Here's something you need to understand about Josh:  He doesn't give his love or his loyalty often.  I suppose some people might see him as calculating; I suppose Josh wants them to see him that way -- the Master Politician facade keeps him from appearing vulnerable.

Josh doesn't like people knowing how very vulnerable he is.

Because the truth is that Joshua Lyman's is the most sensitive soul I've ever encountered.  If you are one of the handful of people Josh has decided to put his faith in, he will move heaven and earth for you.  He will do all manner of impossible things for you.

If you are his assistant, he will marry you without giving sufficient thought to the possibility that he may be committing career suicide.  And then he'll accomplish something that common sense should tell him is impossible: he'll manage to save you both from political scandal, hang onto your careers and make sure that the individuals most responsible for hurting you pay.

Being loved with that kind of ferocity is an incredible experience.  You know there is someone who would fight the world for you -- someone who will automatically believe in you, no matter what you do or say.

But there is also tremendous responsibility.

Josh's love is not something to be taken lightly.  He gives himself so completely, whether it's to a relationship or a political cause.  He leaves himself so open and so vulnerable.  And if he is disillusioned, he can be hurt so very deeply.

The list of people Josh cares for -- people he automatically believes in -- is a relatively short one.  There's me, his mother, Leo, CJ, Sam and Toby.  And President Bartlet.

When it comes to politics, Josh is a realist.  He understands the need for compromise (even though it's not his preferred strategy), the need to spin the truth, the need to win.  And he does all that because he believes in this noble cause.  This noble man.

President Bartlet.

So you can understand why Josh felt betrayed when he learned the truth, can't you?

Josh had this image of who he thought Josiah Bartlet was.  He -- and CJ and Sam and Toby -- got the American public to see that image.  The first and most important part of that image was this: Josiah Bartlet is an honest man.

Who, we just found out, lied to the American public about a critical matter.

The American public, I think, will take this better than Josh has.

One of the handful of people Josh loves lied to him.

For Josh, this is one of those moments when the world shifts on its axis.  Nothing will ever be the same.

And I can't do a damn thing to spare him the hurt and the pain and the disillusionment.

***

The drive back from Connecticut to D.C. is nowhere near as relaxed as the trip up.  Mostly because I can't figure out what issue we were working on last week could possibly have gone so horribly wrong over the weekend.  Which makes me think it's one of those out of the clear blue sky moments.  I dread those moments.

Donna's still exhausted, but she's determined to come into the office with me, so we drive directly to the White House.  Donna heads to the Operations bullpen, and I go to Leo's office.  He greets me quickly, glances at his watch, and tells me to round up CJ, Sam, and Toby and meet him in the Oval.

"Leo?" I ask.  I mean, he's got to tell me something, give me some sort of hint of what's going on.

But he won't look at me.  "Just do it, Josh."

I go to Toby's office first, which is fortunate for me, because CJ's in there and Sam's just next door.  That was easy.  Toby gives me a look I can't figure out.  "Leo's waiting?"

"Yeah," I say.  "In the Oval."

CJ meets my questioning gaze with a shrug.  "Welcome back.  How was Connecticut?"

"Great," I answer.  "Relaxing, even."

Sam enters, smiling.  "You're back!"

"Yeah." I return the grin.  "Leo wants us."

"He mentioned." Sam says.  "So, did you--"

"Guys," Toby interrupts.  "The Oval?"

Sam, CJ and I exchange looks -- clearly Toby has an idea what's going on -- and then follow him to the Oval Office, where Leo and the President are waiting.

"Hey," President Bartlet greets us.  "Thanks for coming."  He locks eyes with Toby, and there's some kind of silent communication that's making me very nervous.  I glance over at Leo, but he's studiously examining the back of the couch opposite him.

CJ gestures at the door.  "Is this for the press, because I sent them home, but--"

"No," Leo answers.  "Nothing like that."

CJ looks at me again, then says uncertainly, "Okay."

"Please," the President says, settling into one of the twin armchairs, "have a seat, all of you."

I hang back a little and watch Toby wedge himself into the corner as far away from the President as possible.  My instincts are screaming at me right now.  Something is wrong.  Very, very wrong.

The President looks at me expectantly.  "Josh?"

"Good evening, sir," I answer, dropping onto the couch with Toby and across from Sam and CJ.  Leo takes the other armchair.

"How was Connecticut?" the President asks.

"Fine, sir."  I shift uncomfortably.  "Can I ask--"

"What the hell we're all doing here on a Sunday night?" the President answers with a slight smile.

"Well, that's not that unusual a situation, sir," CJ points out.

The chuckles her comment draws are uncomfortable, uttered on cue.  I may explode if someone doesn't just--

"There is a reason tonight," President Bartlet says, "and although I've already discussed this with Toby, I wanted all of you here, in a room, so that I can tell you together."

Sam glances at me, then back at the President.  "Tell us what, sir?"

"Ten years ago," he begins, "I began experiencing some strange symptoms -- pain in my legs, recurring dizziness, that sort of thing."

My gaze shifts to Leo, whose mouth is tight.

Oh, God.

The President is sick . I don't believe it.  I look back at the President as he continues.

"My ophthalmologist picked up on an abnormal pupil response during an eye exam eight years ago.  And many tests later, I was diagnosed with relapsing-remitting Multiple Sclerosis."

I stare at him.

Please let this be a joke.  Let this not be real.

CJ is shaking her head slightly. " Are you--"  She stops, shoots me a pleading look, and says, "Really?"

"Yes," President Bartlet says.  "I have MS."

Well, that's it then, I think.  We're done here.

***

Because it's a weekend night, the bullpen is as quiet as it ever gets.  After sending Josh off to the Oval Office, I take a seat at my desk and start going through his schedule for the week.  Luckily, Bonnie canceled all his appointments for Monday and Tuesday, under the assumption that we'd be spending some extra time in Connecticut.  I'm thinking Josh is going to need the free time anyway; whatever is happening, it's big enough for Leo to call us back from vacation.  I'm guessing this is going to consume most of Josh's time this week.

I start by prioritizing Josh's schedule for the rest of the week.  Some things can be farmed out to other staffers, some clearly need Josh's personal attention.  If this crisis is as bad as we were speculating during our trip back to DC, he's going to be stressed by the middle of the week.  I take a two-hour block of time on Wednesday and, on a whim, pencil in "stamp collecting."

Yeah, I know.  He won't have time.  But if nothing else, he'll get a kick out of seeing it written down there.

Comic Relief Girl does what she can.

Looking up from the schedule, I notice that Charlie's here.  That's not surprising, considering that the President is with the senior staff tonight.  Still, it's nice to have someone to talk to for a few minutes.  It's unusual, though, because Charlie generally sticks close to the Oval Office.

It takes a moment for me to register the look on Charlie's face -- shock, grief.  God, let me be misinterpreting that.  We've had too much of those particular emotions around here this year.

What would make Charlie look -- oh, God, don't let anything have happened to Zoey.

"Charlie, what's wrong?"

And that's when Charlie tells me -- slowly, hesitantly -- about Mrs. Landingham's accident.  I can't wrap my mind around this.  I don't know what to do or how to react.

Josh and I, we were in such a hurry to get to Connecticut that I didn't stop and say goodbye to Mrs. Landingham.

I didn't say goodbye to Mrs. Landingham, and now I'll never see her again.

Charlie's standing there, devastated.  It's like, now that he's said the words, Mrs. Landingham's death is suddenly real and he has no idea what to do next.

Josh would say that it's a sad state of affairs when Donnatella Moss-Lyman has to be the grownup.  I tell Charlie that I'll start calling the other assistants.  He has the harder job by far.  Dr. Bartlet's still in New Hampshire, so he can't relay the news to her and let her decide what to do next.  We agree that he should tell Leo; Leo will know the best way to break this to President Bartlet.  And Zoey -- Charlie's going to have to tell Zoey.  I don't envy him that task in the least.  Telling Josh is going to be hell.

Charlie and I exchange a quick hug and go do our separate jobs without breaking down and crying the way we want to.

Because that's what Mrs. Landingham taught us to do.

***

The rest of my meeting with the President goes about as poorly as can be expected.  Sam is hurt and disappointed, CJ looks angry, and I am very, very quiet.  Toby fills the unnatural silence, asking all the questions I would ask if I wasn't absorbed by the political realities of the situation.

And they are most definitely Not Good.

Senate hearings.  Special prosecutors.  Impeachment.  Resignations.

Scapegoats.

The President and Leo exchange looks and dismiss us when it becomes clear that our shocked numbness isn't going away any time soon.  I stumble back to the Operations bullpen, shrugging off CJ's suggestion of a Council of War.

She and Sam want to discuss, to dissect, to understand what this means.  But I already understand.

I put my wife and myself through hell; I tried my damnedest to protect this man who--

I can't do this right now.

When I reach my office, Donna's inside flipping through the files on my desk.  How can she look so normal?  How can things be exactly the same as they were an hour ago when it's all changed?  And then, even through my daze, I notice that Donna's movements are a little bit jerky, her graceful hands are shaking.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She jumps, one trembling hand settling over her heart as she turns wide, startled eyes my way.  "Don't do that."  Then she steps closer, studying me.  "You heard?"

I frown at her.  "Of course I heard.  How did you hear about this?"  She opens her mouth to reply, but I wave a dismissive hand in the air.  "Margaret, right?  You know, you two really have to stop that.  This isn't the time--"

"Josh," she interrupts, troubled.  "I had to call Margaret at home to tell her.  We didn't--"

"You talked about this on the phone?" I explode.

Donna doesn't yell back, though.  She stares at me with this look on her face, an apprehensive look that pierces right through my anger.

And then the memory resurfaces of a certain night not too terribly long ago when I took my anger out on this woman.  I won't do it again.

I turn away from her for a moment, take the deep, steady breaths -- in through my nose, out through my mouth -- that Stanley suggested.  When I feel slightly less frayed, I turn back to her.  "I'm sorry."

She nods.  "You're upset."

"Doesn't make it okay."

"No," she agrees.  "It doesn't."  She reaches a hand out.  "But you controlled it."

I take her hand and tug her towards me.  Our embrace is a strange mixture of relief, love and anguish.

And then Donna mumbles into my chest, "What does it matter who knows?  It's not going to bring her back."  I stiffen, and Donna pulls back, "Josh?"

I stagger backwards until my legs connect with the sideboard.  And then I sit abruptly.  "What are you talking about, Donna?  Bring who back?"  All the traces of anger in my voice have been replaced by a sickening dread.

"Mrs. Landingham," she answers gently, capturing my hand again.  "Josh, what are you talking about?"

Oh, God.  I just shake my head for a moment, because -- How am I supposed to do this?

Mrs. Landingham?

"Josh?"  Donna is at my side, her free hand rubbing circles on my back.  She's calming me, even as she grows more panicked.

I reach out and pull her closer.  "The President."  I catch her gaze and hold it.  "He's sick, Donna."  I'm a little shocked at the bitterness I hear in my own voice.

Donna collapses next to me.  "Oh, God."

***

"What happens now, Josh?"

The funeral and the press conference were yesterday.  We've been working nonstop for thirty-six hours.  There's been no time for a break, no time to celebrate the President's decision to run.  Our post-interview numbers were low.  Dangerously low.  At one point, I overheard Josh tell Toby that if he'd had any idea the numbers would be that bad, he would have advised the President against running.  We regained five points after the President's impressive performance at the press conference, but it's still looking bad.

How bad?  Baker, Shallick, Gillette, a few minor Democratic senators and congresspersons who suddenly put polls in the field during yesterday's feeding frenzy -- any of these individuals could beat us if the election were held tomorrow.  Hoynes lost fourteen points; the American people are not responding well to the news that he was privy to the President's secret.  He's still seventeen points ahead of us, however.

And the first round of subpoenas have been issued: the President, the First Lady, Charlie, Zoey, Ellie, Liz, Hoynes, Leo, Toby, CJ, Sam.  And Josh, of course.

Lionel Tribbey's office called Margaret.  They want a list of all the people on the support staff level who came into contact with the President during the campaign.  Starting, his assistant said in language so tactful that it must have come from the White House Counsel himself, with "the conveniently late Delores Landingham."  Margaret, for the first time in the years I've known her, muttered a four-letter word and slammed the phone down.

She hopes she's done permanent damage to the assistant's hearing.

That was the moment when Leo poked his head out of his office and looked around.  Bonnie, Ginger, Carol, Nancy, Kathy and I had gathered around Margaret's desk.

"All of you," Leo ordered.  "In my office now."

The senior staff was already there.  I took the seat next to Josh and rested my head on his shoulder.  I mean, to hell with professionalism.  What's the good of being married to your boss if you can't treat him like a husband when the world falls apart?

Leo took a long look at the group in his office and shook his head.  "Go home, all of you."

Toby was the first to protest.  "We still have decisions to make here."

"Toby," Leo said, "we're going to face those same decisions tomorrow.  And the day after that.  At the moment, all we're doing is talking in circles.  So leave, get some rest, and be back here in six hours."

And because there's no point in arguing with Leo when he takes that tone, we left.

A whole glorious six hours of freedom.  You can imagine how Josh and I have put the majority of our time to use.  Especially since neither of us could sleep.

So here I am, curled up in Josh's arms, asking about what we do next.  Because here's the thing:  We're going to win.  Sure, the next few months will be hell; the hearings are bound to be an unpleasant experience; the campaign will be a struggle.  But Josh won't let us lose.

I am not speaking here as a woman in love, basking in the afterglow and all that.  I'm speaking here as someone who has seen the man in Master Politician mode.  He got us elected the first time; he saved our jobs and kicked Ann Stark's ass not that long ago; he's a brilliant strategist.  He'll work out a way through this; I know he will.

"What happens next," he says, "is more lawyers, more hearings, more depositions."

"Piece of cake."

He looks mildly amused, which I think is a good thing.  Even when we were making love, there was an unusual lack of joy between us.  Passion, yes.  Love, definitely.  Happiness tonight, however, has been in short supply.

"And you figure this how?" he asks.

"I'm an old hand at depositions," I point out.  "And it's not as though there's any new information that can come out where we're concerned."

"There really is.  The Special Prosecutor--"

I pull myself closer to Josh because I need his warmth.  There's something about the words "special prosecutor" that can freeze your bones.

"The Special Prosecutor," Josh repeats when I've settled back against him, "will be asking for every document we've produced since the campaign.  He'll have a staff -- a very large staff -- whose job will be to comb through those documents and look for anything incriminating."

"So let them look.  It's not as though we've got memos saying, 'The President is sick.  Let's fool the American people.'"

"Not just about the President, Donna.  The Special Prosecutor has very broad powers in a case like this.  He's allowed to ask questions about any manner of seemingly unrelated subjects."

Josh has that tone of voice -- like he's anticipated the worst already and he's waiting for me to catch up with him.

I'm so not going there.

"Nobody's broken any laws, Josh."

"Nobody has to.  He just has to suggest certain patterns of conduct. Like hiding illnesses."

"One illness does not constitute a pattern."

"What about two?  The MS and Leo's addiction.  The papers are making that connection already."

"Leo's addiction has been a matter of public record since--"

"Since Lillianfield forced us to make it one.  We didn't go public with that of our own accord."

"Still not a pattern."

"Okay," he says, "let's add the third one."

"Let's not."

"Donna, we have to face facts."

"No, Josh, we don't."

"If we're lucky, we have until the weekend.  CJ can dump it with the rest of the trash on Friday."

"CJ can keep her mouth shut."

"You know what the Republicans are doing right now, Donna?  While we're all taking a break and wringing our hands and worrying about re-election, do you know what they're doing?"  He's thinking like a politician now, not a husband.  He's let go of me, he's moved so that he's lying on his side with his head resting on one arm, and he's talking in that fast, urgent tone he uses when he's strategizing.  "They're reviewing every photograph, every interview, every bit of footage they have on all of us.  By now, they've moved through the campaign, through our first year.  They've probably gotten to Rosslyn now, Donna.  It's just a matter of hours until they get to Carl Leroy's trial."

It's an indication of just how much of his mind is devoted to the political problem that he can say it like that, without any hesitation, like he's talking about something that doesn't effect him personally.

"Let them.  There was a trial; you were there.  So what?"

"So there are photographs of me looking like hell.  There were reports of me leaving the courtroom -- 'leaving abruptly' was the kindest description.  I was conspicuously absent immediately after the trial."

"You were on vacation."

"I was barely back at work after an extended medical leave, and I took a vacation.  You don't have to be a genius to realize how suspicious that looks."

"It doesn't look that bad," I reply feebly.

Josh, however, is busy concentrating on all the angles and he ignores my protests.  "So now they're pretty sure something's not kosher, and they put out feelers.  They question anybody who might know anything -- reporters, disgruntled employees--"

"Yeah, but I can't testify.  There's the whole marital privilege thing, and--"

And he ignores that brief, half-hearted appearance by Comic Relief Girl.

"Finally, they start combing through all those documents we have to send them, hoping to find something incriminating."

"But fortunately I didn't write any memos saying, 'Josh won't make senior staff today because he's trying to convince himself that he's having a nervous breakdown on the lovely but frozen island of Nantucket.'"

The look on my face when I realize what I've just said must be pretty funny because Josh is almost smiling.

Almost.

"Exactly," he says.  "The emails."

Why did we ever write those damn emails?  And why do they keep coming back to bite us in the ass?

"There are an awful lot of documents," I point out.  "Maybe no one will notice a few emails."

"Emails written by the Deputy Chief of Staff during the period immediately after the trial to the woman the world now knows he was secretly married to.  Yeah, why would anyone notice those?"

That thought simply hangs there between us in what is turning into a very long and awkward silence.

"Have you seen the amount of papers we have to send over?" I ask.  "Just our office alone.  I'm sure some things might get lost in the shuffle."

"Don't even think it."  Josh has that steely tone in his voice, the one he uses against Republicans and recalcitrant Democratic senators.  He's never used it on me before, and I must say it's chilling.  It's not likely to stop me, but it's chilling nonetheless

"I'm not going to let them do this to you."  I'm pleased with myself; I can sound pretty chilling myself.

"Donnatella," Josh says, and his voice has changed.  No more Master Politician; he's all concerned Husband/Lover now.  Bastard.  He knows this voice always works on me.  "It wouldn't matter anyway.  Other people know about those emails."

"Leo knows.  CJ knows.  They're not going to volunteer the information."

"No, and they're not going to lie either.  I wouldn't want them to.  I sure as hell wouldn't want you to."  He puts one finger to my lips to stop me before I can protest.  "And somebody else knows.  Somebody made sure those emails landed on Leo's desk.  Whoever did that will probably arrange for a copy to get to the Special Prosecutor no matter what we do."

I can't think of anything else to do, so I throw my arms around Josh and hug him for all I'm worth.

"It'll be okay," he whispers.  "All things considered, it's a pretty good way out."

"What?"  The Master Politician here has succeeded in thoroughly confusing me.

"Here's their strategy," Josh says, disentangling himself from me once again.  "They paint a picture of us as a pack of sick, unstable men leading the country toward disaster.  The President has a degenerative illness, the Chief of Staff is a recovering addict, and the Deputy Chief of Staff is a mental case."

"He is not."

Josh ignores me.  "So we counter.  We put the President out front as much as possible.  We demonstrate that he's healthy and that he's running the country wisely and on his own.  And if there's any fault here, we let the idea take hold that maybe it's the Deputy Chief of Staff's fault.  Maybe he was so eager to win that he gave bad advice and concealed the MS without consulting anyone else."

I practically jump out of the bed in protest.  "None of it happened that way."

"No, it didn't.  And we're not going to say it did.  But we can do things to foster that opinion."

"Like hell we will."

"Donna, people are angry.  Maybe people even have a right to be angry; I don't know anymore.  But they're going to need a scapegoat.  It can't be the President, and it can't be Leo.  I'm expendable; they aren't."

"Bullshit."

"This is all coming out, Donna, no matter what we want.  We can at least spin it to our advantage."

"I swear, Josh, you try anything this stupid and I'm leaving you."

"Which isn't a bad idea.  It plays perfectly.  I used you; I lied to you; when it all comes out, you decide to divorce me."

"I'm doing no such thing."

The bastard grins at me.  "A minute ago you were threatening--"

"That was before I knew you wanted me to leave . I refuse to make this easy for you."

"I don't want you hurt in all this, Donna."

"Then stop coming up with these absurd ideas."

"It's not absurd.  It will work."

"It really won't."

"They'll go after Leo . They'll go after CJ.  And Sam and Toby and Dr. Bartlet."

"Let them.  No one did anything wrong."

"The latest polls say that most Americans disagree with you there."

"Then most Americans are wrong.  And I was there.  I'm better informed than most Americans."

"Somebody's going to take the fall.  The Special Prosecutor, the press -- they're looking for a scapegoat."

"Let them look somewhere else.  You're not to blame."

"By the time this is over, you may be the only person in America who believes that."

"Then," I say, kissing him, "I'll be the only person in America who's right."

***

It's an effort to work these days.

Though I wasn't as close to Mrs. Landingham as some of the assistants -- as Donna was -- I am still overwhelmed by the depth of my grief.  Every morning when I wake up it's a double punch to the gut:  The President lied.  Mrs. Landingham's gone.

I suppose it doesn't help that the mood in the White House is decidedly somber.  The entire staff is still reeling from the loss of Mrs. Landingham; now they're saddled with worry for the President's health, trepidation about the upcoming trial-by-venom, and, of course, that nagging sense of betrayal.

Or maybe that last one's just me.

As well as he did during the Phyllis Tsolakis Fiasco -- was that really just a week ago? -- Lionel Tribbey is not my favorite person right now.  He's bringing us in one by one for questioning.  God only knows why he chose to interview Toby first; but since then, Tribbey's attitude has been even more combative than usual.

You can imagine how well my day with Lionel went.

An entire day of reliving all manner of horrible things -- the shooting, my hellish recovery, the trial, my breakdown on the lovely but frozen island of Nantucket.  The only thing of value Tribbey said was "Donna needs her own lawyer."  Because Tribbey is the counsel to the President; the rest of us are on our own.

Which brings me to why I'm calling my mother for help.

"What's wrong?" my mother demands in lieu of a greeting.

I almost grin.  "And you yell at me for my brusque phone manner."

"Josh," she answers, "it's almost eleven-thirty and you're still at the office."

"Did I wake you?"

"I'm watching The Daily Show."

"You watch The Daily Show?"

"Best news show on television."

I blink a couple of times.  "Okay."

"Why are you still at work?"

"That's not really that unusual."

"Put Donna on."

"Mom--"

"Josh, don't argue with me."

With a tortured groan, I slap my palm over the phone, lean sideways so I can see into the bullpen, and yell, "Donna!"

Donna appears in the doorway, looking as unmussed as she did when we left the house this morning.  I, on the other hand, look like I somersaulted my way into work.

I hold out the phone.  "My mother would like to speak with you."

Donna smiles -- the first genuine smile I've seen from her since we got back from Connecticut -- and takes the phone.  "Hi, Mom."  Donna frowns.  "I know."  She nods a little as she listens.  "Well, you know how he is."

"Hey!"

Donna covers the mouthpiece and shushes me.  "Yes, Mom."  She sniffles a little.  "She really was a wonderful lady."

Frustrated, I check C-SPAN.  There's no way in hell the Republicans had a sudden change of heart and let the bill to fund the Justice Department's lawsuit against Big Tobacco out of committee, but I check anyway.

Donna glares at me.  "I will. Mom, he's getting impatient.  Yes.  Love you too."  She thrusts the phone at me.  "Big baby."

"Hey!" I protest.

She smirks and sashays toward the door.

"Mom," I say into the phone, "as you might imagine after Dateline, Donna and I are going to need some damn good lawyers."

"Excuse me?" Donna halts halfway to the door.  "Lawyers plural?"

"Yes," I tell her.  "We need separate lawyers."

"Why do we need separate lawyers?"

"Because we do," I answer.  "Mom, can I get Abe's number?"

Donna frowns.  "Who's Abe?"

"My father's partner," I explain.

Mom rattles off a phone number that I dutifully scribble down.  Donna grabs the sticky note, squints at it, and asks, "Is that a four or a seven?"

"Four."

She gives the note a skeptical look then heads out the door with it stuck to her finger, undoubtedly to file it somewhere I'll never find it.  Under "F" for "Fucking Lawyers" perhaps.

"Josh?"

My mother's voice snaps me back to the present.  "Yeah?"

"I said tell Abe to get Melissa Siddiqui for Donna.  She's good.  I met her at the benefit dinner."

"I'm sorry about that, Mom.  I wanted to be there--"

"Next year," she answers.  "You were being sued."

"Yeah."  How depressing is it that the weeks Donna and I spent under siege during the Phyllis Tsolakis Fiasco now seem like the good old days?  Of course, that was mere public humiliation with the possibility of a steep fine and unemployment.  This time around, we're looking at impeachment proceedings, criminal charges, indictments, and, if we're really lucky, jail time.

"Joshua?"

"Yes?"

"You didn't do anything wrong."

I almost laugh.  "How do you know?"

"I know you," she says.  "I know the boy I raised, and I'm honored by the man you've become.  You don't have it in you to cheat."

I almost smile.  "I'm a politician."

"You've got morals, Joshua.  Besides," she says, a smile in her voice, "you're far too competitive to cheat."

"What?"

"You wouldn't consider it a real win if you cheated," my mother answers.  "And I saw your face on election night."

"Yeah," I manage, my voice rough.

"I was so proud of you.  And you were almost insufferably proud of yourself."

"For no reason, as it turns out," I answer bitterly.

"I know you're hurting right now, Josh, but the President is a good man.  He made a mistake."

I make a disbelieving noise.  Because, really, "mistake" isn't really going to cover this particular lapse in judgment.

"Josh," my mother says, "Jed Bartlet is human."  She continues, her tone suddenly brisk and upbeat, "Now collect that lovely bride of yours and go home."

"Yes, mother."

I can tell she's grinning when she says, "Good boy."

***

"I still don't understand why we need separate lawyers," I repeat during the drive home.  I'm exhausted -- it's almost midnight -- but Josh, damn him, is wired and very much in attack mode.  I make a mental note to deny him complete access to the coffeemaker after 6 p.m. from now on.

"Because," Josh replies and then launches into a recitation of his father's law partner's resume.  Which has nothing to do with my point.  I know when I'm being misdirected.

"We may need a lawyer," I continue.  I'll be damned if I let Josh win an argument because I'm tired.  "However, hiring two lawyers is a waste of money."

"We can afford it."  Josh gets that smug smile he only gets when he's having one of his Neanderthal "I can provide for my woman" moments.

"Yeah, you explain that to Molly when we can't pay her Ivy League tuition."

"What makes you think Molly won't get a full scholarship?"

"That is so not the issue."

"Because you're seriously underestimating any child of ours if you think she couldn't--"

"My point is that we should be investing money in our future, not squandering it on--"

"We need two lawyers."  Josh keeps his eyes trained on the road, carefully avoiding looking at me.  That's never a good sign.  "Let's leave it at that."

"Let's not."  I'm getting pissed at him, if you want to know the truth.  Feeling protective of me is one thing; it's kind of cute in small doses.  But he's rapidly crossing the line into patronizing, and I will not tolerate that.  "If I don't want a lawyer of my own, that's my right."

"Trust me.  You're going to need your own lawyer."

"Why?"

"Because I'm in serious trouble here, Donna, and you don't need to be part of that."

"I'm your wife.  That automatically makes me part of it."

"I'm Deputy Chief of Staff.  I helped Leo run the campaign.  No one is going to believe I didn't know Jed Bartlet was a sick man."

"Nevertheless, you didn't know."

"I wouldn't believe that.  If this were happening to a Republican president, I wouldn't believe the guy in my position was innocent.  I'd be out for blood.  Face it."

"Which wouldn't matter as long as the Republican version of you--"

"Now there's a contradiction in terms."

"As long as the Republican version of you," I repeat, "was innocent.  Like you are."

"How do you know I'm innocent?"

"Well, that's a singularly stupid question."

"Humor me.  Answer it anyway."

"Because I know you.  Because I know that you see everything as a political problem, and you jump at least three steps ahead of everyone else, and you figure out the consequences.  So Jed Bartlet tells you he's ill.  You sit there and you reason it out, and you figure that nothing this big can possibly remain a secret in DC.  So you work out a strategy to reveal that he has MS early in the campaign.  By the time you're finished, you have the voters convinced that he'll be a better president because he has MS.  And since you didn't do any of that, obviously you didn't know."

So there.  Argue with that line of reasoning, Guilt Boy.

"That logic won't hold up in front of the Special Prosecutor."

"The Special Prosecutor can kiss my ass."

"Donnatella!"  But that actually gets a laugh out of him.

"So you're saying," I start, in a valiant attempt to raise the issue again, "that your attorney will be so busy handling your case that he won't have time to take me on as a client."

"Something like that."

"It won't look good, our having two lawyers.  It will look as though we don't trust each other.  As though I don't trust you."

"Maybe not."

"Maybe not?  Josh, ask CJ.  She'll tell you that it looks bad.  Like those people in Colorado who were suspected of killing their daughter.  The minute they got separate attorneys, people started speculating that they were turning on each other."

"What it looks like doesn't matter to me.  What matters to me is that you don't get caught up in this."

"News flash: I'm already caught up in it.  Even if we weren't married, I'm still part of this administration.  I was part of the campaign.  I am caught up in this, Josh."

"Then all the more reason you should have your own attorney."

We're just going to keep talking in circles, so I close my eyes and try to rest until Josh parks the car in front of the townhouse.  I open my eyes to find him staring at me with that look that says he's going to be too busy worrying about my welfare to concentrate on his own defense.  So I sigh and admit defeat.  For now.

"All right," I tell him.  "I'll talk to the attorney.  But I'm not making any promises after that."

***

"Josh?"

I look up to find Sam's face hovering in the doorway, the top of Toby's head just visible behind him.

"Yeah?" I ask, tossing my pen aside and rubbing at my tired eyes.  "C'mon in."

As he edges into the room, Sam gives me that worried look that always sets my teeth on edge.  Toby closes the door behind them, glances over at Sam, rolls his eyes, and says, "It's Ishikawa."

I blink a couple of times.  "Kentaro Ishikawa?" I ask, just to clarify.  Not that there are probably an excess of aging, vindictive, conservative litigators out there with the surname "Ishikawa."  But still.

"None other," Sam confirms, his tone grim.

"Kentaro 'Ken' Ishikawa, aged fifty-six.  Undergraduate work at VMI, J.D. from UVA," Toby recites.  "Joined Sullivan, Mercier, Wilkins, & Davidson--"

"The go-to firm for West Virginian and Pennsylvanian state senators with a certain interest in making sure their right to strip mine the Appalachians is well-protected," Sam interjects.

"Right," Toby continues.  "Our boy Ken made a name for himself defending the mineral rights of Arch Coal from a class action in the mid-eighties.  Which caught the attention of the Governor of West Virginia."

Sam nods soberly.  "And a star was born."

I groan softly and decide, "I need a drink."

"I do too," Toby says with a pointed look at Sam.  "Especially if Kris Kristofferson here is going to keep talking."

"Hey," Sam protests.  Then he brightens.  "You know what we never did?"

"Figure out why the hell we hired you?" Toby suggests.

Sam blithely ignores Toby's comment and my snickering.  "We never threw Josh a bachelor party."

"True," Toby nods.  "But then we're not his frat brothers."

I study Toby.  "Were you in a frat?"

He glares, but doesn't deign to answer.

"I'm serious," Sam presses on, ignoring our byplay.  "We should go out.  Toby, we should take Josh out."

"I appreciate the thought, Sam," I tell him.  "But I'm pretty sure the rules preclude married men having bachelor parties."

"Well, if somebody had told somebody--"

Toby actually whimpers.

"--Maybe somebody would have gotten a bachelor party when he was still a bachelor," Sam says.

"'Would have gotten?'" Toby shakes his head slowly.  "Duke actually awarded you a J.D.?"

"Yes," Sam answers haughtily.  "And it was well-deserved.  Now where should we go?"

I frown.  "You couldn't really just buy me a casserole dish?"

"You can't cook."

"Yeah, but I'm married."

Toby raises an eyebrow.  "When exactly is Donna supposed to find the time to bake you casseroles?"

I consider that.  "Fair point.  Still, I'd rather a useless piece of crockery than an impromptu bachelor party with Killjoy and the Hooker Magnet."

"Call girl," Sam corrects.

Toby and I exchange long-suffering looks.

"Fine," Sam says, "Maybe Killjoy and I will go get a beer--"

"No, we won't," Killjoy assures him.

"We could," Sam insists.  "And we wouldn't invite the old married guy."

"First," Toby says, "you sound like a twelve-year-old.  Second, none of us is going to a bar because this administration is currently under fire by some very mean and nasty Republicans, a group, we now know, that is led by Kentaro Ishikawa.  Do you really think now is the best time to end up in the society pages as the Drunken Stooges?"

I glance over at Sam's crestfallen look.  "He's got a point.  Leaving aside the potential damage to the administration, CJ would kill us."

Sam visibly deflates.  "So basically this whole Special Prosecutor thing is going to suck."

"As always, your way with words leaves me speechless," Toby remarks.

My amused smile fades as the truth behind Sam's words sinks in.  "He's right, though," I say softly.  "This is going to be..."

"Impossible," Toby finishes.

***

I'd worry about the fact that Lionel Tribbey hates me, but honestly I'm not that fond of him myself.

Okay, that's not entirely fair.  Or accurate.  I was quite fond of Lionel Tribbey when he was badgering Phyllis Tsolakis and her attorney.  It's when he starts in on Josh and me that I find myself fighting the urge to run screaming into the night.

Having made his way through the senior staff (and can I just say that I'd pay good money to see Tribbey face off against Toby Ziegler?), Tribbey has started questioning those of us at the assistant level.  Rumor has it that he reduced Margaret to tears.  I was going to dismiss that rumor myself.  This is a big thing, and Margaret generally takes the big things in stride.  It's the details -- last week it was the color scheme in Leo's office, for example -- that unhinge Margaret.  But like all the assistants, Margaret hasn't been herself since Mrs. Landingham died.  So it's possible Tribbey's questions rattled her.

I'm luckier than Margaret or Carol or Bonnie and Ginger.  I've encountered Tribbey before.  I know what to expect.  That should help, right?

Not so much, no.

"Oh, joy," Tribbey says as I enter his office.  "It's the distaff side of the Bartlet administration's answer to Tracy and Hepburn.  Take a seat, Kate."

Only Lionel Tribbey could compare a woman to Katharine Hepburn and make it sound like an insult.

"This won't take long, will it?" I ask as I sit down across from Tribbey.  "Because we're kind of shorthanded upstairs and, I mean, really, what is there left for you to ask me?  Didn't we cover everything last time?"

"The last time I was forced to use my considerable legal acumen to extricate this administration from a scandal, we discussed your questionable taste in husbands.  This time we're concerned with any knowledge you may possess concerning those areas the special prosecutor will be investigating."

"I only found out about the President's illness last week.  I don't know anything that the special prosecutor would be interested in."

"Believe me, Ms. Moss, the special prosecutor is going to take an interest in you.  Not only have you and your husband already opened up this administration to allegations of misconduct--"

"False allegations," I point out, shifting a little in my chair.  The man sets my teeth on edge.

"I doubt the special prosecutor -- who, by the way, is an extremely conservative Republican -- is going to care whether the allegations were false.  He's simply collecting as much dirt as possible on this administration and hoping that some of it will stick."

"That's what Josh says."  See?  I'm trying to be agreeable.

"Your husband is something of an idiot savant -- brilliant at politics and a moron in every other department."

"That's it," I say, getting out of my chair.  "I don't have to listen to this."

"Haven't we had this conversation before?" Tribbey sighs.  "It is my job as White House counsel to discover what you know.  It is your job as White House underling to tell me.  And we're talking about a direct order here from Josiah Bartlet, who is President of the United States.  For the moment.  So let's start at the beginning:  How did you find out that the President has MS?"

"Josh told me."

"Seven days ago?"

"Yes."  Tribbey shuffles through some notes on his desk and looks at me as though I am one of the lower forms of life.  "The President told his senior staff -- including Josh Lyman -- about his condition seven days ago."

"Yes."

"In other words, the President of the United States shares critical, sensitive information with the Deputy Chief of Staff, and the Deputy Chief of Staff immediately spills the beans to his assistant."

"I'm his wife," I protest.

"So Mr. Lyman gave you this information because you share a bed?"

"Of course not.  It's just--"

"Is Mr. Lyman in the habit of telling you state secrets?"

"No.  And I resent--"

"Again, the special prosecutor doesn't give a damn what you resent and neither do I.  Why did your husband feel the need to share this news?"

I explain -- very patiently, I think -- about how our vacation was cut short, how I was waiting while Josh was in his meeting with Leo and the President, how Josh needed to share this with me.  Tribbey is not impressed.  Appalled and disgusted, yes, but not impressed.

"I'm sure there are those who would be touched by your husband's taking you into his confidence in his hour of need.  Unfortunately, none of those people work for the special prosecutor.  You can expect to be grilled about any other times Josh Lyman came out of the Oval Office and poured his heart out to you."

"That was the only time, and he had the President's permission."

"As you should have learned during your last little foray into the justice system, it's notoriously difficult to prove that something did not occur."

"So you think Josh is going to be in trouble for telling me?"

The look Tribbey gives me is a strange mixture of incredulity at my naiveté and something that, if it came from anyone else, I would label compassion.

"Believe me," he says, "this is the smallest of the many, many problems Josh Lyman is facing."  He consults his notes once more.  "Now tell me what happened to your husband during Carl Leroy's trial."

***

Because it's technically our private business -- even though it directly relates to our jobs -- Donna and I have arranged to meet with Abe Debevoise and Melissa Siddiqui on our down time.

I know.  That's what I said too.  Nevertheless, Abe and Melissa flew down on the shuttle Friday night -- less than a week after our ill-fated vacation -- to spend a relaxing weekend hammering out the details of our legal defense.  The fun just never stops.

Abe calls the office around nine, so Donna and I finish up the memo on the suit against Big Tobacco, then head to the Watergate.  When Abe answers the door, I'm surprised by the sudden melancholy that hits me.  I haven't seen Abe since my father's funeral.

Abe, a tall, gangly man in his late sixties, grins at me and offers his hand.  I shake it, then give him a quick hug.

"Abe, I want you to meet my wife, Donna."

Donna offers her hand, and Abe beams down at her.  "Adira is quite taken with you, young lady.  But then, any woman who can put up with this yutz has to be extraordinary."

Before Donna can reply -- or stop blushing -- a soft voice from behind us says, "Oh, I do apologize for being late."

"Nonsense," Abe answers.  "You're right on time."

Donna and I turn to find Melissa Siddiqui smiling at us.  She's quite beautiful: tall and thin with short dark hair that glints reddish under the lights.

"If I may," Abe says, "this is my associate, Ms. Melissa Siddiqui, Esquire."

She rolls her eyes and says, "Please call me Mel."

"Josh Lyman," I tell her.  "And this is my wife, Donnatella Moss-Lyman."

Donna shakes Mel's hand and says, "Call me Donna."

Abe ushers us into his suite.  We settle around the gleaming coffee table, where an assortment of legal pads, pens, highlighters, and not one, but two, minicassette recorders lay.

There's a brief moment of silence as we all try to figure out what comes next.  Then Abe, never one to let social niceties get in the way of his lawyerly duties, says, "So, Josh, your mother tells me you had no idea the President was sick and that if I let a single thing happen to you she'll kick my ass."

Donna laughs outright. I merely nod my head.  "That sounds like my mother."

"And she's right," Donna says.  "Josh had no idea--"

Holding one hand up, Mel interrupts, "I understand that this is an audition of sorts, but anything we discuss right now is not protected by privilege."

I glance at Mel curiously.  "Where are you from?"

She grins.  "I assume you mean the accent?"

"Yes," I answer quickly.

"I get that a lot," she says, gesturing at her face.  "My parents are from Pakistan.  I was born in Peshawar, but I grew up in North Carolina.  People don't expect a southern accent when they meet me."

"North Carolina?" Donna looks at her more closely.  "You're not a Republican, are you?"

"No," Mel answers, laughing.  "Most definitely not."

"Good," I tell her.  "I approve."

"Wait," Donna frowns, picking up from where I changed the subject.  "So if we tell you something right now, you could testify about it?"

"Yes," Mel nods.

Donna considers that for a moment.  "Fine.  Josh had no idea--"

"Donna!" I yelp.

She turns to me, impatient.  "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Telling the truth.  We have nothing to hide, Josh, so I don't see what harm there is in telling them you had no idea--"

"Would you like us to step outside?" Abe offers.

"No," we answer together.

"Give Mel a dollar," I tell Donna as I reach for my wallet.

"Excuse me?"

"Give her a dollar."

Donna glares at me.  "I am not retaining a lawyer, Josh.  I said I'd talk to her--"

"And if you do that without retaining her, anything you say can be repeated," I argue.

"Again I say we have nothing to hide!"

"Donna--"

"Wait a second," Donna narrows her eyes.  "You knew we would have to retain them if we talked to them!"

Damn.  I was hoping she wouldn't figure that out.  I keep my focus on my wallet as I fish out a dollar.  "Yes."

"You tricked me into hiring a lawyer?" Donna demands.

"In a manner of speaking," I admit.  I hand the dollar to Abe, who's trying his best to ignore our little argument.

"Josh--"

"If I may interrupt, Donna?" Mel says.

Donna clamps her mouth shut but doesn't stop the glaring.  "Fine."

"You really do need your own lawyer, Donna," Mel tells her.  "And believe me, I have no ulterior motives here.  From what I've read about you two over the past couple months, and from the press frenzy of the past few days, this is going to get dirty."

"Yes," Abe nods.  "I understand the Special Prosecutor is Kentaro Ishikawa."

I can't help the way my lips twist into a snarl when he says that name.  "Darling of the far right and the perfect choice by virtue of being Asian."

Mel looks confused.  "The perfect choice?"

Donna nods.  "An extremely conservative minority is exactly what they wanted."

"Right," I continue.  "The Democrats can't attack an Asian as ferociously as they could a WASPy lawyer because the minority vote makes up a large portion of their constituency, and they don't want to piss anyone off."

Mel blinks a couple of times.  "That's stupid.  If he's a yutz, he's a yutz.  Ethnicity has nothing to do with it."

"Yeah," I shrug.  "But if he was white, we could call him a yutz without being accused of hypocrisy by the Republicans.  Same strategy they used with Clarence Thomas."

Abe actually growls at the mention of Clarence Thomas.  "Don't get me started on that man."

"Too bad Justice Mendoza can't just be cloned or something," Donna mumbles.

Mel laughs, then says, "We seem to have wandered a bit from the point."

"Right," Abe says.  "And the relevant point is this:  Ken Ishikawa is a rabidly partisan gun for hire.  He's not going to stop with investigating the President and all the President's men--"

"And women," Mel interjects, earning her a smile from Donna.

"And women," Abe nods, "until he finds something -- anything -- that can be made to seem illegal, shady or even suspect.  You two are an obvious target because of the media frenzy surrounding your secret marriage."

"And the suit against Big Tobacco," I add, running a hand through my hair.

"What are you talking about?"

Donna answers, "Kentaro Ishikawa has ties to Big Tobacco.  He helped with their defense in several class-action cases, and his firm is one of the many involved with the current Justice Department suit."

"How is that not a conflict of interest?" Mel demands.

"He's never worked directly on the Justice Department suit," I explain.  "He's been focusing lately on protecting the interests of Big Coal in West Virginia and parts of Pennsylvania."

Abe raises an eyebrow.  "Senator Baker?"

"Baker's company is one of the defendants, yes, but he put his interest in the company into a blind trust when he took office to avoid even the appearance of impropriety."

Mel gives an indelicate snort.  "What a jackass.  But aside from Baker's presidential ambitions and his ties to Ishikawa--"

"What does Big Tobacco have to do with this investigation?" I finish for her.

"Yes."

I exchange a solemn glance with Donna.  "I'm the guy harassing Congresspersons into a line to keep funding the Justice Department lawsuit."

This time, it's Mel and Abe who trade looks.  "Oh."

I nod slowly.  "Yes."

"So you're hated for many different reasons, huh, Josh?" Abe asks.

I muster up a grin.  "I prefer to credit my sparkling personality."

Donna rolls her eyes.  "Or perhaps The Ego That Wouldn't Die."

Abe smirks but doesn't say anything.

Mel waits a moment, then catches Donna's eye.  "Donna, given the situation, you really should have your own lawyer."

I give Donna a pleading look.  "Donna, she's right.  Abe and Mel will be working very closely together, but you need your own lawyer."

Donna considers for a few moments.  I can almost see the arguments forming and being dismissed as she mulls it over.  Finally, she sighs.  "Fine."

"Thank you," I tell her.  I take her hand in mine.  "Give Mel a dollar."

Donna fishes in her purse for a moment, then pauses.  "Mel?"

"Yes, Donna?"

"You're not going to try to save me by going after Josh, right?"

Mel actually looks offended.  "Of course not."

"You're not going to make me the innocent naïf, right?"

"No."

Donna nods, smoothing the dollar bill between her fingers.  "Okay, then.  I'd like to retain you."

"Okay," Mel answers.

"But first," Donna says, "I want you to know that Josh had no idea--"

"Donna!"

"--that the President was sick.  You can tell anyone you want."

With a superior look in my direction, Donna hands Mel the dollar.

***

"So you were not aware on the night in question that the President was sick?"

I try very hard to keep the irritation out of my voice when I answer.  "On the night in question, I was being rushed the to the hospital, bleeding from a near-fatal gunshot wound and being prepped for fourteen hours of surgery."

Beside me, Abraham Debevoise, Esquire, my father's law partner until the day he died, shifts almost imperceptibly.  I look at his hand, like he instructed me to; he lays his palm flat on the tabletop:  Tone it down.

Across the table Kentaro Ishikawa almost grins and says, "You haven't answered the question, Mr. Lyman."

"Actually, I have."  My tone is just this side of disrespectful.  "I've told you in just about every way I know how that the President told me about the MS on April 17, 2001, which is almost a year after the night in question.  Therefore, I think it should be fairly clear that, even if I wasn't bleeding to death on May 15, 2000, I still wouldn't have known about the MS!"

Oops.  I don't even chance a glance over at Abe, because I can tell he's going to kill me later from the stiffness of his back.

Ishikawa nods slowly.  "Okay," he says.  "Let's talk about September 2000."

I suck in a breath and blow it out.  "What about September?" I ask, and I almost sound nonchalant.

"The trial of Carl Leroy ran from September 13-27, 2000, is that correct?"

I shrug.  "I'd have to check my datebook."

"Did you attend the trial of Carl Leroy?"

I shoot Abe a panicked look, and he leans forward.  "Objection: Relevance."

"Goes to character," Ishikawa shoots back.

"How?" Abe demands.

"If Mr. Lyman was willing to lie in a court of law before--"

"I did not lie!" I interrupt angrily.

"Josh," Abe admonishes, barely loud enough for me to hear.

I slump back in my seat and fix Ishikawa with a defiant glare.

"Did you make a victim's statement at the sentencing hearing on September 28?" Ishikawa asks smoothly.

I don't answer until Abe glances over at me and nods.  "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I don't really recall."

Ishikawa gets this disbelieving look on his face.  "You don't recall?"

"Not really.  I know I made a statement, but it wasn't prepared and it's been almost a year."

"Sure," Ishikawa nods sagely.  "Mr. Lyman, have you been diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

I knew it was coming, but I still can't speak.  Hell, I'm not sure I'm even breathing.  I have two options:  Perjure myself or end my career by admitting to PTSD.

Ishikawa actually smiles at me, the bastard.  "Mr. Lyman?"

"Yeah," I manage.

"Have you been diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

I look at Abe's hand, but I can't remember the signals.  I can't think of anything but my answer.  If I'm going to go down, I'm going to do it with my head held high.  I meet Ishikawa's gaze defiantly.  "Yes."

"When were you diagnosed?"

It takes everything I have not to flee the room.  "September 27, 2000."

Ishikawa raises an eyebrow.  "The day before the sentencing hearing?"

"Yes."

"In your victim's statement, did you disclose your Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?"

I stare at him, because I know exactly where he's going, exactly what parallel he's drawing, and yet I can see no way out.  "No."

"You didn't disclose your newly-diagnosed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder during the sentencing hearing of the man whose actions were directly responsible for your affliction?"

Abe glares at Ishikawa.  "Asked and answered."

"Mr. Lyman, this dementia from which you suffer--"

"It's not dementia," I snap.  "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is a treatable anxiety disorder, hence the name."

The smile Ishikawa gives me is positively feral.  "The disorder, then, could you describe it?"

"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is characterized by flashbacks, nightmares and an increased startle response."

Ishikawa purses his lips.  "Sounds like dementia to me."

"Do you have a question, Counsel?" Abe demands.

"I have many questions, Counsel."

"Would you care to ask one?  My client is a busy man."

"Yes, busy running the government while suffering from a mental disorder," Ishikawa retorts.  "Mr. Lyman," he continues right over Abe's outraged response, "why didn't you disclose your Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder when you gave your victim's statement?"

I shrug.  "Because I didn't."

"The sentencing hearing is a chance for the victims to express to the court just what effects have been wrought by the criminal's actions, is it not?"

I manage a smirk.  "I'm not an expert on criminal law."

"To your knowledge," Ishikawa amends.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, the victims are encouraged to introduce the damages to their lives in their statements."

"And yet, when given the opportunity to introduce the debilitating effects that the events of May 17, 2000 had on your life, you chose to conceal your mental illness?"

"I didn't conceal it," I answer.

"You didn't disclose it," Ishikawa counters.

Beside me, Abe visibly flattens his hand, telling me to stop, but I can't.  "I wasn't asked about it," I say.  "And I was not under oath at the time."

"Okay," Abe interrupts.  "It's four o'clock, and we've wandered into the land of irrelevancy.  That's enough for today."

Smiling, Ishikawa folds his hands on the shiny tabletop.  "I'm not nearly finished."

"For today you are," Abe answers, rising as he places a hand on my shoulder.  "Let's go."

With one last glare in Ishikawa's direction, I stand and follow Abe from the room.

***

The latest polling indicates that the First Lady's approval rating is at an all-time high.  The experts tell us that sexism is actually working in our favor here, a fact that has CJ downing Advil at an alarming rate.  Here's how the reasoning goes:  Apparently, the media are torn between depicting Abigail Bartlet as a loyal wife standing by her man and doing her best to protect his precarious health, or depicting her as a conniving bitch so hungry for power that she would throw medical ethics aside in an attempt to win the White House for her ailing spouse.  The American public then looks at Dr. Bartlet, notes that she has quite willingly placed her professional reputation on the line to save her husband's job, and they choose image number one.

Granted, it's closer to the truth than image number two, but it's still an oversimplification.

At any rate, someone seems to have neglected to give Dr. Bartlet the good news.  Even in the comparative privacy of her own office, the First Lady looks haggard.  She has the slightly dazed expression of someone who isn't sleeping, the skirt that fit her perfectly two weeks ago hangs loosely around her waist, and there are lines around her face I hadn't noticed before.  And when she looks up from whatever she's reading, she stares at me for an instant as though she can't figure out what I'm doing there.

"You sent for me, ma'am," I remind her.

"Yes, I did, didn't I?"  She gives me an appraising look, one I remember from Josh's hospital stay.  That look was usually followed by "If you don't get some rest, young woman, I'm having you admitted for nervous exhaustion."  She doesn't say anything this time, but the message is still clear.

Yeah, so pot, meet kettle.

Dr. Bartlet finally motions for me to take a seat.  She moves back behind her desk, rummaging around for something and taking a small gift-wrapped package out of a drawer.  "I never had a chance to congratulate you and Josh," she says.

"Well, ma'am, things have been kind of chaotic."

"Nevertheless," she replies, "all the political bickering you got caught up in aside, I'm truly happy for the two of you.  You're exactly what Josh needs.  He's lucky you said yes."

"Actually, I didn't so much say yes as I negotiated the terms.  I mean, it wasn't what you'd call a conventional proposal."

Dr. Bartlet smiles, genuinely smiles, for the first time since I got here.  "No, with Josh, I don't suppose it would be.  He's the type who makes up his mind to do something and then just expects you to go along with his brilliant idea.  I have a passing familiarity with that type."

"Please do me a favor, ma'am, and don't make that kind of comparison in front of Josh.  His office is pretty small, and it's hard enough fitting his ego in there on an average day."

"So he'd still take that particular comparison as a compliment?"

Shit.  "Of course," I answer dutifully, hoping I'm as good a liar as Josh claims.

She looks at me as though she doesn't quite buy it; but since there are certain issues neither of our attorneys would want us discussing, she lets the matter drop.  "How is Josh doing these days?" she asks.  "No more complications from the surgery."

I start to say that Josh is fine; but then I remember that back before the sky fell in on us, there was something I wanted to ask her about.  "Well," I start, and notice that Dr. Bartlet looks all concerned when I don't give the automatic "everything's fine" answer, "there's something that Josh has been worried about."  So I tell her about Josh's fear concerning the possibility of long-term complications.

"There's not much I can tell you offhand," she says.  "I'll call some specialists and look into it to be sure.  However, my initial reaction is that Josh doesn't have that much to worry about.  He's much younger than the average patient who goes through this surgery and he was in excellent condition before the shooting; both those factors will certainly play a role in his long-term recovery.  In my opinion, if he's really concerned, the best thing he can do for himself is to make sure he keeps up with his physical therapy."

"Can I quote you?  Because getting Josh to admit that he still needs to take care of himself is a full-time job all by itself."

"I feel your pain.  As a patient -- and I say this as a trained medical professional -- my husband is a royal pain in the ass."

"It's just that Josh worries about--"

"Not being able to take care of his family, losing his memory, being a burden to the people he loves?"

"Something like that, yes."

"As I said," she repeats softly, "there are similarities."

It's a sobering thought.  Those long-term complications Josh fears have just been a remote possibility for us, something we're apprehensive about but not something that we have to be concerned about right this minute.  But everyone in this building has been getting a crash course in MS, and I know that these are the very things that the President and Dr. Bartlet have to deal with now.

"There was actually a reason I asked you here," Dr. Bartlet says.  She hands me the small package she'd placed on the desk while we were talking.  "A few days before her accident, Mrs. Landingham showed me this.  She meant to give it to you when you got back from Connecticut."  It's an old-fashioned pendant, the kind that opens up with room for placing a miniature photograph inside.

"Mrs. L bought this for me?"  Oh God, I am going to cry in front of the First Lady; this may be worse than the time I yelled at her in the hospital.

"Not exactly.  She'd had it half her life; her husband gave it to her on their first anniversary.  It's engraved with her initials."  I look at the front, and sure enough the initials "DL" are intertwined there.  "I shouldn't accept this.  Zoey or Liz or Ellie should have this."

"Zoey and Liz and Ellie have plenty of things to remember her by.  She wanted this to be yours.  She told me she'd originally intended to pass it on to one of her sons' wives, but of course they never married.  When she was thinking about buying a wedding gift for you and Josh, she remembered this.  And she thought it would be perfect because of the initials -- Delores Landingham, Donna Lyman; she thought it was too strong a coincidence to ignore."

I can't even blurt out the automatic "Moss-Lyman" because, under these circumstances, just plain Lyman will do fine.

"Of course," the First Lady continues, "she said Josh would probably complain that it was a present for you and not for him."

"He'll be--"  I can't continue.  "I miss her so much," I manage to say after a minute.

Dr. Bartlet sits down beside me and gives me a quick hug.  "We all do," she says.  "I was so used to relying on her to take care of Jed when I'm not here.  I'm afraid to walk out the door without her there to keep in line, I swear."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod.

"Well," Dr. Bartlet says, moving back to her desk, "I should warn you that Zoey has appointed herself to the job of buying the family's wedding gift for you and Josh.  I'm fairly certain she's pondering how to use this as an excuse to humiliate your husband.  Be very afraid."

***

I can't believe how quickly it happened.  I mean, I guess I should've suspected the issue would come up, considering I chose a crowded courtroom as the setting for my nervous breakdown.

Oh, well.  Nothing I can do about it now.  So much for my life in politics.

It's amazing, though, that I weathered a sex scandal, a lawsuit alleging discriminatory hiring practice, and it was all for nothing.  Maybe I should've resigned back then, before my "mental illness" became another reason for the American people to distrust President Bartlet and his cronies.

I make it back to the White House in record time -- in case the "leaks" that have been plaguing poor, innocent Ishikawa happen again today -- and head straight for CJ.  Donna catches sight of me, her smile fading as she notes the look on my face.  I tilt my head towards CJ's office in an unspoken invitation.

"Is she in?" I ask Carol.

"Yeah, but she's got--"

"It's important."

Carol nods and waves me in.  Donna joins me and I close the door behind us.  CJ is busy attacking the morning papers with her trademark purple pen.  She glances up and looks not at all happy to see us in her office.

"What happened?" she asks, without preamble.  "Please tell me it's not something from the deposition."

"Sorry," I answer, surprised at the bitterness in my tone.  "It's the deposition."

Donna steps closer to me.  "What happened, Josh?"

"I got the question and I had to answer it," I answer Donna's question, but I'm looking at CJ, because she's been waiting for this, just like me.

"I don't understand."  Donna shakes her head, her brow furrowed.  "What question?  Is this about us?" she asks, looking back and forth between CJ and me.

"No," I assure her.  "We're old news."

"Thank God," CJ mutters.

Donna touches my arm.  "Then what--"

"The trial," I sigh.  "My walk on the crazy side didn't escape the notice of Ishikawa."

Donna claps a hand over her mouth, and it would be comical if my career wasn't lying in tatters on the floor of that deposition room.

"Josh," Donna whispers.  "The PTSD?"

"Yeah."  My voice cracks on the word. I clear my throat.  "CJ--"

"Your lawyer couldn't stop it?" CJ asks.

I shrug.  "Would it have been better if I refused to answer the question?"

"No," CJ concedes.  "What was the question?"

Running one hand through my hair, I move over to the couch and drop down.  "He asked if I'd been diagnosed with PTSD; I confirmed it.  He asked when; I told him.  And then he painted a nice picture of me as a liar."

Donna sits down beside me and takes my hand.  "How?"

"Apparently, not disclosing my 'mental illness' in my victim's statement is proof of my shifty character."

"Josh," CJ asks, her expression wary.  "What did you say, exactly?"

I have a bit of trouble meeting her eyes.  "It's bad."

"I got that part," she answers.  "But forewarned and all that."

"Yeah," I nod, examining my wedding ring.  "I got a little defensive."

"That's understandable," Donna murmurs.

"Maybe," I shrug.  "But I pointed out that I wasn't under oath at the time, and that I didn't conceal it, I just didn't disclose it."

CJ makes a tortured noise and rubs at her temple, while beside me, Donna freezes.

"Oh, Josh," Donna says quietly.  "This is bad."

***

"Get in here."

Well, this is not good.  Not only is Josh not shouting my name, he's standing by the door with this somber expression on his face.

I don't know what's going on now, but I can't deal with much more.  I really can't.

As I step through the doorway, I notice CJ standing behind Josh, holding a newspaper in her hand.

"Who got it first, Danny or Katie?" I ask.

"Ron Koch," CJ answers.

"Oh, God," I murmur.  "How bad is it?"

"It's extremely bad," CJ says.

"But pretty much what we expected," Josh responds.  I hate that resigned tone I hear in his voice.

"What does it say?"

CJ places one arm around me comfortingly.  Oh, god, it really must be bad.  "Among other things, it mentions that Josh has been diagnosed with PTSD."

"Well, we did think the Special Prosecutor's office was going to leak that," I say.  "I mean, we were prepared for that, right?"

"He also dug around and got hold of the fact that I'd been seeing Stanley before the shooting," Josh adds.  "I can't say I was prepared for that one at all."

"So what?" I ask.  "I'm sure you're not the only person in this building who's seen a therapist.  And just off the top of my head, I can name half a dozen people in this office who should seek therapy."

"I'm thinking that's not the defense we want to go with," Josh says, giving me that half-smile he gets when I do the Supportive Wife thing.

"And," CJ adds, "Koch suggests that, during the campaign, Josh advised the President not to tell the public about the MS."

"Josh didn't even know about the MS back then," I protest.

"I know," CJ says.

"He only found out last week," I add.

"I was in the room when it happened," CJ agrees.  "He looked as shocked as I felt."

"You should say that," I tell CJ.  "You should tell them that at the next briefing.  You should call the press corps in right now, and you should tell them."

"Donna," CJ says softly, "you know it doesn't work that way."

"I don't care how it works.  This is too much, CJ.  They're trying to blame Josh for this, and it's not right."

"I can't comment--"

"Can I?" I ask.

"Can you what?" Josh asks.

"Tell the press that you didn't know, that this is a pack of lies and Ron Koch is an asshole."

"Well, while I would personally pay good money to see you do that," Josh says -- and I notice with relief that he's flat out smiling now, "no, you can't comment on the story."

CJ nods.  "You've been subpoenaed too.  Not to mention that a wife coming to her husband's defense--"  She shrugs.  "It would pretty much be ignored."

I am about to tell CJ what I think of that when the phone rings.  Josh stares at it for a few seconds as I reach for it.  "I'm thinking this can't be good," he says.

It's not.  It's Margaret, calling to tell me that Leo wants to see Josh immediately.  I relay the message, and Josh gives me a quick hug before he leaves.  "It'll be okay," he whispers.

Damn straight it will.  Because maybe I can't talk to the press, but I know someone who can.

And my mother-in-law is going to make mincemeat out of Ron Koch.

***

Margaret and Leo glance from their huddle around the small table when I knock sharply on Leo's door.  They exchange a look and then Margaret rises, giving my arm a small pat as she slips past.

She must have read Ron Koch's article.

"Josh," Leo greets me.  "Have a seat."

Leo's not one for social niceties at a time like this, so I am immediately on guard.  "Why?"

He frowns.  "CJ didn't call you?"

"I know about the article," I answer with a dismissive wave of my hand.

Leo gives me a skeptical look.  "Josh, he came perilously close to libel--"

"Close, but the essential facts are true.  Which is what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Josh--"

"Leo, this is falling into place."

He glowers at me.  "What is?"

"The idea that your mentally unstable deputy--"

"Josh--"

"--Was the mastermind behind the fraud."

Leo pushes himself out of the chair and starts to pace.  "You are not mentally unstable, and you were certainly not the mastermind.  There was no mastermind!"

"Do you want me to dig out my copies of the Times and the Post that call me the mastermind of the Bartlet campaign?"

Leo grins.  "Why am I not surprised you saved copies?"

"Leo--"

"Josh, they were referring to your inexplicable ability to take a candidate not many people had ever heard of and not only win the nomination away from a wealthy, well-placed opponent, but put him in the White House."

I lean forward in my seat, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together.  "While concealing a debilitating illness."

"He was diagnosed while he was the Governor of New Hampshire, Josh.  You didn't even know the man then.  The press isn't going to believe us if we suddenly push the idea of you as the sacrificial lamb."

"We don't push it," I tell him.  Leo freezes, his eyes narrowing.  I'm using that tone of voice that Donna refers to as chilling.  "We have CJ mount a decidedly tepid defense of me, which will be in sharp contrast to her full-throated defense of the president.  The press will draw their own conclusions."

"Josh--"

"He can't take the hit, Leo," I interrupt, pushing myself upright to face him.  "And he needs you in this office."

Leo holds my gaze.  "And I need you in your office, Josh."

I don't know how to respond to that.  My emotions are still so raw in the wake of Mrs. Landingham's senseless death and the President's betrayal.  I blink rapidly.  "There's no other way, Leo."

Margaret knocks softly and enters, handing Leo a note.  He glances at it, eyebrows raising.  "Put her through," he tells Margaret.  "Josh, I need to take this call."

I nod.  "I'll talk to CJ."

"I'll talk to CJ."

"Leo--"

"Go."

I study his face, then I nod.  "It's the only solution."

Leo shakes his head a little bit.  "There's always more than one solution, Josh."

***

"As I've told you," CJ is saying as she waves me into her office, "we really cannot comment at this time."  She pauses, apparently listening to the person on the other end of the line.  "Sorry, I'm not letting you take me there.  That's all I'm going to say," she finishes, hanging up the phone.

She looks at the phone in stunned silence for a moment.  "I hung up on her."

"CJ--"

"I hung up on Barbara Walters."

"I'm sure she didn't take it personally."

"I've become the type of person who hangs up on Barbara Walters."

"That's a type?"

"I should call her back.  I should apologize."

"Because, after all, you don't want her dissing you on The View."

CJ looks at me suspiciously.  "For someone who was ready to take out the entire press corps ten minutes ago, you're remarkably chipper."

"Well, I had sort of an idea," I admit.

"If this has anything to do with you making some kind of off-the-record statement to Katie, I don't want to hear about it."

"It doesn't."

"Because I just had to tell Barbara Walters that under no conditions would I let you or Josh talk to her and then I hung up on her.  So your giving a statement to The Boston Globe, even if it is off the record--"

"I'm not talking to Katie."

"You're not talking to any reporters.  We are clear on that, I hope?"

"Crystal."

"Good."

"On the other hand--"

"There's always an other hand with you two, isn't there?"

"CJ, we have to do something to defend him."

"I know we do."

"He wants to give up."

"I already told him that is not acceptable.  I'd lay you odds that Leo's telling him the same thing right now."

"Like Josh actually listens to anyone else once he's made his mind up."

"He listens to you," CJ says with a smile.

"Well, yeah, but then he does what he wants to do anyway."

"Not all the time."

"On this he will, CJ.  You know how he is."

CJ grimaces and nods in agreement.

"So I was thinking," I continue, "and there isn't any reason Josh's mother couldn't talk to the press, is there?"

"Well," CJ starts.

"She kicked ass on Larry King.  You said so yourself."

"Yes, but--"

"And wouldn't it be good TV?  A mother rushing to her son's defense and all that?  Barbara Walters, for instance, would love it."

"This office can in no way be involved in setting up an interview between Barbara Walters and your mother-in-law."

"Of course not," I reply.  "But since you were planning on calling Barbara Walters back to apologize for hanging up--"

CJ groans.

"You could maybe mention, kind of casually, that Mom--"

"You call Mrs. Lyman 'Mom'?  That is so sweet."

"You could casually mention that Mom is very upset about this ridiculous story and that she's thinking of calling Larry King again."

"And Barbara Walters will want to get the story instead.  Of course, what she'll really want is to convince Mrs. Lyman that she should talk you and Josh into going on TV, but whatever."

"So you'll do it?"

"The subject may come up in the course of the conversation.  Informally.  After that, it's up to Barbara."

"No problem.  Mom can be very persuasive."

"So can Barbara Walters."

"My mother-in-law is a Lyman, CJ.  By the time she's finished, she'll make Barbara Walters cry."

***

Donna slithers out from underneath me.  "Hold that thought."

"Donna," I whine, "have a little pity for the White House nut."

"Oh, cheer up, Josh.  At least you're not the White House slut."

"Yeah, but I'm the resident crackpot."

"Well, good then.  The slut and the crackpot.  You know, I think we could write a very successful children's book on that premise.  Who needs damsels in distress when you've got mental illness and questionable sexual morals?"

"And they call me the crackpot is what I don't understand."

She grins at me, and I reach for her.  She avoids my embrace, grabbing my hand instead.  "I want to watch Barbara Walters."

My forehead scrunches up in confusion.  "Barbara Walters?"

"Yes."

"Since when do you watch Baba?"

"Josh," Donna admonishes.  "Be nice."

"Barbara Walters named Gregory W. Baker one of the ten most interesting people of the year!"

"Well, you did turn her down, Josh."

I shrug.  "Still."

"Josh," Donna slaps my hand away.  "I want to see this interview."

"Who's she interviewing?  David Hasselhoff?"

"No," Donna answers, her tone breezy.  "Your mother."

I freeze, my eyes very, very wide.  "What?"

"Your mother."

"My mother?"

"Yes, Josh.  Your mother."

"I don't understand."

"That's okay," Donna beams.  "It's starting.  I'm sure Barbara will explain."

Horrified, I turn to the TV.  Barbara, all too predictably in pastel colors and soft focus, addresses the audience:  "One of the most harrowing stories of the year is that of White House Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman.  Josh was with President Bartlet on May 17, when shots rang out in Rosslyn, Virginia--"

My eyes shut almost involuntarily against the footage of that awful night.  Donna's hand tightens in mine.

"--Although the President sustained relatively minor injuries, Josh Lyman was hit in the chest.  The bullet collapsed his lung and ruptured an artery, injuries that required fourteen hours of surgery."

Barbara Walters smiles a bit as the infamous picture of Donna and I dancing in Boston flashes across the screen.  "We now know that a mere two weeks after the shooting, Josh Lyman and his assistant, Donnatella Moss, were married in a private ceremony.  Donna has been credited by Josh's friends and family with aiding him through a harrowing three month recovery, and the subsequent trial of Carl Leroy, the twenty-one year old convicted of conspiracy, accessory and treason."

Beside me, Donna makes a distressed noise.  Now they're showing the picture of an angry Toby, a worried Donna, and a haggard, almost unrecognizable Josh Lyman descending the steps of the courthouse.

"Just last month," Barbara Walters continues, "Phyllis Tsolakis sued Josh Lyman alleging gender discrimination.  The facts, as they were finally discovered in depositions, exonerated Josh of any wrongdoing.  Now, Josh is back in the spotlight after a controversial article in the Dallas Morning News revealed that he had concealed his own diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and implied that he masterminded the cover up of Josiah Bartlet's Multiple Sclerosis during the 1998 presidential campaign.  A campaign, journalist Ron Koch alleges, which succeeded only because of the cover up."

Barbara pauses momentarily, as footage from the President and Mrs. Bartlet's interview plays.  Then she says, "Josh Lyman, his wife, Donna Moss, and the rest of the White House staff are not allowed to address the allegations due to the ongoing probe by Special Prosecutor Kentaro Ishikawa.  Today, though, I sat down with Adira Lyman, Josh's mother, about her son, his unshakable ethics, and his heroic recovery."

I tear my eyes from the TV, drop my head into my hands, and moan, "Oh, God."

***

"I need a beer," Josh declares.

Clad only in a pair of boxers, my husband throws off the covers, stands and trots off toward the kitchen.  Dutiful wife that I am, I follow along behind him.

"Mom did really well, don't you think?" I ask.

I can't quite make out Josh's reply, but I think I hear the words "abject humiliation" in there somewhere.

"C'mon, Josh, she totally kicked ass.  'My son is a courageous and honorable man, which is more than can be said for cowardly individuals who make baseless accusations to reporters then conceal their names from the public.'"

"Two beers," Josh mutters, opening the refrigerator door.

"We should call her and tell her how wonderful she was.  We should thank her."

Josh takes his beer out of the fridge and sits down by the kitchen table.  "We really shouldn't," he says.  "It would only encourage her."  He leans his head back against the wall and takes a swig out of his beer.

It's really disturbing how sexy I find that.

"And why would that be so bad?  It's about time somebody said something in your defense.  Ishikawa's office has been leaking these lies for days now, and we haven't been able to say anything about how ridiculous the stories are."

"Which doesn't necessarily mean I want my mother rushing to protect my honor.  My mother, Donna.  Do you think Toby and Sam are ever going to let me live that down?"

"Sam knows better than to take on your mother," I point out.  I'm looking through the kitchen cabinets.  "Didn't we used to have a frying pan?"

"Why?  Are you thinking of putting me out of my misery by hitting me over the head with it?"

"No, I'm thinking of cooking.  I know we had one; we fixed scrambled eggs in it that night."

"That was at your place."

"Then it's in those boxes from my apartment.  Where'd we put those?"

"We unpacked them, didn't we?"

"I don't think so."

"No, we really did.  Because you complained about the lack of shelf paper.  Which was interesting because I had no idea what shelf paper was, much less that I needed any."

"Oh, right.  And I put the stuff under the sink."  A few more minutes of searching and I find the missing frying pan.

"Honestly, Donna, this whole thing is humiliating.  She showed my baby pictures on TV."

"You were adorable.  You were all dimples and hair.  Josiah's going to look just like you."

"We might want to rethink that name," he says bitterly.

"Our children's names are Molly and Josiah.  Deal with it and move on."

Josh stands up and peers over my shoulder.  "What exactly are you doing now?"

"I'm looking for the ingredients."

"For what?"

"Your comfort food."

"My what?"

"Your grilled cheese sandwich, just like Mom fixes for you.  It's my latest attempt at honing the Supportive Wife skills."

"That's cute," Josh says.  I experience a slight delay in the ingredient search while Josh nibbles my neck.  "But your idea of cooking is putting Fast Fong's on speed dial."

"I can manage grilled cheese, thank you very much."  Having found the bread, I am searching through the loaf for two slices that aren't moldy.  Note to self: find one of those grocery places that will deliver.

"It's a complicated process, making a grilled cheese sandwich like my mom's."

"It's really not.  There's bread, cheese and some butter."

"Butter?  I can think of intriguing uses for butter," he says, invading my personal space yet again.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Many, many things.  I want the Special Prosecutor to stop leaking stories to the press, I want the President not to have lied, I want my mother not to have to go on national TV in a misguided attempt to protect me, I want another beer.  World peace would be nice."

"Is that all?"

"Well, the grilled cheese sandwich isn't sounding bad."

I toss the loaf of bread into the trash.  "Sorry.  That's not going to happen.  Stale bread."

"I don't get my comfort food?"

"No, but if you play your cards right, you could get the comfort sex."

He breaks out in a grin.  "I suppose I could cope.  If I had to."

I hand him a stick of butter.  "I'm all yours," I announce.  "Knock yourself out."

***

"Josh?"

Startled both by the voice interrupting the silence and the owner's identity, I jerk upright in my chair, then lurch to my feet.

"Good evening, sir."

The President looks like hell.  He's never been a particularly large man, but the force of his personality can fill a room.  Tonight, he seems... diminished somehow.  As if the weight of his grief has reduced him.

He gives me an ironic look.  "Well, it's after midnight, Josh, so technically it's neither."

"Okay."

"Mind if I come in?"

"Of course, sir," I answer, gesturing at the guest chair.  The President's not one for random visits, but I don't know what he could possibly want right now.  He's in jeans, so he clearly went over to the Residence at some point; I just can't figure out why he came back.

He sits down, leaning forward a little to rest his elbows on his knees.  I follow suit, cupping my chin in my hand.

"May I ask you a question, Josh?"

"Sure."

The President glances around the office for a moment, his gaze catching on the photograph of my three-year-old self with my grandfather.  "I'm only asking because Leo's too close to this to maintain any objectivity.  Toby's already given me quite a dressing down, and CJ and Sam are sometimes..."  He shrugs, turning his attention back to me.  "I trust you to tell me the truth, Josh."

I nod slowly.  "You want to know if you should keep fighting or resign."

He flinches a little.  "You really don't mince words, do you?"

"Not tonight," I tell him.  "Not when my own mother is forced into damage control because the press is enamored of the idea that your mentally unbalanced campaign director masterminded the cover up."

He studies me.  "You're angry with me."

It's difficult, but I manage not to look away.  "Yes."

The President sighs.  "I thought you might understand this one, Josh."

My eyes narrow.  "Why?  Because I jealously guarded my own fractured psyche?  Because I didn't resign in disgrace--"

"Josh," he snaps.

I stand up again, running a hand through my hair as I stare sightlessly out the window.

"I didn't know, Josh."

"Know what?"

"How bad it was for you," he answers, his tone compassionate.  "After."

I can't figure out what to say.  I settle on a shrug.

"I understand a little bit," he says.

I turn back around.  "How?"

The President grimaces a little, shifts slightly in his chair.  "The physical effects I can handle.  I don't like them, but it's something I can understand and come to terms with."  He pauses.  "It's the idea of your mind turning against you.  The fear that one day you won't recognize your wife, your children."  His voice breaks a little.

I'm frozen, the sudden sharp rush of recognition hitting me full force.  "I know."  I do know.  I have the same fears.  My own mind has betrayed me once, and I'm terrified that it will do it again.

The President glances at me.  "I didn't try to hide this from the world, Josh.  I didn't try to hide it from you.  I tried my damnedest to hide from it."

I drop into my chair, my legs a little too weak to support me.  Our afflictions may be different, but our fears are remarkably similar.  "You hope if you can just ignore it for one more day, one more hour even, it might..."  I shrug, unable to verbalize it.

"Lessen," he supplies.

That's it exactly.  We never think it'll go away, just that tomorrow or next week it might be a little bit less scary.  And maybe then we'll be strong enough to face it.

"Yeah," I confirm, my voice not much above a whisper.

The silence holds for several long minutes.  It occurs to me that part of the reason I felt so betrayed is that maybe I expected Jed Bartlet to be flawless.  Invincible.

Now that I think about it, perseverance and strength are virtues forged in times of trial.  In the end, flawed heroes are so much more inspiring than untried perfection.

I meet his worried gaze and am amazed to find myself smiling.  "We're going to show this nation that true strength and true leadership lies in the ability to play the cards fate deals you."

The President watches me for a moment, a grin slowly appearing.  "Thank God we didn't hire you to write."

Our shared laughter is such a release.

There's a quick knock at the door, and then Donna sticks her head inside.  "Josh?  You're -- Oh, excuse me, Mr. President."

"Good morning, Donna," he answers, still smiling.

She glances at me, a little perplexed by the positive mood.  "Good morning," she echoes.  She doesn't sound convinced.

The President rises and extends his hand, shaking mine warmly.  "Thank you, Josh."

"Thank you, sir."

He pats Donna on the shoulder as he passes.

"Yes," he says.  "A good morning indeed."

THE END

10.02.01