I stand in the doorway for a moment, savoring how very normal this all looks.  Because today has been anything but a normal day in the West Wing.  And it just got worse.

"Josh?"

Despite his previous concentration, he looks up the instant I call his name.  "Have they found her?"  The tremor in his voice is so slight I doubt anyone else would notice it, but I raise my eyebrow anyway.  He nods in reply and takes a deep, calming breath.

"There's no news about Zoey," I tell him, as I step into the office and close the door.  "But Danny just posted this, and I knew you'd want to see it."

He barely glances at the headline before setting the story aside.  "Yeah, thanks."  He nods toward another stack of papers.  "I'm going to need any statements you can find on these guys' positions--"

"Is it true?"  All day long, we've been speaking in hushed tones, and my normal tone of voice suddenly sounds strident.  "What Danny wrote here -- did it really happen?"

"We're not commenting," Josh replies.  "It's important you tell the staff that.  Absolutely no comments to the press.  Don't even begin to speculate about whether Zoey…"  He shuts his eyes for a second and rubs his palm over his forehead, as though he's trying to erase the images his brain is conjuring.  "Just make sure everyone knows that, okay?"

Josh is neither surprised nor outraged by Danny's story, and that stuns me as much as a physical blow would. E ven though I try to hide my emotions, the "okay" I utter sounds more like a gasp than a reply.

Everything Danny wrote is true.  First rule of dealing with the press:  Don't comment and dig yourself in a deeper hole if the accusations are true.  Second rule of dealing with the press?  Issue denials -- lots of loud, emphatic denials -- if the allegations are false.

We're not issuing denials.

It's true.

President Bartlet ordered a man's death.

My president -- the man whose integrity impressed me so much that I drove from Wisconsin to New Hampshire to campaign for him -- ordered the assassination of another human being.  From everything I've read, Abdul Shareef was a terrible, dangerous man.  The world is probably better off without him.

But still.  This isn't something I would ever have believed President Bartlet capable of.

President Bartlet issued an order, and a man was killed.  I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that. 

*** 

Several hours later, as we leave the White House for the first time since Zoey disappeared, I still don't know what to think.  I have no clue how to react to Josh; I have no idea how everything that's happened since Saturday night affects the two of us.  As we make our way through the crowd that has gathered to stand vigil for Zoey, I realize that Josh and I have not been much comfort to one another today.  These strangers, with their candles and their prayers, provide us with more solace than we've given one another.

Maybe there's some magic formula for handling relationships properly, and I just haven't found it yet.  Lord knows the tactics I'm using just haven't been working.

I've been carefully dividing up my role in Josh's life:  Part of the time, I'm his lover; most of the time, I'm his assistant.  As his assistant, I know there are absolutely things Josh cannot talk to me about.  No questions about the connection between Zoey's kidnapping and the Shareef assassination.  No questions about the Shareef assassination ever.

But as his lover, I need to ask those questions.  I need comfort.  I need to know that the kind, wise, decent man I worked to elect did not set these events in motion by ordering a murder.  Come to think of it, as an assistant, I need to know that too.

Still, there is no way to address those questions openly.  Especially now, after watching these strangers bring their tokens and their prayers for Zoey, anything we could say seems meaningless.  They make me feel petty, these people I don't know.  Zoey's disappearance, the Shareef assassination, the bombing in Turkey -- all these events may have dramatic, horrific consequences for them; yet no one is protesting.  They have simply gathered here to wish Zoey and her parents well.

I want to point out how remarkable that is.  I want Josh to realize that not one of these people is focused on whether we've selected a new vice president or whether Glen Allen Walken seems more presidential than we'd expected.  One look at Josh's face, however, and I know that this is not the time to bring up the extraordinary quality of this vigil.  He looks even more haggard than before.  All his attention is focused on a photo someone has clipped from an old copy of Newsweek and set next to some flowers.  The photo shows a teenaged Zoey on the night her father was first nominated for the presidency.  I can guess what Josh is thinking as he stares at it.  Like me, he is wondering how we went from the hope and idealism we all had that night to this mixture of horror and disillusionment we're feeling now.

I want nothing as much as I want to hold him and promise that everything will be all right.  But we're in public, and I'm not sure I believe it myself, anyway.

So we go back to Josh's place in silence.  I hope that by the time we get there, I'll have found a way to comfort him.

And that he'll understand that I need comforting too.

*** 

Most nights, Josh and I take our time getting undressed.  Our sexual relationship is still new enough that the most mundane acts have an erotic effect on us.  I usually find myself becoming aroused simply watching Josh unbutton his shirt.  That first glimpse of bare skin usually affects me to the point where I have to stop him so I can kiss the base of his throat.  Some days Josh demonstrates his own fascination with my belly button as I'm undressing.  If I've worn long sleeves, he's obsessed with my wrists.

Tonight, however, neither of us pays much attention to the person on the other side of the bed.  Exhaustion is competing with grief and fear and all the other emotions we've been fighting since Zoey disappeared.  Josh has stripped down to his boxers and gotten under the covers by the time I've found the oversized Mets t-shirt I like to sleep in and turned out the lights.

We're uncharacteristically silent.  Words, after the candlelight vigil we saw, seem inadequate and somehow inappropriate.  What we saw and felt there -- the quiet, reverent prayers for Zoey's safety -- is something we want to hold on to.  We can't assure each other that Zoey will come home safely, that President Bartlet will be back in the Oval Office tomorrow, that our world will ever be normal again.

We do communicate, however. I run my hand down Josh's back, feeling his knotted muscles relaxing slightly.  He turns around and cups my cheek with his palm.  I kiss his forehead; he pulls me tighter into his arms.  We don't make love; we simply offer each other these small moments of solace until we fall asleep in one another's arms. 

* * * 

Ninety minutes later, I'm awakened by the sound of running water.

I get up and crack open the bathroom door.  Josh, as I suspected, is in the shower.  I remember this behavior from the last weeks of his confinement after the shooting.  He maintained then that his inability to get a full night's sleep was due to having spent far too much of his summer confined to a hospital bed.  I pretended to believe him, but I wondered whether the purpose of those late-night showers was really to cleanse his mind of its fears.  Four years ago, I couldn't walk into the bathroom and put that question to him directly.  I still can't. Josh does not respond well to direct questions about his frame of mind.

What I do instead is open the door wider and call his name.

A few seconds pass, during which I imagine him debating what to do next.  If he pretends he hasn't heard me, will I go away?  If he acknowledges my presence, will I start prying into things he isn't ready to discuss?  Finally, he turns the water off and pulls the shower curtain back enough so that I can see his face.  His hair is soaking wet and plastered to his head.  His eyes have that sunken, hollow quality that I associate with too little sleep and too much worry.

"Is there any news?" he asks, and I can hear the apprehension in his voice.

"No," I answer.  "I just woke up when I heard you in here."  Having successfully lobbed the ball back to his side of the court, I wait for his reply.

"I thought I'd get dressed and go back to the office.  In case Leo needs me."

"Leo clearly told you to go home and get some rest."

Josh pulls back the shower curtain and steps out of the tub, grabbing a towel and knotting it tightly around his waist.

"You think Leo's resting right now?" he asks me.  "You think the President…"  His voice trails off, and he looks away from me.  But I know why he can't bring himself to complete that thought.  He can't think about what the President is doing right now because once he starts thinking about that, he'll start thinking about other things.  He'll start thinking about what might be happening to Zoey right now, and that is the one thing none of us has been able to deal with.  We've talked about amendments and Republicans and political ramifications, but we've tried our best to stay away from the fact that someone we care about is suffering.

When he looks back at me, I can see the pain he's tried to hide all these hours etched into every line on his face.  It's there in the way his shoulders, still damp from the shower, sag from trying to hold the world together for Leo and the President through all this.  I'd do anything to make that pain vanish.

I know it's wrong of me to feel this way, but how can his attention be so focused on the job that he can't see my own pain?  I don't have the kind of responsibility he does, but I'm still involved in this.  I spent dozens of hours on a campaign bus five years ago, getting to know Zoey better than I know my own sister.  Back then, Zoey was a bright, funny teenager who was half in love with Josh; she and I bonded over our mutual dislike of Mandy Hampton.  She watched me fall apart in the hospital when Josh got out of surgery; she helped Margaret and me pick out burial clothes for Mrs. Landingham.

She's not some abstraction -- "the First Daughter."  She's someone I care about, and I'm scared that she may die.  That she may already be dead.  And that somehow, by helping elect Jed Bartlet, we may all have been implicated in her death.

So, as selfish as it is of me, I want Josh to comfort me.  I am suddenly so weary of being the caretaker in this relationship.  I know that's wrong; I'm picking the absolute worst time to fixate on this, but there it is.

If Josh is at all aware of how I feel, he doesn't show it.  He simply walks past me into the bedroom and starts looking for his clothes.  I follow behind him, just like at work.  Because no matter how much I'm hurting, this is the easy role -- nurturer, caretaker, faithful assistant.  I know my lines here.  It's still easier being his assistant than being his lover.

"What do you think you can do at this hour?" I ask as I rummage through his dresser, looking for his t-shirts.  I toss one at him, then turn back to find a clean pair of boxers.  "It's not like Congress is open for business."

"You think there's a Democrat in this town who's not hoping I'll call?"

Josh is falling back on the familiar roles tonight too.  When he turns to face me, his political mask is back in place.  Under any other circumstances, I'd be amused (not to mention aroused) at the sight of him.  All he's wearing is an old black t-shirt and a towel; his hair is still damp from the shower; those dark circles around his eyes are the result of worry and fatigue.  But, by God, he's determined to bend Congress to his will, and you can tell that from the way he's thrown his shoulders back and from the way he's narrowed his eyes.  If the Acting President of the United States himself walked in this room right now, Josh would face him down without the least embarrassment.

I know it's easier for Josh this way.  It's easier when he pretends that all he has to do is concentrate on a political problem, but I can't let it go.  I dig around in his closet, looking for his slacks while he puts on the boxers I tossed him, and I try to bring the conversation back around to Zoey.  "Maybe tonight people are waiting for another kind of call," I point out.

I sit down and watch as he finishes dressing.  "I need to get another thirty names off the list before I show it to Leo," he says finally.  I'm disappointed, though not surprised, that we're talking about politics.  "I should go back to the office."

"The files are in your backpack.  We can at least stay here and work."

He shakes his head.  "You go back to sleep."

Not that long ago, I was bragging about how I "get" Josh.  Now I'm bewildered.  Is he telling me to rest because he's concerned about my welfare, or does he just need time alone?  I can't figure him out.

What I do know is that I don't want to be alone.  So I make one final, half-hearted attempt to tell him how I feel.  "Josh," I begin.

He's halfway out the door when he waves a hand dismissively in my direction and deliberately misinterprets what I'm about to say.  "You don't need to come with me.  Just get some rest."

With that, he leaves me sitting in the dark, brooding about covert assassinations and Zoey's fate.

* * * 

I can't sleep.

I've tried for the last hour, but it's no use.  Too many disturbing questions keep running through my head.  Too many horrifying images haunt me every time I close my eyes.

I'm surprised to find Josh in the living room, reading more files about the vice presidential candidates.  In deference to my announcement that I wanted to sleep, he's kept the television off and the lights down.

"You're going to ruin your eyes."

Josh cranes his neck around so that he can see me standing behind the sofa.  My hair is undoubtedly a mess from the way I was tossing and turning in his bed, and the t-shirt I'm wearing is about three sizes too big.  The sight must amuse him; a hint of a smile plays around the corners of his mouth.

"I thought you were sleeping," he says.

"I thought you were at the office," I reply, moving to take a seat next to him on the sofa.

"I already had the files here.  I figured I might as well stay."  He shrugs.  "Besides, their coffee's probably cold."

In other words, he thought he'd stay and keep watch while I slept.  He has this compulsive need to watch over the people he loves; now that someone he cares about is missing, his protective streak has taken on an almost superstitious quality.

I lean back and close my eyes.  "You can turn the TV on.  We should see if there's any news about Zoey."

"They'll page me if there is."  Translation:  He doesn't want to turn on the television and see more old footage of Zoey or listen to some news anchor speculate about what may be happening to her.  Opening my eyes, I try to give him a reassuring smile, but I doubt I'm very convincing.  I lean into him, hoping my presence at least will ease the pain I know he's feeling.

A copy of the Post is lying on the coffee table, partially obscured by Josh's coffee cup.  I can only read part of the headline -- "Shareef assassination."  I can feel Josh's body tense as he realizes what I'm looking at.

"Will there be another set of hearings?" I ask, trying to keep the dread out of my voice.  Another round of preparing documents and giving testimony.  Lord knows I am not up for that, especially considering what happened last time.

"I don't know," Josh says.  He sounds weary; clearly, he's been going over all the possibilities far longer than I've known about this.  Just as clearly, he hasn't come up with an answer, and it frustrates him.  "I suppose it will depend on…"  He pauses, trying to find a way not to mention Zoey's name.  He's been doing that, I've noticed.  He's tried not to say her name if he could help it.  Even at the vigil, he couldn't say it.  I think he fears that if he uses her name, somehow he'll jinx her.  If he gives voice to the fact that it's Zoey who is missing, he'll be responsible for our never seeing her again.  He takes a breath and starts again.  "What happens in the next few days will determine the public's mood.  If President Bartlet loses the public's sympathy, then, yes, Congress might decide to take action against him."

"Aren't there…"  I don't know how to word my next question.  The things I need to know for my own peace of mind aren't necessarily the things I'm allowed to know as a member of the White House staff.  It's ironic, because I'm sure couples all over the country have been having variations of this conversation ever since Danny's story broke.  I try to be as neutral as possible, phrasing the question the way I might if we were any two other people discussing current events.  "Aren't there international complications?  Isn't The Hague…"

Josh is up and pacing before I can finish the question.  "Christ, Donna, if I don't know what the United States Congress is planning to do about this, I sure as hell can't tell you what they're thinking in the Netherlands."

"I'm just asking--"

He comes to a sudden halt three feet in front of me, his expression accusing.  "What did the Deputy Chief of Staff know and when did he know it?  Is that what you're asking me?"

"No.  Absolutely not."  I look him squarely in the eye, trying to relay the fact that I have faith in him.

For a moment, everything's quiet as Josh stares back at me.  It's that appraising stare he turns on his political opponents when he wants to figure out their motivation.  I assume I pass the examination, because he finally replies, "I didn't know until long after it happened, I can tell you that much."

"I never thought you did," I assure him.  "You wouldn't be part of something like that."

"But Leo and the President would?"  His tone is sharp and accusing.  After all, disloyalty to Leo or President Bartlet is the one thing he can't tolerate.

"I didn't say--"

"You didn't have to."  He waves a hand in my direction.  "You just sit there with the wide-eyed farm girl looks, like you're horrified that we could have done such a thing."

"I am horrified," I insist.  I stand up, trying to emphasize my point.  "It's murder.  You can justify it any way you want, but it's still killing another human being."

"Abdul Shareef barely qualified as human."

"I don't think you and I are allowed to make that judgment."

"Why?"  Josh starts pacing again, each step taking him that much farther from me.  "Do you think that he harbored warm, fuzzy feelings for any of us?  I've heard you and CJ talk about the Qumari government enough to know that you understand what happens to women over there."

"Yes." I nod.  "It's awful, and it has to be stopped.  But can that really justify--"

"And believe me when I tell you that Abdul Shareef wouldn't have been too fond of Toby or me."

"Point taken.  But still--"

"This is a man who wanted to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge, Donna.  If that's not a clear and present danger to the American people, what is?  Doesn't the President have a responsibility to protect us from that?"

"Yes, but aren't there other ways to do that?  If we had all this evidence against Shareef, why didn't we make that public?  Why didn't we send him to The Hague?  Why didn't we do something besides this?"

Josh shrugs, as though the answer is so obvious that he shouldn't have to say it out loud.  Yet from the haunted look in his eyes, I'm not sure whether even he believes his answer.  "Because this was the most effective way of dealing with the kind of threat Abdul Shareef presented."

"Tell that to Zoey."

He doesn't say anything for a minute, and I can see his emotions reflected so clearly on his face.  I'm one of the few people he would be this unguarded with, and I know I should take that as a compliment.  But I have my own doubts and fears tonight, and I need someone to assure me that the world makes sense and that Zoey will be all right.  Josh's blind loyalty to Leo and the President isn't providing me with any of that.

"We still don't know for sure that the two events are related," he says.

That remark is so far from what I needed to hear that I have to laugh.  "If they're not related, it's one hell of a coincidence."

"It had to be done, Donna."  He sounds as if he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to win my agreement, and I find myself falling back into the role of his comforter.  I move over to where he's standing and put my arm around him.

"I want to agree with you," I reply.  "I really do.  But killing someone -- that's not what we're supposed to be doing.  We're supposed to be better than that."

He pulls away from me and leans against the wall.  "Welcome to the real world," he says in a bitter tone of voice.  "Do you think Jed Bartlet's the only president with the blood of a foreign leader on his hands?  Come on, Donna.  You know better."

"I thought we were different," I say, blinking rapidly so Josh won't see the tears welling up in my eyes.  "I thought President Bartlet was different.  That's why I voted for him."

The smallest hint of a smile plays around the corners of Josh's mouth.  "Technically, you voted for Ritchie."

I'm not in the mood to be amused because he thinks I'm cute when I'm ditzy.  "I might have voted for Ritchie intentionally if I'd known about the Shareef assassination."

If the stunned look on his face is anything to go by, I've succeeded in shocking Josh.  "You don't mean that," he insists.

"Probably not," I admit.  "But my point is that this isn't something I thought President Bartlet was capable of.  This isn't the man I thought I knew.  It scares me."

It's the first time since Zoey disappeared that either of us has admitted to being frightened.  I'm hoping Josh will take this as an opportunity to confess his own fears to me.  Hell, he can play the manly man and simply try to comfort me.  For once, I won't tell him what an idiot he looks like when he tries to be macho.  He doesn't do any of that, however.  He stays on his side of the room and answers me with a simple "It had to be done."

"Why?" I ask.  "Is the world safer now?  Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me there are no terrorists left in Qumar?  Do you believe that killing one man solved all our problems?"

"Maybe not solved, but--"

I hold up my hand to stop him from launching into another defense of the President.

"I want to believe that the President did the right thing, Josh.  But you've had longer to process this than I have.  I just need some time to work through it all."

Josh nods, and we stand on our opposite sides of the room, looking everywhere but at each other.  It gradually occurs to me that there is no comfort for either one of us here.  Just as Josh will never admit that Leo and the President could be wrong, he won't admit that he's afraid that this one bad decision could cost Zoey her life.  As long as he can't give in to his own pain, he can't help me through mine.  It's almost a relief when Josh breaks the silence to announce that he's going back to the White House.  Going back to work is absolutely the best thing he can do right now.  If he's in the West Wing, even a West Wing that's been invaded by Republicans, he'll have a sense that he's accomplishing something.  That's as much comfort as Josh can find tonight, I suppose.  Certainly it's more comfort than I can give him.

After he leaves, I spend an hour or so watching the news.  Amid the speculation about who kidnapped Zoey, whether she's still alive and what we will do if she's dead, there's a brief report about the vigil.  Even the anchors are impressed by what's happening outside the White House.  The footage of people gathering together, lighting candles and leaving letters and flowers for Zoey, reminds me of the one moment tonight when I felt at peace.  Just as Josh needs to be in the White House, I realize, I need to be standing with the people outside the gates.  Maybe they can give me the solace I couldn't find with Josh.

THE END

11.29.03