard to work for someone like that,” Mrs. Moss continues. “And I’m sure it was a shock to find out about all of this. I was certainly shocked that someone like this might be working in the White House, and I have to tell you, I was horrified to know that you were working so closely with him. And I absolutely agree that leaving that job was the right thing to do in all of this, now that you’ve found out how unstable your boss is, and I’m proud of you for that.”

Fran Moss doesn’t understand. She’s never quite understood Donna’s interest in politics, or her work in the White House, or her devotion to her boss, and usually Donna just lets it slide. Her mother will never quite understand her youngest daughter who doesn’t hold the same ideals of an early marriage and two and a half kids and a life in the kitchen. Donna can handle that. Donna can deal with her mom’s derision every time she talks about her passion for politics, she can handle her Republican leanings, she can even handle her snide comments about her cooking skills (which, for the record, are perfectly adequate). But she cannot handle this hatred towards Josh, especially in a way that he absolutely does not deserve.

“That’s not why I left, mom,” Donna repeats. “I’ve known about this for a long time. I knew everything that was in that file. I knew about the diagnosis. I knew about Josh yelling at the President. I was the one who went to the pharmacy to pick up his meds because he’d forget. I was the one who scheduled his therapy appointments. I knew, mom. I knew it and I knew it wasn’t his fault and I knew how much he was suffering and that didn’t bother me. I mean, it bothered me that he was struggling so much, but I didn’t think he was crazy or unworthy or any other negative adjective you might ascribe to a man you’ve never met because of a four letter diagnosis!”

Fran frowns. “How long have you known?”

December 25th, 2000

9:37 AM

Josh’s stove is gas, and therefore is much nicer to cook on than Donna’s electric stove. It’s dirtier than she would prefer, certainly—she’s sure it hasn’t been cleaned since he came back to work—but it’s much easier to get the perfect pancake when she can control the heat much more finely.

She’s got a decent stack of pancakes on the counter next to her, covered with a towel, when Josh comes into the room. He’s rather cute like this, she thinks; his hair is sticking up in all directions, he’s in a t-shirt and the massive pajama pants CJ bought him which pool around his feet and make him look like a little kid wearing his dad’s clothes, and he’s rubbing at his eyes with his good hand, looking a little bit like a lost puppy.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she says with a soft smile. “How was your night?”

He presses his lips together, taking a minute to take in her words before shrugging. “I slept, which is more than I can say for myself the rest of the week,” he admits. “I feel like I have a hangover. I didn’t drink anything last night, did I?”

“Did you know it’s possible to have an emotional hangover?”

Josh manages to let of a puff of air that’s almost a laugh. “That would explain it. What are you doing?”

“Making pancakes.”

“Why?”

“It’s Christmas, Josh,” she insists. “You have to have pancakes on Christmas.”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“Do you have a religious objection to eating pancakes?”

“I have a religious objection to celebrating Christmas,” Josh says, rolling his eyes.

Donna is kind of glad to see this; she knows his grumpiness towards Christmas is an act he likes to put on especially towards her and her Christmas cheer. “They’re just normal pancakes, then. Not Christmas pancakes.”

Josh ambles over and takes the towel off the top of the plate. “So why did you shape them like snowmen?”

“For fun,” Donna insists.

“They’re Christmas pancakes!”

“Snowmen are not a symbol of Christmas itself. They’re only tangentially related, perhaps as a symbol of the commercialization of Christmas, but I don't see your problem here.”

Josh steps back and leans against the counter, letting a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t have a problem,” he says. “I mean, I have a lot of problems, obviously, but in the grand scheme of things, the offense that you forcing the celebration of your Protestant Christmas ideals onto me as a Jewish man… well, that’s at the bottom of my list.”

Donna wipes her hand on the towel that’s on the oven and gives him a smile. Taking him in, she catches sight of his much more professionally bandaged hand. “How is it?” she asks.

“My hand?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs. “A little sore. I’ve had worse pain.” He pours himself a cup of coffee and reaches into the cabinet for the sugar.

“How about the rest of you?”

Josh doesn’t look up at her, instead fixated on the sugar as it dissolves in his cup. “Fine,” he says blandly.

Donna puts another pancake on the plate and pours the batter again, gently making three small stacked circles. “Josh.”

“You didn’t sign up for this,” he says quietly, leaning against the counter again. “I mean, when you got the job. You definitely didn’t sign up to be a nurse, and you didn’t sign up to try and talk down a madman from his…”

“Josh!” Donna interrupts. “Do not say that about yourself.”

“There’s something wrong with me,” he begins to list. “I put my hand through a window! I hear music as sirens! I screamed at the President! If you wanted to leave, I certainly would…”

“You screamed at the President?” Donna interrupts, catching his words. “I hadn’t hear about…”

Josh stares at his coffee again. “It was just… I don't even remember what it was about. I don’t even remember doing it, really. Just one minute I was in the Oval and then suddenly I was screaming at the President and breathing hard and not… I don’t know what I said, but Leo pulled me out of the meeting and told me I needed to talk to someone.”

“Josh…”

“I'm sure I’ve yelled at you, too,” he says softly, “even if I don’t remember it, and I’m sorry about that, but I… god, you didn’t know what you were getting into, and if you don’t want to work for me anymore, I would…”

Donna shakes her head violently. “No. Sure, I didn’t se this coming, but also I walked into this job with no clue what to expect and it’s taken me on quite the journey, and I don’t regret a second of it. Sure, I wish you didn't have to go through this. Sure, I wish things were easier. But if you think I’d ever leave you…”

“I don’t,” Josh says. “I didn’t think you would. But I wanted to let you know that it’s okay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says firmly. “Now, sit down and we’ll have some not-Christmas pancakes. CJ and Toby are coming over later tonight, and Sam’s in California but he’ll call when he wakes up.”

Josh rubs his good hand through his hair. “Thanks, Donna,” he says, and the smile that she’s missed for the past few weeks makes a long-awaited appearance.

December 5th, 2001

10:50 AM

At some point, Donna knows she’ll have to unpack her suitcase, just like she knows eventually she’ll have to go back to DC to get the rest of her stuff, and eventually she’ll have to find someone to sublet her room in the apartment so she can stop paying rent on somewhere she isn’t living, but all of that means that what she’s done is permanent, and she’s not sure she can do that yet. She should do all that, since there’s no way Josh will take her back after what she’s done to him, but the the thought of it makes her feel sick.

The house is cold, so when she tosses her suitcase into her childhood bedroom, she unzips it and takes out the first sweatshirt that is lying on top. It’s not her sweatshirt, it’s Josh’s, but she’s had it for so long that it's pretty much hers now.

She wears it downstairs and finds her mom sitting in the living room, with the TV tuned to C-SPAN. She’s watching Josh’s hearing. Donna knew, somewhere in the back of her mind that it was happening today, but she'd managed to avoid consciously thinking about it until now. But there’s Josh, looking exhausted and miserable but highly combative, on her parents’ TV.

“Remind me, Donna, when did you attend Harvard?” her mother asks. It’s not meant to be cruel, not really, but it stings Donna nonetheless.

“It was uh… a gift. From a friend,” she explains, because she can’t really tell her mother she stole (or affectionately borrowed) it from her boss, who her mother thinks is crazy and is currently on her TV being questioned by Congress.

She squints at the TV, and she can see the people in the hearing room streaming out, and can no longer catch Josh’s face. They must be going on a recess, she thinks.

“Is it… going okay?”

Her mother shrugs. “He seems stable enough, although he’s really not a very polite man. I don’t see how you bore that for so…”

“It's an act,” Donna argues. “It’s an act so that he can get his job done effectively. When he’s not… when he’s not in a political arena, when he’s not putting up a wall, he’s really very…” Donna isn’t even sure how to describe Josh, even having known him so long, but if she could figure it out, despite everything, it would still be in glowing terms.

Her mother looks as if she doesn’t believe her, but she nods. “Okay.”

“Mom…”

“So,” her mom says, reaching for the remote to turn the TV off. “Are you going to be getting a job? I know the diner would hire you back in a heartbeat.”

“I worked at the White House, Mom, I’m not going to go back to waiting tables.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. You need a job.”

Donna presses her lips together. “Yeah, well, I’ll see if there are any openings at the state capitol, maybe. Or primaries are starting up pretty soon for the next election cycle, so I could find a spot there.”

“Donna, you don’t have a degree. Are you sure you’re qualified…”

“I have the White House on my resume. I'm sure if I wanted to, I could get a letter of recommendation from the White House Chief of Staff. That’s going to open doors for me.”

Her mother frowns. “Even after what you did wrong that forced you to leave? Perhaps you should be telling them that you left because your boss was crazy.”

“I won’t do that to Josh,” Donna argues. “I won’t.”

“Then perhaps you should go dig in your closet for your old uniform at the diner,” her mother replies cooly.

December 5th, 2001

7:53 PM

It’s both a miracle and not at all a surprise that Donna Moss is now a staunch Democrat, considering the ubiquity of Fox News in her household. Her father has, for a very long time, settled into his chair after dinner with a light beer and turned on Fox News for an hour. Donna, who had always valued critical thinking and had been heavily involved in her high school’s journalism club, had always pointed out the flaws in the news coverage, much to her father’s annoyance. She theorizes, however, that he had actually missed her criticism of the news after she moved out of the house, because every time she has been home since, he has offered her a beer and invited her to watch with him.

Donna doesn't particularly like beer, and especially not the light, mass-produced crap that her dad likes to drink, but she doesn’t turn it down tonight, hoping that maybe the alcohol content, pathetic as it is, might help her forget about the developments of the last few days.

Unfortunately, tonight there is one major story on Fox News, and that major story involves her boss, and by extension, her.

“I don’t think it’s fair of them to be asking him all this,” her father says, much to her surprise, “but I have to say, this is very concerning. Did you know about all this?”

“Yes,” Donna says, grateful that the commercial breaks seem absurdly long. The less she has to see the hosts spewing crap about Josh, the better. Still, the present commercial is playing Carol of the Bells so loud that it grates on her ears.

“And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“He was getting treatment,” Donna says with a shrug, “and he was getting better. Leo knew, the President knew, and it wasn’t affecting his job at all. I made sure he got his medication and got to therapy, and that was what I did about it.”

Her father frowns. “Still, it seems like the sort of thing that is concerning when someone in the White House has it.”

“They’re making it out to be a much bigger deal than it actually is,” Donna assures him.

“Did you watch it?”

Donna sighs and looks down at her lap. “No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because I’ve been watching this with you and I’m seeing how they’ve been eviscerating him for struggling with something that, believe me, as a firsthand witness, was extremely traumatic. Josh didn’t deserve any of what happened to him, but he especially doesn’t deserve to go through this.” And it’s my fault, she thinks, although that’s not something she wants to share with her father. “I’m tired of having to defend him to both of you, to have to explain that I didn’t leave because of him, I left because of me and what I did to him. Josh gave me the greatest opportunity of my life, and I owe everything to him. And that is something I will argue until I am blue in the face. I can stay here and explain to you how everything that they’re saying about him is blatantly wrong, but unless you actually listen to what I can tell you from my own experience with him, I can’t help you understand.”

Her father sighs. “Donna, I just know you, and I know you have rose-colored glasses, and I think…”

“Okay, you know what? Thank you for being willing to let me stay here, but I can’t watch any more of this tonight. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” she says.

She marches up to her room and falls onto her childhood bed. It’s all her fault, and now the whole world views Josh through the same lens as her parents do. If only she could show them all the way he really is, the truth about Josh Lyman.

And yet it’s her fault that they all see him that way. She’s ruined his life, and his career, and she’s not sure if he could ever forgive her. She’s not sure if she can forgive herself.

December 6th, 2001

1:45 PM

“Donna!” her mother calls from downstairs. “Someone’s on the phone for you!”

She closes her laptop—positions in Wisconsin politics, it seems, are few and far between—and scrambles off her bed and down the stairs. Who could possibly be calling her parent’s house for her?

Her mother hands her the phone and doesn’t leave the kitchen until Donna fixes her with a glare.

“Hello?” Donna says into the speaker. “Who is this?”

“It's Cliff,” comes the voice from the other side.

“Calley?”

“The one and only.”

“How the hell did you have my parent’s phone number? And how did you know I was here?”

Cliff almost laughs, and for some reason that causes a pit in her stomach. “You don’t really want to know just how much power the federal government has to find people,” he says. “Anyway, have you seen the news lately?”

“No…” Donna says slowly.

“Good, because I wanted to talk to you before you saw it. When you turn on your TV, you might see a video clip of Josh um… physically attacking a Congressman.”

Donna’s jaw drops. "That doesn’t sound like Josh.”

“The news isn’t going to show the whole story,” Cliff warns, “but I just wanted to tell you that he did it for you.”

“He… what?”

“He did it all for you.”

“Cliff, you have to explain this to me, what did Josh do?”

“Sorry, I have to go, I just got summoned to the chairman’s office.”

“Cliff!” But he hangs up the phone, and there’s no one on the other line.

Donna puts down the phone and rushes to the living room to turn on the TV. Sure enough, the news is playing a video of the altercation Cliff was describing. It’s really not much of a fight at all, but Donna feels chilled and frightened by the display.

He did it for you.

God, this is not good for Josh. She knows how hard Leo is working to protect his job, but she’s afraid that will be impossible after this. And then everything he went though would have been for nothing.

He did it for you.

She turns off the news, unable to bear the smug newscasters putting this forth as proof of the insanity of Josh Lyman. There’s more to this story, she knows, and not just because Cliff told her there is more. This isn’t like Josh, and there’s no way he can keep his job now, and once again, Josh’s life is ruined because of her.

She’s just not sure how.

December 7th, 2001

8:21 AM

Donna knows she hasn’t been the best houseguest. She appreciates that her parents have let her stay with them while she’s figuring things out, even if she hates staying here with every fiber of her being, but she’s been distracted and on edge the whole time because of Josh and because of the reasons that she left. So it’s no surprise that her conversation with her mother at the breakfast table over coffee and overcooked scrambled eggs is stilted at best.

The phone rings, and her mother reaches for it, before turning to Donna and frowning. “It’s from the White House.”

Donna feels her heart constrict in her chest. “The White House?”

“You know, the place you used to work,” her mother replies blandly, although there’s a hint of a teasing smile behind it.

“Yeah, uh… okay.” Donna stands up and picks up the phone, waving her mother out of the room again. “Hello?”

“Oh Donna, I'm so glad we got you!” It’s Margaret’s voice on the phone, and Donna can't help me a little bit disappointed that it isn’t Josh’s. “You left! I can’t believe you would do that, I… Oh, sorry Leo, yeah she’s here now. I’m gonna transfer you to Leo now.”

Before Donna can get a word in edgewise, she hears Leo’s voice. “Donna?”

“Hi Leo,” she says. “Did you… how did you find me here?”

“I have the FBI, the IRS, and all the major credit card bureaus at my disposal, as well as a frankly absurd amount of information on you gathered from the Secret Service.”

Donna presses her lips together. “Fair enough.”

“Listen, Donna. I’m sure you had a very good reason to quit, and I hope you’re enjoying your new job, but there is something I need you to do for me.”

New job? Donna frowns, but doesn’t correct him. “What do you need?”

“There’s some severance paperwork I need you to sign. Unfortunately, it has to be witnessed by a staffer at the White House—I know, it’s an obscure legal statute back from when there was some staffing drama in Andrew Johnson's day or something like that—but I’m sending a guy to Milwaukee to start coordinating with the DNC convention committee there, and he’ll be there Sunday. Can you get yourself to Milwaukee to sign the stuff?”

Donna blinks a couple times. She’s really very familiar with White House staffing rules, and this is something she’s never heard about, but she’s not about to argue with the White House Chief of Staff. “Sure,” she says. “Where, and what time?”

“I’ll have Margaret get you the address, but it should be tomorrow evening. Let’s see, his flight gets in at three, so I would guess about four, but we’ll confirm that for you before tomorrow. Thank you, Donna.”

“Yeah…" she says. “Hey, Leo, I can… I explain the whole reason I left if you need me to, I just…”

“Nah,” Leo says. “You did what you had to do. You’ll figure it out, kid.”

He transfers her back to Margaret, and after writing down the address to go to tomorrow, Donna sits back down at the kitchen table, feeling apprehension creep over her. It’s really not that strange of an ask, and she supposes it make sense that she forgot to do some paperwork with the way she left so suddenly, but there’s still something strange about all this.

Still, she’ll go to Milwaukee if it’ll distract her, if it’ll allow her to have a day where she doesn’t have to hear the news playing in the other room.

Maybe she’ll sign the severance papers and make this all real, and maybe then she'll be able to blissfully forget.

Chapter Text

December 6th, 2001

1:45 PM

He doesn’t know where to go.

The minute he lays a hand on McKenna, he’s keenly aware of the stupidity of his move. He knows he fucked up, that he probably just ended his career in professional politics, but even that is small to him compared to his desperate need to get out of this building.

Sound bounces off the marble walls and straight into his brain, and he keeps thinking he hears people shouting his name but he's not cognizant enough to process it, and he’s so overwhelmed by the blinding brightness of the white hall and the sinking pit in his stomach. He can’t stay here.

But he doesn’t know where to go.

The White House isn't an option. If he goes there, he’ll have to face Leo. He’ll have to face the President. He’ll have to explain to them how he assaulted a member of Congress, and then he’ll have to resign. There’s no way he can stay. He’s appreciated them letting him stay on in spite of everything, but he's clearly not stable enough for such a position. He might have to let them fire him, actually, to send a message. Whatever would be best for the administration.

He can’t go to the White House, but he can’t go home, either. Not when his floor is still covered in broken glass and smashed pottery and the remnants of his lack of sanity. He’ll have to face it at some point—Donna isn’t there to clean up his mess like she did with the broken glass underneath his window that he couldn’t bear to touch—but he can’t do it today.

He doesn’t have his car with him, since Sam dropped him off here, so he’ll have to take the Metro to wherever he’s going, but he doesn’t know where he’s going. He runs down the steps of the Capitol, nearly tripping over the bottom step, and finds the Metro station somehow. He's frighteningly unconscious of every movement he makes, but he doesn’t have the capacity to be scared of that, not when he’s afraid of so much else. Not when the screeching of the train he’s on sounds like sirens and the the chatter of the people around him buzzes in his ears. Not when his eyes are blurry from unshed tears and he’s apparently having yet another mental breakdown (he knows he’s not supposed to use that term—his therapist called it ‘stigmatizing and unhelpful’—but he really can't describe it any other way, not when he doesn’t have the words to sum up the hell breaking loose inside him) and he’s on the fucking Metro going to god knows where and maybe he’ll just disappear and never be found again.

He doesn’t want to be found.

Maybe Donna had the right idea. Maybe he needs to leave DC, disappear to another part of the country. He’s always liked the northwest when they’ve visited there; perhaps he’d be happier there, in a remote cabin in the forested mountains near the Pacific, as far away from DC as someone can get without leaving the lower 48.

Maybe Wisconsin, for as much as he makes fun of it, is a nice place.

Maybe the overwhelming weight on his chest will disappear if he gets out of DC.

He gets off the train when they cross state lines into Virginia. He knows, intellectually, that this part of Virginia is still very much DC and he hasn’t really left, but something about crossing the federal boundaries, irrationally, feels better to him.

He doesn’t even look at the sign or hear the announcement on the train. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten out here, because when he takes the escalator up and exits through the turnstiles, he’s suddenly confronted with a sight he hasn’t seen in almost a year and a half, a sight that exists more in his nightmares than in his reality.

He turns around to look at the Metro sign. He got off at Rosslyn.

Nothing has really changed that much, he thinks as his feet take him around the corner and down the street. It’s just a building, just a plaza. He hasn’t intentionally been avoiding it—really, he hasn’t—but he’s keenly aware that the last time he was here, he almost didn’t make it out alive.

It’s strange how he’s ended up here, but there’s something almost comforting about it. That his feet took him, without his own conscious thought, to confront this place and how that awful night completely changed his whole life trajectory.

He takes a few steps forward, his eyes constantly flickering upward as if there might still be a sniper in the office building above him. The window they shot out of has long been replaced, he notes, and he's not even sure he could identify which one it was if he tried. That night is still such a blur.

There’s something so absolutely terrifying about your memory being lost to you, Josh thinks, as he closes his eyes and tries to recall what happened that hot August night, what happened half an hour ago. He can’t concentrate, though; it’s probably all the damn sirens in the background.

He turns around and sees a fire truck passing by.

Maybe he’s not insane. Maybe he’s not experiencing auditory hallucinations.

But the sirens linger long after the truck is gone, and Josh scrubs his hands through his hair as if that’ll make it go away. As if anything will make it go away. He’s so fucking sick of feeling like this all the time, and he knows he needs to go back to therapy, knows he probably needs to take medication again, knows that he’s been neglecting himself in favor of the administration and yet he’s somehow screwed himself and the administration over all at once.

Where does he go from here?

He’s too busy trying to keep his mind grounded in his body to pay attention to what his feet are doing, and he finds himself at the top of the steps, and sinking down against a low wall as he tries to bring his heart rate down again. He puts his head between his knees in an attempt to relieve his overwhelming nausea, but he still feels sick to his stomach. The mental distress is cruel enough, but his body decides to manufacture pain as if he weren’t aware enough of imminent danger around him. He can feel pain spreading through his chest, rooting itself in the fifth intercostal space where there’s still a puckered quarter-sized scar from the bullet and radiating outward until he’s overwhelmed by pain that he knows isn’t real but cannot ignore. He presses his hands to his chest, afraid that he might draw away his fingers and find blood there.

Somewhere, deep in his memory, he makes the connection of why.

Because he’s been here before.

It’s not just deja vu (if this were just deja vu, his life would be much easier), but as he sits with his back against the wall, he realizes that some of his blood soaked into this exact pavement a year and a half ago, that in his fuzzy memory of that night, he remembers managing to pull himself over here. This is where Toby found him.

And god, he wishes that he hadn’t been found.

He leans his head back against the low wall and lets out a shuddering breath. Perhaps he’ll just stay here forever. He’ll stay in the spot he was supposed to die until he feels like the ghost that he was meant to be is no longer haunting him. 

Josh isn’t sure how much time passes as he sits there on the cold ground, his knees pulled up to his chest, hoping he won’t be found.

He could swear he hears his name being called, but he doesn’t have the energy to respond. It’s probably just an auditory hallucination again anyway. He leans back and closes his eyes. There are tears on the edges of his lashes that he doesn’t remember shedding; perhaps they’ll freeze in the chill.

“Josh!” he hears again, and it sounds like Sam. Of course it sounds like Sam. But Sam’s probably busy trying to deal with the fallout of what Josh did, and he wouldn’t possibly be here, and Josh is just imagining it because Sam is one of his friends, although he’s not sure for how much longer because he's been a shitty friend lately, and he’s…

“Josh! Oh my god, Josh, are you alright?”

Josh opens his eyes. “Sam?”

“What are you doing here?” Sam demands, crouching down next to Josh. “We’ve been looking all over for you, I can’t believe you came here.”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to,” Josh replies with a shrug. He closes his eyes again and leans back. “Go away.”

“Josh, it’s not even forty out. You're going to freeze to death out here.”

“Good. Poetic justice,” he mumbles.

This seems to terrify Sam, because his voice jumps at least an octave. “Josh! You can’t… I can’t listen to you say that. Come on, get up. Come to my car.”

“Can’t you see I’ve fucked you over? Leave me alone.”

“Unless you want to be taken out of here by ambulance again,” Sam threatens, his voice low, “and god knows that’s something I don’t want to see.”

December 6th, 2001

4:12 PM

“Where are you going?” Sam’s car is warm, almost too warm, but Josh is just beginning to feel how icy his hands were. He rubs them together, taking in the redness of them which makes the scarring on his right hand stand out even more than usual.

“The White House,” Sam says.

“Sam, I can’t possibly go back there.”

“Why not?”

“There were TV cameras, I mean… I’m sure you saw what I did.”

Sam nods. “I did.”

“So, when I go back to the White House, I have to face that. I have to go to Leo. I have to confess that I’m unstable, that I can’t do the job anymore, and then he’s going to have to fire me for the good of the administration, and… I can’t bear the disappointment in his eyes when he does that.”

“Leo’s not going to fire you,” Sam says.

“Of course he is. He doesn’t have a choice. Look, I just spent the last two days arguing until I was blue in the face that I’m capable of doing the job, and then I went and proved that I’m very much not. That I definitely shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the President. In fact, I’d be surprised if the Secret Service lets me back into the building.”

“Josh, I think you’re really…”

“I can’t go back,” Josh concludes. “Not yet.”

Sam nods and makes a right turn into a parking lot, nodding towards a Starbucks. “Okay. You know what. Let’s stop and get some coffee, and we’ll figure out what to do, okay?”

Josh swallows and nods.

He refuses to go inside—too much of a chance of seeing someone who recognizes him—so Sam goes and grabs them both coffee and comes back inside the car. Josh drinks his immediately and burns his mouth in the process but finds that he relishes the pain in some odd way.

“How did everyone react?” Josh finally gets up the bravery to ask. “Is it... on the news?”

Sam nods slowly. “They're all a little bit pissed.”

“I would imagine more than a little bit.”

“But more than that, they were worried. Especially when you didn’t come back. We all went out to look for you. CJ insisted on checking your apartment—she was adamant that no one else go—and I don’t know why I thought you would be… I don’t know, I just had the feeling you might head there.”

“I didn’t even know I’d go back there,” Josh says quietly. “I didn’t know I was going there until I got there.”

“Did it help?”

He snorts. “You weren’t supposed to find me. People keep finding me and then making this harder.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that; there’s too much to be afraid of there. “You have to go back to the White House, Josh,” he says instead.

“I can’t.”

“I’m going to walk in right beside you.”

“I’m going to leave without a job.”

“No you’re not.”

Josh lets out a humorless laugh. “What planet do you live on, Sam? In what world am I going to be able to walk in there after what I did in public, in front of TV cameras, and walk out still having my job? If I don’t get fired, I’m going to resign, because I’m nothing but a drag on this administration. Of course, if I get fired it’ll look better, but I…”

“Josh, just talk to Leo. Please.”

He sighs and takes another sip of his boiling hot coffee. “The longer I put it off, the worse it will be,” he reasons, “but you might have to drag me in kicking and screaming.”

“That I can do,” Sam says, “and things may not be as bad as you think they are.”

December 6th, 2001

5:27 PM

He manages to cross the threshold of the White House without being dragged in, and while he gets some weird looks from the security guards, he manages to make it to Leo's office without too much interact. Sam keeps a gentle, friendly hand on his back the whole time. “It’s gonna be okay,” Sam says.

Josh can feel the bile rising in his throat and he pulls away from Sam’s touch. “I think… I think I’m gonna…” but before he can explain further, he runs to the nearest bathroom and retches into the toilet. His nausea doesn’t abate, but he's almost certain he’s emptied out what’s left of his stomach since he’s hardly eaten today anyway.

He rinses out his mouth before taking slow, plodding steps back towards Leo’s office.

Josh hates letting anyone down, but there’s no one he hates letting down more than Leo. Leo, who has been like a father to him, Leo, who basically made his career in politics, Leo, who has been through so much and yet hasn’t fucked things up the way Josh has. How is he supposed to face him now?

Margaret is eyeing him with some judgment, but then again, Margaret’s expressions are always hard to read. “He’s inside,” she says. “You can talk to him now.”

“Thank you,” Josh says, his voice thick. He opens the door to see Leo behind his desk, and he closes his eyes because he cannot possibly take in Leo’s reaction to all of this or he’ll be completely overwhelmed.

“Sit down,” is the first thing Leo says, and Josh opens his eyes again.

“No sir,” he replies. Sir. He hasn’t called Leo that practically ever. “I’d rather be standing when you fire me.”

“Josh, I’m not gonna…”

“You have to,” Josh says evenly, coldly, trying to control his shaking. “You have to. Otherwise this will be the only story in the news for a month, and it’ll kill any shot we have at reelection, and it’ll all be my fault and I cannot in good conscience allow that to…”

“Josh.” Leo says, his voice turning stern. “Sit down. Or do I need to get the president to write an executive order?”

"I punched a guy, Leo? Not just a guy, a representative! They caught it on camera, it’s probably all over the news, and…”

To his surprise, Leo bursts out laughing.

Josh frowns. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure where you got the idea that this is funny.”

“You call that a punch?” Leo asks, raising his eyebrow.

That’s not what he expected to hear. “I don’t…” he blinks a few times. “I don’t really remember what happened, but I could swear I punched him.”

Leo reaches for the remote control and turns on the TV. The clip is playing, yet again. They must not have had any other interesting news to play today. Josh watches, although it’s very hard to watch. He can see just how pale and thin and tired and unkempt he looks. He watches as he grabs Congressman McKenna and pushes him against the wall, but it’s really a rather weak grip. McKenna could have easily pushed him aside. McKenna grins with a terrible glint in his eye. He watches as he raises his hand and then steps back. Really, he could have sworn he punched him. He could have sworn he went further. And yet... he barely did anything at all. Sure, it was a little aggressive on his part, but he remembers it being so much worse.

God, his memory is a fucking disaster.

“Leo, I’m so… I’m so sorry.”

Leo sighs. “It wasn’t a good look, but I don’t think it’s a fireable offense. It’ll be sensational for a day or so, but believe me, we’ve seen worse in those hallways.”

“I still think I can’t…”

“Josh, you’re not getting fired. End of story. Long as I got a job, you got a job, okay?”

Josh stares at his feet. His shoes are terribly scuffed. “You can’t just... let this slide.”

“I’m not going to,” Leo says. “You’re gonna do a few things for me. First of all, the interview CJ wants you to do? You’re gonna do it. It might be turned into a bit of a sob story for middle-aged moms drinking their Sunday night white wine, but that’s okay. That's what we need. Second, I’m sending you away for a few days. You’re gonna go with the DNC committee as the White House representative for their final site evaluations for the convention. It'll get you out of DC for a few days and maybe the DNC will actually bother listening to what their candidate wants for once, which is a concept.”

Josh nods slowly. “Leo, I appreciate this, but I…”

“Third, you’re not gonna argue with me. I know I hired you because you were willing to argue with me, and I appreciate that, but not today. You’ll shut up and do what I say.”

“Is CJ okay with this? This will make her job much harder…”

“She’s the one who begged me not to fire you,” Leo says. “She also told about what happened last night.”

Josh winces. “I wish she hadn’t…”

“That’s required reporting, Josh, and I’m glad she did. Because you know who else came to me last week concerned about you? Donna. She said she suspected you haven’t been to therapy, and you haven’t been taking your medications, and I brushed her off again, thinking it was just because of your stress over the upcoming hearings.”

He doesn’t look up from staring at his feet. “I wanted to be able to show that I was better, that I didn’t need any of that to…”

“Well, I don’t think that’s true now,” Leo says.

“No sir.”

Leo sighs and reaches across the desk, prompting Josh to finally look up at him. “It doesn’t matter to me that you need to be in therapy, or that you need meds for it. Whatever it takes to keep you healthy and functioning, take it. I still go to meetings because I know that's what I need. So my last condition for you staying is that you go see your therapist again, and that you get back on the medications you need, because I’m going to be honest, I’m sick and tired of having to worry about you constantly, and I want you to be in a better place. But I need you to want that too, okay.”

Josh swallows and nods, meeting Leo’s eyes. “Okay.”

“You’re not going to keep telling me I should fire you?”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to tell you that,” Josh says, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face. “I just am wondering… when… have you talked to Donna lately?”

Leo presses his lips together. “Not since she came to me last week about you, but she sent me an email a few days ago saying she had to resign.”

“She didn’t say why?”

Leo shakes his head.

“I can’t wrap my mind around it. Her note to me asked me to forgive her, and I have no clue for what. If anyone needs to be forgiven, it’s me. I'm the one who’s been cruel and awful and I’m the one who’s been fucking things up and I’m sure I drove her away but I can’t comprehend why she blames herself.”

“She might have found a new job, and she wanted you to forgive her for leaving suddenly. That might be all it is. Maybe you need to find her,” Leo says.

“She doesn’t want to talk to me. I went to her apartment, I’ve called her so many times—she just wants me to leave her alone,” Josh says, trying not to let the dejection in his eyes show.

Leo slides a plane ticket across the desk to Josh. “You’re going to do the interview in the studio in New York on Sunday—don’t worry, they’re prerecording it so you don’t have to do it live—and then you’ll go from there to the DNC site selection committee. Do a good job out there, huh? And make sure you take some time for yourself. I know there are some things that you’re looking for.”

Josh doesn’t make eye contact with Leo but nods. “Leo?” he asks, his voice small, “do you think I might be able to go see the President?”

“Today, you just need to go home,” Leo says. “But tomorrow I’ll get you a meeting with him on the DNC stuff.”

“Leo, that’s not what I…”

“You’ll have time to discuss whatever you need to,” Leo says, holding up a hand. “Go home.”

Josh frowns, thinking of his kitchen floor. “I don’t know that I can.”

“It’s clean,” he said. “When CJ was looking for you, she went over there. She cleaned it all up while she was there. Do you need someone to go home with you?”

“No, I…” Josh frowns and looks at his lap.

“Sam’s gonna drive you home, and I’ll come by later today to see how you’re doing. That sound alright?”

Josh is still struggling to process the fact that he still has a job at all, let alone all that Leo is offering to do for him, but he swallows and nods. “Okay,” he says softly.

Leo stands up and comes around to where Josh is sitting, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. You’re gonna be okay.”

December 7th, 2001

9:33 AM

The President still hasn’t hired a replacement for Mrs. Landingham six months after her death; instead, it’s Charlie who lets him in. Charlie who still looks at him with those eyes of pity and sympathy, Charlie who Josh just knows blames himself still, despite Josh’s efforts to convince him of the contrary.

Josh will keep trying, but he’s got enough on his mind today.

“Sir,” Josh says, when he enters the office.

“Joshua, how are you? A little less trigger-happy than yesterday, I presume?”

And Josh might point out the poor choice of words, but coming from the President, who has also been shot, who understands some of what he’s going through, if only some, he finds it almost amusing. “Yes sir,” he says, dimples just starting to peek out.

“You’re going up to New York on Sunday to do an interview?” The President asks.

“Interview’s being recorded in the morning, and then I’m flying to Wisconsin that afternoon for the DNC stuff, which… what did you have for me on that?”

The President shrugs. “I trust you on that, just make sure I get nominated again. Shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“No, not at all.”

“Do you have any questions for me? Leo said you needed something specific.”

Josh blows his cheeks and looks at the seal in the middle of the carpet. An eagle with an olive branch. Peace. He takes a deep breath.

“I just wanted to apologize for how I’ve handled this situation. I don’t think I served you or this administration well with my behavior during the hearings, and I certainly have made things worse with my display in the hallway yesterday, but I’m going to make amends and I’m going to work hard at getting better and I think…”

“What’s next, Josh?”

He blinks. “Sir?”

The President stands up and smiles. “I think I’ve heard enough of this prostration, what’s next?”

And no other words could encapsulate it’s okay, I forgive you, and I love you all at once.

December 9th, 2001

4:07 PM

He had such a strong desire to leave DC, but now that he isn’t there, he feels untethered and adrift. He’s in Milwaukee, of all places, and he’s supposed to be meeting someone from the DNC committee here, but he never got a full name, just initials, so he doesn’t have a clue who he's looking for. It seems odd, too, to schedule a meeting on a Sunday afternoon when the committee doesn’t technically assemble until Monday. He hates going into meetings unprepared, and he doesn’t know who this one is with or what it’s about, and he probably wouldn’t have prepared anyway because he didn’t have Donna to prep him.

Being in Wisconsin, so close yet so far, makes him miss her even more.

He's sitting in the lobby of a decently nice hotel, although the attempt at ‘rustic’ decor in an industrial city is kitschy at best. He knows they’re supposed to meet here, but the meeting was supposed to start at four and despite his careful observation of the room, he hasn’t seen anyone who looks like they might be a politician enter at all, and he’s starting to get antsy.

That’s when he sees her.

He’d recognize her straight blonde hair anywhere—she’s right, she never has a bad hair day—and through he’s half convinced his eyes might be deceiving him (with good reason), he stands up.

She’s coming in through the front door of the lobby, her eyes searching, but then, for a split second, they land on him.

He’s about to open his mouth, call her name, when turns around and begins to walk back out the door. She’s not quite running, but he can tell from her body language that she desperately wants to. She's leaving him again.

Josh freezes for a second, unsure what to do, but then he steels himself and hurries out after her, shouting “Donna!” once he steps out into the frigid Wisconsin air. “Donna!”

She climbs into a car that is parallel parked several feet down the street and tries to start it. Josh follows her, running as fast as he can, as fast as his out-of-shape body will carry him. He’s panting by the time he reaches her, but she hasn’t pulled away yet.

Donna is trying to turn on the car, but it keeps sputtering and then refusing to turn on. “Dammit!” he can hear her shout.

He taps on the glass, before opening the car door. “Car trouble?” he asks, as if there’s nothing else to it. “I told you that thing’s a piece of crap.” He has to stay calm, he tells himself. It’s just Donna. It’s just Donna. He can talk to Donna.

“Cold ran my battery down. Again.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?" Donna retorts.

“Leo sent me…”

“...with the severance papers,” Donna finishes.

“I don’t have any severance papers,” Josh says with confusion.

“I can’t believe this. You set this up!”

Josh raises his hands. “ I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m supposed to be meeting someone from the DNC right now, but I…”

“Or Leo set this up, or I… Josh, I’m not ready to have this conversation. Especially if you haven’t forgiven me. That's why I left, because I'm not ready to talk about...”

Josh frowns, still caught on an earlier part of the sentence. “Forgiven you for what?”

“You don’t… know what I did?”

He blinks a few times before laughing. “Donna, I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.” He takes her in, and it hits him just how much he missed her, even if she’s yelling at him. “Come on back inside. Your car isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and I think we have some things to talk about.”

Chapter Text

December 9th, 2001

4:15 PM

Donna pulls the keys out of the ignition. There’s no way her car will start anyway, not without a jump, so she’s trapped. She has to face him, but the idea makes her feel sick to her stomach. She's not prepared to stay all this to Josh. Josh, who changed her life by giving her a job she never would have dreamed of, Josh, who she cares about so much, Josh, whose life she ruined. What can she even say to him?

To her surprise, he doesn’t look angry. In fact, while he certainly looks weary and overwrought, he also is smiling at her. She doesn’t deserve to see his smile, but she can’t resist it, not when his dimples are showing and he just looks so glad to see her.

So this is happening, she concludes, as she steps out of the car and slams the door. “Where do you want to go?” she asks, trying to keep her voice even. She shivers as an icy wind off the lake almost blows her over.

“Well, inside for one,” Josh replies with a smirk. “Want to grab a drink?”

She thinks about what happened the last time they had a conversation after drinking, and shakes her head. “Are you staying here?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we… go to your room?” She can’t believe she's asking this, but she’s not going to tell him all this in a public space, especially since his reactions have been getting more and more unpredictable (and even the predictable reaction is one she doesn't necessarily want publicly witnessed). She shouldn’t be scared—this is Josh after all—but she’s concerned she’s broken things irreparably, and that this conversation will be confirmation of that.

She half expects him to make some sort of joke about that, but instead he nods slowly. “Okay.”

Donna forces a smile and begins to head back to the hotel. “Okay.”

December 9th, 2001

4:22 PM

Josh pulls the hotel keycard out of the wallet, and is unsuccessful in opening the door on his first try. This is part of his life experience—usually he gets it on the third or fourth attempt—but Donna takes the card from him immediately and swipes it.

“You have the magic touch or something,” Josh says with a chuckle. He’s still not quite comprehending it. Donna, here, in his hotel room, after he thought he might never see her again. She’s not making eye contact with him, and she seems skittish and fearful, and Josh dreads what he’s done to her without knowing, but at least she’s here and they can talk.

“I have patience,” Donna retorts, but there’s not much humor behind it. God, he misses their banter.

He opens the door for her. “There’s not really anywhere to sit,” he says. “There's going to be a conference room for the DNC stuff I’m here for but that isn’t reserved until tomorrow so we'll have to…”

She perches herself on the side of the bed, and pats the area beside her. “This is fine,” she says.

Josh takes a seat, although he’s conscious of not getting too close. Once upon a time, he never would have worried or even thought about that, but today things seem so fragile between them and the tension is palpable; if they sit any closer it might become unbearable.

“How are you doing?” he asks, his voice strangled. “Wisconsin treating you well?”

“Josh.”

“No, I’m serious, I want to know.”

Donna shakes her head and cracks a slight, humorless smile. “You want to know how I feel about Wisconsin, or do you want the answer to another question?”

Josh laces his fingers together and squeezes them tightly to try and absorb some of the tension he feels throughout his body. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at her, barely even dares to breathe.

“Josh…” Donna urges. "Ask the question.”

He turns his head towards her, locking eyes with her for the first time. There’s something in Donna’s gaze that encourages him, that allows him to breathe enough to get the words out of his lungs and out of his heart, even if they’re in a strangled, tight voice informed by unshed tears. “Why did you leave me?

December 9th, 2001

4:29 PM

Donna knew this question was coming, and yet it takes her breath away. Because Josh doesn't ask her why she left the White House, or why she left her job, or even why she went back to Madison. Why did you leave me? And how can she respond when it’s that personal?

“Because everything that’s happened to you… it’s my fault.”

To her surprise, Josh doesn’t frown. He doesn’t even look stunned. Instead, he laughs. He laughs! “Everything that’s happened to me?”

“Josh..."

“Did you call for congressional hearings about the President’s MS? Did you shoot me? Did you burn my house down when I was a kid? That’s quite a feat, considering you weren’t even born yet.”

Donna closes her eyes. “Josh, don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“What do you think you did?”

She kicks the side of the bed unconsciously, suddenly full of nervous energy. “You know! You were the one who told me about it! You told me it was all my fault!”

He frowns. “When did I…”

“The day it all came out. Your file, I mean. We went out that night and then we came back to your apartment and you told me it was all my fault. You yelled at me to get out.”

Josh seems more interested in the tops of his thighs than anything else. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were pretty drunk.”

“Donna, I’m sorry about what I said, but I was drunk and clearly it was not something I meant. I don’t blame this on you, and I hope you can forgive…”

She stands up suddenly, interrupting his rambling. How can he be asking her to forgive him? It should be the other way around, and she can’t let him go on like this any longer. “You were right, though.”

He looks up at her, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“It is my fault. I’m the reason your Secret Service file got leaked,” Donna admits, sitting back down again. It doesn’t seem right to be sitting side by side and this far apart, but nothing about this is right at all.

Josh takes a moment before saying anything, and she’s certain he’s trying to restrain his anger but she can’t bring herself to look over at him to check. He’s well within his rights to be angry—he’s been put through the wringer lately—but Donna is still bracing for the impact.

But it never comes.

“Why do you think that?” he asks, finally, and while Donna still can’t look at him, his voice is surprisingly even; it didn’t jump an extra octave like she expects it to.

How can he ask her this, though? He knows, and if he just wants to play with her, to make her admit her guilt…well, he’s well within his rights to do that, Donna thinks, but it seems unnecessarily cruel. She sighs, her eyes focusing on the ugly painting on the wall in front of her. “When you asked me to put your file away… I didn't. I looked through it, which I really shouldn’t have done, and then I got so concerned about what was inside that I left it on my desk, and when I remember it, it was gone. Someone must have seen it and taken it, a janitor, some Republican coming to meet with you, someone like that, and given it to the committee. I betrayed your trust, Josh, and I’m going to be eternally sorry for that but I understand if you can’t forgive me after what I’ve put you through.”

Josh is silent again, and god, she hates it. Josh is never silent, so there is nothing more uncomfortable than the moments where he is.

“Donna," he says, and before she can stop herself, she looks at him. He’s smiling again. Why is he smiling?

“What?”

“That’s not how my file got leaked.”

“What?”

Josh shrugs. “That's not how my file got leaked.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I leaked it myself.”

December 9th, 2001

4:48 PM

He can fix this, he thinks, and he’s filled with hope at the concept. Donna left him because of a misunderstanding. Donna left because she thought she had done him wrong. She hasn’t, so perhaps she’ll come back. There’s a lot of things in his life he can’t fix, but he can fix this.

“You leaked it yourself?” Donna asks, her eyes widening. She’s finally made eye contact with him, and while there’s a part of his that feels magnetically drawn to her, that wants to move closer, he restrains himself.

"I did,” he says.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “Why?”

He swallows. It’s a simple question, and yet it’s unfathomably complicated. Of course she would ask why. He’s successfully avoided explaining to everyone else—to CJ, to Sam, to Leo, to the President—but there’s no way he can avoid telling the truth to Donna.

But then she’ll still think she’s to blame, and Josh knows how crushing that kind of guilt can be.

Still, Donna won’t accept anything less than the truth. He doesn’t want to lie to her; she doesn’t deserve that from him. So he has to let her know gently. “Donna, it was… you were…” He can’t manage to get the words out; they’re stuck inside him, or perhaps they never existed. Perhaps he was never going to be prepared to have this conversation.

“You told me it was my fault,” Donna says when the silence becomes too unbearable, “and while you were pretty drunk at the time, I can’t imagine there wasn’t some kind of truth behind that.”

He puts his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. “A little.”

“Why did you leak the file?” Donna asks again, inching slightly closer to her on the bed.

Josh really has felt better the past few days since the hearing—an emergency session with his therapist certainly helped—but it still feels like there’s a pressure cooker inside of his head, like he’s prone to explode at any moment. He doesn’t take his calm for granted, and in this moment, he can’t help but stand up suddenly.

He wheels around, hands clenched in firsts, voice raised. “Donna, I did it to protect you!

Then, stunned silence.

December 9th, 2001

4:55 PM

“Josh…” Donna whispers, finally breaking the uninterrupted sound of his heavy breathing. Her mind is spinning. This confounds everything she had known, everything she had believed about him, about the whole situation. He looks so exhausted, so overwhelmed, as if the confession has taken everything out of him.

He doesn’t have more to give, but Donna needs more from him. She needs to know what happened, needs to know what is her fault, needs to know what she can be sorry for and how she could ever dream of making it up to him. She stands up and slowly, very gently, takes him arm, making sure he is comfortable with touch. She leads him back to sit on the edge of the bed, and suddenly they’re so much closer than they ever were before.

She puts a hand on his back, seeing him respond to her touch with even the slightest bit of relaxation. “Josh, can you tell me what happened?”

He closes his eyes, but doesn't shy away from her touch. “Cliff… he threatened to indict you for perjury for lying about your diary. I couldn’t let that happen to you, I couldn’t lose you, so I met with him. We made a deal, he drops the whole thing and I give him and the rest of the Republicans a bigger fish to fry: me.”

Donna’s hand hovers over his back, her body practically frozen in shock. “What?” The enormity of what he did for her is too staggering for her to even comprehend. She can’t properly articulate her thoughts, so her first question is, “Is that even… legal?”

“More legal than perjury,” he jokes, although Donna certainly doesn’t find the humor in it.

“Josh… I… I don’t even know what to say. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, it was of questionable legality and we figured the fewer people who knew, the better, so…”

“Josh.”

“I wanted to protect you,” he reiterates softly, his hands balling into tight fists that accentuate the scars that cross the right. “I did it to protect you.”

Her next question is simple, stilted, whispered. “Why?” Her hand once again rests on his back and he stiffens at the touch.

He can go for the safe answer, the one that he understands fully, even if there is another answer that is beyond even his comprehension, that he’s afraid to even acknowledge. “My thing probably would have come out anyway—they were doing some serious digging—so it’s better to make sure nobody got in legal trouble. That would have looked worse for the administration.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Josh…”

“And your diary would have been subpoenaed as evidence anyway, if you’d been indicted,” he adds. “The would have found out that way.”

“It might not have been quite so bad for you,” she protests.

“But it would have been much worse for you.”

She closes her eyes. “Yes.”

He lets out a shuddering breath. “Why did you lie about your diary?”

“I wanted to protect you,” she replies softly. “I didn’t realize… I though it would…”

He turns his head to take her in. She's biting her lip, her eyes looking towards the ceiling, beginning to brim with salty tears. “Donna, what was in the diary?” he asks.

Donna doesn’t know how to answer. She can’t. The whole point of her lying about the diary was so that no one could find out what was in it, not even Josh. Her head is still spinning with the thought that Josh put himself through all this intentionally, to protect her. He did it for her.

She owes him this, at least.

“Well, as you figured out, I wrote about your PTSD diagnosis in there,” she says, “although trying to hide that was moot, apparently. But there were… there were other things I didn’t necessarily want the whole world, or at least the whole committee, to know. One entry in particular.”

April 4th, 2001

I think I may have revealed myself today.

Josh was being so obnoxious all day, sending me flowers for what is certainly not our anniversary (that’s in February and I don't want to talk about what happened in April) and then pestering me about them and god he drives me crazy.

And then it hit me tonight; I’m in love with him.

I knew that before. Maybe. It’s hard not to realize when you’re in a life-or-death situation, when seeing him on an operating table while surgeons are trying to piece his heart back together. But I’m not sure I verbalized it until tonight.

I told him about my ex (whose name I refuse to write in here because he doesn’t deserve even that much consideration), and about how he stopped for a beer, and his reaction. I couldn’t have asked for anything sweeter, really. He said he wouldn’t stop for a beer. It seems so small and yet how could you not fall in love with a man who says that.

I need to stop. This is dangerous. I can’t have feelings for my boss.

But I told him I wouldn’t stop for red lights, because I know exactly what it’s like to see him in mortal danger, and I wouldn’t stop at anything to make sure he’s safe. Too revealing, perhaps, but it was a night for honesty apparently.

At least Josh is oblivious. I’m not sure he noticed.

And that’s okay, because I like our status quo.

The flowers are beautiful, but I’m still not going to give him the satisfaction. He got more than enough out of me tonight. I need to let it go, because I absolutely, positively cannot fall in love with my boss.

Unfortunately I think it’s too late.

December 9th, 2001

5:03 PM

She stands up and begins to pace; she can’t bear to be close to him, not when she says what she has to say.

“What did you write about?”

“I don’t know that I can tell you…”

He bites his lip, almost looking devastated. “Donna, you can tell me anything. If you wrote about how insane your boss is, what a slave driver he is, why he’s absolutely unfit to be in any sort of government work then I understand, and you can absolutely tell me that. I mean, I’m assuming it’s about me but… I recognize that you’ve put up with a lot and you don’t have to spare my feelings. You needed a place to vent and I understand but I don’t see why…”

“That’s not it at all!” Donna cries, turning around to face him again.

“If it wasn’t that, then what…”

She can’t bear it anymore, can’t bear the misunderstanding, can’t bear the secrecy, and she’s sure she’ll get rejected, get fired, but she’s already quit so it won’t matter. Will she ever be able to face him again? Well, she’s facing him now, and the words slip out before she can grab hold of them and shove them back into the box she’s kept them in for so long.

“I’m in love with you!”

There it is.

She can’t look at him, so she turns back towards the door of the hotel room, breathing heavily. “And I don’t need you to respond or reciprocate or anything,” she rambles, “because god knows I don’t deserve it after screwing everything up for you, but I… that’s what was in the diary. That’s why I couldn’t let anyone see it. Because then you’d find out and that delicate balance would be gone and I just couldn’t bear the thought of that although if I had considered it more I might have…”

“Donna,” she hears from behind her, although she doesn’t yet have the bravery to turn around.

“Yeah?”

“Could you say that again?”

December 9th, 2001

5:06 PM

Josh’s brain is racing a mile a minute, but what Donna has said to him is still absolutely incomprehensible. She’s in love with him. She’s in love with him. And yet she was so afraid of anyone finding out that she committed perjury to keep it a secret.

How is he supposed to respond to that?

Josh has never been all that good at accurately identifying his feelings—he knows that because various therapists have told him so—but instead of the intense fear and anxiety he thought being told something like that would strike in him, there’s something else. It’s something good, something warm and comforting.

He doesn’t know how to verbalize it, but he's beginning to be able to formulate words in his head for it. And those words sound an awful lot like I love you too.

Still, he’s not exactly the model of mental stability at the moment. He doesn’t trust his senses, not when he hears sirens in the silence or in the innocuous music around him. How can he trust what he hears when it’s so far from what he ever imagined?

He has to hear it again.

“Josh, don’t make me say it,” she whispers, still not looking at him. “This is hard enough.”

“Please,” he begs, standing up and taking a few steps toward her, although he doesn’t quite enter her space. “I know how hard it to say… I mean, I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t need to hear it again. But I do. Donna, I really do.”

She takes a deep breath and repeats in a barely audible voice, “I'm in love with you.”

“This is real?”

“Josh!” She still doesn’t turn, but doesn’t move away as he steps closer.

He rubs his face, savoring the sensation. It feels like reality. “I mean... I don’t exactly trust my perception lately, so I just have to make sure before I do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

He touches her arm gently, and she jumps at the contact, turning around to face him. They lock eyes—bleary eyes, mutually tear-stained cheeks, the exhaust of loss and longing line their faces—and any resistance melts away.

He kisses her.

It's like he’s floating, and not the dissociative, unreal feeling he gets when he hears music or anything that sounds like gunshots. No, this is peaceful, wonderful, warming, and he’s never felt more grounded in reality than when his face is so close to hers, his tongue exploring the slight parting of her soft lips. It’s not like it was with Mandy, or anyone else he’s kissed before—not a battle for dominance or proof of prowess—but instead it’s a moment of uniting, of feeling like he is one with her.

He feels whole.

Donna doesn’t pull away, instead leaning into him more, her hands coming up to rest on his cheeks.

Josh has never been good at identifying his feelings, but her touch brings the words to him now. He loves her, too. He has for a long time. And now that she’s holding onto him, he can’t imagine ever letting go.

Eventually, however, he has to breathe again, has to step back and look into her shining eyes, her reddened cheeks, still stained by former tears. But she’s smiling, and he feels warm at the very thought that he made her smile. He’s always loved to make her smile, but he’s never felt so proud of it until this moment.

He blinks a few times before letting himself grin. His cheeks hurt from it; he can’t have used these muscles in a long time. “What was I saying?” he asks.

“You were going to do something stupid.”

He shrugs. “Like that.”

“That wasn’t stupid,” Donna says softly.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “But I think I might want to try again, just to make sure.”

Donna has always been beautiful, but he could swear she’s never been more so than now, when she's practically glowing. She turns him around, grabs his arm, and pulls him back towards the bed, before starting on the buttons of his shirt. “I can think of something even better to try,” she whispers in his ear, her lips so close that they’re ghosting over the cartilage.

Josh shudders at the sensation, goosebumps pricking through his skin, and reaches for the bottom of her shirt. “I love you,” he whispers, and Donna brings her lips to his again to reward him.

He’ll never quite understand how Donna makes him feel like he’s floating, flying, up in a heaven he’s never believed in, and yet more real and more alive than he’s even known.

Chapter Text

December 9th, 2001

6:23 PM

“This is nice,” Donna whispers, blinking to remind herself that she’s awake. She hadn’t fallen asleep necessarily, but the emotional and physical release of the past few hours, coupled with just how comfortable she feels with her head on his bared chest, her ear listening to his heartbeat, had put her into a sort of glorious dozing state that she wouldn’t mind staying in forever.

“That was… something,” Josh agrees, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. He furrows his brow. “I mean, I’m not sure if you… I know you weren’t expecting it, and neither was I, and we’ve just…"

“Shhh,” Donna replies, raising her head and turning her body over so that she’s on her stomach, meeting his gaze. “Everything’s perfect.” It’s not, she knows that much, but Josh told her he loves her, and then showed her in a multitude of ways her surreptitious fantasies would never have imagined. She feels sated, and yet she’d go for it again with him every day of the week. She lifts up a hand to trace the fading scar running the length of his sternum. It’s much less noticeable than the last time she saw it, back when it was still new and raw, but it's still there, still a tangible reminder of what he’s come through. “We still need to talk about some things, but we got the most important thing out of the way.”

“What’s that?” he asks, and there’s a ghost of a smirk on his face.

“You know what it is.”

“Well, then maybe I just want to hear you say it again,” Josh whispers, reaching an arm out to run his fingers through her soft blonde hair.

She giggles, almost rendered to idiocy by his mere touch. It’s ridiculous, and yet she can hardly upset about it. She wouldn’t want to fall like this for anyone else. “What, that I’m in love with you?” she says again, in her best attempt at a flippant tone.

“What does that mean?”

She’s about to give him another goofy answer, as if this new revelation is some kind of joke, some kind of game between them, because her endorphins are running so high that she feels like she’s detached from reality. But she takes in his face and realizes that his question is serious. “Josh… what do you want to know?”

“I mean, how long, how serious… is this just something you tell people or is it…”

“Josh,” she whispers again, dipping down to kiss him softly before pulling back. “I don’t say it lightly. If it were just a shallow thing, I don’t think I would have written about it in my diary. I certainly wouldn’t have been so afraid of my diary being shared if I had just been saying it flippantly. I’ve… god, I don’t even know how long it's been, really, but I knew for sure when I saw you on that operating table and knew I couldn’t go on if you didn’t make it.”

“Donna…”

“And if you’re doubting my…”

“I don’t doubt you,” he argues, although he won't meet her eyes on saying that.

“Josh.”

“I don’t doubt you,” he repeats. “I’m just… you left. You left even though you say you loved me then, and I’m afraid that…”

She shakes her head. “Josh, I left because I love you.”

“See that’s what I don’t understand,” he says. “How leaving people can be love.”

Donna can feel her heart constrict at his words. Josh has felt so abandoned throughout his life, although not by intention, and she probably only made that worse, but she also needs him to understand. “And how many times did you offer to resign from the administration?”

Josh is silent.

“You did that out of love,” she continues, “because you love all of them too much. Misguided, yes, but certainly an act of love. And me leaving was the same; I thought it would protect you. I was wrong, and I’ve never been more glad to be wrong, but Josh... we can’t do this if you can’t trust me.”

His brow furrows a little bit, and Donna can tell that he’s still caught up on something. Finally, he purses his lips. “You never answered my calls.”

“Josh…”

“I called you every day, multiple times, and you didn’t answer a single one.”

She brushes away a stray lock of hair from his face. “I lost my phone. I think it’s probably in a gas station somewhere in Ohio.”

Josh seems to accept this, although the furrow in his brow doesn’t disappear. “Would you have answered my calls? If you still had it?”

“I don’t know,” Donna says, because it’s all she can say. Because she really doesn’t know what she would have said to him, but now, in this moment, she can’t imagine not talking to him.

There’s a pause, and neither of them are particularly inclined to fill it.

A moment passes, and he swallows. “You know, they asked me that in the hearing. If I trusted you.”

“They did?”

“You didn’t watch?”

Donna frowns. “Bits and pieces, but… it was hard to watch.”

“It was hard to live.”

“I can imagine,” she whispers, thinking of all he has been through this past week.

She can see the shadow that hoods his eyes, but he adds, “Anyway, they asked me if I trusted you. I said yes, of course, because I do, but I had to think for a moment, because you left me again.”

“Josh…”

“I understand now,” he says, “but I’m still going to be scared, sometimes, I think, that you’ll leave me again. And I’m going to work on that, but I need you to bear with me.”

“You don’t need to be scared,” she whispers softly, reaching up to touch his messy curls. She can see a few gray hairs in there, down by his temples, and her heart constricts to think just how much of a toll this has had on him.

He shifts a bit on the bed. “There are lots of things I don’t need to be scared of, and yet I am. Sirens, music, loud noises, people leaving…”

Donna gives him a smile, even a pained one, and pulls her elbows out from under her to turn over and settle against his chest once more. “I know. And that’s something I know you’re working on, and I’ll be patient while you do. As long as you are… I mean, working on it.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

“And I know this…I mean, us, it doesn’t cure anything,” Donna continues, “but…”

“It helps,” Josh says simply, and Donna lets her eyes flutter closed, her ear pressed to her his steady heartbeat.

They’re both silent for a minute, but then he clears his throat. Donna lifts her head up off of his chest and turns to see his frown. “You were right,” he says after a moment.

“About what?”

December 9th, 2001

6:30 PM

“I stopped going to therapy,” he says. “I thought… I thought it would be okay, at least until the hearing was over, so that I could prove to the committee that I was better, so I could truthfully tell them I didn’t need it anymore, but…” he gazes up at the ceiling, looking at the swirled patterns of white.

“I figured,” Donna says. “I’m kind of tuned to you that way.”

“Yeah." He lets out a breath. “Anyway, I’m not sure if it was the stress of everything or not going to therapy or not taking my meds or just the way things cycle, but it was getting bad again. I uh… well, let’s just say I’m going to need new dishes.”

She whispers “Josh,” in pain and shock, but it’s not judgmental or angry. Donna understands him better than anyone, and while it’s painful to talk about this, Donna is the only person he wants to discuss it with.

“And I’m not sure what you’ve seen on the news, of what happened after the hearing, but…”

“I saw.”

He closes his eyes, tension coursing through him even if Donna’s presence relaxes him. “I thought it was even worse than it was,” he says, his voice tight. “I thought I hit him, I thought that… I was just so angry. I thought ‘seeing red’ was just an expression, but I literally did.”

“Why?” she asks in a small voice, as if she might be afraid to hear the answer.

“Donna, I can’t…”

“I have to tell you something,” she interrupts, sitting up all the way and looking down at him. “Cliff called me after what happened, and he told me you did it for me. He hung up before he could explain and I didn't get his office number. What happened there?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I mean, you know what a massive rat’s ass McKenna is, right?”

“Does that have anything to do with me?”

"He called… well, he knew, somehow, what happened between you and Cliff. He called you… he called you some terrible names, and insinuated I fired you because of all of it, and… god, Donna, I don’t remember all of what happened because my mental state was… not great at the time, but he was taunting me about you and insulting you and I couldn’t just stand there, you know?”

“Josh…”

“It was stupid and I should have lost my job over it, and I don’t really remember what…”

Donna leans down and kisses him softly. “You don’t deserve this for that,” she says as she pulls away,  “but it was hard to resist.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, the kiss, nice as it was, hardly registering in his racing mind. “I’ve been such a mess lately—more than usual, I mean—and it pains me to know that you’ve had to put up with that so much. Right now, it kind of feels like the fog is clearing, but it leaves behind a lot of guilt.”

“Shhh,” Donna says softly, placing a finger to his lips. “All that matters to me is that you’re doing what you can to get better.”

Josh sits up, pushing himself back against the headboard and letting the comforter fall to his hips. He’d normally feel self-conscious like this—he’s not sure he’s had his shirt off around anyone since the shooting—but Donna is different. “I saw my therapist yesterday,” he says, “and I’m starting back on my medication, although that takes some time to start working.”

“That’s a good start,” Donna says.

“Leo’s condition. Or at least one of them. For me to keep my job after what happened with McKenna.”

Donna nods slowly, her hand coming to rest on his covered thigh. Even through the layers of the duvet, he’s never felt something quite as reassuring as her touch. “Okay,” she says. “I’m glad you can keep your job.”

“He really shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be able to, but somehow they’ve figured out how to spin it. It was CJ who insisted, apparently, even though it makes her job a hell of a lot harder. He had some conditions though. Like I had to do the interview CJ wanted me to do, and I had to come out here for the DNC stuff, which… now I see might have been a bit of a setup.”

Donna smiles. “Not one I’m upset about. You did an interview?”

“Recorded it this morning,” Josh says. “It’s airing in… oh, about half an hour. Explained myself, explained some stuff about PTSD. They’ll say it's a deep dig, but it was really fairly shallow, which is alright by me.”

“You didn’t want to do an interview,” Donna says.

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, let's just say that ABC reporters are a hell of a lot nicer than Republican Congressmen, so it felt like a breeze.”

“Can we watch it?” Donna asks.

He frowns. “What?”

“Can we watch it?”

He frowns.

“Or… you don’t have to, but do you mind it I do?”

“Of course not,” he says softly. “Maybe I’ll… maybe I’ll go get some food for us while you watch. It’s only about 15 minutes, I think.”

Donna smiles and rubs his thigh. “That means you have to get dressed.”

“Think my shirt survived?” he asks with a soft smile.

“Wouldn’t complain if it didn’t,” Donna replies, her hand going to his chest again and lovingly tracing patterns on it, her fingers ghosting over the small rounded scar left by the bullet.

And this, Josh thinks, might be the thing that breaks him, because he’s been so self-conscious about his body since the shooting. He’s still thinner than he had been, he still hasn’t gained back the musculature he lost in the months of his recovery, and of course his body is littered with scars from incisions and tubes and bullets and himself. And yet Donna’s touch, her wide eyes, her adoration of his body… he feels like he might be whole again.

She reverently leans down to press a kiss to the very spot where the bullet entered his body, and Josh shivers at the sensation of her lips, of Donna’s vitality and spark, at the place that so very nearly killed him. It’s heavenly, and as she continues to brush her lips across the parts of his body that Josh hates most (but may not hate now, not if she keeps this up), he feels like he might lose control.

“Donna,” he whispers raggedly, squeezing her arm to get her attention.

She pauses and looks up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just…”

“I’m sorry, I can stop doing that if you’re not comfortable with…”

“No. God, no. That was… I don’t even know how to describe it, but please, feel free to do that any time you like. But if you want to watch the interview, I’m not sure we really have time to…”

She laughs and pulls back from him. “Right. That.”

“Yeah.”

“You should get dressed, then.”

“Before I go out into the frigid Wisconsin air?”

Donna grins before leaning over to pick his shirt off the floor and tossing it to him. “You jest, but it’s the wind chill that gets ya.”

“In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you utter a more Midwestern phrase.”

She beams at him. "I come back here and it all comes out of me.”

“Then please, god, let me get you back to DC soon.”

December 9th, 2001

6:51 PM

Donna isn’t sure how to respond to that. Of course she’s going to go back to DC, but she isn’t sure what they’re going to do with this new phase, all of an hour old. But that’s not something she can consider right now. Instead she grins at him and changes the subject. “Get yourself dressed, and then go get us some real Midwestern delicacies.”

“Like what? Cheese?”

“…yes. Or sausages. Or both,” she replies, reaching over the side of the bed to grab her shirt as well. It’s wrinkled beyond recognition, but it’s all she has. That is, until she looks across the room to see Josh’s suitcase and sees a gray sweatshirt resting on top of his other clothes.

“You know,” Josh says, turned away from her as he buttons up his shirt, “the insistence of Wisconsonians…”

“Wisconsinites,” Donna corrects.

“That sounds even more silly.”

“As opposed to what, cheeseheads?”

“Even worse.”

“Coming from a guy who’s from the Nutmeg State,” she teases, and there’s something that warms her heart about it. This is what she has been missing. This warm, friendly banter that feels so natural between them had felt lost when Josh had been struggling so much. Things are not perfect now, of course, but even this exchange makes her feel as if they are on the upswing.

Josh turns around to face her just so he can roll his eyes at her. “Anyway, as I was saying, the insistence of cheeseheads to combine cheese and meat in every single meal is really rather problematic for my people.”

“Your people? Nutmeggers?”

“Jews. Eating meat and dairy in the same meal isn’t kosher.”

“Josh, you’ve never kept kosher.”

He shrugs and turns around again to pick his pants off from the ground. “No, but I’m just saying. If I did, it would be awfully hard to find a meal in this state.”

Donna slides off the bed and tiptoes towards his suitcase, pulling the gray sweatshirt off the top. It’s his Wesleyan sweatshirt, one she’s never understood him having considering he never attended there. She’d already stolen his Harvard sweatshirt, but this one is larger, more worn, and she feels that same sense of security as she slips it over her head. Much better than her professional shirt and pants. “Good thing you’ve consumed enough cheeseburgers in your life to disabuse me of the notion that you actually keep kosher.”

“Just looking out for others, Donna,” he replies. “Alright, I’m going to go get us some dinner. Interview’s on ABC, should be towards the top of the program. I’ll be back soon. Hey, is that my sweatshirt?”

Donna winces. “Yeah…”

He looks like he’s about to be indignant, but his face melts into a soft smile. “It looks good on you.”

She can't help but beam.

Once the door closes behind Josh, Donna pulls the pillows behind her to sit on the bed and turns on the TV. The Sunday evening news show is just starting, and after some weather and major news stories of the day, they promise to come back to the interview after the commercial break.

“Tonight,” the announcer says in what Donna thinks is an overly dramatic voice, “White House senior staffer Joshua Lyman talks exclusively to us about his struggles with post-traumatic stress disorder following the Rosslyn shooting, and about the hearings that brought this all to light.”

The studio Josh had done the interview in is decorated to look somewhat homey, with two chairs spread an awkward distance apart. In one, a female TV journalist whose name Donna can’t place (perhaps she should have worked in communications instead) sits, her legs crossed pertly, a clipboard and pencil in her hand even though there’s no need for her to take notes since the whole interview is being televised. Josh is in the other, wearing the very same shirt that Donna tore off of him this evening. He looks tired, unsurprisingly, but there’s a defiance and resolution in his eyes.

It can’t have gone that badly, Donna thinks, if he doesn’t mind her watching. Still, that doesn’t exactly settle her stomach.

“Josh,” the reporter says, and Donna feels a swell of enmity towards her faux familiarity. This woman doesn’t know Josh at all; how can she have the right to ask him the questions she knows he’ll be asked? “Tell us a little bit about what happened that night in Rosslyn.”

TV Josh shrugs casually, although Donna knows he doesn’t speak casually about any of this. “I honestly don’t remember much of it. The town hall was great, the President was a hit, and we were all walking out. I guess I somehow ended up a little behind the group, I heard gunshots and screaming, and next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital.”

“You don’t remember any of it at all?”

“Not… not consciously,” he hedges, and thankfully the reporter doesn’t press him on it. Donna finds that she’s clenching the edge of the comforter in a fist, stressed out for the sake of a Josh who existed in the past.

“And what happened after that?”

“I had some pretty major life-saving surgery, and I was in the hospital for a long time afterwards, and then even longer recovering at home. It was very painful and very difficult; I wouldn’t recommend it,” he says, flashing one of those insincere Josh grins, as if he knows he’s made a joke completely devoid of humor.

“How did you get through that difficult time?”

“I have some amazing friends,” he says, almost looking straight into the camera. Donna’s heart almost melts at the phrase. “The other senior staffers had so much more on their plates since I couldn’t really work, and yet they supported me so much. They took my calls, they brought meals, they came and visited me and kept me from going too crazy from boredom. The President would call sometimes and lecture me on national parks or economics or whatever else he knows vast amounts of trivia about. And then my assistant Donna… I don’t know what I would have done without her there. I was really lucky to have such a good support system; I don’t think I could have recovered half as well as I did without them.”

Donna feels like her heart might melt at that. Even when Josh felt abandoned by her (that very morning), he was still singing her praises on national TV.

“What happened to make you realize you weren’t as recovered as you thought you were?”

She can see how Josh’s face darkens at this. What an odd question to ask, she thinks. When did you realize you were going crazy? she translates in her mind, based on the slight derision in the reporter’s voice.

“I started having nightmares, first, which wasn’t surprising to me since I’ve been prone to those since I was a little kid,” he starts, choking on his words. Donna knows exactly why that is, but she’s relieved he doesn’t share that detail. “I started getting more irritable, feeling on edge. I can be a pretty tense person, don’t get me wrong, but this was worse than before. I realized later that being around music was especially bad for me. Even though I don’t consciously remember the shooting, I couldn’t help but feel like I was there again. I was pretty miserable, but I didn’t know what was wrong. Thankfully, my friends noticed and instead of getting upset with me, they got me help. I spoke to a psychiatrist and he helped me identify what was going on.”

“And you were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Josh nods. “Yes.”

“Did you know anything about this condition before you were diagnosed?”

Josh shrugged. “I’d read a few reports on it, sure, but I always thought it was something that happened to veterans. As it turns out, it’s far more prevalent than I realized. About 4% of the US population will struggle with PTSD this year, many of them not from war-related trauma but from civilian trauma. For me, it was a shooting, but it might be a fire, a natural disaster, domestic violence, parental abuse… It’s estimated that 1 in 10 people will suffer from PTSD or acute stress disorder at some point in their life. Not all of them will be diagnosed or seek treatment, but I hope that they know they’re not alone.”

“I had no idea,” the reporter says, her jaw dropping ever so slightly.

“There are a lot of people who don’t talk about it. There’s a lot of stigma surrounding mental illness. It’s still, to some, a sign of weakness of instability when the truth is there are many, many people out there, far more than we’ll ever realize, who live with mental illnesses.”

“Is that why you didn’t initially share your diagnosis with the public?”

Donna winces as she watches Josh shift uncomfortably in his chair; the studio, hard as they tried to make it look homey, seems almost threatening. “It was all new to me; I wanted the chance to work through it first. I’m not an elected official and it wasn’t causing me problems in my work, so it didn’t seem like I needed to do it. I still don’t believe I was ethically obliged to release that information.”

“So how do you feel about it being released now?”

TV Josh sighs heavily, biting his lip, before finally answering. “I still wish it hadn’t been released because I value my privacy and I feel like I’ve been opened up to unwarranted scrutiny that has nothing to do with my career, but at least I’ve had the opportunity this week to advocate for those who are struggling with mental illness. If you are, please know that you’re not alone. We get better.”

“Has your disorder gone away?”

“It doesn’t ever go away,” Josh says. “I can certainly achieve enough remission of symptoms to no longer qualify for clinical diagnosis, but it’s always going to be with me in one way or another. I'm learning to live with it though. I’ve had therapy, on and off, I’ve taken medication for it, and every day new advances are being made in understanding and treatment. I’ve learned to live with it.”

The reporter nods solemnly. “Josh, earlier this week your altercation with Congressman Robert McKenna of Virginia was televised. Some people were concerned that this altercation was a sign of violent tendencies related to your PTSD. Would you comment on that?”

“First of all,” Josh says, an edge to his voice that perhaps only Donna could catch, “there’s a common misperception that people who struggle with mental illness are more violent, when in truth, they’re far more likely to be the victims of a crime than to commit the crime themselves. What happened with Congressman McKenna was in response to a horrible insult he spoke about a dear friend of mine. I will admit, I get a little bit touchy when people try to hurt or insult the people I love, and I will do what it takes to defend them. I never meant to be violent or hurt Congressman McKenna, and I didn’t hurt him. It wasn’t appropriate in that venue, I will admit, but it was not at all related to my PTSD.”

The reporter doesn’t necessarily look convinced, but she doesn’t press him. “Now that the hearings are over, do you believe you were portrayed fairly or allowed to share your story in front of Congress?”

“I think that the hearings should have been about the president, and that my mental health was not a fair game to be the topic of three quarters of the questions asked, but I also believe I made it very clear that neither I nor the President committed any illegal or unethical actions throughout the course of the campaign, and I have faith that the American public will agree with me and reelect President Bartlet next year,” he says, flashing a brilliant smile.

“Is there anything else you want to share, Josh?”

He runs a hand through his hair—Donna’s sure the hair and makeup team cringed at that when the interview was recorded—and leans back in his chair. “Don’t forget the humanity. Behind the laws and hearings and vetos and filibusters and elections are a whole lot of humans. None of us claim to be perfect. That’s why the United States, upon its founding, rejected an absolute monarchy, because the greater the number of decision making voices, the less likely the flaws of one will be the downfall of an entire nation. I may work in the White House, but that doesn’t make me any less of a person, or any less vulnerable. Even President Bartlet, a great man and certainly the greatest President of my lifetime, is deeply human. In the end, I think that humanity makes our country a better place.”

“Thank you, Josh,” the reporter says, and the program cuts back to the live studio.

Before she can even think about what she’s just seen, Donna hears the sound of a key card at the door, and she turns off the TV before jumping off the bed to go open the door for him—he’ll take forever otherwise.

“Hi,” he says when she opens the door for him. “There’s a place around the corner that sells bratwurst and cheese curds, because it’s Wisconsin, so that’s what we're having, but if you want something else I can…”

She interrupts him by putting her hands on his shoulders and kissing him.

His eyes widen at the contact. “What was that for?” he asks, when she pulls back.

“The interview. Josh, you did brilliantly. You were respectful but assertive, you made people understand what was really going on, you focused on raising awareness… god, if I weren’t already in love with you, that would have made me fall in love.”

He grins. “Really? Honestly, I can’t even remember what I said, it was such a blur.”

“Honestly, it was brilliant. I’m so proud of you.”

He sets the bag of food down on the table in the corner. “All I remember was that I said I couldn’t have done any of this without you. And I don’t think I’ve ever said anything more true.”

December 9th, 2001

7:48 PM

“We do need to actually talk about what happens next,” Donna says, picking up another cheese curd from the takeout box. “If this… I mean, is this happening between us?”

“I’m certainly not going to complain if we do it again,” Josh says flippantly, although he knows what she’s asking. He’s just not quite sure he trusts that this is real.

“Josh… I mean, is this a thing? I know it all happened fast, but are you thinking long term or…”

He nods slowly. “I mean… I know there’s been a lot going on lately, but we’ve known each other for so long and we’ve been so close and it just feels right, you know?”

“Not to say I don’t want this, because I absolutely do, but are you in a mental place where you feel like you can jump into a new relationship?” Donna asks.

His heart clenches. He really appreciates the thought—Donna knows him so well and she is always so concerned for his wellbeing—but he’s also known, even subconsciously, that this is right. Has been right for a long time. Maybe his therapist would tell him it's a bad idea right now, but he's certain things are only going to get better from here on out, and he wants Donna to be by his side for it. “Yes. When it’s with you, yes I am.”

She smiles, and he lets out a sigh of relief, grateful to know that she believes him. “Good. Because I do want this, desperately. But… I don’t know if I can work for you. It probably wouldn’t be a scandal, but you never know with everything going on, and I want our relationship to be on equal footing.”

“But you’re going to come back to DC, right?”

“Of course I am,” Donna says. “I think if I stayed another week in my parent’s house I’d go nuts. But I still need those severance papers.”

“Donna, I told you, I don’t have the…”

She smiles. “I know. I’ll find a job somewhere else. With the White House on my resume…”

“You shouldn’t apply for an assistant job,” he says suddenly. He’s not sure where it comes from, but he stands by it. Donna does so much more than a typical assistant, and she’s so smart, and such a fast learner, and he's already struck by how much he likes the idea of her moving on, even if it means leaving him professionally. As long as she’s still in his life, he’ll be okay.

“That’s all I’m qualified for, Josh. I don’t have a college degree, I don’t have any experience other than working for you, I don’t…”

Before Donna can say any more, Josh’s phone rings. He winces, thinking about silencing it, but his instincts tell him to answer. “Hello?”

“Hey kid,” he hears, and it’s Leo’s raspy voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey,” Josh says, and he holds up a finger to Donna and steps out of the room into the hall.

“How’s the DNC meeting?” Leo asks.

“Uhh….” Josh suddenly begins to sweat—was there someone else he actually needed to meet with?

“You found her?”

“Donna?”

“Yeah.”

“You set this up?” Josh knew that already, but he still is baffled by it.

“Well, I knew there was no other way to get you two to talk. You both are stubborn idiots who thought you could stop hurting each other by running away, when the only way you were actually hurting each other was by being apart.”

Josh pushes at the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “Thank you, Leo.”

“I gather it went well.”

“Really well. I mean, I’m sure you don’t want all the details but…”

“Please, spare me.”

Josh smiles and brings a hand to his mouth. “Everything’s good between us now. Better than good.”

“Glad to hear it, kid. So I assume I don’t actually have to go through the process of revoking Donna’s White House credentials?”

Josh frowns. “Well… she said she couldn’t work for me anymore, but unless she works in communications she’d still be my subordinate, and I agree I don’t want that kind of power imbalance in our relationship but…”

“So you don’t think she should work in the White House anymore,” Leo concludes.

“What she deserves is a better job," Josh says. “I know she doesn’t have a degree but she’s brilliant and ambitious and can’t spend the rest of her life typing and filing. I barely have her do any of that stuff as it is, and I worry that if she finds another assistant position, they won’t get that.”

He can hear Leo clear his throat on the other side of the line. “Could you help her find another position? You have plenty of contacts, and you can give her a glowing recommendation, or if that reeks too much of nepotism, I certainly can vouch for her.”

Josh thinks about it. “You know, I think I know of someone who would hire her. Let me make another call. And Leo…”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“You know, you didn’t say why she doesn’t want to work for you anymore,” Leo says, although something in his tone indicates that he knows exactly why.

“You said you didn’t want details.”

Leo’s laugh on the other side of the line warms Josh’s heart. “Fair enough. Hey, you did a good job on the show today. I know it’s been rough, but I really am proud of you.”

He can’t cry here, not in the middle of a hotel hallway, but he feels his eyes begin to well up away. “Thanks, Leo.”

“Anytime. Keep me updated on the actual DNC stuff and get back to Donna; god knows you don’t deserve her, but I’m glad you’ve got her anyway.”

Josh smiles. He’s glad he has her too. “Bye Leo.” He hangs up the phone and dials one more number, praying the person on the other side will pick up.

Ten minutes later, he somehow manages to open the door to the hotel room on the first try. “Donna,” he says quietly, “I’ve got to stay here for a few more days for the DNC stuff, but you… you’ve got to get back to DC.”

“Why?” she asks with a frown.

“I hate to send you away, especially so soon after we’ve just gotten things together, but you have an interview for your new job on Tuesday, and believe me, this is a position you’re going to want to take.”

Chapter Text

December 21st, 2001

2:23 PM

Donna’s new desk is not in her own office, but she’s very happy with it regardless.

It’s quiet here today, half the staffers having left early for Christmas, but Donna, a week and a half into her new, demanding role, is still in the process of catching up. She’s having a hard time focusing today, though, exhausted from her steep learning curve and the overwhelming nature of the last two weeks.

She’s happy, though. She loves her new job, and while she and Josh have tried to take things slowly, the excitement of a new relationship, especially one with him, has been buoying her through the busy past few weeks.

The door to the front office opens, and Donna frowns because she doesn’t think anyone in the office has any more meetings prior to the recess, but her frown quickly melts away when she sees who is standing there.

“Josh!” she exclaims, offering him a bright smile.

It's amazing what a difference two weeks can make; it’s like a weight has been dropped from his shoulders entirely. He still looks tired, but the bags under his eyes don’t seem to be quite so chiseled in stone anymore, and his smile comes easier and shines brighter than Donna has seen in years. Donna knows he’s still struggling in some ways—she’s had to shake him out of a nightmare a couple of times on nights she’s stayed over, and his therapist still wants him to come twice a week for the foreseeable future—but he’s clearly on a path to recovery.

“How’s the hill?” he asks, pulling out the visitor chair in front of Donna’s desk and dropping into it.

“Quiet. Most everyone’s headed home for Christmas, but I'm still trying to finish a few things up.”

“You could do that…” Josh says, “or you could let me take you out to lunch.”

Donna narrows her eyes, although there’s still a smile on her face. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“I had therapy this afternoon,” he says, “and Leo told me that once I left he didn’t want to see me back at the White House until the day after Christmas. I told him it’s not my holiday, but he seemed to think I needed the extended weekend.”

“You do,” Donna agrees. “How was therapy?”

“Good,” Josh says. “Really good. In fact I talked about this…about us.”

Donna knows he has been worried that his therapist wouldn’t endorse their relationship, not when he was still in a fairly fragile place, but this sounds promising. “Good news, then?”

“Well, he told me that, having never met you, he's known I’ve been in love with you pretty much the entire time I’ve been working with him. That’s news to me, and I might have appreciated the insight before, but…”

She chuckles. “So you’ve gotten medical clearance, then?”

“He says that normally he might not recommend it, but knowing the full story and knowing how you’ve been with me through this whole thing, he says that as long as we take things slowly and I keep doing the things I need to do to stay healthy, he doesn’t see a problem.”

"Well, that is good news then,” Donna replies, picking up a file and putting it in a drawer. “Tell him I appreciate the endorsement. Was it good otherwise?”

Josh nods, emanating a youthful energy that she had once known so well and had missed over the past few years and especially the past few months. He’s practically vibrating, bouncing on his heels with something that, if she’s not mistaken, might be like joy. “It’s still, you know, hard, but it’s starting to feel like things are falling into place. Like my life is being stitched back together.”

“I’m so glad to hear it, Josh,” she says, and she doesn’t think her voice could ever sound more genuine. “So… you’re off until the 26th then?”

“Banned from the White House, in fact,” he replies, the edges of a proud smirk appearing on his face.

“So you’re just going to stand around and annoy me here?”

He shakes his head and grins. “Actually, I was about to steal you away and annoy you elsewhere. Want to go get lunch?”

“Josh, I’m not sure I can leave, I’ve still got stuff to…”

“You’re beginning to sound like me, and I take offense to that,” he says, picking up another file off her desk. “Beekeeping subsidies? Donna, it’s December! Surely you have a few months before you need to start worrying about pollination.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you aware of just how hypocritical you’re being?”

“Fully,” he replies, tossing the file back at her. “But I also am a desperate man who wants to take his girlfriend out to lunch.”

Girlfriend. It’s stupid, really, the way that word causes Donna’s breath to hitch when it rolls off his tongue, but she’s obsessed with it and she hopes he never stops saying it to refer to her. “I’m really not sure I can…” she says, although she has no earthly clue why she’s fighting him so much on this.

“Okay.” He holds up a finger. “Give me a minute.” He turns away from her and makes a few long strides across the outer office, knocking on the large, ornate door in the corner.

“Come in,” she hears, and Josh opens it.

“Congresswoman Leavitt,” Josh says, intentionally loud enough so that Donna can hear, “would it be alright if I stole your newest legislative aide for a nice, long lunch?”

“Take her for as long as you need,” Congresswoman Leavitt says, and it’s just another minute before Donna sees her emerge from behind the door. “Hear that, Donna? It’s the Friday before Christmas, take the opportunity to leave early. You’ve done enough brilliant work these last few weeks that I can afford to spare you for a bit. I’ve got…” she glances at her watch and grins. “My flight back to New York’s in a few hours anyway, so I’m about to get going.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Donna says sheepishly. “I can send the summary reports to your email if you…”

Congresswoman Leavitt holds up a hand. “Forget about those for now. We’ve got plenty of time before the New Year starts and we have to be worried about things like beekeeping subsidies.”

Donna tries to ignore Josh’s knowing look. “Thank you,” she says again, pulling out a few files and picking up her bag.

“Ready to go?” Josh asks, bouncing on his heels again. God, he’s like a little kid sometimes, and it warms her heart.

“Happy holidays,” she says to the Congresswoman, and they leave the office together. He slips his hand into hers, and while they’ve never touched like this in the Capitol, Donna is happy to start.

December 11th, 2001

9:00 AM

Elaine Leavitt’s office is one of the nicer ones Donna’s been in, as befits a long-time congresswoman and ranking member of an important committee. There are a couple of empty desks in the outer office—she supposes that makes sense, considering the staffer openings—but the office itself is very well-appointed and neither too cold nor too hot, which is practically a miracle in the realm of Congressional offices.

The door to Congresswoman Leavitt’s office opens and she steps out. Donna’s met her a few times, but somehow she never expects to see what she sees. From the way Josh talks about her, she expects her to be much more intimidating, not the five-foot woman with a head full of near-untamable curls who steps out to greet her. “Ms. Moss?” she says, making eye contact.

“Donna,” she corrects, standing up quickly and offering up a firm handshake. “We’ve met a few times.”

“Indeed we have, and talked on the phone several more,” Leavitt says, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes.”

“Well, come on in. And don’t be so nervous, this is largely a formality.”

Donna chuckles, although she’s sure the perceptive congresswoman can still hear her anxiety in her laugh. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Need coffee? Tea? Anything?”

Donna shakes her head. “I’m alright.”

“Okay. Sit down. I’ll cut right to the chase because I’ve got yet another hearing in an hour,” she says, making it clear what she thinks of the hearing process. “I’ve lost two legislative aides in the last few weeks, and it’s just going to get harder to hire people in the next few months because everyone’s going to be looking for campaign jobs. So when Josh called me and told me he had a candidate for me, I was delighted, and I was even more delighted to hear it was you.”

“Legislative aide?”

“It’ll be a lot of the kind of things you’ve worked with Josh on; vote counts, bill summaries, you know, your usual legislative staff work.”

Donna frowns. “Ma’am, I’m not sure you realize but I wasn't a staffer for Josh, I was just an assistant.”

“In title, perhaps,” Leavitt says, “but according to Josh, you did much, much more than that.”

She shrugs. “I suppose.”

“He highly recommended you for the position, and I trust his judgment, but just to confirm, I checked in with Leo McGarry as well. Now, it would look a little sketchy if I just gave you the job without an interview, so here we are, but I’ve made my mind up. The position is yours if you want it.”

“I’m flattered,” Donna says, blinking quickly and trying to absorb all of this. “But… I don’t even have a degree. I’m not at all qualified.”

Leavitt shrugs. “There’s no law against that. Now, not having a degree does limit how high you can go on the pay scale, but if you decide you’d like to go back to finish your degree while working here, I'd fully support you in that. I’m a big proponent of non-traditional collegiate education, and making it affordable for people to go back and finish their degrees, so it would be hypocritical for me to not support that among my own staff.”

“I can hardly believe you’re offering this but I…”

“Donna, if you’re going to say no, I don’t want to hear it.”

She can’t help but smile at that. “You’re very persuasive, ma’am.”

“How do you think I got to be such a good politician?”

Donna looks down at her lap and swallows. It’s strange, to think that she won’t be working for Josh anymore, but this is her opportunity. This is her chance to keep moving forward in her career, and to work for a woman Josh likes and trusts, and by extension she does too. This is good, she thinks, and she'd be a fool not to take it. “I can’t say no,” she says, letting a smile bloom across her face. 

“Excellent. The desk closest to the door can be yours. Like I said, I've got to conduct a hearing with the National Security Advisor in less than an hour, but Angie should be around and she can start training you.”

“Today?”

Leavitt shakes her head and laughs. “Of course you don’t have to start today, but if you can this week I would…”

“I can start today," Donna says.

“Good,” Leavitt replies. “Because the first thing I need your help with is a huge one. I’m not sure if you watched the hearings…”

“…um.”

“Fair enough, they weren’t worth anyone’s time,” Leavitt says with an eye roll, “but I would assume you know what really happened with Josh’s file getting leaked to the committee.”

“Yes,” Donna says quietly.

“I don’t know the whole story, and I don’t want to know the whole story, but anyway, I did confess to the committee that I told Josh we had the file, which McKenna is harping on. He’s trying to get the speaker to hold a vote to get me stripped of my role on that committee because of my, as he puts it, ‘blatant disregard for procedure and justice’. Now, if it came to that, I think the House could see McKenna for being the shit-stirrer he is and wouldn’t go through with it, but I’d rather avoid the whole thing altogether.”

“Of course.”

“So,” Leavitt says, tilting her head, “since we’re too busy interrogating, we’re not really getting any governing done. I’d like you to figure out a way we might be able to avoid the vote altogether. Can you do that?”

“I can certainly try,” Donna says, clasping her hands.

“Good. Now, are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?”

Donna considers the task she has ahead of her. “You know, coffee would be great.”

December 21st, 2001

3:14 PM

Josh’s car is speeding along the highway, and the area outside is looking less and less like DC by the minute. Donna figured they’d just walk to one of the many places on the hill which cater to harried staffers and gawking tourists, but Josh had ushered her into his car and had started to drive and he hasn't stopped. “Josh…” she asks, slightly tentatively. “Where are we going?”

“Where are we going?”

“For lunch?”

He shrugs. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, that’s why I agreed to go get lunch with you.”

“I thought it was my charming personality and you know, the fact that I’m your boyfriend.”

“Josh…”

He motions towards the backseat with his head before facing forward again to drive. “There should be a sandwich in the lunchbox back there if you’re hungry.”

“So you’re not taking me to lunch?”

Josh shrugs. “We’ll see.”

“We’ll see? It's way past lunchtime as it is.”

His smile is so infuriating to her at this moment, but there’s something about it that still takes her breath away. “How about you tell me exactly what happened with McKenna?”

“You kidnapped me so I could tell you stories about what happens on the hill?”

“I did not kidnap you,” Josh argues. “I offered to take you out, and that’s what I’m doing now.”

“To lunch, Josh, not to the middle of nowhere where you'll probably get us lost.”

He turns to give her that grin again. “I’m not going to get us lost. I’m an outdoorsman, remember.”

“Uh huh,” Donna replies flatly. “If you tell me where we’re going, I'll tell you what happened with McKenna.”

“Oh, I’ll have plenty of time to get that out of you this weekend. I’m not impatient,” Josh replies flippantly.

“This weekend? And what plans do we have for this weekend?” She asks.

Josh is almost too quick to reply. “Skiing,” he says.

“What?”

“Dammit, I wanted to keep it a surprise.”

“You’re taking me skiing? Is that where we’re going.”

He sighs. “Yes,” he says. “Guess I can’t keep a secret to save my life.”

“We're going skiing?”

“Romantic weekend in the Blue Ridge Mountains,” he replies. “I figured it would be a little longer before you started asking questions.”

“That’s a three hour drive, Josh, of course I was going to ask questions.”

“I can turn around if you don’t want to…”

Donna puts a hand on his forearm, squeezing it, wishing that he wasn’t driving so that she could touch him more. “You’re finally going to take me skiing.”

“We’ve been dating all of two weeks, Donna, I don’t think finally is…”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says, and he turns to her for just a minute so that she can see just how loving and soft his eyes are.

Donna feels like she’s about to melt. “Well, you told me where we’re going,” she says, “so I guess I can tell you what happened with McKenna. As long as you promise not to get mad.”

“Why would I get mad?” Josh asks.

“Well… as it turns out, I had to get Cliff Calley involved.”

December 13th, 2001

8:21 AM

"Of all the people I thought I would see in my office, you were not one of them,” Cliff says as Donna seats herself in the visitor’s chair, crossing her legs and trying to disguise the shaking of her hands.

She shrugs. “This is kind of a surprise to me too.”

“What do you need? Is this about the phone call? Because…”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Josh explained all that to me. Well… it’s maybe related to that. A little.”

Cliff frowns. “Okay.”

Donna stares at the ceiling, clasping her hands together tightly. “I work for Congresswoman Leavitt now.”

“I heard.”

“I assume, as majority counsel for House Government Oversight, that you’re well aware of the accusations that Congressman McKenna is throwing at the Congresswoman, yes?”

Cliff frowns. “He’s calling for the speaker to hold a vote removing her from the committee.”

“For sharing information with Josh prior to the hearing,” Donna finishes. “Now, this isn’t public knowledge—in fact, as far as I know, only you, me, Josh, and apparently Congressman McKenna are aware of this—but you also were in contact with Josh in… well, let's just say I’m sure you’d rather have McKenna off your back too.”

Cliff’s face falls. “Josh told you everything.”

“He had to, Cliff. I thought it was my fault, what he went through, and he had to tell me what really happened to clear the air. Don’t be angry with him; he didn’t do it maliciously.”

“I know.”

Donna presses her lips together and nods. “The Congresswoman doesn’t know I'm here. She doesn’t know about your involvement in this, or mine. All she knows is that McKenna is pushing to get her removed from the committee. I want to find a way to stop this vote, but McKenna and the Speaker are close, so it might take a little more than just lobbying the Speaker.”

Cliff sighs. “Look, Donna, I don’t know if…”

“I went back and watched the last day of the hearing, when you interrupted McKenna. What did you talk about during that recess?” Donna asks.

The clock ticks in the background—it’s really much louder than it needs to be—and it’s barely covered by Cliff's heavy sigh. “I was an intern in his office during my undergrad. He’s… well, let’s just say he and I haven’t gotten along since I walked in on him and his secretary together.”

Donna’s eyes widen. “And that’s…”

“I should have called him out on it then, but of course I was just an intern. I’m surprised he didn’t fire me after that, honestly, but he did make my life pretty miserable, probably in an attempt to intimidate me.”

“Did it work?”

Cliff shrugs. “For a while. Anyway, when I came back here after law school, and then I was on Ways and Means, so I didn’t have much to do with him, and then I got transferred to Oversight… Well, let’s just say we’ve been able to be cordial, barely.”

“Was McKenna about to reveal your involvement in the leak? How would he know?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Cliff says. “Best guess, when Josh and I met, it was at a bar in Virginia. In his district. Maybe he was there, or one of his district office staffers happened to recognize us, but either way, he knew. Or he knew something was up at least.”

“He didn’t tell you what exactly he knew?”

“No,” Cliff says. “He doesn’t think I’m loyal enough to the party anyway, because when I finished my internship at his office, I threatened to go to the RNC and tell them about what was happening between him and his secretary.”

Donna frowns. “Was it consensual?”

“I thought so at the time,” Cliff says, “which is why I didn’t go to the RNC. He was cheating on his wife and the sexual ethics of the situation were sketchy at best, but I really didn’t have any grounds to go to the RNC if it was consensual.”

“And it’s not like they would do anything about it anyway,” Donna mutters.

Cliff sighs. “I know what you think about the RNC. I don’t think that particular argument is going to be productive today. Anyway, after what he said to Josh, when they had an altercation… I do have strong reasons to suspect that it was not a consensual relationship, or at the very least a coerced one.”

Donna winces at the thought. She can imagine all too well the way that something like that might go. “And so you told McKenna your suspicions about that? During the recess?”

“No, I managed to convince him that trying to bring up my involvement in the whole thing would make the party look bad, and if he said nothing more and just let Leavitt take the fall, it would only be the Democrats who looked bad,” Cliff says with a shrug. “I know, I know, it was playing politics, but…”

"Did you refer to the situation that you witnessed at all?”

Cliff sighs. “I may have pointed out that the more he tries to dig into this, the more likely his indiscretions would also get dug up,” he says, “and that seemed to scare him.”

“So he does have indiscretions.”

“Apparently,” Cliff says with a shrug. “If he were entirely clean, I’m not sure I would have scared him off like that. McKenna pretends to be a standard-bearer for the party but he’s really just out for himself.”

Donna reaches back to pull on her coat and smiles slightly. “Well,” she says, “perhaps there’s something to this. I’m going to go do a little research, and perhaps there are some former secretaries of Congressman McKenna’s who might have some stories for me. Thank you, Cliff.”

“You know, Donna?” he says as she tries to leave.

“Yeah?”

“I hope you know what Josh did for you.”

“I do.”

“You’re lucky to have him.”

“I know.”

“And he’s lucky to have you.”

Donna smiles as she opens the door. “I’m doing my best to make sure that’s true.”

December 21st, 2001

3:35 PM

Donna reclines her seat, putting her feet up on the dashboard. She knows it drives Josh crazy, but today she thinks it might drive him crazy in a different way, considering that she’s still wearing a pencil skirt. “Anyway,” she says, “I went to the Congresswoman and she was able to pull employment records from that time and found the secretary. As well as eight other secretaries he’s gone through in the span of ten years.”

“Well that says something,” Josh mumbles. His eyes drift over towards her. “Also, could you put your feet down?”

“Dirtying up your dashboard?”

“And my mind,” Josh says, sneaking another peek over at her long legs. “I need to focus on driving.”

Donna puts her feet down. “I'll distract you later, then.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Josh says, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“Anyway, I got in contact with a few of the people listed, and well… let’s just say there’s certainly a pattern of sexual coercion and harassment going on in McKenna’s office.”

Josh frowns. “I’d like to say I’m surprised, but…”

"I think I’m even less surprised than you are,” Donna says. “I’ve spoken with a lot of assistants and secretaries and it comes up disturbingly often.”

“What are you going to do with this?”

Donna closes her eyes. “It’s not my story to tell, but we’ve encouraged the women involved in it to come forward, or even to speak out anonymously if coming forward is too difficult, which is could very well be. McKenna knows that we know, which should be enough of a deterrent for him. The truth is, it probably won't do that much for the public overall. Maybe none of them will speak out, or maybe he’ll deny it and win his district with 60% of the vote again, or best case scenario, it’ll come out and he’ll resign. But at the very least, he’s not going to want to draw attention to himself right now, and that should be enough to keep him from trying to get the Congresswoman expelled from the committee.”

“Good work,” Josh says. “I knew you’d be invaluable to her.”

Donna frowns. “I’m not sure I like it. This kind of politicking. It feels dirty, sometimes. Do you ever… do you ever feel better about it?”

“That’s kind of the world we live in here, Donna. Where you’re lucky if someone gets their comeuppance for sexual harassment, but god forbid you struggle with your health, mental or physical, or else Congress will be all over you. Party lines override morality far more than we like to acknowledge. But we do what we can. Once in a while, you’re going to have to do things that trivialize very serious issues, that feel like you’re playing games with people’s lives. It’s awful, but sometimes you have to remember the greater good. I got a good man elected President, you work for a good woman now, and as long as you do the right-est thing, in the end, things will feel okay. You’ve got a good head and a very good heart, and that alone will make the House a better place, and therefore this country a better place.”

If she wasn’t already head over heels in love with him, she would be now. “Come up with that yourself?” she asks teasingly.

“Some of it. Some of it my therapist told me when I was at one point having a similar kind of crisis of morality about the MS.”

“Your therapist sounds like a smart guy,” Donna says.

Josh smiles. “Yeah.”

Donna looks out the window. They’re really very rural now, and the countryside has become more mountainous. “So anyway, issue averted and with any luck, McKenna might get his comeuppance,” she says.

“I’m glad. He deserves it, after the awful things he said about you.

Donna shakes her head. “I don’t even want to know about that. I just want to forget about everything that’s happened in these last few months and leave it behind.”

“Everything that’s happened?”

“Well, maybe not what happened in Milwaukee,” Donna amends. “That was a pretty nice memory.”

Josh grins. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I think we can top that this weekend.”

Donna raises her eyebrows. “I’m certainly interested in trying.”

December 24th, 2001

6:23 PM

The cabin is absolutely luxurious; Josh really pulled out all the stops for this vacation. The skiing is fun enough, but the large bed, warm fireplace, wrap-around deck, and spa-like bathroom are perhaps even more enchanting. Not to mention, of course, the company.

They've come back from skiing every afternoon, have enjoyed some additional physical activity in the softest bed Donna thinks she’s ever slept in, and have fallen asleep, waking up in time for their dinner reservations and more time together.

This afternoon, however, when Donna wakes up, she’s alone.

She throws her legs over the side of the bed, pulls on the robe that’s been cast aside on the floor, and tiptoes around, seeking out Josh. She checks on the deck, but he’s not out there (although she does manage to catch the masterpiece of a sunset over the mountains). There’s only one other place he could be in the cabin, so she opens the door to the bathroom, and sure enough, he’s in the tub, steam and bubbles surrounding him.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “but I didn’t know where you were.”

“You’re fine,” he replies, shifting a little bit to move in front of one of the jets. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you, I was just… god, I'm so sore. I didn’t realize skiing would do that to me.”

“I think it’s more than the skiing,” Donna points out, a sly smile on her face, remembering what they’ve been up to in bed the last few nights. “I’m a little sore too, if I’m honest.”

“But you’re not old and your body isn’t a mess the way mine is,” Josh whines.

Donna shakes her head and comes over to kiss his wet curls. “Your body is perfect.”

“Tell that to my constant backache,” Josh mutters, but he grins and reaches out to bring her closer.

She pulls back. “You’re going to get me wet!”

“Guess you’ll just have to take your clothes off,” he challenges, “because really, this tub is too big for just me.”

“I think you’re right,” Donna replies, pulling off the robe and looking. Despite her undressing and the way his eyes widen gleefully at the sight of her naked body, there’s still a tightness in his face. “What are you thinking about?” she asks, as she steps into the bath and settles in front of him, leaning her head against his chest.

He shrugs. “It’s not important.”

“Something’s on your mind.”

Josh sighs heavily. “I don’t want to… ruin our vacation.”

“You couldn’t.”

“I did last night,” he says.

“You had a nightmare. You didn’t ruin anything,” Donna says adamantly.

He closes his eyes and rubs her arm with his hand. “I’m just thinking. It was a year ago today that I met with Stanley, that I got diagnosed. And in the span of a year, so many things have changed and yet I’m still… I’m still struggling with this. For some people it really does mostly go away, but I’m not sure that’s going to be how it is for me at this point. Especially now that the whole world knows about it. Sometimes I’m not sure I’ll really get the respect of some people back ever again.”

“Then they don’t deserve you,” Donna says. “Yes, this is the kind of thing that sticks with you forever. Just like this,” she says, turning her body to the side so that she can gently trace the scar on his sternum with a sudsy hand. “But scars fade, right? To varying degrees, but they never end up looking exactly the same as when they were first healing.”

Josh nods slowly. “Maybe, but things got better and then they got worse again.”

“Yes, and if a doctor were to cut your chest open again along this line, things would look worse again. But the scar would still fade. What you went through with the hearings, with me, it brought it all back for a bit. It cut the scar again. But now you’re back to healing.”

Josh nods, burying his face in her soft hair. “Still, after a year and some insane therapy bills, I’d think…”

“Your insurance doesn’t pay for therapy?” Donna asks. She doesn’t mean to interrupt him, but she can’t help but be shocked.

Josh shrugs. “Insurance can put way more restrictions on mental health payments than physical health. I had a diagnosis, so they pay for twelve sessions a year with the psychiatrist who prescribes my meds, but otherwise it was out of pocket.”

“That seem ridiculous.”

“It is,” Josh says with a sigh. “But that’s the way the laws are written.”

Donna sighs and leans her head against his shoulder again, before sitting bolt upright, splashing him in the process. “We’re the government, right? We can change the laws.”

“What do you…”

“Introduce a bill that requires insurers fund mental healthcare the same way they fund physical healthcare,” Donna says. “I’m sure the Congresswoman would be on board, and you’d be the perfect person to help push this through.”

Josh frowns. “You’re… you’re not serious, are you?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“We’re taking a bath together, on a romantic vacation, and you want to talk about healthcare legislation?”

Donna groans. “This coming from you?”

“Look, I don’t talk politics in bed.”

“This isn't bed. Also, considering what happened last night, I'd be inclined to…”

“Okay, fine,” Josh interrupts, trying to roll his eyes but going out with a dimpled grin instead.

Donna giggles. “It was pretty hot though.”

“I’d be happy to try again but…”

“Anyway,” Donna says, turning so she’s fully facing him. “I’m going to propose this to the Congresswoman, and I'm sure she'd be thrilled to sponsor it. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a great idea for a bill, but I’m not sure I’m the right person to…”

“You’re the exact right person,” Donna interrupts. “I know it’s not your favorite subject to talk about publicly, but you have a lot of power when it comes to this discussion. And think about how much your own mental healthcare has helped you.”

Josh nods, with suddenly hooded eyes. “It pretty much saved my life.”

“Now think about all the people who need that kind of care, but can’t afford it, and their insurance won’t pay for it.”

He sighs heavily. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“So are you in?”

Josh sinks down further into the bath, letting out a groan. “I suppose I am.”

“I love you,” Donna says in response, sinking down beside him. “I need to find someone on the healthcare subcommittee who can…”

“Donna.”

“Yeah?”

“I love this, and I love you, and I’ve got to be honest, it’s kind of a turn-on when you get all legislative on me, but we have a dinner reservation in an hour and there are some things I want to try out in here before the water gets too cold so…”

She grins and moves even closer to him. “I like the sound of that.”

December 25th, 2001

12:14 AM

Donna wakes up, yet again, to an empty bed.

It's kind of chilly in the little cabin, and she notes, fairly quickly, that the door is open. She slips on her pajamas and slippers and walks through the open door, to find Josh sitting on a chair on the front deck.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks. “It’s cold!”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Her face falls. “Nightmares?”

“No, actually. I’ve got some ideas for how we’re going to get this bill passed, but I didn’t want to bother you, so I came out here to write them down.”

She smiles. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”

“Says the woman who tried to propose legislation while we were in the bath together,” Josh shoots back.

She takes a place on his lap and gazes out at the starts in the clear sky over the snowy night. “Are you happy?”

Josh blinks a few times. “Am I… what?”

“Are you happy?” she repeats, taking his hand in hers and tracing the faint scars with her finger.

He buries his face in her hair, taking in the scent of her, and allows himself to smile. “Yeah. I’m getting there.”

Donna reaches up to touch his cheek. “A year ago today, would you have ever thought we’d get here?”

“No,” he whispers quietly. “A year ago today, my whole life was in such shatters I could barely see two days ahead of me. A few weeks ago, I felt that way again. And I don’t know, Donna, it could get that bad again.”

“But you made it through this time,” Donna whispers. “Despite everything, you made it here, and I know you can pull though again.”

“We made it,” he says softly, pulling her closer. “And the year ahead looks brighter than ever.”

She pats his chest. “You’re freezing,” she whispers. “Come inside, let’s warm up.”

Josh raises his eyebrows. “I like the sound of that,” he says, following her back inside the cabin.

Chapter Text

August 7th, 2002

8:48 PM

“You call this a beach?” Donna asks, as she follows Josh down a path from the parking lot.

“It’s on the water, it’s got sand, I think it meets any qualifier for beach you might be looking for,” Josh replies. “I don’t know what you’re expecting.”

“Well, when I think beach I think like… California or Hawai’i. You know, you’ve never taken me to Hawaii.”

“When was I supposed to take you to Hawai’i?”

“Isn't that something you’re supposed to do for your girlfriend?”

“Well, after you insulted Connecticut’s beaches…”

Donna stretches her arms, gesturing to the wide expanse of sand. “It’s not like Connecticut is known for its beaches.”

“We have almost a hundred miles of shoreline, is that not enough beach for you?”

Donna grins and catches up with him, grabbing his arm. “Hawai’i would be better.”

“Sure, Hawai’i would be better, but we’re not in Hawai’i, are we? You have to admit, it's a pretty nice sunset.”

Donna turns her head, watching the sun start to dip below the horizon to their west. “Sure, but it would be better at a California beach.”

“You really just want to make fun of Connecticut, don’t you?” He puts a hand on the small of her back and leads her towards a bench set up just on the edge of where the bluff meets the sand.

Donna shrugs. “Makes up for all the times you’ve made fun of Wisconsin.”

“Hey, I have fond memories of Wisconsin!” Josh says. “I’ve stopped making fun of it.”

Donna moves close to him, her lips nearly touching his ear. “Guess we’ll have to make some fond memories of Connecticut, too.”

Josh’s face turns serious. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. Or, I mean… something like that.”

“Josh…”

“Nothing bad, not at all,” he says, smiling. “I’ve just got a question to ask you. One that might help us make some fond memories here too. Today.”

August 2nd, 2002

1:09 PM

Josh leans back in the chair in Dr. Holloway’s office. The less he paces, he finds, the better a headspace he’s in while in therapy. Things have been good lately; his relationship with Donna has been steady, he’s beginning to gain the respect of Congress again, and every day has been a little easier to get through. There have been ups and downs, of course—there always are—but overall he feels healthier and more steady than he’s felt in years.

None of that has come easily, however, and Josh is not keen to lose it, having learned his lesson before. He still goes to therapy consistently, still takes his medication, and is sure to be proactive when he feels things start to go downhill again. He feels like he has his life back again, the life that so nearly got stolen from him by a bullet and then by broken glass.

Some weeks, things have been going so well that he doesn’t even know what to bring up with his therapist. This, however, is not one of those weeks. Not that’s it’s been a bad week, but Josh is worried about what the week ahead is going to bring.

“I’m not good with anniversaries,” Josh says biting his lip and letting his eyes drift toward the window. It’s a sunny, hot afternoon, oppressive and muggy, but it’s cold in the office.

Dr. Holloway nods. “What do you mean?”

“I remember them too much. I don’t know what it is about dates, but I’m very good at remembering anniversaries. Drives Donna nuts that I remember the day she came back to work for me,” he says, smiling softly at the thought of her. “But sometimes they can be overwhelming to me. The anniversaries of the day my father died, the day Joanie died, I wake up already feeling dread and I can’t shake it for the rest of the day, even if I don’t consciously remember it’s the anniversary.” Josh blows out his cheeks and leans forward again, clasping his hands together. “It seems like every year, there are more and more anniversaries I don’t want to remember, and more and more days where I’m practically non-functional because I can’t…” He shrugs, unable to finish the sentence.

His therapist scribbles something down before looking up at Josh. “Is there an upcoming anniversary you’re particularly concerned about.”

Josh glances up at the ceiling, a mirthless smile occupying his features. “Yeah, uh… the anniversary of the shooting. Next Wednesday.”

Dr. Holloway nods slowly. “That, I can imagine, has been particularly hard in the past.”

“I don’t really remember,” Josh says honestly. “This is just… it’s only been two years, and last year the MS stuff was starting up and so nobody was bothering with retrospectives then and I think a lot of people just forgot. I was kind of in a fog that day, I think. I don’t really remember it. I’m sure I was miserable, and miserable to be around.”

“Do you have evidence for that?”

Josh shrugs. “Do I need evidence for that?”

“Are you assuming that’s what this anniversary will be like?” Dr. Holloway asks, unfazed by Josh’s question.

Josh groans. “You keep answering my questions with your own questions.”

“Well, at the risk of sounding childish, you did start that,” the therapist says with an indulgent smile. “Tell me, what do you expect this anniversary to be like?”

“Different than last year,” Josh says. “A bigger deal. There have been some national news outlets asking to interview me.”

“Did they interview you last year?”

“They might have wanted to, but I think everyone was still kind of worried about me then, and so nobody told me about the requests. I wouldn’t have taken them anyway, but…”

Dr. Holloway continues nodding—he really does that a lot, Josh has noticed—and writes something else down. “Are you thinking of doing this interviews this year?”

“I didn’t want to,” Josh says, “not initially. I’ve already had more than my fair share of media coverage, and much of it has not been positive. But Leo brought it up, and pointed out that it would be a really good opportunity in light of the mental healthcare parity act that’s getting a vote next week. That if I did a high-profile interview for the anniversary, it might be a really good booster for the support of the bill, which, as it is, we’re kind of having problems with some House members who are on the fence.”

“Did Leo ask how you felt about this?”

“He did,” Josh affirms. “He was very adamant that I only do it if I felt like I should, but I… I do feel like I should.”

“But you have concerns?”