*

"Leo, tell Josh to calm down; Mexico's not going to recover overnight."

"Josh, calm down."

"Leo, Mexico--"

"Josh, come to the Oval with me."

"'Kay.  Toby, you coming?"

"No.  But I'll...  I'll be here."

*

It's unnerving when your world falls apart on a Tuesday.  I mean -- Tuesday?  Such a boring day for bombshells.  Friday, I could see.  Possibly even Monday.  Saturday would be somewhat ironic.  But Tuesday?

Although I guess it makes sense in a twisted kind of way.  We're moving slowly through the week; Rosslyn was on a Monday.  Today is Tuesday.  I think I'm going to be dreading Wednesdays for the next few years.  Until the next time my world just, you know, crumbles down around me.

"Josh?"

I startle at the sound of her voice.  Everything seems different and unchanged at the same time, and I'm feeling lost.  Unanchored.

Donna's standing in the doorway with that expectant look on her face, trying not to let me see how exhausted she is.  Just like always.  Only tonight, I have this weighty knowledge, this poisonous thing...  It's between us; the President's dark, heavy secret is eclipsing her.  "Yeah?" I can't look directly at her.

"Do you need me?"

God, what a loaded question.  Of course I need her.  I need her to hold me and tell me things are going to be all right.

But that would require me telling her something is wrong, something serious enough to suspend the rules against illegal touching for the night, and I can't do that.  Because if she knows something serious is wrong, she's going to want to know what.  And I can't tell her; I can't even let her suspect how bad it is.

So I muster a weak grin and shake my head.  "Nah.  Go home."

She studies me a moment.  "You sure?"

No.  "Yes."

Donna leans against the doorframe, settling in.  "You're not going to sit here and brood because Mexico is recovering too slowly for your tastes, are you?"

"No."

"Because Mexico is recovering at a good clip."

"I know."

"I'm serious, Josh.  They're rallying."

"I know."

"Josh--"

"I'm not obsessing over Mexico, Donna."  I wish I were obsessing over Mexico.

"You sure?"

"Yes," I repeat.  "Go home."

She holds my gaze and I try to look innocent and not-upset.  I'm not sure it works, because her mouth tightens just a bit before she agrees.

"Fine.  But, Josh... call me if you need me."

I need her, but I can't have her.  Not tonight.  Not when I can't tell her what she needs to know.

So I nod and watch her leave, and then I go back to studying the wall with undue fascination.

*

"Josh, there's something you need to know."

"Well, there are many things I need to know, not the least of which is where we stand on the Mexico--"

"Seriously."

"What's going on?"

*

I'm not mad at the President.  Not really.

Well, okay, I am mad at the President.  In fact, I am well and truly pissed at him and Leo and Toby. And the First Lady.  And Hoynes.  And every other person who tacitly agreed to this.

We're supposed to be the good guys.

We're supposed to be idealistic and honest and trustworthy.  Integrity is a word I have associated with Jed Bartlet from the moment I saw him at some shitty little VFW hall in Nashua, New Hampshire.  It's quite a rude awakening to realize he's been lying for years.  Eight years, to be exact.

From a political standpoint, I wish to God that Jed Bartlet had merely had an affair.  Morally repugnant, of course, but not a political liability.  Even a child out of wedlock would've been difficult to spin, but it could be done.  It's unrelated to his ability to lead the country, and we've got lots of history to prove it.  Jefferson, Cleveland, Kennedy.  Tons of history.

But a debilitating illness?  Something that will organically alter his brain until he is no longer able to reason?  To think?

How could he keep this a secret?

"You talked to him?"

Toby.  Why can't everyone just leave me alone tonight?  I am not in the mood for visitors.  Especially not him.

I could kill Toby.

I'm fully aware that I'm misdirecting my anger, but I'm pretty okay with that.

Toby knew about this last week.  Toby's been stomping around the office like... like some crazed person, and it's clear why.  How dare he not tell me?

"Yeah, and thanks for the heads up, there, buddy."

He quickly steps inside my office and pulls the door shut behind him.  "Josh-"

"No, I'm serious, Toby.  Didn't you think we should know?  This is huge, Toby.  Catastrophic."

Toby gives me this bitter little grin.  "You say this as if I'm not aware of the catastrophic nature of--"

"And yet you sat on this how long?"

"What?"

"When did they tell you?"

"Friday."

"It's Tuesday, Toby."

"Yes, it is."

"Tuesday. I could've been strategizing over the weekend instead of watching the fucking Red Sox lose to Baltimore!  I could've--"

"You could've solved this?" he interrupts sarcastically.

"Yes!"

"Josh--"

"I could've solved this, Toby.  Now I have to play catch up and--"

"You can't solve this, Josh."  It's not his words that catch my attention, it's his tone.  He sounds defeated.  Weary and defeated.

I stare at him.  "Yes, I can.  It's a political problem--"

"It's a PR problem," Toby counters, dropping into the visitor's chair.  I don't know what to do with that.  Toby never sits down in my office.  Not once do I recall him sitting across from me during a conversation; he usually hovers just inside the door . I guess this is a night for firsts.

"We need the press on our side, Toby.  We have friends--"

"Not nearly enough.  And I'm telling you, this isn't something that can be solved.  If the press reacts badly -- and they will -- the people will follow their cue."

I consider that for a long moment.  The President lied by omission, at the very least.  The press really dislikes being lied to, which means they're going to come down on this like Valkyries.  "Yeah," I admit.

Toby nods slowly, holding my gaze.  "So what now?"

*

"Are you -- I mean..."

"I'm fine, Josh.  The attacks are infrequent, and the effects don't last."

"I'm sorry.  I don't know much about -- What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"'The effects don't last.'  What does that mean?"

*

"Toby, I don't know much about M.S.  I don't..."  I shrug.  I don't know much, apparently.  "Worst case scenario?  The press labels him -- what?  Incompetent?"

Toby watches me for a moment.  "Insane."

"No way."

"They imply it, anyway."

"No way they go that far.  That's actionable.  Sam can--"  Well, if he knew, Sam could pontificate at length about the intricacies of libel versus slander, but since at this point it's just me and Toby in here...  I shrug helplessly.

"They're going to attack, Josh," Toby says.  "The right-wing companies like Belo that own newspapers in many major markets, the independent conservative rags?  They've been waiting for St. Bartlet to do something shady, something ambiguous, something not quite right.  This isn't ambiguous.  This isn't slightly anything.  This is a slow, fat pitch right over the center of the plate.  This is out of the park."

"The green monster," I mumble.  But I can't think about that.  I really can't think about how angry I am right now, or how I feel betrayed.  I need to think in terms of political realities, not personal betrayal.  "The networks?" I ask.  I already know the answers, but I want to make sure Toby and I are on the same, fatalistic page.

"Owned by huge conglomerates."

I close my eyes.  "Disney owns ABC; AOL Time Warner has CNN--"

"Rupert Murdoch and FOX," Toby nods . "Exactly.  Huge conglomerates with disgustingly rich CEOs, COOs, CFOs, all of whom prefer tax cuts, tax loops, tax relief.  All of whom, consequently, gave their money to--"

"Republicans.  Who will see this as a prime opportunity to shore up their own power bases while stomping on the liberal in the Oval Office."

"Right," Toby says.  "And they already have relationships with the media conglomerates who--"

"Who are going to back their pet Republicans," I nod, growing more depressed as this scenario spools out.  "Plenty of airtime for Hodges and Shallick and W. Baker and their ilk to express their shock and outrage.  And the good Senators and Congresspeople will say they're taking their cue from their constituents--"

"Whose opinions are influenced by watching these same politicians spew vitriol on ABC, yes."

"Not to mention the incessant call-in opinion polls on Dateline and 60 Minutes," I add.  People who are ambivalent or vaguely supportive don't tend to care enough to call in; so we'll have a parade of virulent Bartlet-haters, peppered with some loopy, knee-jerk liberals.  Which will do anything but help the situation.

"Statistically insignificant, but influential nonetheless," Toby agrees, his tone dark.

I lean back and cross my legs on my desktop.  Might as well savor the perks while I still have a job.  "So we're screwed."

"Pretty much," Toby sighs.

I let that hang there for a few moments.  "What about legally?"

Toby just shakes his head.  "I don't know, Josh."

*

"Josh, we're going to need you to speak to Oliver Babish."

"To see if I'll be disbarred, tossed in jail, or merely fined?  Sure, no problem."

"Josh--"

"I'm sorry, Leo, I'm just -- Sir, were you ever going to tell us?"

"No."

"You should've told us.  We should have known about this three years ago."

*

Toby and I sit in silence for quite a while.  I'm still in shock, and I think he's just happy to finally have someone else to commiserate with; Leo's too close to the President to see this clearly.  Plus I'm pretty sure Leo thinks this is the same thing as when his drug addiction hit the papers.

It's not.

Leo didn't conceal that from the public while running for election.  Leo didn't -- I can still see his face when he got up in front of the reporters.  And that was just twenty reporters in the White House press room.

This...  This is international.  This is just immeasurable.

The scope and depth of this thing...

"Josh?"

I look up, startled.  "Yeah?"

"We can't," he pauses, his mouth pursing into a frustrated frown.  "We have to stay."

"I know."  I rub my forehead tiredly.  God, I have a headache.

"If we leave the week before this--"

"No kidding," I interrupt.  "We're in this.  He goes down, we go down."  I'm laughing, suddenly.  I think I'm delirious.  At Toby's curious look, I explain, "My President, right or wrong."

Toby doesn't laugh.  He doesn't even smile.  "Some of us may have to be sacrificed to keep him from going down."

"No," I answer sharply.  I'm no longer remotely amused.

"This administration has been compromised--"

"By its Commander in Chief," I protest.  "This is not -- We didn't do this."

"Josh--"

"I get it, Toby.  I understand:  Any one of us quits for undisclosed reasons the week before this hits, we look like we're running scared.  Or we look like we've just been told about this situation and are quitting in protest.  Either scenario is an indication to the public that he did wrong in our eyes.  Either one could be enough to--"  I am talking myself in circles . I take a deep breath and continue more slowly.  "I understand that.  But I'm saying--"

Toby lifts a hand and interrupts, "We don't have the high ground here, Josh."

"Yes, we do!"  I belatedly realize I'm yelling.  "We do, Toby.  You, me, CJ, Sam:  We.  Didn't.  Know."

"Doesn't matter," Toby sighs.  "We're past that now."

He's right.  Dammit.  "Yeah," I admit.  "We're past that now."

*

"Who else knows about this?"

"My family.  Leo.  Hoynes--"

"Hoynes?"

"Yes."

"That's why?"

"I'm sorry?"

"That's why he agreed to join the ticket?  Because you promised him this office in four years?"

*

"Hoynes knew?" I ask Toby after a while.

"Yeah."

"And he let you know?"

Toby shifts in the chair.  "He made some comments, left some clues."

I close my eyes and drop my head back.  This is so not good.  "He's not going to back down gracefully."

"He's not going to challenge the sitting President."

"He might," I argue, without bothering to open my eyes.  "He and President Bartlet -- they've never liked each other.  Hoynes is still pissed at me for the election.  Now this?"

"Josh, Hoynes isn't going to leak it."

I consider his words.  I'm not sure I quite agree.  Hoynes isn't ruthless, but he's a fierce competitor.  He never hesitates to use an opponent's weakness, and Bartlet is most definitely his opponent.

Hell, if I were Hoynes' Chief of Staff when this story broke, I'd put a poll in the field immediately, and then suit up for the primaries.  Especially if the President made some stupid-ass promise about not running in 2002.

"Josh?  Hoynes isn't going to leak it, right?"

I open my eyes, but I don't look over at Toby.  "I honestly don't know, Toby.  He's never been one to shy away from using situations to his advantage."

"A3C3, Josh?  That was over a year ago."

"He's a politician," I shrug, glancing over at Toby.  He's glowering in the dim light.  "He knows this is out there, and he knows exactly what to do when it goes public.  What if he gets impatient?"

Toby nods slowly.  "He hasn't yet."

I give him a sour look.  "Please, Toby.  Why do you think he made sure you found out?"

Toby narrows his eyes and stills.  "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Hoynes knows us well enough now.  He could predict how you'd react to this.  He knew you'd go ballistic -- You did go ballistic, right?"

Toby shrugs and rolls his eyes.

I nod.  "He knew you'd go ballistic, and he knew you'd set the ball in motion."

"You're blaming this on me?" Toby asks sharply.

"No."  I rub my temples for a moment.  My head is really starting to hurt.  "No, I'm not blaming you.  I'm saying, we've been played."

"By whom?"

My short burst of laughter is hardly mirthful.  "It might be a shorter list if you ask who hasn't played us."

"Josh, I don't think Leo or the President ever intended--"

"I know," I shrug.  "But it doesn't matter.  Their intentions were good, I'm sure.  Or at least understandable.  But it doesn't matter anymore.  The lies are what matter."

Toby nods and studies his hands for a few long moments.  "Do you think we're going to lose?"

"Re-election?"

"Yeah."

I meet his gaze.  "I'm not sure we're gonna get to re-election, Toby."

*

"How do we do this, Josh?"

"Excuse me?"

"How do we go public?"

"You're gonna have to give me some time to, you know, stop reeling.  I'm not -- I can't see this ending well."

*

After a time, Toby glances down at his watch and groans.  "I'm going home."

"Yeah," I say, not looking up from the fascinating play of light over the multicolored folders on my desktop.

Toby pushes himself out of the chair and hesitates for a moment in the doorway.  "You're all right?"  I must give him a very strange look, because he gestures somewhat wildly with one hand.  "I just wanted to make sure you don't go off and do something more stupid than usual."

I manage a hint of a smile.  "I'll make sure I keep it to my normal levels of stupidity, okay?"

Toby nods and says gruffly, "Night, Josh."

"Yeah," I answer absently.  It's certainly not a good night, but it is, undeniably, night.  I turn my chair so I can stare out over the vast lawn, lit up even at night for security reasons.

I never really believed I'd work here.  I'm sure there was some point in my childhood where I wanted to be President, but I never really thought I'd work in the White House.

For a long time after I decided on politics and came to D.C., I would get chills in the historic buildings.  Capitol Hill, the Courthouse, the White House...  It's amazing to think of the decisions that were made, the laws that were passed in these hallowed halls.

I love it here.  I love it so much it's scary.  I can't imagine only having one term.  I can't fathom having less than that.  I know I can be a cynical bastard, but I have such an irrepressible idealistic streak that I honestly do view this as the opportunity of a lifetime.  While I work here, I can do something.  I can influence things.

That still hits me sometimes, it still gives me chills.

And for the last three years, I've put my faith in Josiah Bartlet.  I trusted him, I supported him, and I won him the goddamn Oval Office.  And as it turns out, that may have been a very bad idea.

Not that I think Jed Bartlet is a bad President; I don't.  I think he's a damn good President.  I think he could have been a great President. 

If.

If he had told his constituents in New Hampshire during his term as Governor, this would have been a non-issue.  He could have said, 'Yes, I have this disease.  Yes, I have concerns.  But I have governed this state, and my constituents fully support me.'

If he had told us, if he had disclosed this during the campaign, even, we could have saved this.

If he hadn't lied.

That's the crux of the matter, right there.  He lied.

Jed Bartlet lied to me, and to every other citizen of this country.  And there's nothing I can do to fix it.

*

"Are you regretting your decision, Josh?"

"Which one?"

"Nashua.  Would you rather we'd never gotten here?"

"No.  I'd rather we'd gotten here without defrauding--"

"I did not lie, Josh.  I did not defraud anyone."

"Due respect, Sir, but no matter how it looks from that desk, there, it looks a hell of a lot like fraud from here."

"Josh."

*

My head is killing me.  I need some sort of painkiller.  Or possibly a blunt object with which to render myself unconscious.

Donna's gone, and I wouldn't even dare looking in her mess of a desk for an aspirin.  CJ, on the other hand -- she's buys Advil in bulk.

I push myself wearily to my feet and head for her office.  Carol's gone, but there's still a light in the inner office.  CJ is at her desk working.  But she looks... haunted.  Her hair is pulled back from her face with some sort of claw-like clip, and there's a smudge of mascara next to her left eye.  I'm not used to CJ looking anything but perfectly put together.

It's starting already; we're falling apart.

"CJ?" I ask, my voice low.

"Josh," she answers, surprised.  "You're still here?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I shrug it off.  "No reason.  Just -- do you have any Advil?"

CJ gives me that familiar grin, but it's missing some of its usual luster.  "I'm going to start charging, Josh."  She scoots her chair over to the side desk, reaches in the top drawer, and pulls out an alarmingly large white plastic bottle which she tosses my way.

I manage a smirk.  "I don't borrow drugs from you," I protest, dry-swallowing two pills.  Then I make a face, cause Advil tastes disgusting.

"Yeah, but you and Donna?" she counters, eyebrows raised.  "You two should keep me in Advil, since you're the ones inducing the headaches."

My smile fades and I find myself glancing away from her.  I hate lying.  "Yeah." I rotate the bottle in my hands, fascinated by the dull clacking.

"Mexico's coming back," she comments.

"Yeah," I nod.  "They're rallying."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"Josh?"

I sigh and meet her gaze.  "CJ, I have a headache and it's been a long--"

"It's always a long day," she observes, studying me.  "Hey, Josh, you wouldn't happen to know what's up with Toby, would you?"

"No," I answer immediately.  But not that convincingly.  I can misdirect with the best of them -- I wouldn't have lasted a day on the Hill if I hadn't picked up that skill -- but outright lies are... distasteful to me.

CJ just stares at me with that disappointed look.  I hate that look.  That look makes me want to throw myself on my knees and beg for her forgiveness.

She taps her pen against the desktop.  "No, you don't know what's wrong with him, or no, you won't tell me what's wrong with him?"

"CJ--"

"You'll tell me before I get the question, right?" she asks quietly.

"CJ, I..."  I shrug at her.

"Josh," she says, "don't let me get the question--"

"You'll know," I promise.  I'll tell her myself if I have to, but she is not going into that pressroom uninformed about this.  With a sickly smile, I take a couple steps forward and carefully place the Advil bottle on the edge of her desk.  "Thanks, CJ."

*

"Do you mind if I ask, Sir:  Last year, India-Pakistan--"

"Yes, Josh.  That was an attack."

"Josh?  What are you thinking?"

"I swear to God, Leo, you don't want to know."

*

Leo is standing just inside my office, staring at my desk as I approach.  I stop in the bullpen, watching him watch my furniture, and I remember when I was little and Leo was a young man.  I can still see this man in his thirties with brown hair and wrinkles just starting to appear, and a beautiful young wife and daughter.  I remember family picnics with the McGarrys.

I can't believe he lied to me.

Then he turns, sensing my presence, I guess, and he looks old.  Old, tired, and just a little bit tarnished.  "Josh," he says.  "I thought you'd left."

I shake my head.  "I was in CJ's office."

Leo's eyes widen.  "Josh--"

I take two steps towards him and lower my voice.  "Relax, Leo.  I'm starting with the lies already."

"Josh, no one's asking you to lie."

"Bullshit, Leo!" I explode.  "That's bullshit."

"Josh, in here," Leo orders, waving me inside my office.

I slam the door behind me, because I am just that angry.  "You are asking me to lie."

"That's not--"

"Maybe that's how you've justified it to yourself the last year, the fact that you've never been asked directly about this, but you have been lying to me.  You have been lying to Toby.  You've been lying to CJ, Sam, the rest of the staff, and the American people.  And now you're asking me not to tell CJ -- not to tell the Press Secretary that this huge fucking bomb is out there, dangling over our heads by a fraying rope.  What if she gets the question?"

"She won't," Leo answers, his tone determined.

"How do you know that, Leo?" I'm yelling. "Toby figured it out on his own, didn't he?"

"No."

"Leo, don't lie to me!"

Leo's jaw tightens, and when he answers, it's in a clipped, angry tone.  "He didn't figure it out on his own.  He put together some facts and thought maybe Hoynes was considering running against us.  He didn't figure out that the President is sick."

"That's enough," I say, exasperated.  Leo McGarry is a crack political strategist.  He was my mentor when I got to the Hill.  Hell, even higher than a kite he could see the political ins and outs of any situation.  But he's got blinders on here.  "Someone starts asking the wrong questions to the right people, and either we start lying, or it's out before we put it out there.  And then we're done."

Leo shakes his head.  "That's not going to happen."

"I hope you're right, Leo," I answer tiredly.  I can't fight with him anymore.  I can't think about this anymore.

Leo watches me as I toss some random folders into my backpack.  "You going home?"

I give him a look.  "Yes."

"You'll be here tomorrow?"

"I don't have much choice, do I, Leo?"

"Josh--"

"Look," I interrupt, holding up one hand to stay the lecture.  "It's late, I'm tired, and I'm still angry.  I don't think this is the best time for you to question my loyalty to this administration."

"I don't question your loyalty," Leo says.

"Good.  I'm here all the way, Leo.  I put him in that Office.  I just wish I'd known coming in that our time here might be a hell of a lot shorter than it should have been."

Leo sighs.  "No matter what, we've done good here, Josh."

I swing my backpack onto my shoulder and brush past him.  "We haven't done enough, Leo.  Not nearly enough."

*

"Let me get this straight:  You came into this thinking you'd be a one-term President?"

"Josh, I--"

"No, because I'm really curious.  If you came into this knowing your time in this office is limited, why the hell haven't we been *doing* things?"

"Josh."

"Leo, come on!  We could've gone all out if we weren't trying for re-election!  We could've done some good!  Guns, gays in the military, campaign finance, violence against women, hate crimes--"

"We still can, Josh."

"All due respect, Sir, but how?  We've only got a week left."

"Josh, we have--"

"As soon as it's clear we're not running again, no one on the Hill has any reason to deal with us.  We're finished when this story breaks, and we haven't done a damn thing."

*

I'm honestly not sure what I'm doing here.  This is ten kinds of stupid.  The last thing we need on top of the President's thing is a surveillance photo of the Deputy Chief of Staff entering his assistant's apartment at nearly one in the morning.

But I'm still floating around, directionless, and I need her.  I need someone to lie to me and tell me this'll all work out.  I need someone to believe that it will be okay.

It takes a few minutes after my knock for Donna to answer the door.  She's in a pair of my boxers that I thought I'd lost and a t-shirt that says 'Fuck your fascist beauty standards.'  This strikes me as funny.

"Josh, what's wrong?" Donna asks immediately.

I can't answer because I'm laughing too damn hard.  It's just... We're going to lose re-election or we may lose the White House in the matter of a few months, and Donna's wearing a t-shirt that says 'Fuck your fascist beauty standards.'  It's just absurd.

"Josh?" Donna pulls me inside, her hands tugging at my jacket.

I'm hugging her, suddenly, and gasping for breath.  I'm not sure anymore if I'm laughing or crying.  "Donna, I can't do this."

"Josh, you're scaring me," Donna says, her arms tight around me.  "Please, tell me what happened."

"I can't."  I pull back slightly to look down at her.  "I honestly can't, Donna.  I want to, but..."

"This isn't about Mexico."

"No."

"But you're brooding."

I manage a grin at that.  "Why do you always assume I'm brooding?"

"You're a brooder, Josh.  You brood," she answers with a soft kiss at the corner of my mouth.

"I should go, Donna," I say reluctantly.  "This is a bad idea."

"Josh, stay.  You look -- just, you should stay."

"Donna, I really can't tell you what's wrong.  I can't."

She studies me for a moment, then nods.  "It's okay, Josh.  I trust you."

"At least someone does."  It's out of my mouth before I can stop it.

Donna takes my hand and pulls me towards the bedroom.  "You look exhausted, Josh.  Come on."

"Donna," I whisper, as I let her undress me.  "Things are -- There's going to be a thing."

She nods, not meeting my eyes as she unbuttons the cuffs of my shirt.  "Bad?"

"Yeah."

Her hands brush against my skin as she pushes the shirt down my arms.  Then she meets my gaze.  "We'll get through it."

I try to pull away, but she reaches for me.  "Donna--"

"Josh, it'll be okay," she says, holding my face in her hands so I can't look away.  "We'll figure it out and we'll get through it."

I stare at her, drawing strength from her determination, and then I nod.  "Okay."

I'm not sure I believe it.  I'm not sure I can believe it yet.  Maybe it's enough that she believes.  Maybe she can believe enough for the both of us.

*

"You'll talk to Babish tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"We're okay?"

"Sure."

"Josh, these one word answers--"

"We're fine, Sir.  I just need -- We're fine."

*

THE END

05.04.01