"Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman, what are you doing?"

The words themselves don't adequately express the terror I'm feeling.  Five minutes ago, I left Molly playing quietly in the living room.  Now she's balanced precariously on the top of a chair, trying to reach a photograph on top of the bookshelf.  To be more precise, one leg is on the chair.  The other is swinging casually in the air.  It's only a matter of seconds until she'll go tumbling to the ground.

Please, God, let me move fast enough to catch her.

"I'm thinking," Molly answers as though her actions are rational and her mother is an idiot not to realize that a child thinks best prior to taking a life-threatening fall.

I have never moved so quickly.  I pluck Molly off the chair just as she begins to tilt to the left, a sure sign that gravity has caught up with her and intends to make her pay for her four-year-old hubris.  Cradling Molly tightly in my arms, I whisper, "Don't ever, ever do that again."

"Why not?"

"You almost fell.  You could have gotten hurt."

Molly makes her "when will these silly adults realize that I'm a big girl?" face.  "I know what I'm doing, Mommy."

"That chair is awfully high, Molly, and you were about to tumble off it."  My heart is still pounding and lifting Molly can't be good for the baby, so I collapse into the chair.

"Was not," Molly answers.  "I'm very well 'ordinated.  Ms. Terry says so."

I acknowledge the expertise of Ms. Terry, Molly's gymnastic teacher.  "Yes, you are well coordinated, but this chair isn't made to hold your weight."

"We're sitting in it," Molly says with a "top that argument, woman" tone that she learned from watching too much Capitol Beat with her father.

"It's built for sitting in," I explain.  "Not for using as a ladder."

Molly's face scrunches up as she considers this.  "'Kay, Mommy," she concedes, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on my cheek, "next time I'll use a ladder."

"No, next time you'll ask Daddy or me for help.  Are we clear on that?"

It's my stern mother tone, and Molly knows not to mess with that.  "Yes, Mommy."  Being a Lyman, however, she has to debates the point anyway.  "But I needed the picture."

"Picture?"  Now that my heart rate has returned to normal, I notice a sharp object digging into my back.  Molly's arms are still around my neck, and one of them is holding onto something.  "Let me see what you've got there, Molly."

She settles down onto my lap and holds out a framed photograph that normally holds a place of honor on top of the bookshelf.

Wow.  I look so young.  And the woman standing next to me -- I feel a stab of grief even now at the loss.

"Why did you want this photo?" I ask Molly, doing my best not to cry at the memory of oatmeal raisin cookies and advice on how to handle your temperamental genius of a boss.

"I wanted to see what my other grandma looked like."

What?  "Your grandma?"

Molly nods, but her gaze doesn't leave the picture.  "She looks nice."

"She was.  Very nice.  But she's not your grandmother."

"Mommy," Molly explains patiently, since obviously she's dealing with a thickheaded adult, "she's wrinkled like Grandma."

"Wrinkled?" I laugh.  "Don't say that to Grandma Adira, please."

"But she is," Molly insists.  "And she has yellow hair like you and me.  And see--"  Molly jabs a finger at the picture of Mrs. Landingham and me, smearing peanut butter and jelly over the image of the old Bartlet For America war room.  "She's got her arm round you like she loves you."

"I hope she did love me, 'cause I loved her.  But she's not my mommy.  She's Mrs. Landingham.  She used to work for the President, like I worked for your daddy."

"But she looks so nice.  Can't I have her for a grandma?"

"You already have the best grandma in the world."  Please, God, let me head this one off before I have to explain something I'm not emotionally prepared for.

*

Oh, this is good! This is better than good. This is--well, Josh would laugh at me for thinking this, but it's magical. Please explain to me how two people can be together as long as we've been, conceived 1.3 children together, and still kiss like we've just discovered each other's mouths.

We're freaks. It's the only explanation. There's research on this. I read it in a psychology text once. All that heat and passion is not supposed to last. You're supposed to end up with companionship and intimacy, not with a lifetime of "I want to tear your clothes off right now."

We're not supposed to end up with--

With applause. And a delighted five-year-old squealing, "Kiss her again, Daddy! Kiss her again!"

Oh, shit.

"I thought you said she was asleep," Josh mutters. Yeah, we're freaks. One little kiss, and I somehow managed to unbutton his shirt.

"She was. I checked five minutes ago."

"I woke up," Molly explains helpfully. She is wearing her favorite nightshirt--Well, it's not a nightshirt at all, really. It's an old t-shirt she confiscated from her father. It proclaims, "Don't blame me; I voted for Hoynes." On the corner of the shirt, a Democratic donkey is giving a Republican elephant a good, swift kick. Molly's feet are barely visible when she's wrapped up in that shirt; and I'm always afraid she's going to get tangled up in the darn thing and she'll trip and break her leg or something. Yet Josh insists on letting her wear the silly thing. He maintains that it demonstrates her advanced political acumen. Myself, I think she's just fond of the donkey and the elephant.

And it should be noted that Mr. "My-daughter-is-a-political-wunderkind" picks her up and carries her from one room to another whenever she wears the silly thing.

He claims he's not an overprotective parent, but he's not fooling anyone.

"Molly," I ask--I'm hoping to distract her while Josh buttons his shirt and--that's funny; I don't even remember running my hands through his hair like that. "Molly," I repeat a little louder to make sure I have her attention. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"I need a glass of water," Molly explains. She pauses for a minute, her little head cocked to one side as she studies me. "Do you and Daddy always kiss when I go to sleep?"

Oh, good. Just what I wanted to do this evening--deliver an impromptu lecture on the birds and the bees.

"Not all the time," I answer. "But sometimes."

"Crista says her mommy and daddy never kiss."

Having met Crista's mommy, I don't blame her daddy one bit. However...

"They probably don't kiss when Crista's around. Kissing is a private thing."

"But I've seen you and Daddy kiss lots of times," Molly protests.

Kiss, yes. Engage in an impromptu make-out session on the couch? Not so much.

Thank god she didn't wake up five minutes later.

Josh, who has finally recovered from The Attack of the Amorous Spouse, attempts to change the subject.

"Molly," he asks, "haven't we told you not to walk around in that shirt?"

"It's okay, Daddy," she assures him, climbing up on the couch between us. She settles onto her knees, facing us. "I was very careful. I held it up in front of me like Mommy does when she wears long skirts to the fun raisers."

Molly's attempts to convince us that she's careful are undercut by the way she keeps rocking back and forth on her knees. Josh and I reach for her at the same moment, our hands touching across her back.

That was either static electricity I felt there or further evidence in favor of my "we're freaks" theory. Based on the look Josh is shooting in my direction, I'm thinking it wasn't static electricity.

"Is kissing fun?" Molly asks.

There's just no way to answer that question without damaging her little psyche one way or another, is there?

Nevertheless, I have to give it my best shot. When this child grabs onto a subject, she's every bit as tenacious as her father.

"Yes," I say, "but only when you're grown up and very, very much in love."

"Very grownup," Josh adds. "Forty years old, at least."

Molly swivels her upper body around so that she's closer to her father. "Mommy's not forty," she points out reasonably.

"What I mean is..." Josh begins. Then, apparently deciding he'll only dig himself in deeper, he says, "You know, I'll just go get you that glass of water now."

Coward.

Molly turns back to me. "You're not forty," she repeats.

"Daddy's being silly again," I explain.

"How come?"

"'Cause kissing is for grownups. And sometimes Daddy thinks about his little girl growing up and moving away and he gets sad." Also irrational, but let's not go there. "So he exaggerates. Because he loves you."

Molly nods, because this is the way the world is supposed to be. She takes for granted her role as Center of the Moss-Lyman Universe. Which doesn't mean she'll let us off the hook; she asked a serious question, and she expects a serious answer.

"How old do people have to be to kiss like you and Daddy?"

I have been sinking into the quicksand a little more every day since my daughter became old enough to ask questions. And Molly, as I may have mentioned before, started talking earlier than most children.

"Well," I answer, "I was twenty-six the first time I kissed your daddy."

Good answer, Donnatella. Completely truthful, yet slyly evasive.

Molly's eyes get that wide look she uses to convey surprise. I don't know where she picked that up.

"That's really old," she says.

"Yes, it is," I agree. "It's very old. But it takes a long time to find someone you love as much as I love Daddy."

Molly clearly wants to mull this over and discuss it some more, but she's getting tired again. She settles herself into my lap, rests her head against my chest, and shuts her eyes. "I like when you and Daddy kiss," she murmurs sleepily.

My hand automatically goes up to smooth her blonde hair. "You do?" I ask.

"Um-hum," she answers. She can't seem to keep her eyes open. Thank goodness. "Cause you smile when Daddy kisses you," she says just before she falls asleep.

Josh, who has returned from the kitchen, stands there and watches the two of us for a minute. Then, setting the water glass down on the end table, he lifts Molly out of my arms.

"So," he whispers to me, "you want to smile some more?"

One hour later, with Molly safely asleep and our own bedroom door locked, I have my answer: We are definitely freaks.

Who both smile a lot.

***

"I can write my name," Molly announces loudly.

We're having a wonderful meal -- some sort of chicken dish, the name of which I can't pronounce -- in the Bartlet's formal dining room.  Though the china is out, the President, Abbey, CJ, Evan, Donna, and I are dressed casually.  Molly, however, is wearing her favorite sundress, the bright yellow one with the little lemons printed all over it.  I'm amazed at the amount of energy she's got, considering the plane trip earlier.

It doesn't seem to have fazed her.  Right on schedule, Molly has interrupted an intriguing discussion about the vineyards of northern California -- Evan's sister and brother-in-law run a small vineyard in Napa.  The focus of the table, you see, was no longer my four-year-old daughter.  She really doesn't like being ignored, and her preferred method of recapturing the attention of anyone in the room is to make a pronouncement of some kind.  Usually, it's something she's recently learned.  (Not too terribly long ago, she proudly informed Donna and me that "I know where babies come from!"  After a moment of shocked silence, Molly explained in a hushed, reverent tone that babies come, "From God," and Donna and I were able to breathe again.)

Tonight, Jed Bartlet smiles and asks Molly, "You can write your name?"

"Yes," Molly answers.

"The whole thing?" he presses, his eyes sparkling with amusement.  He always has enjoyed children.  I mostly find them annoying, with Molly and her future brother-or-sister being the obvious exceptions.

Molly grins, delighted now that all eyes are on her.  "Yes.  Mommy, can I have my purple crayon?"

Donna and I exchange amused looks.  The demonstration.  Of course.  Molly knows she'll get more praise when she actually writes her name in those adorable, crooked block letters.

"Molly," Donna answers, "we're eating right now.  You can show Uncle--" she stumbles over the President's first name-- "Jed after dinner."

"But I wanna write my name."  Molly pouts, her arms crossing over her chest.  Not a good sign; perhaps she's more tired than we thought.

I open my mouth to try to head off an embarrassing tantrum, but Evan beats me to it.  "Tell you what, Molly," he says.  "If you can wait to write your name until we're all done eating, I'll teach you how to write another word."

CJ gives her husband a look that, four years ago, I would've found sickeningly sweet.  Obviously, I've been around Donna too long, because tonight I find it almost... touching.

Clearly, I need to go harangue a Republican as soon as humanly possible.  You know, to get my razor sharp wit back in fighting form.

My daughter, like CJ, is captivated by Evan.  "What word?" she asks.

"Whatever word you'd like," Evan answers kindly.

Abbey shoots him an admiring look, then nods her approval at CJ.  Like the rest of us, Abbey's only met Evan a few times; we're still getting to know him.  Aside from his lack of political savvy, he seems like a pretty decent guy.

Molly is busy contemplating the deal Evan's put on the table, her little mouth pursed in concentration.  "Okay," she decides finally, "but it has to be a long word."

Evan grins at her.  "A long word it is."

"With a lot of letters," Molly clarifies, in case we didn't quite understand what long meant.  I grin at her, even though she's not looking in my direction.

"Right," Evan answers.  "Lots and lots of letters."

Molly leans closer to Donna and whispers in that child's way of whispering, the words carrying farther than they would in a regular speaking voice.  "Mommy, how many letters does Evan have?"

I can tell from the look on Donna's face that she's struggling against laughter.  She's also studiously avoiding looking over at CJ and Abbey, both of whom are laughing silently, though they're trying to hide it behind coffee cups.  Jed Bartlet and Evan are both smiling broadly, and I'm just a little perturbed.  Why does Molly want to spell Evan's name?

Josh is a perfectly good name.  So is Daddy.

When Donna can speak, she says, "Evan has four letters."

"Oh." Molly frowns.  "That's not very many."

"It's not?" Donna asks.  "You're four."

Molly thinks about this for a minute, applying her unique brand of logic.  Then she shakes her head vigorously, the bright blue barrettes she chose slipping dangerously down the shiny blonde strands they're supposed to be holding in place.  "No.  Four is small."  She draws herself up, sitting as tall as she can.  "Four years old is big."

Donna bites her lip and makes a strangled noise that is probably supposed to signify agreement.

"How many letters does love have?"

Across the table, Jed Bartlet fakes a coughing fit and Abbey buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.  CJ turns to face her husband, dropping her forehead to his shoulder.  Evan pats her back, chuckling quietly at the situation.

I still don't see what's so damn funny.

Leaning past Donna, who's still struggling with laughter, I tuck Molly's hair behind her ear.  "Love has four letters."

A small frown creases her forehead.  "Daddy, does Uncle Evan write books?"

"Yes," I answer grudgingly.  "He's a writer."

She brightens.  "Is writer a long word?"

I'm starting to sense a pattern. "Politician is longer," I tell her.

Donna bursts out laughing, which sets off Abbey, CJ, and the President.  I glare at each of them in turn, than concentrate on my bewildered daughter, who's staring up at her mother.  "Mommy, why are you laughing?"

"The wine," I explain, gesturing at the glasses on the table.

"But Mommy's not drinking," Molly argues, "because--"

"No, she's not," I interrupt loudly.  "Mommy's just silly."

"Yeah," Donna murmurs, "I'm the one acting silly."

Molly shrugs, her attention already back on the problem at hand.  She looks shyly over at Evan and asks, "Can you teach me how to write Goofy?  He's my favorite."

*

When Donna, CJ, Evan, and I arrive back at the Bartlets' house, I'm honestly not sure who's babysitting whom.

Jed Bartlet, former President of the United States, and Leo McGarry, former White House Chief of Staff, are sitting somewhat awkwardly on the floor with my four-year-old daughter.  Two grey heads and one tiny blonde are bent over a large puzzle, and from the sound of things, Molly's running the show.

"No, Uncle Jed!" Molly admonishes, her tone peremptory.  "That goes here."  She jabs a finger at the correct spot.

Grinning, Bartlet leans over a little bit and obliges her.  The piece fits.  Meanwhile, Leo is trying in vain to force a piece into place.

CJ, Evan, Donna, and I exchange amused looks just as Abbey Bartlet appears beside us.  "Don't worry," Abbey tells us in dulcet tones.  "I've already taken pictures."

"I heard that," her husband bellows from his spot on the floor.

I grin at him.  "Due respect, sir, but is my four year old daughter kicking your ass at a puzzle?"

Donna whacks me.

"No," Bartlet answers, as Leo smirks and nods at us.  Bartlet flashes his old friend an irritated look.  "I'm smarter than you."

"Sure you are, sir," Leo answers.

"Mommy!" Molly chirps, jumping to her feet to dance around the two men on the floor.  "I kicked Uncle Jed's ass!"

Donna whacks me again, this time adding a poisonous look.  The rest of the adults -- including Uncle Jed himself -- are stifling laughter.

"Molly, honey," Donna says, crouching down in front of her.  "What did we say about adult words?"

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Molly says, "But, Mommy, I am an adult!"

"You are?" Leo asks, skeptical.

Molly nods at him.  "Yes.  Aunt CJ said so!"

"She did?"  Leo's grinning like the Chesire Cat at this point.

Aunt CJ looks none too pleased to be dragged into this particular discussion.  Evan, on the other hand, looks quite amused.  CJ elbows her husband, then says, "Molly, I told you that you were a big girl, which is not the same thing as an adult."

I groan, because I can see it coming.  Never split hairs with a four-year-old.

Molly blinks those big, brown eyes up at her favorite aunt.  "What makes someone an adult?"

"Yeah, CJ," Leo goads from his spot on the floor.  "What does make someone an adult?"

"An adult," CJ answers, pointedly ignoring Leo, "is mature and--"

"That leaves Josh out," my esteemed wife mutters.

"Hey!" I protest.

CJ gives me an appraising look.  "Fair point," she decides.  "How about an adult is someone over eighteen."

Molly shakes her head.  "But the man who helped the man who shot Daddy and Uncle Jed was sixteen.  And sixteen is less than eighteen, right?" Molly looks to me to double-check her math.  I can't seem to do more than nod.  She continues, in her ineffable four-year-old's logic, "And he went to adult prison."

The sudden silence in the room is quite impressive.

I can't seem to ramp my mind up in order to answer Molly.  From the way Donna's gripping my hand, she's similarly paralyzed.

President Bartlet touches Molly's hand, drawing her attention.

"You're right, Molly."  Gently, he pulls her closer so they're eye to eye.  "Sometimes the law treats people under eighteen like they're adults."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes people under eighteen do terrible things just like adults."

Donna's fingers squeeze mine, and CJ grasps my free hand.  I can't stop staring at the former president and my daughter, locked in this conversation I wanted so much for my Molly never to have.

Molly frowns.  "Why do people do bad things?"

Leo's head bows, just a little, and beside me, Donna sniffles.  President Bartlet blinks, but holds Molly's imploring gaze.

"I don't know," he answers finally.  "I think it's because somebody hurt them first.  Someone taught them to hate instead of love, to reject people who are different instead of embrace them.  And that's why you have to remember to always treat people with kindness and respect."

Molly looks over at us, like she needs our approval before committing.  Donna nods, and I say, "You should listen to your Uncle Jed, Molly; he's a pretty smart guy."

"Okay," Molly says, temporarily satisfied.  I have a feeling the subject will come up again later.

President Bartlet smiles at me.  "Pretty smart?"

Before I can reply, Abbey reaches her husband's side and offers him a hand up.  "Well, Jed, considering you were having some trouble with a children's puzzle, I'd say pretty smart is quite generous."

The President gains his feet and frowns at his wife.  "I was trying not to show up Leo in front of Molly."

"Hey," Leo protests.  I step forward and help him up.  He nods his thanks, then turns to Bartlet.  "Who was the one who insisted that one piece was part of the dog's face?"

"It looked like fur!"

"It was grass.  Grass looks like fur to you?"

"Abbey, tell Leo that this--"

"Oh, no," she protests, not allowing her husband to retrieve the piece in question from the floor.  "I think it's time we let Molly play with her own toys."

Abbey gives me a little nod as she passes, the President and Leo at her heels.  Beside me, CJ leans in and whispers, "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be," I assure her.  "Really.  It's fine.  We've explained it to her."

CJ nods, a suspicious gleam in her eye.  "Okay.  Evan and I are going to..."

"Go," Evan supplies with a small smile in my direction.  "You and Donna can have some time with Molly."

"Thanks," Donna says.  "We'll be right out."

"You'd better be," CJ says.  "Sam and Ainsley are supposed to be here anytime."

Before I can respond, Donna squeezes my hand quite hard and says, "Kindness and respect.  No mocking!"

Slackjawed, I turn to her.  "But--"

"No buts, Joshua," Donna beams.  "You heard the president.  You yourself said he was a pretty smart guy, and that Molly should listen to him.  Don't you want to be a good role model for your daughter?"

I can't even think of a response.  No mocking?

What the hell else am I supposed to do with all of this wit?

***

Despite the fact that Abigail Bartlet has been nothing but gracious to me since my sudden arrival in Manchester all those years ago, I still find her a little bit intimidating.  I mean, she's accomplished, intelligent, and she manages to keep her sweet but egotistical husband in hand with a few well-placed barbs.

You can see where she'd be a role model for me, right?

So when she invites CJ and me to take a walk around the grounds, I'm content to listen to the two of them interact.  They grew very close during the first campaign (probably due to the overrepresentation of testosterone on the higher levels of the campaign staff).  CJ had trouble in the early days of the President's first term, not because she couldn't remember to call him "Mr. President" instead of "Governor," but because she was so used to calling Mrs. Bartlet "Abbey."

They had a bit of a falling out during the MS revelation, so it's nice to see them back to the easy familiarity of those halcyon days on the campaign bus.  Yes, I'm sad to say that I actually miss the campaign bus.

The Bartlets' land is beautiful, green, gently rolling pastures surrounded by white fences and the occasional crumbling rock wall.  The three of us end up seated on various boulders as Abbey tells us the story of when Liz lost her footing on the rocks and bashed out a tooth.

I can so see my daughter doing the same; the idea of physical danger or injury is a foreign concept.

"So, Donna," Abbey says, turning a fond smile my way.  "How's Governor Douglas-Radford's campaign coming?"

"Really well, Mrs. Bartlet, thanks.  Josh thinks--"

"Donna, please.  Call me Abbey."

I curse my alabaster skin yet again, because I can feel the flush.  "Thank you, ma'am."

"Abbey," she corrects, smiling.

"Right," I say, stumbling a little over her name.  "Abbey."

CJ gives me a knowing look and asks, "And your thesis?"

"Oh," I say, brightening.  "I've got the first four chapters drafted.  Sam offered to give it a once over."

"Toby will probably point out Sam's problem with punctuation," CJ observes with a fond smile.  Abbey, who wasn't witness to quite as many of the Writing Wars as the rest of us, asks a question, and CJ launches into a particularly amusing story involving Toby's yellow legal pad and a softball.

It's bittersweet, remembering the way we all interacted in the White House.  Besides Josh, I rarely see the rest of my former colleagues and friends.  Despite my husband's doubts about this weekend -- his constant assertions that everyone would be watching him closely for signs of his next nervous breakdown -- it's wonderful to be back in such good company.

Abbey glances up at the sky with a small frown.  "We should probably get back.  It may rain."

CJ flashes an amused grin.  "What, are you Weatherman Bob?"

"Weatherman Bob?" Abbey repeats archly.  "Some feminist spokeswoman you are, Claudia Jean."

We rise and head back to the house, the two women bickering good-naturedly over the meaning of feminism.  I toss in a few comments of my own, finally feeling accepted by the former First Lady as an equal.  It's quite an amazing feeling.

As we gain the front stairs, CJ starts laughing at the sight of Toby Ziegler seated on an antique rocking chair, typing madly away on his laptop.  "What the hell are you doing?" CJ demands.

"Hiding."

"Oh, no," I groan.  "Molly?"

Abbey starts laughing.  "Hide and go seek?"

"Yes," Toby answers without looking up.  "Your respective husbands are, idiotically, hiding in closets and whatnot."

"And Leo?" CJ asks, still snickering.

"I believe," Toby says, finishing up a sentence with a flourish, "that Leo is behind that hedgerow."

The three of us turn as one.  There is, in fact, a pair of loafers showing beneath the hedgerow.  "Abbey," I say, lowering my voice.  "Please tell me you have a camera handy."

"Here."  We turn back, and Toby Ziegler produces one of those one-time-use cameras from his pocket.  "Please," he says with a devilish grin.  "Be my guest."

***

When I hear the rustle of fabric that unmistakably signals the approach of someone who is not Molly (her approaches are incredibly loud, even when she's tiptoeing), I start to frown.  Of course, given my current location, I'm pretty sure the suitcoat I'm frowning at couldn't care less.

One good thing about playing hide and go seek with Molly in the Bartlets' spacious house is the walk-in closets.

Before I have time to figure out who is creeping up to the door, it is yanked open, letting in what seems like an incredible amount of light.  I blink a couple of times, register the barely-muffled laughter of CJ Cregg, and realize the flash was actually that of a camera.

"CJ!"

"Sssssh!" she shushes me, waving her arm towards the door.  "Molly's in the hallway."

"What are you doing?" I whisper fiercely.

CJ gives me quite the saucy look.  "Blackmail material, my friend."

I'm about to lunge for the camera when CJ glances towards the hallway, eyes wide, and then slams the closet door shut in my face.  Moments later, I hear the tell-tale sounds of my daughter.  Her mary janes slap on the floorboards, despite her attempts at walking on tiptoe, and her irrepressible giggles paint the air.

"Well, hello, Molly," CJ says jovially.

"Hi, aunt CJ!"

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Playing hide and go seek," Molly explains seriously.  "I think my daddy's in the closet."  Her words tumble over each other in her excitement.

"Really," CJ answers seriously.  "The closet, huh?"

And then Molly's footsteps clomp closer and closer, and the door is flung open.  "Daddy!" Molly squeals, throwing herself at me.  There's another bright flash, but this time I don't mind so much.

"You found me," I tell Molly with a grin.

"Of course," Molly answers with her customary display of modesty.  CJ hides her smile with a forced cough.

"Well, look who's out of the closet," says a familiar voice from the doorway.

CJ turns a delighted look that way.  "Sam!" she greets.

I give him a good-natured eye-roll, then let my exuberant daughter loose on him. Molly shrieks, "Uncle Sam!" and launches herself at him.

CJ is nearly as impatient, placing one hand on Molly's back and pressing a kiss to Sam's cheek.  "Hey, there, Sparky.  Still embracing the spirit of bipartisanship?"

Sam laughs despite himself.  "Yes, I'm still with Ainsley."

"She's downstairs?" CJ asks.  At Sam's nod, she leans back and snaps a picture of Sam and Molly (who, needless to say, grins wide for the camera).  "I'll go say hello."

"How's the Hill?" I ask, as if I don't already know.

Sam gives me a look.  "I wouldn't be surprised if you knew more than I did, Josh.  How's the campaign?"

"Good. Good." I pause for a moment.  "It's very strange spending so much time outside of DC, though."

*

It's very strange to be here.

I've been to the Manchester house before, of course (which is, incidentally, in Kingston, not Manchester).  But to be in a room with the president, Abbey, Leo, Toby, CJ, Sam, and Donna without a crisis looming over our heads is definitely strange.  From the moment we were all in a room together, from the moment we joined the Bartlet for America campaign, we had no free time.

Sure, we'd occasionally grab lunch together, maybe Toby, CJ, and me, or, on one memorable occasion, Sam, Ainsley, Donna, and me.  That was fun.  And then there were the infrequent presidential invites up to the Residence to have his home-cooked meals, but even then, the downtime would only last an hour or so before at least one of us was pulled out to attend to this or that situation.

Tonight, sitting on an incredibly comfortable, overstuffed couch in the Bartlet's cozy family room, sipping wine with my wife, my daughter (who's sipping apple juice, despite her strong objections), my former colleagues, and our former boss... well, it's disconcerting.

Not in a bad way.  But I don't think any of us are really sure how to relate to each other in such a situation.  Without the pressure and the deadlines, the issues and the chaos, what do we talk about?

The obvious answer would be the reason we're all here.  A certain night six years ago, when a few twisted kids got their hands on guns and nearly killed the president and me.  That's not a memory I prefer to dwell on, and even after years of therapy, I have absolutely no desire to talk to my friends about it.

I do wonder, sometimes, what it was like for them.  I look around at their faces, at Abbey's glowing smile, the president's playful grin; Sam's cheerful, poster-boy smile, CJ's sexy smirk; Toby's not-quite-dour expression, Leo's poorly concealed concern, and Donna's quiet courage, and I wonder what those weeks were like.  I have no clear recollection of that time, except in my nightmares.  Awake, I remember hazy images of concerned faces, and I remember pain.  So much pain.

I don't have any memory of how little sleep they got.  I don't know if CJ locked herself in her office to cry.  I don't know when Abbey and Millicent Griffith examined my incision, or how hard it was for them to maintain clinical detachment.  I don't know what got Toby started on his warpath to revoke the Bill of Rights, and I don't know why Sam ended up on the morning shows.

I've seen the tapes, of course.  CJ's briefing only hours after the shooting tells a significant amount of the story.  Her hair was mussed, her shirt slightly crumpled, her hands fluttering about nervously, and her voice shaky.  CJ Cregg's voice was shaking.  I must have watched that tape fifty times trying to reconcile CJ, my CJ, with this woman on the tape.  It's not easy.

Her follow up the next day, her beautiful, heartfelt, impromptu lecture on gun control, that was the CJ I know.  That was the CJ I admire.  I find myself smiling at her, watching her murmured conversation with Evan.  She looks at me again, no doubt she's wondering why I'm staring vapidly at her.  Then her smile changes and if I didn't know better, I'd think there were tears in her eyes.  She raises her glass a fraction of an inch and the edge of her mouth tilts upwards a bit.  Then she takes a sip.

My gaze slides to Sam, sitting beside Ainsley on the small love seat.  There's more tape.  I called Katie Couric during my long months of house arrest and after much persuasion, she sent over the unedited version of Sam's appearance.  He was amazing that morning, strong but subdued.  Fierce and confident and determined that I was going to live, though I was in surgery even then.  After his segment ended, when the show was on commercial, Katie asked him to let the president and me know that their prayers were with us. Sam tried to thank her, but his voice broke.  He swallowed hard, apologized, and fumbled his answer, ripping the mic from his shirt.  I don't think I've ever seen him like that.  I hope I never have to again.

Sam's smiling at Ainsley, oblivious to my gaze.  He's a true mensch, that one, but about as observant as a comatose dog.  I shift my gaze to Toby, to Leo.  They're in armchairs, both holding glasses, one with bourbon, one with ice water.

The CNN and MSNBC and FOX News retrospectives, I have those on tape too.  I've only watched them once.  They have some footage of the Newseum, of the shooting, and I can't watch it.  But they also have a few shots of Toby, without the suit coat he used hours before to staunch the blood flowing from my abdomen.  He's stalking into the hospital, squinting in the harsh sunlight and looking angrier than I've ever seen him, his entire body thrumming with rage.  There's Margaret, Nancy, Bonnie, Ginger, Mrs. Landingham -- coming and going from the hospital, identified only as White House Staffers.

There's footage of Leo, nearly expressionless.  I recognize that face.  It's his game face.  And there's the president's press conference, held 24 hours after the shooting, on the steps of the hospital.  He was moving slowly, walking with the deliberate steps of one anticipating serious pain.  I have no idea how he managed it, but he had on khakis and a button-down shirt. Abbey stood on one side, the vice-president on the other, and Leo just behind them.

My gaze slides to the president now, here, in this room.  He's gesturing with his free hand, eyes twinkling as he recites some obscure historical facts about New Hampshire.  Something about the Concord Coach Company, but I'm not really listening.

The president's speech that night was amazing.  It was the perfect blend of reassurance and anger, of compassion and strength.  He ended with a moment of silence for me.  I can't watch that tape without crying, which is why I don't watch it.

The president has mentioned that night to me a few times, and I think he's probably the only one who gets it even a little bit.  He's the only one who honestly thought he was going to die.  He's the only one who felt the immediate numbness bleed slowly into incredible pain.  He's the only one who knows what it's like to be shot.

"Josh?"

I look to my left and Donna is giving me her concerned face, her hand landing softly on my thigh.  She's spoken softly, her words too low to be overheard even by Molly, who's sitting on the floor at our feet, explaining the electoral college to her doll.  I cover Donna's hand with mine and squeeze, thanking her without words for pulling me from such dark thoughts.

I glance around to make sure no one noticed me spacing out, but Sam, Evan, Abbey, and the president are enraptured (or quite possibly horrified, I really couldn't say) by a long, involved story about boating that Ainsley is telling in her trademark style.  Toby, CJ, and Leo, however, are giving me almost identical looks of concern.

I look at CJ, then Toby, then Leo, and dip my chin.  I'm okay.

"Josh," the president calls.

Startled, I turn to him.  "Yes, sir?"

"Call me Jed," he orders.  I shake my head, smiling, and he rolls his eyes.  "Tell Ainsley the story about Sam and the boat."

"No," Sam says, shaking his head.  "I think--"

"When he fell out?" I ask the president, ignoring Sam's protest.

Molly is standing by my knee, suddenly, her brown eyes excited.  "Uncle Sam fell out of a boat?"

Grinning, Donna nods.  "Yes."

"Many times," Toby mutters, hiding his smile behind his glass.

"It was one time!" Sam protests.

I open my mouth to tell Molly the tale, properly exaggerated, of course, but my cellphone chirps.

"Who the hell is calling you?" Leo raises an eyebrow.  "Everyone you know is in this room."

Donna snickers as I pull the phone free and check the caller ID.  "It's from the Douglas-Radford camp," I tell them all, pushing myself upright.  "I should take this."

I'm halfway to the door when I hear another cellphone.  Turning, I see Leo, eyebrows raised, pulling his phone out of his pocket.  "This can't be good."  He glances at the readout and grimaces.  "Margaret?  What's going on?"

Toby is curious.  He's leaning forward in his chair, bourbon forgotten on the table next to him as his gaze shifts back and forth between Leo and me.  He assumes, as do I, that something major is happening with the Democratic Party.  I flip the phone open and answer, "Josh Lyman."

"Josh, it's Toni."  Toni Timian is Representative Susan Douglas-Radford's Chief of Staff.  "So I've got a funny story to tell you."

"I'm listening."  From the look on Donna's, CJ's, Sam's, Toby's, Abbey's, and the president's face, they wish they were too.  Molly, never patient, is standing alongside me and tugging on the leg of my pants.

"Is that Aunt Susan?"

I shake my head at her, but my attention is on Toni, who says, "Susan just got back from a meeting with Cecil Sullivan.  He wants this strictly confidential, but he's thinking of switching."

It takes me a second.  "Switching parties?"

I can hear the grin in her voice.  "Yeah.  He's been voting with us most of the time anyway."

I catch Leo's surprised look and nod.  "You're telling me that Cecil Sullivan is seriously considering becoming a Democrat?"

A combination gasp of surprise and cheer of victory rings out, and I can barely hear Toni's answer.  But across the room, Leo's got a devilish grin on his face, and when he glances at me, he nods.

Well, damn.  This weekend sure could get interesting.

*

I have no idea how we got to this point.  Really, it's a mystery to me.  There I was, worried that this weekend would be sober and trying and, well, quite annoying.  I am, after all, The Guy Who Got Shot.  Also, the guy who had a nervous breakdown on the lovely but frozen island of Nantucket, and spending the anniversary of the shooting with the only people in the world who actually know that could have ended very badly.  You know, people treating me like a crystal vase that's been superglued back together.

But somehow, instead of playing a round or two of Can We Talk About This Or Will Josh Crack Up, we're walking (or in some cases strutting) down to the meadow that doubles as a makeshift football field.  Well, to be honest, Molly is running in lopsided loops, back and forth between the adults as we trek across the horse paddock.  All of which is besides the point -- we're gonna have us a little game of football.

Well, obviously, we're not all playing.  The president, Abbey, Leo, Donna, and Molly are spectating, though the president insisted on dubbing them all cheerleaders.  To which Abbey replies, "Great. And some paparazzi hiding in the bushes will publish a story with the headline Former President's Prances Farm in Cheerleader's Skirt."

The president looks miffed.  "I'm not suggesting we wear the outfits."

"Good," Donna mutters.

The subject is dropped when we reach the low, crumbling rock wall -- and may I just point out that it didn't seem quite this perilous the few times we wandered out here for football games during the Bartlet for America campaign. Does that mean I'm getting old?

The president and Abbey help each other over the wall, and when I catch Donna's eye, she gives me a watery smile.  Donna's parents weren't exactly the best role models, and while she and my mother have formed a mutual admiration society, she never got to see my parents together.  Consequently, the Bartlets have become Donna's primary role models.

Which is yet another example of Donna's exquisite taste.

"Donna," Leo says from his spot leaning against a gnarled tree.  "You can play if you want.  We'll watch the little one."

Molly gives him an unamused look, her little hands landing indignantly on her hips.  "Don't need to be watched.  I'm a big girl."

Leo bites back a grin and nods solemnly.

"Yeah," Sam says, tossing the ball to Charlie and joining the conversation.  "You should play, Donna."

She smiles at him.  "That's okay."

"C'mon, Donna," Zoey calls from her strange, upside-down position.  I guess she's stretching, but it looks quite painful.  "The best part is when you tackle Josh."

Evan frowns.  "I thought we were playing touch football."

"We are," Zoey laughs.  "Donna just gets a little--"

"Violent?" I suggest with a grin.  Molly tugs on my hand, and I crouch down to face her.  When she's worried, she gets this adorable little crease in her forehead.  Just like her mother.  "What's wrong?"

"Mommy can't play," she answers.

"Actually," Toby remarks, "your mother can play better than your father."

"Hey!"

Molly ignores my protest, her attention caught on Toby.  "No, she has to be careful with Josiah."

Well, that certainly got everyone's attention.

Donna's eyes get very, very wide, and we stare at each other, flummoxed.

I glance around and find quite the collection of confused expressions.  Except for CJ, Evan, and Toby, who already know, and Abbey, who's giving me a small smile.  I dip my chin slightly, and she grins outright, taking Donna's hand.

Her husband, though, appears quite oblivious.  He leans down and asks Molly, "Why does Mommy have to be careful with me?'

Molly gives him a withering look.  "Not you."

Zoey claps a hand over her mouth, and Leo gives me a suspicious look, but the rest of them still aren't getting it.

Donna lifts a hand in the air.  Slightly flushed, she says, "Molly doesn't mean you, Mr. President."  She glances at me.  I nod, and her hand touches her abdomen briefly.  "She's talking about your namesake, sir."

The president looks stunned.

Zoey crosses the distance to Donna in record time and gives her an exuberant hug.  "Congratulations!"

Leo offers me his hand, the glow of pride on his face the only congratulations I need.

"Thank you."  Donna blushes some more, uncomfortable with the sudden attention as the rest of the gang crowds around her.

I chance a look at the president, who still looks a bit shocked.  Abbey's next to him, her hand on his back.  He looks over at me.  "Josh, I..."

Shifting a bit, I shrug.  "We can change it if, you know, if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Don't be ridiculous."  Abbey says, poking her husband.

"No," he says finally.  "No, no, no.  I'm... I'm touched, Josh."  He reaches a hand to Donna, who goes to him willingly.  With a sweet kiss to her cheek, he says, "Donna, I'm so very happy for you both."

Molly taps the president on the wrist.  "And me."  I can't help but grin at her; she doesn't take not being the center of attention very well at all.

Laughing, he leans down to kiss Molly's forehead.  "Yes, sweetheart, and you.  You're going to be a big sister."

She grins up at him and claps her hands.  "I am a big sister!"

Sam claps me on the back so hard it nearly knocks me over.  "Way to go, Josh."  Behind him, Donna rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and it takes serious effort for me not to laugh at Sam's turn of phrase.  He's smiling widely at me.  "Why didn't you tell us before?"

I can feel the gazes of the entire group focusing suddenly on me as I try to come up with a response.  Donna saves me, as usual.

"We didn't think that's what this weekend should be about," she says quietly.

"Nonsense," Leo scoffs.  "This is exactly what this weekend is about."

The president nods.  "We made it through."  He rests one hand on Charlie's shoulder.  Even though Charlie and Zoey are no longer together, the president still loves him like a son.  "Those bastards tried to scare us, to make us live in fear."  He glances at me.  "They tried to kill us, but they couldn't do it."

Molly's small hand slips into mine, and I pick her up.  Her warm arms twine around my neck, and Donna's beside me, and the president's right.  We made it.

Glancing around, I see people who are happy and healthy, people who shared the most terrifying experience of my life, and people who watched it on CNN.  But mostly I see people who are my friends, people who are my family.

"They couldn't do it," the president continues, "because we are stronger than that.  They couldn't do it because love is stronger than hate."  He pauses, looking around at each one of us with a benevolent expression.  Then he grins.  "Now, I believe CJ Cregg claims she can kick Toby's ass at football."

"I can," CJ boasts, smirking over at Toby, who rolls his eyes.

"Hey, CJ," Sam says, "do you even know how to play football?"

She shrugs, nonchalant.  "It's it pretty much get the ball and run like hell towards the net?"

The tortured sound Toby makes is really quite amusing.  "End zone," he corrects.  "Do you see a net anywhere?"

CJ crosses her arms.  "We're in a meadow."

"Fair point," I tell her.

"Thank you."  She grabs the football from Ainsley and smiles.  "Josh, you can be on my team."

Evan beams at his wife.  "You're a captain now?"

"You got a problem with that?"

"Nope."

"Wise man," Donna decides.

CJ points at Zoey.  "Zoey, Josh, Evan, you're with me.  Let's kick some ass."

Leo grins and leans back against the tree.  "Oh, this oughta be good."

THE END

10.20.04