Considering how I've been employed for the last three years, I thought I had an adequate understanding of political scandal.  I knew all about plausible deniability, damage control and counterattacks.  I had been present when the senior staff decided how to deal with any number of minor incidents that arose during the campaign.  I'd worked long hours when Lillenfield declared that one out of three White House staffers were on drugs, when Sam got his picture taken with a call girl and, of course, during the Mary Marsh incident.  I prided myself on knowing how these things worked.  I thought I was prepared for anything.

Yes, I now admit, I was incredibly naive.

You cannot fully understand what a political scandal is like until you land in the middle of one.  Imagine, if you will, every tiny detail of your life becoming public knowledge.  Think about the people you love having to hear you called the vilest names a woman can be called.  Try walking out your front door and having a dozen reporters scream hostile questions at you just in hopes of provoking an emotional response.  Think about the people you thought were friends who, for whatever reason, turn against you.  And think about all the distress you're causing for the people who stand by you.

Everyone -- and I'm referring here to the complete strangers who call in to shows like Talkback Live and Larry King -- believe they have the right to pass judgment over your morals.  They are sure they know how you got your job, why you fell in love, when you first had sex with the man you married.  They believe that all this is somehow their business.

You're a punchline for Jay Leno, a Top Ten List for David Letterman.

NBC commissions a poll to discover whether you will cost the President of the United States re-election.

You are officially a political liability.

Which can be a problem, you know, if you're married to a politician.

***

I never even considered this possibility.

My -- yes, I admit it -- self-absorption caused my worries about any possible fallout from Donna and me being married to focus on my job.  Donna's too, since she, as CJ so helpfully pointed out, would be more likely to be fired.  All along, I've plotted and planned and invented contingencies to deal with any possible permutation of one or both of us being fired.  Or transferred.  Or demoted.  Or, you know, yelled at a lot by Leo.

I'm a politician.  A damn good politician, if I may be permitted to say so.  But this... malicious chaos, this never even entered my mind as a possibility.  Maybe it's to my credit that I would never consider using an opponent's personal life to discredit his or her professional abilities.

It amazes me that people could presume take something that is so true and beautiful and right, something that, quite frankly, saved my life more than once, something without which I would be a far lesser man -- How could they say these hateful, unfounded things?

Once again, I have managed to place Donna squarely in the path of something that I can't even find words to describe.  "Media frenzy" is not nearly strong enough to fully convey the horror that has befallen our lives.  Pundits are casting aspersions on my wife on nighttime talk shows.  They're implying terrible things about Donna in the political pages of reputable magazines.

Hell, even some people here in the West Wing are giving us both the cold shoulder.

I can take it.  I can take anything these strangers want to say about me, about my abilities, about my lack of common sense.  I have a pretty tough skin.  (And, Donna would say, an overwhelmingly large ego.)  I could honestly care less about being crucified in the press.

But my Donnatella -- She's tough as nails, I know, but she is also incredibly sensitive.  The nicest thing she's been called is incompetent, and it's getting to her.  With every salacious comment, every unsavory implication, she shuts down a little more.  She's retreating to a figurative corner to lick her wounds, and it kills me to see her hurting.

I should've known better than to put her in this position.

How the hell did I not see this coming?

***

Joshua Lyman, prepare to be seduced!

I've been smiling all morning.  Not to mention looking at the clock every five minutes.  This is going to be a very long day.

And, with any luck, it's going to be an even longer night.

You see, the National Enquirer has moved on to other stories, the reporters have left Josh's doorstep, and all is right with the world.  Okay, every so often, Josh goes into his "disaster is just around the corner" routine, but I've managed to talk him out of his doom-and-gloom predictions.

Viridis has been a busy girl this week.  Quite an inventive one too.

As for Irving... Well, Irving's conversation has been extremely stimulating lately.  Not to mention educational.

I'm honestly not sure that thing he mentioned last night is physically possible.  He assures me it is.

I intend to find out tonight.

In honor of this glorious occasion, I am taking a long lunch and doing some shopping.

"You're what?" he who will most benefit from my purchases asks.

"Taking an early lunch and going shopping.  I have a hot date tonight."

"With the cross-eyed wonder?"

We're in the middle of the bullpen, making our way toward Josh's office.  There's quite the spring in both our steps this morning.

"I don't know why you keep saying that.  Irving thinks very highly of you, after all."

"Well, who wouldn't?  Did I mention I'm Man of the Year?"

I look at Kathy, who caught the last part as she was walking by.  I roll my eyes, and she laughs in understanding:  Our bosses are idiots, and they'd be lost without us.

"In fact," I tell Josh, "I had a long conversation with Irving last night.  He must have spent an hour telling me what a great boss I have."

"Yeah," Josh says.  "Because, after all, what else would the two of you talk about?"  He's entirely too close to laughing, and I worry that he'll give the game away right here and now.

"The point," I say, in a valiant attempt to get the conversation back on track, "is that I need to go shopping.  I'll come in early tomorrow if I have to catch up on anything."

"Or you could work overtime tonight."

"Josh," I say, putting my hand on his arm oh-so-casually, "do you ever listen to what I'm telling you?"

"Hardly ever, no."

"Big date tonight.  Leaving by 6 p.m. at the latest."

"And you're sure you'll get here early tomorrow?"

"Absolutely."

"You won't be tempted to sleep late?"

"Sleep, Joshua, is a highly overrated activity."

We reach his office, and he closes the door behind us.

"Shopping?" he asks.

"Honestly.  I need something new to wear tonight."

"You don't."

God help me, even the damn smirk is turning me on today!

"Josh, I really do."

"It's not like we're going somewhere."  He attempts a leer, which is always good for a laugh.  "It's not like I won't have you out of whatever it is in five minutes."

"It's blue and it's silk and it's in the window of Victoria's Secret.  You're going to be quite impressed."

"I am?"

"You are."

"I'm still going to have you out of it in five minutes."

"I don't know, Josh.  It's pretty extraordinary.  You might just ask me to keep it on."

"Boston was a week ago, Irving is an extremely frustrated man, and you'll be lucky if I don't just, you know, rip this thing to shreds."

"You're cute when you're desperate."

Over the course of the last year, we have learned one important lesson:  Josh puts the full weight of his body against the door before he kisses me.

A nice, slow, deep kiss that makes me feel as desperate as I just accused him of being.

It's going to be a long day.

***

The phone ringing at quarter after midnight is never a good sign, especially when the only person who calls me that late with good news is currently entangled with me -- sans newly-purchased and incredibly sexy blue lingerie -- in my bed.

I groan, give Donnatella a quick kiss, and grab the phone.  "This better be good."

"Turn on Politically Incorrect," CJ says, her voice tight with tension.  "It's bad."

I glance over at Donna, whose happy grin is fading fast.  She must comprehend the situation from the look on my face, because she grabs the remote from the nightstand.

"Hang on," I tell CJ.  With the phone buried in the pillow, I meet Donna's gaze.  "It's CJ.  She said it's bad."

Donna bites her lip, then nods.  "What channel?"

"ABC," I answer, pulling the phone back to my ear.  "We're getting it," I tell CJ.

The picture appears, crisp and neat and utterly horrifying.  Earl Goldfinch, one of Congressman Shallick's aides, is talking.  About us.

"It makes perfect sense," he is arguing with Bill Maher.  "The picture is clearly of Josh Lyman and a blonde woman.  The rumor about political analyst Ainsley Hayes was patently false; she was in North Carolina while Josh Lyman and his girlfriend"--he nearly snarls as he says it--"were cavorting around in Boston."

"Oh, God," CJ murmurs.  "He knows."

I glance over at Donna, who is staring at the TV in mute horror.

"Cavorting, Earl?" Bill says.  "They were dancing.  That's hardly illegal."

"Not illegal," Earl nods.  "But certainly immoral if you're doing it with your secretary."

I want to throw something.  I want to jump up and down and scream and yell and break expensive things.  Preferably over the head of Earl Fucking Goldfinch.  In any other situation, I would indulge myself; but right now, Donna is scaring me.

Donna hasn't said a word.  She's just staring at the TV.

"Josh," CJ all but shouts into my ear.

"What?"

"I'm calling Leo."

I close my eyes in defeat.  "Yeah," I acknowledge, then drop the phone back into its cradle.

On TV, Bill Maher is quasi-defending Donna, saying there's no proof at all that she's the woman in question.  I wonder if he remembers her -- I did the show a few times during the campaign, and I remember how excited Donna was to meet him.

"Donna?" I ask quietly, putting an arm around her shoulders.  She's rigid as a statue, still staring blankly at the TV.  "Donnatella?"

"Ssh," she hisses.

Earl is talking again in that smarmy, superior tone.  "Pick up any magazine from just after the murder attempt on that young black man; there are pictures of Josh Lyman and his assistant.  She's tall and blonde.  Furthermore--"

"Wait a second," interrupts another panelist.  "That doesn't--"

Earl just talks right over him.  "Why else would the White House remain silent when this very important demonstration of their trademark moral ambiguity came to light unless the president knew he was covering up an immoral relationship?"

I realize belatedly that I'm shaking.  Pure rage.  If I saw Earl Fucking Goldfinch on the street right now, I would beat him to a bloody, hypocritical pulp.

"This administration, which piously claims the moral high ground on countless issues, has been lying for months to cover up the fact that Josh Lyman couldn't keep his hands off of his secretary."  The bastard pauses for effect, then adds with a dirty smirk, "You've got to wonder about her qualifications."

I grab the remote from Donna's nerveless fingers and switch it off.  I can't bear it any longer, and I know Donna doesn't need to hear anymore.  Helpless, I rub her back, willing her to look at me. 

After a moment, she turns her head to meet my gaze, her expression blank.

"Donnatella?" I ask, my voice shaking with fear.  This non-reaction is scaring the shit out of me.  "Talk to me, Donna."

Finally, a bit of the fire returns to her eyes.  "I am going to kill Earl Fucking Goldfinch."

A wave of relief hits me, and I tug her into a fierce hug.  I don't know how long we hold each other, but the phone ringing finally causes me to reluctantly pull away.  I grab Donna's hand to maintain our connection, the cool metal of her wedding ring pressing into my palm.

This time, I check the caller ID before I answer.  It's CJ.  "Yeah?"

"Leo's meeting us at the office," she says without preamble.  "Bring Donna."

"We'll be there," I answer grimly.

***

I was just called a whore on national television, so you'll forgive me if I sound a little shell-shocked here.  I'm trying to figure out which of the many emotional states I'm experiencing now should come to the surface.  There's anger, horror, humiliation, hysteria -- I've got a lot choices.  I should just pick one and go with it.

I should also get dressed, but I can't seem to move.  I don't want to go to a meeting with Leo when I'm feeling like this.  I just want to throw the covers over my head and stay in bed until this whole thing blows over.  Shouldn't take more than a couple of months.

Then I look over at Josh, and I get it:  This is not the worst thing that could ever happen to me.  It took fourteen hours of surgery, but we've already managed to avoid the worst thing that could happen.  This, by contrast, is a minor inconvenience.  We'll get through it.

Although I honestly don't know how.

"I'm okay," I tell Josh, who is looking much too concerned.  "Really."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. We have to hurry.  Leo will be even more pissed if we make him wait."

We get dressed in record time.  We don't say a word about keeping our wedding rings on, but we don't really need to discuss it.  I mean, our cover is pretty much blown now.

We don't say anything on the way back to the White House either.  I can't tell you what Josh is thinking, but I'm fixated on one thing -- My father likes to watch Politically Incorrect.

I've got to stop shaking, or Josh is going to worry.

Oh, God.  I was just called a whore on national television, and I'm fairly sure my parents heard it.

***

Donna is trembling.

I think I may be too.  I'm also trying not to drive my Audi into a tree in my blind rage.  The implication -- the--

I can't even deal with it.

Bright side, Josh.  Give Donna something to latch on to.  It takes me a while, but I glance over at her, pale and silent in the passenger seat, and say, "I guess we can finally move in together."

The look Donna gives me is not what I would characterize as appreciative.  Not that I blame her.

Thankfully, we reach the White House in record time.  Donna and I are not people who need public displays of affection to prove ourselves to others.  This should be fairly obvious, given our ability to maintain a relatively secret marriage for over six months.

But I think we've earned it, after everything.  So just before we reach Leo's office, I reach out and take Donna's hand in mine.

She gives me a startled look but squeezes my fingers gratefully.

"Are you ready?" I ask softly.

"No," she answers with a rueful grin.  "But we're here."

I halt for a moment.  Right there in the hallway, I raise our entwined hands up and kiss the tips of her fingers.

Donna gives me a wobbly smile.  "Let's go."

"Okay," I agree.

And we enter Leo's office hand-in-hand.

CJ is already there, pacing in jeans and a hastily-donned sweater.  Leo is standing at his desk -- unbelievably -- in a suit and tie.

I gesture at his attire and attempt a joke.  "Please tell me you were still here."

Leo glares at me.  "As a matter of fact, Josh, I was just about to go home and enjoy my usual four hours of sleep.  Then CJ called to inform me that Shallick's aide was on Politically Incorrect slinging accusations at two of my staffers."

That's it.  I have reached my limit for the night.  "Oh, come off it, Leo," I am practically yelling.  "Earl Fucking Goldfinch is a hypocritical jackass who wouldn't blink at accusing the president of having an affair with a squirrel!"

Leo advances on me.  "The problem, Josh, is that this time the man is right.  Isn't he?"  He glances meaningfully down at our linked hands.

Donna steps forward.  "He is right about one thing.  I am the woman in the picture."

"Well, no kidding," Leo says sarcastically.

I stop him before he can say something he'll regret.  "If one more person tries to put the blame on Donna, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Leo turns on me, eyes blazing.  "You haven't been held responsible so far, have you?"

"Okay, kids," CJ gets in between us.  "Let's all take a deep breath and--"

To CJ's surprise, it's Donna who interrupts her.  "With all due respect, Leo," she says, her voice steely, "it is not Josh's fault that Earl Fucking Goldfinch just called me a whore on national TV."

Well, that shut everyone up quite effectively.

"For that matter," she continues, warming to her topic, "it is not my fault that he called me a whore either.  And I'll thank you to remember that.  To imply that I was hired because -- because -- for reasons other than professional qualifications and plain competency is--"

"Actionable?" offers a familiar voice.

The four of us turn to find Sam at the door.  He is, in typical Sam fashion, utterly calm in the face of a righteous battle.

"Sam--" Leo begins.

"I was flipping channels," Sam says by way of explanation.  His gaze shifts to Donna.  "And I think you should sue Earl Goldfinch for defamation of character and slander."

***

All along, I've been afraid that Josh would lose his job over this.

I've been afraid of losing my job too, of course, but I figured I'd bounce back.  As much as I love working in the White House, it isn't the great passion of my life.  The problem, as I saw it, was that the great passion of my life was a man who would fall apart without a career in politics.

So that's what the Moss-Lyman Strategy has been focused on since the beginning -- how we can keep our jobs.  That's what we cared about.  The important thing, as Josh and I have said a few hundred times, was proving to Leo that we could be married and still work together as a model of professionalism and efficiency.

Once or twice, we've thought about what going public with our marriage would involve.  We've acknowledged that there might be some media interest.  But I never really understood the ramifications of that. I never expected any of this.

Josh didn't expect it either.  Which surprises me, you know, because Josh is awfully good at predicting this sort of thing.  I suppose it was difficult for him to see it because -- well, because who ever really thinks that the person you love will be called those sorts of names on national TV?

I seem to be stuck on that part, don't I?

But I can't get over hearing those things.  Okay, Earl Fucking Goldfinch is an idiot and a Republican.  (Josh would accuse me of being redundant there.)  But do the millions of people watching Politically Incorrect tonight and the millions more seeing the clips on Good Morning America tomorrow know that?

Do my parents know that?

Or will they all assume that the only reason I got this job is because Josh wanted to sleep with me?

No.  They'll probably all assume that the only reason I got this job is because Josh was sleeping with me.

My parents are probably discussing that issue right now.

I don't want to be in this meeting.

I want to go call my parents and explain.

I want to go home and get back in bed and just have Josh hold me until this all goes away.

I'm trying to concentrate on what everyone is saying, but I honestly don't care about New York Times v. Sullivan and the difference between a public official and a public figure.  That's the big debate Josh and Sam are having right now. As far as I can figure out, it goes like this:  Josh is clearly a public official, and the Supreme Court in New York Times v. Sullivan said that it's pretty much a case of "you knew the job was dangerous when you took it."  Public officials have a harder time collecting libel suits than private citizens do.  Public officials have to prove actual malice or a reckless disregard for truth.  Which Josh would not be able to prove in this case.

"This isn't malicious?" I ask.  I admit that amazes me.

"Well, it's kind of a gray area," Sam explains.  "Could go either way.  We might be better off to leave Josh out of it.  You can sue as a private citizen and not have to worry about Times v. Sullivan."

"Except for the public figure thing," Josh says.

"I'm not a public figure," I reply.  This seems fairly obvious to me; I'm the least public figure in the room.

Josh looks guilty, which can't be good, and Sam starts in on the explanations again.  "Also gray.  Some courts might say you became a public figure the minute you and Josh got--"  He throws a quick look at Leo, who doesn't seem to have noticed the wedding rings yet.  "The minute you and Josh became you and Josh."

"So we're back to the reckless disregard thing?" I ask.

"Possibly," Sam admits.  "Depends on the jury."

"I say we go for it anyway," Josh says.  "I say we sue Earl Fucking Goldfinch's ass.  And then we beat him to a bloody pulp."

This from the man who wouldn't sue a hate group for nearly killing him.  I squeeze his hand a little harder just because, you know, it's nice to know he loves me.

"Enough," Leo says.  "No one is suing anyone, and you're certainly not beating up Earl Fu-- Earl Goldfinch."

"I beg to differ," Josh mutters.

"Josh," Leo says, "this is not high school.  You can't take the bully out to the football field and beat him up because he said something nasty about your girlfriend."

"She's not--" Josh starts, but Leo holds up a hand to silence him.  "A lawsuit won't look good, Josh.  I'm willing to bet Earl Goldfinch went on that TV show and said those things hoping that you and Donna would sue him.  A lawsuit keeps this thing in the press through re-election."  Leo gives Josh this look like he's just said something crucial, and Josh's eyes get wider.

"That's what this is about?" he asks Leo.  "That bastard attacked Donna over re-election?"

I am completely clueless.  Re-election?  We're just starting our third year.  How does re-election come into play?  And what do Josh and I have to do with--

Oh.  The thing about "this administration's moral ambiguity."  Josh and I as the symbol of a liberal Democratic administration where the staff spends their time engaging in a variety of illicit activities instead of taking care of the country's business.

Well, I guess it's a good thing Josh never took me to Hawaii, after all.

"It's not just an attack on Donna," Leo says.  "It's the first round of attacks on this administration.  So I think it's damn well past time that the two of you tell me exactly what Earl Goldfinch knows that you've failed to tell me."

***

"I want to know everything," Leo says.  "Nothing is going to come back and bite us on the ass with this.  Understood?"

Donna and I exchange a look.  She doesn't speak, so I guess that leaves it up to me to tell the story.  I take a deep breath, then get it all out as fast as possible.

"Donna and I got married in Ogunquit, Maine, on June 7th.  We've been maintaining separate residences for obvious reasons, but the only people who knew -- before today, I guess -- are myself, Donna, the justice of the peace who married us, the two witnesses, CJ, Sam, my former psychologist, and possibly my mother."

Leo's jaw is somewhere around his knees.  In another situation, I would find his dumbfounded expression very amusing.  "Married?" he repeats, his voice rising with every word.  "You two got married?  Six months ago?"

My grasp on Donna's hand grows stronger.  "Yes," I answer proudly.  "This is not a sordid affair, Leo."

Score one for the Lyman-Moss Defense:  Leo turns his glare on CJ.  "And the reason I wasn't informed of this?"

CJ jerks upright.  "Let me be very clear on one thing -- I absolutely did not know about the marriage until November.  Up until that time, I had only the vaguest of suspicions--"

"CJ," Leo spits.  "You're not in the pressroom here.  I need the entire truth.  I need to know how this made it on national TV.  I need to know who knows what."

"I knew they were together," she admits reluctantly.  "I helped them out with the-- the--"  She shrugs. "--the email thing."

Leo's eyes go very wide.  "Mighty busy, weren't you, CJ?  Helping them with that and then going on about your wonderings?"

"Yeah," Sam nods.  "That was pretty stupid."

With an incredulous look, Leo turns on Sam.  "I wouldn't be so quick to condemn CJ's actions, Sam, considering you knew about this too."

Sam glances at me, then swallows hard.  "To be fair, I didn't know until last week."

"Well," Leo says sarcastically, "never mind then.  'Cause anyone telling me the truth before I heard it on a late night TV show would probably have been a bad idea."

I think Donna's shaking again.  Her hand clenches mine.  When she speaks, her voice is vibrating with fury.  "This is our private life.  Josh and I love each other.  We got married.  People do this with some regularity in the rest of the world.  I know that there are political ramifications because of our jobs, but do any of you understand that this is our life being trashed?"

"Donna," I start.

She turns her blazing eyes on me.  "No, Josh.  I'm sorry, but it's true."  She gives Leo a beseeching look.  "We didn't know it would be a re-election thing, but we knew it could cause people we care about some grief.  Why do you think we wanted to keep this to ourselves for as long as we could?"

Not even Leo is stoic enough not to be affected by her words.  Because she is right.  He nods, then says gruffly, "Now we need a plan to fix this."

"First," says Toby from the doorway.  It certainly is a night for dramatic entrances.  "We need to figure out where this is coming from."

Sam's eyes light up at this suggestion.  "Right.  We need to know where to concentrate our counterattack."

Leo is staring at Toby, brow furrowed.  "Wait -- You knew about this?"

Toby has a look of what can only be called condescension on his face.  "It was fairly obvious that Donna and Josh got married sometime last summer.  Now can we please concentrate on how to fix this?"

***

I want to scream.

I want to cry.

I really, really want to sleep.  I haven't slept in twenty-four hours or more.

And I need to call my parents.  God only knows what they're thinking.

But instead of doing anything I want to do, I'm stuck inside the strategy session from hell.  Don't get me wrong; I understand how important this all is.  More important, in fact, than I'd ever dreamed.  It's not just a matter of protecting our jobs.  Now it's become a re-election thing.

Josh likes to blame himself for anything that goes wrong.  Comes from having such a big ego, I suspect -- the good stuff is his to take credit for, the bad stuff is his fault alone.

Not this time.

I could have stopped all this from happening.  I should have stopped it.  Where was Practical Donna when I needed her?  Why can't I just turn time back to when Josh was in the hospital?  It would have been easy to stop this.  "We're getting married," he says.  I make some crack about needing to check his pain medication since he's obviously delirious, and I get the hell out of that room.  When I come back, Josh has convinced himself that I just rejected him.  It's awkward for a day or so, but we go back to the banter and to denying that we have kind of non-platonic feelings for each other.

No kissing.  No marriage.  No great sex.  No scandal.

I could have prevented all this so easily.  If Josh's career goes up in flames, it will all be my fault.

And if the Republicans win--

My God, I just cannot comprehend this.  I fell in love; I got married.  That is supposed to be a good thing.  I simply cannot comprehend any of this.

Josh must see that I'm hanging on here by a thread because he puts an arm around me and leads me to the sofa where I can finally sit down.

Josh just put his arm around me in front of Leo.

My God.

I shouldn't be smiling.  We are in serious, serious trouble here.

But Josh is sitting next to me on the sofa, and his arm is still around me.

In front of Leo.

What was the phrase Toby used that time -- "my day of jubilee"?  Well, that's what this is.

Except for being called a whore on national television.  And learning that I've just hurt our chances of winning a second term.

But still. I can be Donnatella Moss-Lyman in public.  That's one hell of an upside, you know?

Well, it is for me.  And possibly Josh.  I'm thinking Leo and the others wouldn't see the value in it, so I'll just keep that opinion to myself.  Besides, we're on to a whole new subject:  Who Leaked the Story and Why.  Almost everyone has a different opinion on that one.

"Ainsley Hayes," CJ says.

I'll vote for that.  Damn, that CJ's perceptive!

"And your reasoning would be?" Leo asks.

CJ shrugs.  "She's a Republican -- a fervent Republican -- and she was horrified about the Enquirer story.  She wanted me to demand a retraction."

Sam, predictably, rushes to Ainsley's defense.  "She wouldn't stab us in the back like this."

"Speaking as the person with the knife in her back," I say, "I agree with CJ.  You should have heard Ainsley go on about this to Josh and me."

Sam's not letting this one go.  "Exactly.  To Josh and to you.  Not to the press.  Not to Earl Fu--"

Leo holds up a hand.  "Whatever her faults," he says, "Ainsley Hayes does not have the kind of clout to orchestrate something like this."

"She knows people," CJ points out.  "Her friends are all Republicans, after all.  I can see it too clearly.  Her friends ask what she's doing consorting with a Democrat, she points out that she was nowhere near the scene of the crime--"

"Hey!" Josh protests.  CJ ignores him.

"The story gets relayed up through the party ranks -- along with Ainsley's comments about 'Mr. Lyman's exceedingly informal relationship with his secretary Donna Moss.'"  She finishes up there with a dead-on imitation of Ainsley Hayes, accent and all.

"If," Leo says, "if that happened, the most you can accuse Ainsley of is indiscretion.  And not wanting her friends to think she was involved with Josh.  Which only shows good taste on her part."

"It really doesn't," I mutter.

Josh beams at me.  "This is her supportive wife thing," he explains.  "She's been practicing for months."

Leo does not look amused.  "My point is that this was orchestrated," he says.  "It's being planned down to the last detail; and Ainsley is, at most, being used by someone more experienced."

"Hoynes," Josh suggests.

"The Vice President of the United States is masterminding a campaign to discredit the president's staff?" Leo asks incredulously.  "What brilliant reasoning led you to that conclusion?"

"He's never forgiven me for quitting his staff and getting President Bartlet elected," Josh points out modestly.

"Single-handedly, Josh?" I ask.

"That supportive wife thing sort of comes and goes, doesn't it?" Toby asks.

"I'm just saying," Josh continues, ignoring Toby, "that Hoynes has a motive."

"I find that even more difficult to believe than the Ainsley Hayes theory," Toby says.  "And other than this personal vendetta you've convinced yourself Hoynes has against you, why would he want to sabotage us?  It's not as though we're throwing him off the ticket.  We need him if we're going to carry the South."

"He didn't even deliver Texas, and he's from there," Sam says.

"There are other ways of winning Texas," Josh mutters, throwing me a look I really don't want to explain.  So I kick him -- discreetly, of course.

"Ow!"

"I'm just saying," Sam adds, "that Josh could have a point.  Hoynes is an ambitious guy.  What if he's trying to discredit this administration to the point where we don't even get nominated a second time?"

"That's called shooting yourself in the foot," Leo says.  Looking squarely at Josh, he adds, "A concept some of you are intimately acquainted with.  As far as the general public is concerned, Hoynes is very much a part of this administration.  A scandal for us is a scandal for him.  He could be destroying his own chances of winning the presidency by getting involved in this.  And frankly, Josh, you're not that important to him."

There's a moment of silence as we all think about who else hates us this much.  I'm reviewing my list of People Josh Has Pissed Off, and that takes quite a bit of time.

"Ann Stark," Toby finally says.

"That's what I'm thinking," Leo agrees.

The rest of us wait for the explanation.

"Her boss wants to be president," Toby says.  "We all know that. Goldfinch works for Shallick, who's in her pocket."

"Why?" Josh asks.

"Does it matter?" Toby replies.

"Hell, yes, it matters," Josh says.  "At least it matters to Donna and me."

Toby shrugs.  "Shallick's obviously been promised something -- maybe the vice-presidency, maybe a Cabinet position.  Who knows?  But he and his people are doing the dirty work.  Expect the next round of attacks to come from him."

"The next round?" I ask.  I'm doing that trembling thing again, and my voice is shaky.  I really need some rest.  "This wasn't all?"

Josh takes my hand again.  I try to concentrate on that.

"Don't worry," CJ says.  "We'll be ready for it next time."

I'm not sure that's true -- for me, at least -- but I don't think it's a good idea to say so.

"We'll never be able to trace this back to Ann Stark, of course," Toby says.

Leo nods.  "She's too good for that," he acknowledges.

"She wants her boss to seem above it all," Toby continues.  "Presidential.  Shallick and his aides will do her dirty work."

"So," Leo says, "we know where this is coming from.  The question now is how do we fight back?"

***

Leo looks around at the five of us and shrugs.  "So what do we do?"

The rest of us glance at each other, matching expressions of disbelief in place.

I venture to speak.  "Well, obviously we should get the fact that Donna and I are married out there.  That's got to put a dent in the implication that--"  I still can't say it aloud.

"That I slept my way into the White House?" Donna offers.

I want to hug her.  Or, you know, take her to France where we can drink wine and discuss American politics with the passionate detachment of expatriates.

CJ interrupts the uncomfortable silence.  "Yes, we need that out there.  But it's not like we can hold a press conference to announce this."

Toby blinks.  "Leak it."

"To whom?"

"Doesn't matter," Toby shrugs.  "The Post. The Times."

CJ gives him an incredulous look.

Leo shakes his head.  "No, we're not opening ourselves to more scrutiny.  We don't need Danny anywhere near an office romance story.  We'll have to find another way."

Sam, who is twirling a pencil in his fingers, points out, "The question's going to come up at a briefing, right?  We just need to craft answers that will get the facts out there."

I give Sam a scathing look.  "What, you expect CJ to answer 'Yes, Josh Lyman is sleeping with his assistant, but don't worry about it 'cause it's been legally sanctioned by the state of Maine?'"

Sam's brow furrows.  "You got married in Maine?  That's interesting.  I would have thought, being from Connecticut--"

"Sam," Leo warns.

CJ snaps her fingers.  "Not exactly."

I am confused.  "'Not exactly' what?"

CJ rolls her eyes.  "Keep your eye on the ball, please, Josh."

Toby nods his comprehension.  "We need the right question."

"What are you talking about?" Donna asks.

CJ smiles at her.  "The White House doesn't comment on the personal lives of the staff, but if it becomes a question of office policy--"

"The policy!" Sam interrupts.  "Right.  They're married; it's up to their immediate supervisor to determine if their relative positions make continuing to work together possible."

Five pairs of eyes swing over to Leo, who looks decidedly unhappy with the sudden attention.

It's amazing how little I care about keeping my job at this point.  If my being fired immediately would prevent further public humiliation for Donna, I would gleefully leave the White House and not look back.

"It would look incredibly bad for either one of them to be reassigned or fired right now," CJ offers quietly.

Leo shifts uncomfortably, then nods.  "For now, everyone stays where they are."  He gives Donna and me a meaningful look.  "But this issue will be revisited."

Toby rises and tilts his head towards CJ and Sam.  "We'll work on the briefing."

Leo nods and gestures for Donna and me to stay.  After the others leave, Leo turns back to us and sighs, "You'll understand if I don't offer my congratulations just yet."

Donna nods beside me.  "I don't expect congratulations."

"I'm not a totally unfeeling person, Donna, I just can't concentrate on that today.  The idea of Josh Lyman being happily married requires some serious consideration."

I can read the humor underlying his words, and I understand that it's high past time for us to leave the room.  Before he gets mad again.  I nod at Leo and tug Donna toward the door.  "Thanks, Leo."

"Not so fast, Josh," he says with a grim smile.  "The president should be up by now.  You're coming with me for this conversation."

*

I haven't been this nervous about seeing the president since the whole Mary Marsh thing.  To make the situation infinitely worse (for my nerves, anyway), Leo decided we should have this little chat in the Residence.  A place where the rest of the senior staff rarely dares enter.

And so I humbly follow Leo to the Sitting Room, where Charlie greets us.  "Good morning, Leo, Josh."

"Morning, Charlie," I answer.  Can't quite see clear to use the adjective "good" for what is sure to be a trying day.  To put it mildly.

"Does he know we're coming?" Leo asks.

"Yeah," Charlie nods, giving me a sympathetic look.  "You can go on in."

The president is seated in one of the matching armchairs, placidly sipping coffee and glancing over the Post. Thank God Politically Incorrect aired too late to make today's papers.  Leo stops next to the second chair, which I stand behind.

The president gives us an apprehensive look.  "Why do I have a feeling my perfectly nice morning is about to be shot to hell?"

"Is that rhetorical, sir?" Leo asks.

The president sighs.  "Apparently not.  What happened?"

Leo takes a step to the side, leaving me standing squarely in front of President Bartlet.  "Josh, I think that's your cue."

Bartlet narrows his eyes at me.  "You didn't do a briefing, I hope."

"No," I answer, my voice strangely high.  "Nothing like that."  The president continues to look at me expectantly.  I suppose that means I should keep talking.  "You see, the thing is," I stop to consider how best to phrase this.  "Well, this past June..."

"Josh," the president prompts, "my wife will be arriving home any minute from her trip to Egypt.  When I talked to her late last night, she hadn't slept in twenty-eight hours, and she is rather notoriously unable to sleep on planes.  She will not be pleased to find you in here dithering."

And so I just blurt it out.  "Donna and I are married, and Ann Stark is using that information to imply that the Bartlet administration is morally ambiguous."

It takes a long moment for my words to sink in, then Bartlet turns his disbelieving gaze to Leo.

Leo's mouth tightens.  "Shallick's aide went on Politically Incorrect last night and basically called Donna--"  He glances over at me, then with a helpless shrug, says, "Well, he implied that she slept her way to her present position."

I can see the thunderclouds gathering above Bartlet's head.  "Sir, if I could just say something here that might alleviate any fears you have about my working relationship with Donna--"

"Josh," the president sighs, "that is very low on my list of priorities right now.  I assume this is going to turn into a public relations...?"

"Disaster?" Leo offers.

"CJ, Toby, and Sam are working on it," I add hastily.  "I think we've found a way to end the speculation."

"By letting your marriage become public knowledge," Bartlet surmises.  "Which places the scandal directly on the White House staff and our office standards, I'm guessing."

"Exactly," Leo nods.  "We've got that end covered -- Ainsley Hayes and Sam revised the policy in November, so the Republicans won't get very far with that."

The president nods thoughtfully.  "Ann Stark?"

Leo glances over at me, clearly reluctant to explain.  Then he sighs and answers, "She's trying to put her guy in the White House in two years."

The president raises his eyebrows.  "Hell of a way to go about it," he notes.

"I'd say the level of statesmanship in this country has reached new lows," Leo agrees.

I give a brisk nod but don't comment.

"And Ann Stark thinks putting Gregory Baker in office will somehow counteract that?" the president asks.

"I doubt it, sir.  I don't think she cares much about the level of statesmanship so long as she's got a good seat at the party."

Bartlet takes off his glasses, absently twirling them.  "I'm not about to lose the White House because two of my staffers fell in love," he says finally with a weighty look at me.  "Ann Stark has got to learn she can't waltz back into town and start screwing up my administration."

"Yes, sir," I answer softly.

After another long moment, the president shifts his gaze to Leo.  "Fix this."

"Yes, sir."

***

Shutting the doors to Josh's office, I rehearse what I'm going to tell my parents.

There's a version in case they didn't watch Politically Incorrect.  ("Mom, Dad, you know how I'm always telling you what a great guy my boss is?  Okay, maybe 'great' wasn't exactly what I said.")  There's another version for if they did watch Politically Incorrect.  ("Mom, Dad, it's not nearly as bad as it sounds.")  As it turns out, I don't use either version.  As it turns out, the conversation is an unmitigated disaster.

My mother answers the phone.  I no more than say hello when she bellows at my father to pick up the extension.  I know just how angry she is when I hear her tell Dad that "your youngest daughter is on the phone."  It's never a good sign when one of them denies being responsible for me.

"Donna," my father says, "you will get home now."

"Fine, Dad.  How are you?"

"Listen to your father, Donna."

"I'm twenty-seven, Dad.  I'm not coming home at my parents' orders."

"Did you hear the things that man said about you?" my mother asks.  "I always said this strange compulsion of yours to go running off to work in politics would end in disaster."

Well, this is good.  This is familiar territory.  I know my lines in this conversation.

"I know what I'm doing, Mom, and besides--"

"Besides," my father interrupts, "you lied to us."

Yeah, well, there was that.

Mom picks up this theme.  "You said you had to work.  At the White House.  Now it's been a while since we took that vacation to Washington, DC, but I'm sure there was no piano bar in the White House."

"I'm sorry about that, Mom, but there's a really good explanation."

"You're having an affair with your boss," Mom says.

"I'm not."

"That wasn't you in the photo?"

"It was me, but--"

"And that wasn't your precious Joshua?"

Oh, look.  Frances must have gotten to them first.  "Your precious Joshua" -- that phrase has my sister written all over it.

"Yes, it's a photo of Josh and me, but what you don't--"

"Then how can you deny you're having an affair with him?" Mom asks.

"You seem to be living up to all those names that man called you on TV," my father says.

I'm going to throw up.  Right after I murder Earl Fucking Goldfinch.

"It's not like that at all," I manage to say.  I take a deep breath and finally get out the sentence that will make everything all right.

"Josh and I are married.  We've been married since June."

That shuts my parents up.  I wait for the statements of joy on the other end of the line.  This is what my parents have always wanted for me -- well, not Josh, but marriage.  They're very traditional people, my parents.  They have never understood my need to do things like work in politics.  The last thing I did that made sense to my parents was when I dropped out of college to help my boyfriend through med school.  My mother still speaks about Alan with regret:  I had a doctor in my sights, and I lost him.  Forget that Alan was a bastard who used me and that I was stupid enough to abandon my education.  I could have been a doctor's wife, and I blew it.

So I figure Mom at least will be happy.  Her screw-up daughter just nabbed a lawyer.  One who went to Harvard and Yale.  Time magazine's Man of the Year.  And (for the time being anyway), the third most powerful man in the United States.  She's going to hang up on me so she can start calling the neighbors, right?

"Mom?  Did you hear me?  I'm married.  To Josh Lyman."

"How could you do such a thing?" my mother asks, horrified.

"Well, we drove to Maine and we got a license--"

"No, I mean -- You married a politician?  And he's your boss.  Well, that explains it, doesn't it?  Why he was so eager to give you a job in the first place.  Have you been sleeping with him all along?  Are you pregnant?  Is that why he married you?"

"God, no!  It was just after the shooting that we realized--"

"You married him in June," my father says in this emotionless voice.  "It's January now."

"Yes, Dad."

"And he didn't tell anyone?"

"It's complicated, Dad.  Obviously, there are political ramifications that--"

"What sort of man would do something like this?  I suppose he says he loves you."

"Of course Josh loves me."

"Donna," my father says, "what kind of man subjects the woman he loves to the sort of accusations that man made about you on TV?"

"That's not fair.  Josh had no way of knowing--"

"You're always telling us what a brilliant politician this man is," my father continues.

"His name is Josh.  He's your son-in-law.  Get used to it."

"If he's such a great politician, how could he not have foreseen this?  If he loves you, why didn't he do a better job of protecting you?"

"This whole thing is complicated," I repeat.  "There are political--"

"Come home," my mother says.  "We'll fix everything.  We'll get you a good divorce lawyer, and it will be like this never happened."

I give the telephone the stunned look my parents aren't able to see.  "I love Josh," I say.  "I love being married to Josh.  I have no intention of getting out of it."

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."  My father hangs up the extension.

My mom stays on the line for a minute more.  "We'll be here for you if you change your mind, Donnatella.  But until then, I don't think you should call us again."

"Mom," I start, but it's too late.  She's already hung up.

I have just lost my parents over this.

My God.

***

My mind is still racing from my meeting with the president.  It doesn't even occur to me that my office door is probably closed for a reason when I get back.  So I just blithely walk in, forgetting that when I last saw Donna, she was determined to call her parents.  Her Republican parents.

Donna is at my desk, but she's turned around so that she's facing the windows.  She's far too concerned with her conversation to notice my entrance, so I softly shut the door behind me and am about to make my presence known when she says, "I love Josh.  I love being married to Josh.  I have no intention of getting out of it."

Getting out of it?  Oh, God.

I lean heavily against the large cupboard below my (as Donna would call it) primitive chalkboard calendar.  My in-laws hate me enough on spec that they want Donna to divorce me.

I feel a little dizzy.

Then Donna says, "Mom," in this pleading tone, and I turn my attention back to her.

After a moment of silence, she drops the phone onto the floor and buries her face in her hands.

"Donna?" I ask gently.

She whirls around, her eyes brimming with tears.  "When did you get back?"

"Just now," I answer.

The phone is chirping away on the floor, shrieking to be hung up.

"I just," Donna says, pulling the shreds of her composure back around her.  "I talked to my family."  She chokes and stops, the tears overflowing.

I am around the desk in about three seconds, dropping to my knees beside her to engulf her in a hug.  "What happened?"

"I think," she sniffles, "I think I've been disowned."

Oh, God.

How could her parents do this to her?

"Donna, what can I do?" I am begging for her to tell me what she needs.  I feel so completely helpless today -- nothing I do has the least effect.

"Nothing," she mumbles, pushing me away.  "I've got to go back to work."

"Donna--"

"No, Josh," she stands, leaving me kneeling by the chair like a dolt.  I can't seem to muster the energy to move as she rails at me.  "Unless you can convince my parents that their skewed and insulting view of my life -- of me -- isn't true, there's nothing you can do to fix this.  There's no political solution, Josh, this is my family."

And then she is sobbing into her hands.  I surge upright, gather her into my arms, and hold her while she cries.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I shed a few tears of my own; it physically pains me to witness her distress.

When she cries herself out, she is barely coherent.  "I've got to go, Josh.  The memo -- the memo for--"

"Donna," I say, wiping the tear tracks from her cheeks.  "You need to sleep."

"Can't," she answers stubbornly.

"Why not?"

"I'll never get a raise if I'm caught sleeping on the job," she says with a small, unsteady smile.  She has never looked more beautiful.

"Considering that your incredibly demanding boss kept you up for twenty-four hours working, I think you've earned a couple hours' sleep," I point out reasonably, pulling her toward CJ's office.

"You haven't slept either," she mumbles.

"You forget," I say as I catch CJ's eye, "the Man of the Year doesn't need as much sleep as the rest of you mere mortals."

CJ understands immediately and jumps up, circling her desk.  "Here, Donna," she says, "You can crash on my couch."

"No," Donna argues, trying to dislodge my arm.  "You've got to work, CJ."

CJ grins at her.  "It's okay, Donna.  I'll just kick the Man of the Year here out of his office.  Let him work in the bullpen for a couple hours."

Donna gives an appreciative smile and drops onto the couch, exhausted.  CJ gives me a look and slips out, leaving me to watch over Donna until she falls asleep -- after making me promise to wake her up for CJ's briefing, of course.  I gaze at her for a few minutes after she's asleep, beating myself up for this hell I'm putting her through.  Then I leave her to her rest and head back into my office.

Whereupon CJ stands up from my desk and shoots a pointed look in the vicinity of my knees.

Oh, yeah.  I guess this qualifies as a kneecap-breaking level catastrophe.

"Josh--"

"Don't even say it," I interrupt tiredly.  "You can't possibly make me feel like more of a heartless jerk than I do already."

CJ raises one eyebrow.  "I wouldn't be too sure of that.  But that's another subject entirely.  I think we should go out to dinner."

I am confused.  "What?  So we can give the impression that the recently-married deputy chief of staff is cheating on his assistant-slash-wife with the press secretary?"

"No, you idiot." CJ rolls her eyes.  "I'm saying you, Donna, Toby, Sam, and I should go to dinner.  Somewhere with people."

"I really don't know if we're going to be up to it, CJ," I answer slowly.  "We've been up for more than twenty-four hours already."

CJ glares at me.  "As have we all."

"Well, the rest of us haven't been called a whore on national television," I retort sharply.

CJ sighs.  "I'm not saying it'll be easy or even fun.  But I think it's the best thing we can do at this point.  Show those moral fascists that you and Donna are a legitimate couple who have the love and respect of the senior staff."

I am embarrassed to find a lump in my throat.  "Okay," I answer gruffly.  "I'll talk to Donna."

CJ accepts that, then says, "You could use some sleep yourself, Josh."

"I couldn't sleep right now if I tried.  I'd be afraid of the nightmares."

*

I'm holding my breath.  Literally holding my breath.

In fact, Donna's judicious application of her elbow to my rib cage is what jolts me back to reality.

We're huddled in my office, waiting for CJ's briefing to start.  Obviously, one of the first questions is going to be about us.  I grip Donna's hand tightly as CJ appears at the podium.

"Morning, everyone," she says cheerfully.  To look at her, no one would know she was up all night plotting the precise wording of her non-statement statement.  I have never been more proud to call this woman my friend.  "I don't have much for you, so let's just get through this before we get to questions."

There are the usual cacophonous shouts of her name, but CJ blithely ignores the unruly reporters.  "President Bartlet vetoed the so-called 'Defense of Marriage Act' this morning, explaining that this administration can't possibly support what amounts to legislated homophobia.  Senator Douglas-Radford and several other members of the Democratic Women's Caucus will be at the signing ceremony for the Violence Against Women Act's reauthorization this afternoon at three in the Mural Room."  She pauses, her gaze flicking around the room, and then says, "Questions?"

The first couple questions are legitimately related to her briefing.  But it's not long until Ron Koch from the arch-conservative Dallas Morning News brings up Donna and me.

"Is the White House planning to comment on the rumored affair between deputy chief of staff Josh Lyman and his assistant Donna Moss?" Ron asks.  (I've always hated the Dallas Morning News.)

CJ nods.  "We've heard the accusations, Ron, but the White House doesn't comment on the personal lives of the staff."  CJ points to another reporter.  "Katie."

Katie, with a glance at her notebook, asks, "Isn't the relationship between the deputy chief of staff and his assistant against office policy?"

Only someone who knows CJ as well as I do would realize that small tightening of her lips is actually a repressed smile.  I find myself grinning at her image on the screen as she answers.  "To my knowledge, the relationship between the deputy chief of staff and his assistant is not in any way against office policy."

Katie jumps back in with a follow-up.  "And why isn't the relationship between the deputy chief of staff and his assistant not in any way against office policy?"

This time, CJ does give a small smile.  "Because the deputy chief of staff is married to his assistant.  Next question?"

Wonder of wonders, there's actually a small moment of silence in the press room as the journalists digest that.  When they get their wits back about them, the press corps erupts into what could charitably be described as a frenzy.  CJ handles it perfectly, gracefully refusing to answer any more questions about Donna and me.  She uses her bemused voice and asks, "Nothing about the Violence Against Women Act?  Okay, that's all I have for you right now."  With that, she departs.

I glance over at Donna.  She meets my gaze with a small smile.  "CJ did a great job."

"Yeah," I answer.  "We should definitely ask her to be Molly's godmother."

***

Halfway through the morning, I need to deliver some papers to Mrs. Landingham.  Nothing unusual there; I make half a dozen trips to Mrs. Landingham's office on an ordinary day.

Mrs. Landingham stands up the minute I enter the office.  She takes the papers from me and hands them off to Nancy.  Then she puts an arm around me and suggests we go for a walk.

"Well, dear," she says, "you and Josh have certainly complicated things around here today."

"I know," I answer.  "And I'm sorry.  I had no idea this would turn into such a mess."

"The unfortunate thing is that, while this idea has Josh's fingerprints all over it, you're the one who'll suffer the most from it."

"I'm sure this whole thing will blow over in a day or two," I say.  "Once people find out we're married, they'll lose interest."

Mrs. Landingham shakes her head.  "I wouldn't count on it.  You worked for him several years before you were married; people will make a number of hurtful assumptions, you know."

"I've already heard some of them."

"The problem is, dear, that no matter what I may think personally, my first concern has to be for the president's well being.  And you can understand that the president has to be protected from this, can't you?  After all, this is the same sort of thing you do for Josh."

It's not a very subtle hint, I suppose, but I do get her point.  "Yes, ma'am.  I'm not to go near the Oval Office."

"I knew you'd understand, dear.  You'll just have to work in the bullpen and in Josh's office for a while.  Until this thing blows over.  You can send Ginger or one of the others with anything we need."

Dammit, I am not going to cry in front of Mrs. Landingham.  That's when a horrible thought hits me.  "Josh isn't -- the president wouldn't tell him not to--"

"No," Mrs. Landingham answers, "with Josh being part of the senior staff, that isn't feasible.  We have to at least pretend that things are normal."

Right.  Normal.  Except for the part where we keep Josh Lyman's whore away from the Oval Office.

As though she can read my mind, Mrs. Landingham says, "This isn't fair, Donna.  But this is politics, and this is the way things have to be right now."

I nod.  And I get away as quickly as possible before I start crying in front of Mrs. Landingham.

*

You remember that old song about how everybody loves a lover?  It's so not true.  I should have waited and had lunch with Josh.

I'm initially grateful when I catch sight of Carol, Bonnie, Ginger, Kathy and Margaret sitting at a table together.  Friends.  Normality.  I head toward them, but they're so engrossed in their conversation that they don't notice me at first.

"That's unfair," Carol is saying to Kathy.  "It's not her fault."

"How is it not her fault?  Did he hold a gun to her head and force her to run off to wherever it was with him?" Kathy asks.

"Maine," Bonnie supplies.

Oh, shit.

I should announce myself, but I stand there a minute longer.  I guess I just want to know where they all stand.

"Well, I think it's romantic," Ginger says.  I always liked Ginger.  "And it's not like we didn't all know how she felt about him."

"And, come on," Carol adds, "the way he looks at her -- If a man looked at me like that, I would die a happy woman."

"I'm furious," Margaret says.  "They've been lying to all of us for months.  They've been lying to Leo.  And to the president."

"We didn't so much lie," I say, "as we just kept our private life private."  I sit down beside Ginger and Carol, the ones who seem less likely to suggest stoning me.

Bonnie looks uncomfortable, but Kathy and Margaret glare at me.

"Donna," Kathy says, "I like you; I always have.  But I simply can't pretend I'm okay with this."

"Frankly, Kathy, I don't see how my marriage is any of your business."

"It's our business because of what's going to be said," Kathy explains.  "What's already being said."

Bonnie nods.  "I had on one of those talk radio shows this morning.  They were making jokes -- pretty tasteless jokes -- about White House assistants."

"In general, or were they just referring to me?"

"In general," Bonnie answers.

Kathy nods.  "You've put us all in an awkward position.  Things are going to be implied about all the women who work here."

"What did I do that was so damn wrong?  I fell in love."

"With a member of the senior staff," Margaret says.  "And you knew there would be problems, or you wouldn't have kept it a secret to begin with."

"There were other ways you could have handled it," Bonnie says.  "I'm not saying that you could control the way you feel about Josh; I'm just saying that you could have been more circumspect."

"Oh, come on," Carol says.  "They got married.  Wisest thing they could have done.  CJ's working the press beautifully."  She pats my hand.  "It's going to be okay."

"It's really not," I whisper.  "Kathy's got a point.  I'm sorry.  I didn't think about--"  I shrug and try to hold back the tears.  Again.  "He almost died.  The only thing I was thinking about at the time was that he almost died."

There's a few seconds of silence, and Margaret says, "Still.  You've made this huge mess, and now the rest of us are going to have to live with the consequences."

With that, she gets up and leaves.  Kathy follows her, and I think the only thing that's keeping Bonnie here is the look that Ginger's giving her.

"So," I say feebly, "I guess this is the wrong time to ask if you want to hear about the wedding?"

***

I should have called my mom.  I knew she'd hear about this, and I really should've been the one to tell her I'm married.  But I've been a little preoccupied here watching my wife's world fall down around her.  And I should point out that since my wife ever-so-kindly allows me to share her world, I'm not at my best either. Dammit.

So when the phone rings during Donna's lunch, I pick it up absently.  "Josh Lyman."  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize I may have made a huge tactical error.  Press calls are supposed to go through CJ's office, but I wouldn't be surprised if some less reputable reporters called my direct line.

Luckily, it's my mother.  "Joshua," she says without preamble, "I'm taking the train to D.C."

It takes me a moment to react.  "What?"

"Honey, this isn't right.  Veronica Frizzell called me this morning, and I've been watching C-SPAN ever since.  The things people are saying about you and Donna!  It just makes me sick."

"I know," I answer grimly.  "We've been monitoring the press.  But, Mom, you don't have to--"

"I know I don't have to, Joshua," she answers with a smile in her voice.  "But I'm not going to let people attack my son and my daughter-in-law."  She stumbles a little, and I can tell she's fighting back tears.  "You need your mother."

I am swinging back and forth between guilt for not telling my own mother that I'm married and gratitude for her unconditional love and support.  "Mom, I'm so sorry we didn't tell you--"

"I understand," she says, a hard edge to her voice.  "I can't even imagine what it's been like for you two today.  I want to be there to help."

I am half a second away from accepting her offer when I realize this is not something I can decide for myself anymore.  I am no longer a single man.  Thank God.  I am also no longer acting like a single man.  Inviting my mother to come stay with us is something I must absolutely discuss with my wife.  With a small grin, I answer, "I'll have to talk to Donna, Mom."

"Oh, Joshua, I'm so happy for you, sweetheart."

"I wanted you to be there," I admit, my voice a bit unsteady.  "But we couldn't take the chance--"

"Don't do this to yourself, Joshua," my mother interrupts in her best no-nonsense tone.  "You're a good man, and none of this is your fault.  If you continue to blame yourself, I'm going to have to have a conversation with Donna about that time you ended up in the hospital with the flu and all you could think about was how you got sick in temple."

"Mom, that was horrible!  I threw up right there in the middle--"

"Joshua," she says, "your propensity to blame yourself for absolutely everything is only endearing up to a point.  Then it becomes a liability.  Donna needs you right now; and if you concentrate on finding new and exciting ways to blame yourself instead of supporting your wife through this-- this-- chaos, I will personally come down to D.C. and--"

"Okay, Mom."  I am amazed to find myself laughing.  I didn't think that would be possible today.  "I'll give you a call later."

"I love you, Joshua," she says.  "And please give my love to Donna."

***

What can be worse than having two friends walk out on you during lunch?  Getting back from the Mess and discovering Ainsley Hayes standing by your desk.

"I'm guessing you haven't stopped by to offer your congratulations," I say.  I swear, the woman does not bring out the best in me.

"The reason that I have taken time out of my day to come here is to ask when I may expect an apology to be forthcoming."

"An apology?"

"I believed I am owed one, yes."

"You believe that I owe you an apology?"

"You and your -- Mr. Lyman, yes."

"Josh!" I yell.

He's out of the office in record speed.  "What's wrong?"

"Ainsley here thinks we owe her an apology."

"What?" Josh asks.

"The two of you, while I am sure you had what you believed were compelling reasons, purposely misled people into thinking that I was Ms. Moss. Mrs. Lyman, that is."

"Moss-Lyman."  We correct her in unison.

"With a hyphen," I add.

Ainsley gives us a look that loosely translates as "Of course, with a hyphen, you fornicating Democrats."  "Whatever," she says.  "My point is that I was publicly humiliated, and both of you were quite aware as to the truth of the matter all along."

"I never said I didn't know who I was dancing with," Josh points out.

"And you never even asked me if I knew who he was dancing with," I add.

"Still," Ainsley says, "I went through a painful experience."

"You really didn't," I tell her.  "Trust me; I know."

"My parents were quite upset at the suggestion that I might be inappropriately involved with someone whose views are so, shall we say, morally repugnant to everything I hold dear."

"Your parents?" I ask.  I have a sudden urge to throw something.  Like, you know, a stapler.  At Ainsley's head.

"Yes."

"Go away," Josh tells her

"I fail to see how--"

"Get out of here now," Josh repeats.

For once in her life, Ainsley shows some discretion and beats a hasty retreat.

Josh manages to get me safely inside his office before the crying starts.

***

I am wandering the halls of the West Wing somewhat aimlessly.  I can't seem to focus on work -- possibly because I have held my sobbing wife not once but twice so far today -- and I figured a nice, brisk walk might clear my head.

I figured wrong.  Here's something you may not know about the White House -- there are banks of TVs tuned to CNN, C-SPAN, MSNBC, and the networks in virtually every office and bullpen.

Which means everywhere I go, I see pictures of Donna and me.  A fuzzy picture that ran in People magazine last summer.  An even fuzzier picture from the National Enquirer.  Some older file photos I don't even recognize but which managed to capture Donna and I in the same frame.  There's even one of the exceedingly formal dance we shared at the Inaugural Ball.  I wonder where that came from?

The volume on the TVs are turned down unless a staffer wants to catch the particulars of a certain story -- after all, four or more conflicting audio tracks would probably be a bit distracting -- but I don't need to hear the pundits.  I can extrapolate their tone of voice by the looks on their faces.

Of course, it's just another political scandal to them: another Democrat gives in to his rampageous libido.  The more self-righteous on the Christian Right would be rather deflated to learn that Donna and I didn't even sleep together until our wedding night -- doesn't really fit the story they're trying to sell.

Never mind the fact that the Operations bullpen would be considerably less organized without Donna running my office.  And really, what does it matter that I deeply love my wife?

I am finding out the hard way how little it does matter to the media.

"Josh?"

I turn away from the bank of TVs to find Toby standing in his doorway, regarding me with what, for him, passes as a worried look.

"What?" I ask blankly.  I can't remember why I'm in the Communications bullpen right now.  I'm sure I must have had a reason.

"Did you need something?" he asks.  I stare at him, uncomprehending.  He gestures at the TVs.  "You've been standing out here for almost ten minutes."

"Just thinking," I answer.  I think I may be swaying a bit on my feet.

Alarmed, Toby reaches for me.  "Josh, come in here."

I follow him obediently, which is proof enough that I'm dead on my feet.  "I'm fine," I protest anyway.

He steers me toward the couch.  "Sit.  You need to rest."

"No."  I shake my head.  "I can't rest.  I've got to finish that -- the Lansky thing.  You know, with HUD."

Toby rifles through the organized chaos on his desk.  "Hmm," he answers.

God, this couch is so comfortable.  I've got to get one of these in my office.  I slide down until my head is resting on the soft leather.  Maybe I can close my eyes just for a minute.  "Toby," I say, "I have to do the thing."

"Lansky," he answers softly.  "We'll worry about that in a minute, okay?"

"'Kay."

Right before I drift off to sleep, someone drapes a small blanket over me.  I snuggle deeper into the couch and mumble, "Thanks."

***

We've discovered that I can't get in to my apartment because of the reporters camped outside the building.  But CJ already took care of that:  She sent someone to pick up a week's worth of clothes for me.  Everything was orchestrated, right down to who would pick up my things -- Bonnie, since she's the assistant least likely to be mistaken for Josh Lyman's blonde assistant, and Carol, since she has the most experience dealing with the press.

For some reason, the fact that I can't even go to my own apartment and get my stuff upsets me.  I mean, considering everything else that's happened today, it's a minor issue.  But CJ sent them without asking me what to bring.  They left my Starbucks coffee press and my copy of The Art and Artistry of Alpine Skiing.  I really need those.

And now Josh wants us to go out to dinner.  In public.

"Oh, Josh, no," I protest.

"Why shouldn't we?  We're respectable married people."

"I'm not in the mood to be stared at.  Margaret would say it's very bad for the digestive system."

If Margaret were speaking to me, I add silently.

"We shouldn't act like we have something to hide."

"I just want to go home."

"CJ made reservations.  She and Sam and Toby are going with us."

"Oh. I see.  We're making a PR statement.  Show of solidarity among the senior staff and all that."

"Donna--"

"Never mind. I have to go check the stuff Carol and Bonnie picked up at my place to see if they packed anything I can wear to dinner."

"If you really don't want to do this, I'll understand."

And there it is: the moment at which I snap.  "You'll understand?" I repeat.  "Well, that's just so big of you, Josh."

"What I meant--"

"No, really, you don't need to say another word.  As long as you understand, that's fine!  I'm glad one of us does.  In the last eighteen hours, I have been called a whore on national TV, my parents have disowned me, I've lost several friends, I've discovered I can't go home because there are several dozen reporters camped outside my building, and I've been told to stay as far away from the Oval Office as possible.  Oh, and Carol just brought this little tidbit over -- my ex-roommate has sold her story to the Star.  All I did was get married, and I don't understand why any of this is happening.  But by all means, let's go out and party because the master politician whose brilliant strategy ruined my life understands!"

Josh stands in front of me with this stunned expression on his face.  He must have looked like this when the bullet hit him.

I sink down into the visitor's chair.  "I don't believe I just said that," I whisper.

"It's okay," he says.  I can't tell you what he's really thinking because I can't bring myself to look at him.

"It's not okay," I say.  "I didn't mean it.  It's just -- I'm really tired."

"I'll tell CJ we're not going."

"No." I finally look up at him.  God, he looks worse than I thought.  I can't believe I said that.  I'm supposed to take care of him; how could I say things like that when I know how he blames himself for everything?  "No," I repeat.  "We should go.  It's a good idea."

He just nods.  He's doing the guilt thing now, I can tell.  I should be funny and banter and say something to snap him out of it.  But somehow I can't.  Comedy Relief Girl seems to have left the building.

I get up to leave the office.  I should say something.  I should at least tell him it isn't his fault.  I should say that I love him.  I should do something.

I only want to do two things -- sleep and cry.  I don't think either of those is going to help Josh much.

Still, I need to say something.  Let him know I'm all right.  Basically.

"Don't make plans like this again without consulting me," I say.

Well, that didn't come out right, did it?

"I won't," he replies.

"I mean it, Josh.  This is my life we're talking about here.  I'm not going to sit around passively while the rest of you decide how to handle this."

"Okay."

I know I should say something else, but I just can't seem to manage it.  So I simply nod at Josh and go off to find something to wear to dinner.

***

I want to cry.

Not very manly to admit it, I'm sure, but there it is.  I want to cry because Donna's right.  This is my fault.  I should have seen this coming and protected her.  Her parents have disowned her, for God's sake.  And it's my fault.

CJ doesn't even bother to knock before sweeping into my office through our common door.  "How is she?" she asks softly.

"How do you think?"  That came out a bit more sharply than I intended.  "Sorry," I add.

CJ gives me a sympathetic look.  "You've got a free pass to be a jerk today.  Rescinded at the stroke of midnight, though, Cinderella, so watch it tomorrow."

I manage a smile.  "Thanks, CJ.  You were great today."

She tilts her head toward the doorway.  "So was she.  Maybe you should tell her that."  Having imparted her trademark sage advice, CJ heads for her office.  "We're leaving in fifteen minutes.  Be ready."

I nod absently, my mind on more important things.  Like Donnatella Moss-Lyman.  Who is rummaging through the overnight bag Carol and Bonnie brought her, in search of something to wear for her first public appearance as a Woman of Questionable Morals.

"Donna!" I bellow.  Might as well act like everything is normal.  Maybe things will succumb to my wishes and return to normal.

Donna abandons her search but takes her time coming into the office.  "You rang?" she asks.  She's still pale and drawn, but I think her outburst helped.  Helped her, I should clarify.  I think her words will probably haunt me for quite a while.

"Close the door," I say, standing to circle the desk.  When I reach her, I gently pull her to me and hold on to her.  After a moment, she relaxes into me, her hands landing on my shoulder blades.  We stand like this for a long moment, enjoying one moment of peace in the insanity of the day.  When I pull back, I leave my arms loose around her waist.

"You know," I begin, "I realize that I can be a real pain in the ass."

"Josh," she says ruefully, "I'm sorry about what I said--"

"Don't be sorry," I interrupt.  "You were right.  I can't possibly know what you're going through today.  These horrible things being said, your parents..."  I stop myself before I make her even more depressed.  "I do know what I'm going through watching you hurting, Donna."

Her eyes are large and dark as she gazes up at me.  "Josh," she whispers.

"If there was anything I could do to fix this, I would," I continue.  "This job, my small measure of fame, my townhouse, my Audi -- None of that is worth a damn, Donna.  I don't say it very often, I know, but I love you.  When you're hurting, I'm hurting.  So yell at me if you want.  Cry on my shoulder.  Whatever you need."

Donna grabs my neck and pulls me down for a very long, very satisfying kiss.  Then she says, "Are you trying to make me cry?  I just fixed my makeup."

"Sorry," I grin.  I'm so glad she's up to joking with me.  "I'm just relieved we made it through today."

Donna's small smile fades.  "We're not home yet."

"True," I admit.  "But after dinner, we'll drive straight home, and we'll walk to the door together, and we'll ignore every horrible question tossed our way, and, then," I stop to waggle my eyebrows at her, "we'll go to bed."

Donna shakes her head at me.  "You're impossible."

"Yes," I agree with a smile.  "But here's my thing: it can't possibly--"

"Don't," Donna interrupts sharply.  "Don't even say that out loud, Joshua.  I am not up to tempting fate tonight."

"Okay," I agree easily.  "Let's go to dinner."

Donna nods and slips her hand into mine as we head to the bullpen to meet CJ, Sam, and Toby.

But as we're walking I can't help but think it:  Things can't possibly get worse.  Can they?

***

I can do this.

I can walk out of this bathroom in my best maroon cocktail dress and go out to dinner.

This is not a big deal.  This is dinner with Josh and CJ and Sam and Toby.  I can do this.

I can't do this.  I can't face the world outside this building.

Facing the world from inside this building has been difficult enough.  People I admire, people I care about, are looking at me like I'm Hester Prynne.

I might, you know, decide to stay in this bathroom forever.  I'll never have to face all the disapproving stares and the whispers that way.  I'll live and die in here.  I'll become the ghost of the West Wing's ladies room -- an object lesson to assistants everywhere on the dangers of falling in love with your boss.

It would be so easy to stay here.

Come on, Donna; snap out of it.  Worse things have happened.

In May, I sat in a hospital room and prayed to every deity I could recall for Josh's life.  I vowed that I'd do anything, anything at all, if only he'd live.  My prayers were more than answered, so it's time to pay up.

"Ready?" CJ asks as she opens the door.

"No."

CJ gives me a quick hug.  "I wish I could tell you things will be all right," she says.

"Is it going to be awful out there?" I ask.  "I mean, I'd rather know what to expect."

"Part of it will be," CJ says.  "People are going to stare and gossip.  Of course," she adds, with a smile, "they won't dare say anything to your face.  Not with Josh there."

"And you and Sam and Toby," I add.

CJ gives me that great laugh of hers, which is the best sound I've heard all day.  "Oh, Toby is aching for a fight.  I pity the fool who crosses Toby Ziegler tonight.  And Sam is always at his best defending a woman's virtue."

"And then, of course, there's my big sister Claudia Jean, who isn't going to let the bullies beat up on me."

"Josh told me about your family.  I can't even imagine what that's like."

I shrug.  "I think they stopped being my family a long time ago.  Today just made it official."

"It still must be difficult."

"It is.  But I've got Josh, so it's more than a fair trade.  And for God's sake, don't tell him I said that.  He'll never let me forget it."

CJ gives me a weak smile and squeezes my hand.  "We'd better get going."

"Right," I answer.  "It's time to face the fascists."

*

We take two cars -- Sam and Toby in one, CJ, Josh and I in the other.  If I think it's strange that CJ's riding with us, I get the point the moment we leave the security of the White House grounds.

I don't remember seeing this many reporters during the campaign.

Walking to the car, Josh has his arm around me, and CJ is flanking my other side.

You've all seen those news clips of whoever is caught up in the scandal du jour.  The poor woman (or man) is walking with eyes averted, head tilted down and away from the cameras.  You respond one of two ways: either you think she's guilty because she's not looking anyone in the eye, or you think she's an idiot because by now we all know what she looks like, so what good will hiding her face do?

Here's what you don't know until you're the subject of the scandal:  It is extremely difficult to maintain good posture with that many reporters crowded around you.  As for maintaining eye contact and walking with your head held high, that's doubly difficult given the flashbulbs and the nature of the questions being shouted at you.

Still, I am determined not to turn into a cliché.  And I happen to be very proud of what I did.  I fell in love with Josh, and I married him.  Shows damn good taste on my part, if I do say so myself.

It is, of course, fortunate that CJ's with us because without her steadying influence Josh might answer some of the more insulting questions.  I know I zoned out during part of that lecture on libel law, but I'm pretty sure public officials aren't allowed to engage in fistfights with tabloid reporters.

When we get to the restaurant, there's more of the same, except that Sam and Toby follow us in.  With the four of them strategically placed around me (Toby taking the lead with this look on his face like he's just daring anyone to diss me), the reporters pretty much give up.  For the time being.

Then we're in the restaurant.  CJ has orchestrated this down to the last detail.

We're seated dead center.  No hiding, as I'd prefer, in the dark, quiet booth in the corner.  We're purposely in an establishment that caters to the Republican crowd as much as it does to Democrats.  So there are plenty of hostile stares.  Very few whispers, however.  The combined glares of Josh and Toby seem to have shut everyone up.

Ordering is important.  I'm thinking soup is more than I can handle, but CJ is adamant that I have to have a full meal.  She's right, of course.  Josh, Sam and Toby give her blank stares, but I know what she's getting at immediately.

"Half the people here think you only married me, because we're about to, you know, win Texas," I explain to Josh.

"I thought you were from the Midwest," Sam says in this bewildered voice.

Josh is livid.  "Besides the fact that we've been married since June--"

"A fact no one's going to completely accept until someone digs up a copy of your marriage license," CJ explains.  "Which will happen tomorrow."

Sam is stuck on the Texas reference, so I explain it to him.  In part.

"People are going to think I'm pregnant," I explain.  "And I'm not."

"You're talking in code," Sam points out in an accusatory manner.

"They've been talking in code for three years," Toby says.  "Why are you just figuring that out now?"

I'm sipping white wine, which I don't want but which CJ ordered for me using the same reasoning that's forcing me to eat.  "I feel like I'm the scarlet woman of the Bartlet administration," I say.

Josh, who is not drinking (as Toby pointed out, the last thing we need in a roomful of Republicans is drunk and angry Josh), squeezes my hand.  "You're not," he says.

"Damn straight she's not," CJ responds.  "I was planning on being the scarlet woman of the Bartlet administration.  It's a long-standing ambition of mine, and I'm not giving it up."

"And anyway," I continue, "aren't scarlet women usually guilty of adultery?  The only thing I'm guilty of is marriage."

"True," Josh replies.  "We're starting a trend."

"What would my scarlet letter be?" I ask.  I usually hold my liquor well.  Maybe it's the lack of sleep or the stress of the day, but this one seems to be getting to me.  "M for married?  That wouldn't even be understandable.  People would think it was a monogram."

Four pairs of eyes look at me blankly.  "It's my initial," I explain.  "M for Moss."

Josh grins.  "It's really not, you know."

I look at him; I'm clearly confused.  Especially when I notice the other three smiling and nodding in agreement with Josh.  "What?" I ask.

"Your initials," my husband points out, "are M-L.  With a hyphen," he explains for CJ, Sam and Toby's benefit.  "Moss-Lyman."

"Donnatella Moss-Lyman," I say.  And I smile back at him.  My first real smile in twenty-four hours.  "I've never said the whole thing out loud before.  In public, I mean.  It's kind of a nice name."

"I'm fond of it," Josh says.

I zone back out of the conversation for a while, thinking about this horrific day.  And I reach what I consider a profound conclusion:  I lost one family today, but I realize that these people have been my real family for three years now. And while even some of them, like Margaret and Kathy, are upset with me, I can't imagine any of them outright disowning me.  So I don't have Mom and Dad and Frances any longer.  I've got CJ.  I've got Toby and Sam.

I've got Josh.

I'll manage.  I can get through this, however long it lasts.

I've got Josh.

I can do this.

I think.

THE END

01.15.01