I didn't expect Josh to show up on my doorstep tonight.  Having been involved with Josh for almost four months, I have learned that most weeknights are too busy to accommodate our desire for sleepovers.  Having been his assistant for five years, I understand the exact nature of the emergency that I thought would keep him at the office all night.

The Vice President of the United States resigned today, and a new one has to be selected and confirmed as quickly as possible.  Candidates must be vetted, the political plusses and minuses have to be weighed, the Republican side of the aisle must be consulted but not kowtowed to.  There is only one person I know who can manage all that before the press starts using words like "weak" and "indecisive."

This looks like a job for the Deputy Chief of Staff.

Honestly?  I was surprised when Josh sent me home at 10 p.m.  When he came over an hour later, I was stunned.  Happy, but stunned.  Josh, on the other hand, was -- well, it's difficult to describe Josh's mood.  He was definitely passionate.  But there was something else there.  Some sort of undercurrent.  There was none of our usual wordplay, none of the light, teasing tone we usually have together.  From how tightly he held onto me, the intensity with which he stared at my face, this desperate quality I sensed in his kisses, I felt he was looking for comfort more than he was looking for pleasure.

Which is not to say that he left me unsatisfied.  Far from it.  He's had nearly four months to learn what I enjoy, and he did everything just right.  And based on his reactions, I think he found the comfort he was seeking.  So now, I'm in that sated, blissed out, exhausted state of being that follows several hours of intense lovemaking.  In other words, my life is good.

Josh's life, it seems, still is not.  If it were, he wouldn't have slid to the other end of the mattress and perched at the foot of the bed as soon as we were finished.  Josh enjoys holding me after sex.  He relishes the entire experience: whispered conversations, kisses that aren't necessarily meant to lead to another round of intercourse, running our hands over each other's body simply because we enjoy the warmth and the texture of one another's skin.  Josh does not let go; he doesn't get as far away from me as he can manage without getting out of bed.

Except for tonight.

Tonight he's propped his back up against the foot of the bedpost -- to ease his back, he said, but he hardly looks relaxed, even sitting there with one pillow thrown over his lap and another stuffed between his back and the wooden bed frame.  I can still see the pain that seems to have been etched into his face during the last twenty-four hours.  His shoulders have this rounded quality they get whenever he's blaming himself for something that's entirely out of his control.  His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that there's a whole new set of worry lines at the corners.

One thing I have learned over the years:  It does no good to prod him into telling you what's wrong.  Try it and all you'll get are angry denials, followed by more silence.  What you have to do in this situation is wait.  Eventually, he'll make an oblique comment that indicates he's ready for some discussion.

"The world is falling apart."

And there it is.

Even with my heart aching for him, I have to smile.  Josh never does anything by halves.  If there's a cloud on the horizon, he'll find a way to turn it into a thunderstorm.  Sometimes he needs to be reminded that not everything is as gloomy as he likes to believe.

"Maybe not the whole world," I reply.  To emphasize my point, I nudge his foot with my own.

He opens his eyes and stares at me for a moment.  "We're barely four months into our second term, and already it's starting to fall apart.  We didn't just win; we won in a landslide.  We had a mandate.  We were going to accomplish things.  And now…"  His voice trails off, as though he can't bring himself to complete the thought.

"And now we have a setback," I finish for him.  "One which is not President Bartlet's fault.  Or yours."

"I should have been paying closer attention.  I shouldn't have needed a lawyer -- a Republican lawyer -- to point it out to me."

"Unless you were planning to go through the White House phone logs or read the gossip columns yourself, I don't see how you could have known."

He rolls his head back against the pillows again, as though the sense of failure is too much for him.  "It's not the first time," he says.  "When I was working for Hoynes, there were rumors about other women.  There was some talk about what we'd do if any of it became public knowledge during the campaign."

And another piece of the puzzle that is Josh Lyman falls into place.

Josh can be ruthless when necessary.  In five years, I've never met anyone who's his equal at playing dirty politics.  But at the same time he's congratulating himself on a victory, you can see the toll it takes on his conscience.  That isn't the person Noah and Adira Lyman raised their son to be, and he knows it.  He can justify staying on the shady side of ethical if he's working for a noble cause.  If the reason he's running a smear campaign is to cover up his candidate's indiscretions…

Josh's motive for leaving the prohibitive favorite in order to work for an obscure New England governor becomes stronger.  Josh must have dreaded the kind of tactics he'd have to employ to keep Hoynes' behavior secret or to minimize its effect.  In contrast, a presidential candidate who wasn't hiding anything from the voters must have seemed like a miracle.

No wonder getting President Bartlet elected became some sort of holy crusade for him.

Except that, according to that infamous Lyman hindsight, Josh thinks he screwed up by not preparing for this sort of scandal.  I don't know what he thinks he should have done -- had someone keep tabs on Hoynes' movements for him, argued against keeping Hoynes on the ticket.  None of those options seems very realistic.  But because he's Josh, he somehow thinks he could have prevented this if he'd tried.

"You can't stop other people from being self-destructive, you know.  Hoynes has no one but himself to blame."

"Which I'm sure will be a real consolation to us all when we can't get a bill through Congress because the administration's been weakened by a sex scandal and a confirmation fight."

"Sex scandal" is not my favorite phrase.  It hits too close to home these days.  So I concentrate on the other part of Josh's statement instead.  "Is there going to be a fight over the confirmation?"

"Of course there's going to be a fight," he says, as he gets out of bed and retrieves his boxers from the floor.  "It doesn't matter who we nominate.  We kicked Ritchie's ass, we left their party without a leader, and it's payback time."  He slips his boxers back on and begins pacing around my bedroom.  "And it's not just the Republicans.  We lost our presumptive nominee.  Every Democrat who's ever had one moment of looking at the Oval Office and thinking, 'Hey, I can do better than that guy,' has a poll in the field by now.  They don't want us to have a strong VP any more than the Republicans do."  He stops pacing, lets out a sigh, and sits back down on the edge of the bed.  Not next to me, but close enough to touch.

I run my hand along his arm, hoping to give him some sense of comfort; but he draws back from the contact.  That isn't normal for Josh at all.  He's an extremely tactile person, even in the office.  Now here he is, avoiding any contact.  Thirty minutes ago, he was making love to me, and now he can't bring himself to touch me.

There's no point doing something as direct as asking him what's wrong.  He'll deny that he's having any kind of personal qualms about all this.  Then he'll get angry with me for suspecting that he's troubled, and he'll push himself even farther away.  The only thing I can do is remind him that I, for one, have faith in him even when he doesn't have faith in himself.

"You'll work it out," I assure him.  "You'll find the right candidate."

"Why do you do that?" he asks.  "You always do this. 'You worry too much, Josh.  You'll find the answer.  You'll pull off another miracle.'  I can't stand when you do that."

There's this tone in his voice -- somewhere between frustrated and angry.  I've heard that tone before, but only once or twice has it been directed at me.  For a second, I'm unsure of what I did wrong or how I should react.  "You can't stand that I believe in you?" I finally ask him, and I'm sure my tone of voice gives all my confusion away.  "Since when?"

He looks at me and kind of winces, as though he can feel just how much his words stung.  "Since…"  For just a moment, he looks as though he's going to pull me into his arms.  But then he stands up and starts pacing around the room again.  "Since always.  Sometimes I think you expect too much of me.  Like I'm your knight in shining armor or something."

Despite everything, I have to smile at that.  Because, well, yes.  But also no.

"Believe me, Josh," I say, "I think of you as many things, but a knight in shining armor is not one of them."  Judging from the skeptical look he's giving me, he doesn't believe a word I'm saying.  "Okay," I admit as I get out of bed and slip on the white shirt Josh discarded on my bedroom chair.  "Maybe for a week or two in the beginning," I add as I fasten the top button, "but not after that.  I've worked too close to you for too long to have any illusions."

He's still giving me that look, but at least he's stopped pacing and he doesn't pull away when I run my hand over his arm again.  "If I expect a lot from you," I say, "it's because I know how good you are at this.  So if it's possible to find the right candidate, you'll do it."

"It's just that I don't want to disappoint you," he says.  I run one hand around his neck while the other strokes his back, feeling all the tension in his muscles.

"Or the president," I add.  "Or Leo.  Or anyone else you care about.  Look at yourself.  You're twisted up in knots because you can't fix things for John Hoynes, a man who's clearly in the wrong in this case."

Josh gives a quick, bitter laugh.  "I'm hardly in a position to condemn a man for having an affair."

Even though, in typical fashion, Josh has managed to place the blame squarely on his own shoulders, I flinch at his implication.  This time I'm the one who distances myself, letting go of him and taking a few steps back.  "It's not the same thing," I protest, my voice shaking a little.  "You're not married."

"And Helen Baldwin didn't work for Hoynes.  It kind of evens out."

Josh does this occasionally.  He gets so wrapped up in his own guilt and pain that he forgets how what he's saying might sound to me.  In some twisted way, it's almost a compliment.  He's spent too many years playing Beltway poker to drop his guard around other people.  He's created this public persona for himself -- the invincible, ruthless political operative -- and he goes to elaborate lengths to make sure no one senses his weaknesses.  Only a handful of people ever glimpse how vulnerable Josh can be, and I'm the only one he shares this part of himself with intentionally.

Which leaves me feeling divided.  On the one hand, I want to comfort and reassure him, tell him he's a much better man than he gives himself credit for.  On the other hand, I'd like nothing more than to point out that by castigating himself, Josh is implying some unflattering things about me.

What keeps me from lashing out at him, ultimately, is the self-loathing in his voice, the defeated slump of his shoulders, the way he can't look me in the eye.  He doesn't need me adding to his burden, as tempting as that is for a moment.  He needs to have the flaws in his reasoning pointed out, but in a gentle fashion.  Because no matter how much I want to throw my arms around Josh and assure him that what we have cannot be compared to some cheap, adulterous affair, there are things Josh and I simply do not say.  We have never, in four months, referred to ourselves as a couple.  We have never talked about whether this new aspect of our relationship is permanent.  We have only used the word "love" on one occasion -- the first night we spent together.  Somehow it is understood between us that we will not use that word lightly.  We've said it to other people and thought we meant it.  We've both heard it from previous lovers who turned out to be insincere.  We're both more cautious now, and we save that word for when it will have the most impact.

While it might be argued that this is one of those times, Josh doesn't need to be told he's lovable as much as he needs evidence that he's a decent man -- a conclusion he must be led to gradually.

I close the distance between us again and touch his cheek.  "Helen Baldwin sold her story for a six-figure book deal," I remind him.  "I don't think anyone's going to give me that kind of money."

Josh shuts his eyes as though suddenly stricken by the realization that he did, in a roundabout fashion, compare me to a woman who sold out her lover.  "God, Donna, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean--"

I interrupt before he can launch into another round of self-recrimination.  "I'm serious, Josh.  Five figures if I'm lucky.  But if you think I'd get more, you're seriously overestimating your celebrity."

For a second, I think I see the smallest hint of a grin, but then Josh falls back into his funk.  "I'm just saying that I can't feel morally superior is all."

"You are morally superior to John Hoynes," I tell him as I cup his face with my hand.  His cheeks have the coarse texture of a man who's been separated from his razor for too many hours.  "I'm not saying that Hoynes is evil.  I'm saying he did something you'd never even consider.  He gave away classified information to his lover.  You would never do that."

Finally, Josh smiles at me, even if his smile has a certain rueful quality.  "See?" he says.  "There you go.  The knight in shining armor thing.  How do you know what I'd do?"

He's making this almost too easy.  I stare at him for a moment with what I know he considers my sexiest smile.  As I press my body against his, I become just aware of how thin that shirt I'm wearing is.  I can feel his flesh against my stomach, the thinnest layer of cotton between us.  Winding one hand around the curls at the back of his neck, I whisper, "You're the Deputy Chief of Staff.  You know classified stuff.  Why don't you share of that with me?"

He's so close to me now that, when he laughs, his breath tickles a sensitive spot behind my ear.  "Are we doing a little role playing here, Mata Hari?" he asks.

"I am pointing out a basic fact.  You know stuff I don't."  I kiss the base of his throat.

"I used to.  Then you started doing that, and I forgot everything else," he says, as his arms go around my waist.

I try not to be distracted by the way his thumbs stroke my skin.  "One thing, Josh," I tell him.  "Tell me one thing I'm not supposed to know.  One piece of classified information."  I brush my leg against his to emphasize my point.  "I'll make it worth your while."

"And exactly how will you do that?"

"Any way you want me to."  I don't say anything else for a moment, giving him time to consider the implications of what I've just said.  When I see his eyes widen with surprise and desire, I tap his forehead playfully.  "Somewhere in that brain of yours I'm betting there's at least one fantasy you've never gotten around to telling me."  I slip out of his arms and stand just out of his reach.  "What is it, Josh?  Something you thought was too kinky for my taste?"  Interesting how much he's blushing at the moment.  "Hmmm…just who's been putting whom on a pedestal here, I wonder?"  He blushes some more, but he can't seem to take his eyes off me.  "I'll make that fantasy come true, Josh, whatever it is.  You name it; I'll do it.  Just share one piece of classified information with me."  I unbutton the shirt, and Josh stands transfixed as it slides to the ground.

It takes him at least thirty seconds to recover.  "You want to be careful about the kind of deal you offer a politician," he warns as he moves closer to me.  There's a certain wolfish quality in his voice that makes me shiver.

"So you're going to tell me?" I ask.

"About my fantasies?"

"No," I tell him, shaking my head slightly.  "About the stuff I don't have clearance on."

He looks away for a moment.  When he turns back to me, the playful, erotic quality has vanished.  "I can't," he says seriously.

"All this can be yours," I repeat, indicating my naked body.

"I thought it already was," Josh says softly.

I grin because he's right.  And because he's proved my point.  "Fantasies, Josh," I remind him.

"Reality, Donna.  Things are classified for a reason."

Nudity may be a useful seduction technique, but I've made my point and I'm getting cold.  I climb back into bed and pull up the covers.  "But you do know something big," I say.  "I've seen how worried you and Toby and CJ all are.  There's more going on than Hoynes' resignation, isn't there?"

Josh sits down beside me.  "I can't talk about that."

Those worry lines are back around his eyes again, and the pain is all too evident in his somber tone.  He knows, I hope, that if he could tell me all the things that trouble him, I'd listen and give him all the support I can.  As it is, all I can do is throw my arms around him and hold him as tight as I can manage.

"And that, my friend, is what makes you a better man than John Hoynes," I whisper.

Josh reaches out and gently runs his hand over my hair, expressing all that love we don't talk about.  "Don't think I'm not tempted," he says.

"That's the point.  Everybody's tempted.  Not everyone gives in."  I kiss his forehead.  "Now can we please get some sleep?"

Josh doesn't protest as I pull him down on to the pillow next to me.  His arms wind more tightly around me.  After a few minutes, his tone low and raspy, he asks, "We can't talk more about my fantasies?"  His thumb strokes my ribcage and I shiver a little, not because of the cold.  "'Cause you might enjoy them."

Looking up at him, I grin.  "Get a vice president confirmed, and maybe we'll talk."

He falls asleep soon after that, but it I stay awake for quite a while.  Because I can't forget the look on his face when I asked about classified material.  Something else is bothering him; something even more serious than Hoynes' resignation.

And what will happen if his depression over that is more than I can handle?

THE END

10.18.03