I should've known it was going to be a day when I waltzed into the office at 7:15 and CJ was already in her office singing along with k.d. lang.

Why should this have tipped me off, you wonder?  CJ only breaks out the lesbian country artists when she's feeling particularly overtired.  And stressed.  And just about ready to kill the next male who wanders unsuspectingly past.

I wisely head straight for my office to devise a strategy that involves avoiding CJ until at least lunchtime.  Donna greets me with a cheerful grin.  "What's wrong with CJ?"

"Good morning, Donna."

She takes a long, rapturous swig from her Starbucks cup, then says, "And a bright and happy good morning to you too, Josh.  I'm Down to My Last Cigarette?"

I give her a puzzled look.  "Since when do you smoke?"

Donna laughs.  "It's the name of the song, Josh.  The one CJ's had on repeat since I got here."

I drop into my chair and rub a hand over my face.  "Oh, God."

"Exactly."  Donna perches on the edge of the visitor's chair and I can smell her coffee.  I am experiencing homicidal urges.

"What happened?"  I mean, really.  I've only been out of the office for eight hours.  Ten tops.  The country couldn't have turned sour quite that fast.

With a guileless grin, Donna rises and shrugs.  "Hell if I know."

"Donna!"

She pauses at the door.  "What?"

"Aren't you supposed to be, you know..."  I wave a hand around in the air.  I'm not quite up to my usual witty repartee before my first cup of coffee.  Which Donna, of course, refuses to bring me out of some strange, misguided fit of feminism, even though she stops by Starbucks almost every morning and I've repeatedly offered to buy us both coffee if only she'd transport it here.  But no, that's apparently -- What was I saying?  "Research Girl?"

And there's that look she's perfected over three years.  The "Josh, you are the biggest dolt alive and I can't imagine where this alleged intellect about which you brag incessantly could have possibly gone" look.  "You want me to write you a memo on CJ's bad mood?"

I roll my eyes.  "I'm saying that perhaps CJ's bad mood was precipitated by a political action perpetrated by someone we routinely anger, slight, or otherwise aggravate, and on the off chance that my political expertise could--"

"All right, Josh," Donna sighs.  "Stop talking now."

Donna and her coffee cup too disappear across the bullpen in the direction of CJ's office.  Well, that was a nice bit of deputizing I did just there.  Not only did I farm out an unpleasant assignment, but I bought myself five minutes or so without a schedule.  Because my motto is:  If Donna hasn't gone over it with me, it doesn't exist.

So I head almost cheerfully to the old, sometimes petulant coffeemaker in the bullpen.  It appears no one has bothered to brew coffee this morning, since they all seem to be addicted to Starbucks' frappuccinos.  I swear those things are like crack for the majority of the White House staff.  There should really be some sort of governmental study on the--

"Josh!"

When I regain the power of speech, I forcibly relax my shoulders and turn slowly.  "Donna?"

Her lips press together in a valiant attempt to hide her amusement.  "Too loud?" she asks, a note of laughter in her tone.

"Also strident."  My gaze catches on the green mermaid taunting me from her cup.

And there she goes with the hand on her hip.  The hand without the coffee cup, of course . "That was not a strident tone, Josh!  If you want to hear strident, you should go talk to CJ about the water thing."

I struggle with the can of coffee grounds for a moment before dumping a good amount into the filter and shoving it in place.  Damn.  No water.  With a glance over at Donna, I take the empty coffeepot and head for the small kitchen-type area next to my office.  "The water thing?"

"Yes," Donna says, falling into step with me.  "She thinks we should just invade Canada and then push through some legislation--"

"Donna?" I interrupt, stuffing the pot under the faucet.  "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The water thing," she says, as if that should explain everything.

I stare at her pointedly.

"Oh," she says.  "You don't know what the water thing is, do you?"

"Quick study," I comment, heading back towards the coffeemaker with the now full pot.

"Blue gold."

I glance over at her.  "Are we going to toss back two word sentences all day, or--"

"Phrases."

"Donna," I sigh, pouring the water into the coffeemaker and jabbing at the button a few times to get the ball rolling.

"Neither of those were sentences, is all I'm saying."

"Donna, can we please talk about the water thing."  I'm staring at the coffee as it ever so slowly starts to brew, willing it to move faster.  I need caffeine; Donna's making me dizzy.

"Blue gold," she repeats.  "Which, I should point out, doesn't have a verb and therefore can't--"

"Donna!"

She gives me a completely unrepentant look.  "Sorry."

"Yeah, right."

"Blue gold," Donna says again, "is a reference to water."

I bang my head into the wall a couple times.  "Could you please stop talking in circles?"

"Drinking water," Donna clarifies.  "Less than one half of one percent of all the water on the globe is potable."

I blink a couple of times.  "Okay.  And this has what to do with Canada and lesbian country artists?"

"Canada has about twenty percent of the world's potable water," she answers promptly, taking another sip of her coffee.  I glare at her and she smiles.  "Sun Belt Water is trying to broker a deal to privatize water to sell it to the highest bidder."

I can feel my forehead wrinkling, but I can't seem to control it.  "Privatize water?  Isn't that like privatizing air?"

Donna shrugs.  "Well, you'd think.  There's also a tie-in to NAFTA--"

I hold up a hand.  "No.  Please don't tell me about NAFTA at 7:23 in the morning when I've yet to have even a drop of coffee."

She gives me a sympathetic look.  "Bullet points in an hour?"

"Whatever."

Turns out, I never get to hear Donna's blue gold bullet points, because USAS stormed the president's office.

***

"Josh!"

"Why must everyone shout my name as if I'm a recalcitrant seven year old?" I inquire of the blackboard staring at me from the wall.  "Granted, sometimes I do a damn good impression of a recalcitrant seven year old, but I think lately I've been--"

"Joshua Lyman, get your ass in here!"

I lean a bit to the right and peer out the door.  Well, I see CJ's mood has improved.  She's standing in the doorway to her office, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.  All that's missing is a little black raincloud hovering above her head.

I stand, calmly, and walk past Donna's desk -- ignoring her horrified look -- towards CJ's office.  "You caterwauled?"

She barely spares me a glance, her gaze shifting between all four television sets, and occasionally down to the notebook she has clutched in one hand.  "USAS is occupying the president's office."

My eyes must go very, very wide, because when CJ looks at me, she starts laughing.  "Not President Bartlet, Josh."

I take a breath.  "Okay."

"Elwood Shenkman, President of Georgetown University," CJ clarifies.

"Okay," I repeat, waiting for the punchline.

"It's a sit-in."  She pauses, squinting at ABC.  "Something like twenty-five students."

I nod slowly.  "Good for them.  Why are you telling me this?"

CJ purses her lips and waits for me to figure it out.

"No," I say, shaking my head.  "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Would that it were so, Josh," CJ sighs.

"Zoey?"

"Yes."

"Zoey Bartlet?"

"Yes."

"Zoey Bartlet stormed the President of Georgetown's office to participate in a sit-in?"

CJ nods.  "Yes."

I drop onto her couch and slump over, resting my head in my hands.  "This day is never going to end, is it?"

"Probably not," CJ answers grimly.

***

"A sit in?" Leo repeats incredulously.

CJ nods.  "Yes."

Leo looks to me, apparently too shocked to believe this from just one source.  I give him a helpless shrug, and he closes his eyes for a moment, then pins CJ with a glare.  "And we know she's there?"

"Yes."

Impatient, Leo demands, "And we know this how?"

CJ tilts her head a little bit in that way she has when she's deciding on the best way to present unpalatable truths.  She clears her throat.  "Well, just before she joined up with her..."

"Fellow protestors?" I offer.

"Fellow protestors, yes," CJ says with a grateful look.  "Just before she left, she sent me an email."

Leo stares at her for a moment, slumped back in his chair.  "She sent an email?"

"Yes."

"What did it say?"

CJ pulls out a piece of paper and reads, "'I'm sorry to have given you such short notice, but I am leaving momentarily to join other members of USAS to occupy President Shenkman's office until he agrees to--'"  CJ glances up, "I'll skip that part.  She makes a very good case for USAS, and then she says, 'I didn't tell you earlier, because I didn't want you to have to tell my father.  I didn't want my parents to have a chance to try to talk me out of this, because they probably would have succeeded.  I don't like disobeying them, and they probably won't approve of this, but it's an issue about which I feel strongly.  I hope you all understand that I'm not trying to use the press to my advantage.  In fact, if all goes well, the press will never know that I was involved.  I'll email you again when I can,'" CJ finishes and looks up.

Leo's forehead wrinkles.  "How is she going to email again?  Are they going to co-opt the President's computer?"

"Apparently," I explain, "some of the protestors have laptops with them.  You know, so they can update their site."

Leo's irritated gaze swings over to me.  "Well, they certainly are twenty-first century protestors, aren't they?"

CJ and I exchange looks.  "Leo," she says, "I think it's important to remember that Zoey's doing nothing to alert the press to her presence.  She's not trying to use her celebrity here, she's doing the same as 24 other kids."

"Those 24 other kids aren't related to the leader of the free world."  Leo taps one hand impatiently on his leg.  "We've got to tell the President."

"And Dr. Bartlet," I add.

Leo's eyes narrow.  "Why the First Lady?"

"The cause," CJ answers reluctantly.

Leo groans.  "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this next part?  Just tell me it's not some crazy-ass Republican issue, like tax cuts for the rich or--"

"United Students Against Sweatshops," CJ interrupts before Leo can work himself up into an even bigger snit.

Leo gives us a pained look, then yells, "Margaret!"

***

Toby glares at us from behind his desk.  "Leo's telling him now?"

"Yes," I answer.

"The building hasn't come crashing down around our heads, yet, so I'm guessing the President hasn't actually been told quite yet," CJ observes.

Toby stares at his desk for a moment.  "People really still do sit-ins?"

"Apparently."

With a sniff, Toby says, "They're probably doing them wrong.  Disorganized, like the rest of the amateurs."

CJ rolls her eyes.  "They brought a dustbuster to clean up after themselves, Toby.  They're not disorganized."

Toby ignores her comment, asking, "And they're protesting sweatshops where?  In Asia?"

I defer to CJ, because really, I don't deal with foreign relations.

With a tired nod, CJ answers, "Yeah.  The name brands over here -- Nike, Reebok, etc. -- they're getting exclusive contracts with colleges around the country to produce branded material for the school.  And then--"

"They subcontract the work to some hellhole in Malaysia," Toby finishes.  "Perfect."

"Right," CJ answers.  "We need someone to go talk to Zoey."

I shake my head a little.  "No, we don't."

"Yes, we do, Josh," Toby argues.  "We can't let this go."

"Why not?  She's an adult, Toby, it's not like we can order her back to her dungeon." I point out.

CJ shifts beside me, one hand massaging her temples.  "No, but the President can."

"You don't think he'd actually--?"

"I don't know, Josh," CJ answers, exasperated.  "But if he does and she won't leave...  This could get ugly."

"Since when is Zoey in USAS?" Toby wonders.

"Zoey's in USAS?" Sam asks from the doorway.  I turn to look at him and he's grinning proudly.  "Good for her!"

Toby glowers.  "Zoey and her fellow USAS-ers have occupied the office of the President of Georgetown."

Sam's smile falters.  "Oh."

"Yes."

Sam ponders that for a moment, then says, "Well, at least she'll be in the papers for protesting human rights abuses instead of, I don't know, underage drinking or something."

Toby groans.  "This can't be in the papers, Sam, is my point."

I raise a hand.  "Has everyone forgotten that the Bartlet Administration is actually against sweatshops?  It's not like Zoey's protesting something that we support."

Sam nods.  "Right, and if it's something she believes in, surely the President--"

"Sam," CJ interrupts, "the President can't officially be involved in a dispute at Georgetown, but if this becomes a story, China's going to hear about it, and it's not like they're overly fond of us to begin with.  Nike and Reebok are going to hear about it and stop contributing to the DNC.  This is actually a thing."

I shrug.  "I still say to let it go.  If she's forced to leave on her father's orders, that'll be an even bigger story.  'Bartlet Kowtows to Corporate America.'"

CJ waves off my conjecture.  "We need to talk to Zoey.  And obviously, none of us can go anywhere near Georgetown."

"Right," Sam nods.  "Why don't we send Donna?"

I swivel around to face him.  "What?"

"Donna Moss," he answers, smiling.  "She looks like a student.  She hasn't been in the news lately, and Zoey trusts her."

CJ nods.  "Besides which, all she really has to do is get in there and hand Zoey a cellphone."

I open my mouth to protest further, but Toby cuts me off, yelling, "Ginger, get Donna in here."

***

"Zoey Bartlet is exercising her freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, and more importantly, she's standing up against human rights abuses supported by American companies, which is more than I can say for the majority of Congress." CJ pauses, awaiting questions.

"Hell, no."  Toby shakes his head, still glaring at her sullenly from behind his desk.  Sam, CJ, and I are gathered on the couch and the armchairs, but Toby has set himself apart.

"I like it," I argue.  "Strong, firm, and a backhand at corporate-owned Congresspersons."

"Exactly," Toby turns his glare on me.  "We smackdown Congress and corporate America in one fell swoop, our re-election bid, which is already shaky at best, is going to be incredibly underfunded."

Sam frowns.  "I don't think that's true.  Besides, there are lots of special interest groups who would be ecstatic if we came out against corporate greed."

Toby growls.  "Yes, because backing from the environmental lobby is really going to win us re-election."

"Regardless," CJ interjects, "that's not the issue.  Zoey's right.  What's more, we agree with her.  Why not use this--?"

"Because," Toby bellows, "the President can't look like he's following his twenty year old daughter's lead!"

"Why not?" asks a familiar voice.

All four of us leap to our feet, stammering variations of "Good morning, Mr. President."

He nods at us, hands in his pockets, and takes a couple of steps into Toby's office.  "Morning.  Now why can't we support Zoey?"

"We can," CJ and I answer in unison.

"Because it'll look--"  Toby stops, then gives the President an apologetic shrug.  "Weak."

The President's mouth quirks upward at the corners, his eyes crinkling around the edges.  "Taking a stand against human rights abuses in Asia will look weak?" he asks in that singsong, "see how stupid you're being?" voice he does so annoyingly well.

Sam gestures at Toby.  "I think Toby means that if we make a statement now, after Zoey stormed--"  It's his turn to stop abruptly at the look on the President's face.

"Occupied," CJ supplies.

Sam bobs his head up and down a few times.  "After she occupied the president's office, that's the part that would look weak."

"I have a question," President Bartlet informs us.

"Of course, sir," CJ answers with a glance at me.  I shrug almost imperceptibly.

"Is my radical anti-human-rights-abuses stand a matter of public record?"

Toby rolls his eyes.

CJ grins.  "Yes, sir.  You sent the Saipan bill to Congress, and you renewed sanctions against several countries who allow sweatshops and institutionalized indentured servitude."

Toby shifts his weight, one hand coming up to emphasize his point.  "Mr. President, we can't very well have CJ get up there and list your human rights résumé before pledging your support for Zoey's actions.  The President of the United States cannot have an official stance on a dispute between the students and the administration of a private university."

President Bartlet glances over at me.

I shrug and admit, "Toby's right, sir.  You can't officially take sides."  I tilt my head towards CJ.  "But you've got a hell of a press secretary, sir.  I say you send CJ up there to explicitly state that this administration will not comment on the situation at Georgetown.  There will be questions, and CJ can list the Saipan bill and the sanctions to show that the position of USAS and Zoey is one shared by the White House."

Sam's nodding again.  "They'll ask, 'Are you saying that the President supports his daughter's actions?'"

CJ plays along.  "The White House does not comment on the personal lives of President Bartlet's children.  Furthermore, the Bartlet Administration does not officially favor either side of this struggle."

Behind his desk, Toby drops into his chair.

"Officially?" I jump in, grinning.  "Are you saying that the President unofficially supports Zoey?"

"I'm saying that although President Bartlet doesn't have a position on this, it's probably a safe bet that Josiah Bartlet does.  And given his record on the issue, it's fairly easy to discern which side of the issue he'd support."

"And then she ends the gaggle," I say, turning back to the President.

He watches us for a moment, considering.  Then he grins.  "Let's do it."

***

"Josh?"

I snap out of my daze and meet the President's expectant look.  "Yes?"

He's amused.  I can tell by the way he leans back a little in his wingback chair, glancing around the Oval for a moment before settling his gaze back on me.  "Your thoughts on this?"

Shit.

So help me God, I've lost the thread of the conversation entirely.  It's been nearly two hours since Donna left for Georgetown, and she still hasn't called.  I've been tossing around the more dreadful possibilities for the past half-hour, irrational thoughts of tear gas and riot-geared police flitting through my mind, and I no longer have any idea where the conversation went.  I stare at the president, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

Then Charlie knocks softly and saves me.  "Excuse me, sir," he says.  Then he looks over at me.  "Josh, Donna's on the line for you."

I glance back at the President, who rolls his eyes and dismisses me.  I follow Charlie out, taking the call at his desk.

"Donna?"

"Josh, I'm in."

"What the hell took you so long?"

"'Why thank you, Donna, for doing this favor for me and the rest of the Bartlet Administration.  I'm sure you made your way there as quickly as possible given the traffic, the impossible parking situation, and the growing crowd outside--'"

"Yeah, yeah," I interrupt.  "Where's Zoey?"

"She's here with me.  Listen, Josh--"

"Excellent.  Can I talk to her?"

"In a second. Josh, I'm going to stay here."

I blink at the wall.  Stay there?  What the hell is she talking about?  "Excuse me?"

Donna answers in a rush.  "Well, they explained their position and I absolutely agree with them, and since you do too I figured you'd understand.  And don't worry, I made a few phone calls to confirm the details of Georgetown's current contract with Nike and the sweatshop conditions in--"

"Donna!" I yell.  "Get your ass back here!"  Charlie gives me a warning look and I nod, turning away from him.

"Josh," Donna says, and I can tell she's pouting from her tone, "that's not very nice."

"I need you here.  And anyway, don't you have to be a student to participate?"  She's silent for a moment, and I suddenly can't breathe.  "Donna?"

"I was going to tell you, Josh.  It's just one class per semester.  At night, so it shouldn't inconvenience you too much.  I was hoping I'd be able to earn my degree by the time President Bartlet leaves office."

She pauses, obviously awaiting a response, but I'm having difficulty soothing my instinctual panic when I realized she might be leaving me.  Leaving my office, I mean.  My employ.

"Josh?"

"Yeah," I manage.  "No, that's--"  I clear my throat.  "That's great, Donna."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"So you don't mind if I stay here--?"

"Donna, you work at the White House.  You know what would be worse than Zoey's participation getting to the press?"

"A White House employee participating in a sit-in at Georgetown?" she guesses, her tone dejected.

"Thank you.  When will you be back?"

"Soon," she answers.  "Hey, Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"You support USAS, right?  I mean, you agree with what they're doing?"

I can feel my forehead wrinkling again. "Yes.  Of course.  Why?"

"No reason," she says quickly.  "Did you want to talk to Zoey?"

"Yeah, the President does.  But Donna--"

"'Kay, see you in a bit, Josh," she interrupts quickly, then hands the phone off to Zoey.

"Josh?"

"Hey, kid," I answer.  "You're hanging out with the campus radical set nowadays?"

I can tell she's grinning from the tone of her voice.  "Well, our cause is a bit more noble than your infamous Right to Party Drink-a-Thon, Josh, but--"

"Hey!" I protest.  I can hear Donna snickering in the background.  "I told you that in the strictest confidence."

"And I'm sure my father would thank you for sharing drunken frat boy stories with his impressionable, sixteen-year old daughter."

"You're twenty," I point out.

"I wasn't then," she answers.  "Shall I tell him about the time you--"

"Zoey Bartlet," I interrupt, laughing, "you are becoming quite the political operative."

"I learned from the best," she answers in a syrupy voice.

"Now you're just trying to butter me up."

"I was referring to Leo," she answers, giggling.

I turn around to catch Charlie's eye, nodding towards the Oval Office.  He smiles and starts in there to alert the President to his daughter's call.

"See if I do you any favors ever again," I answer Zoey.  "Your dad's going to want to talk to you, and probably CJ."

"Fine," she says evenly.  "Oh, and Josh?  Thanks for lunch."

"Sure," I answer automatically.  Then, "Wait -- What?"

Charlie pokes his head out of the Oval Office, gesturing for me to let the President talk to his daughter.  With a half-laugh, half-groan, I obey.

Charlie exits the Oval Office, giving me a questioning look.  "She's okay, right?"

"Yeah," I answer.  "In fact, the protestors are getting a free meal care of Josh Lyman's sterling credit."

Charlie grins at me.  "That was real nice of you, Josh."

I roll my eyes and head for the Oval Office.  "Tell it to Donna."

***

It's been almost 68 hours since Zoey and USAS stormed President Shenkman's office, and things finally may be drawing to a close.  USAS is ecstatic -- according to their website -- that due to Zoey's involvement, their protest made the front page of USA Today.  Zoey, I'm guessing, is not quite as thrilled.  But the last time I talked to her, she seemed to understand that it goes with the territory.  It's hard to be a radical protestor and the President's daughter at the same time.

Donna's been back in the White House since her brief but "life-changing" brush with student activism, and she's taken rather annoyingly to peppering her speech with phrases like, "Fight the power!" and "Free Leonard Peltier."  How she got from anti-sweatshops to political prisoners in Leavenworth, I'm sure I have no idea.

As to the press, CJ got the question only about ten hours into the protest, and she handled it beautifully, implying that the President supported his daughter, supported USAS's demands, but refusing to use language that could anger corporate America or, you know, China.  I'm just so amazed by her sometimes.  Okay, most times.

For their part, the Bartlets have been proudly regaling us with tales of their own days of campus activism.  Which, from what I gather, was mostly on the part of Dr. Bartlet, who was a member of an early women's liberation organization and who marched in support of the ERA.  The President, it seems, was more heavily involved in geeky campus clubs.  The Economics Club, for example.  I'm pretty sure he spent a good hour or so describing in excruciating detail what a meeting of the Economics Club of Notre Dame entailed.  Apparently they considered discussing the downfall of the federal budget as a form of political protest.  Luckily, Donna supplied me with a beer, so my memory of that conversation is thankfully fuzzy.

"Solidarity now!"

I don't bother to look up from the memo on the state of independently owned poultry farms.  "May I help you, Activist Girl?"

"Activist Grrl," she corrects, adding an appropriate amount of growl to her words.  I glance up to find her leaning against a guest chair in my office, smiling.  She's just too adorable sometimes.  Especially when she looks at me like that.  In fact, I'm so entranced by the way her mouth quirks upwards when she's trying not to laugh, that I nearly miss her words.  "CJ's listening to Joan Baez."

I smirk.  "So thanks to you and Zoey, everyone around here is reliving their real or imagined activist days is what you're telling me?"

"I wouldn't make fun, Frat Boy," she counters.

"Hey!" I protest, "we had a genuine beef with Harvard."

Donna rolls her eyes.  "It wasn't Kent State, Josh.  You had a Drink-a-Thon."

"Still," I defend.  Then I gesture towards the bullpen.  "So are people wearing tie-dye under their clothes or what?"

She shrugs, "Well, it's not like Toby's cranking the Phil Ochs or anything, but Sam has been listening to Credence Clearwater Revival."

I laugh outright.  "CCR's hardly protest music."

"For a rich white boy from California, southern rock of the 70s is probably quite radical," she points out, her eyes sparkling with amusement.  "According to Kathy, he even got most of the words to Susie Q right."

"He doesn't know the words to Susie Q?"

"Well, he knows some of them."  Donna leans closer, her hair spilling down almost to the desktop.  She lowers her voice conspiratorially.  "Margaret tells me that Leo's been listening to Woody Guthrie."

"Really?" I ask, laughing.  Leo listening to a 40s-era political dissident just seems absurd.  I figured him more for some good, 1950s jazz.

"Did you know he has a record player in his office?"

"Is it a Victrola?" I smirk.

"Not quite.  But apparently the Woody Guthrie records didn't quite fit in his briefcase, which is how Margaret figured it out."

I can't stop laughing.  It's just absurd.  Protest fever has taken hold of the administration.  Which is good, I guess.  We all need a way to blow off steam during this chaos.

"Oh, good.  You're both here."

Donna jerks away from my desk and turns, as I lurch to my feet.  "Mr. President," I greet, circling the desk to stand next to Donna.

He grins at us.  "Zoey and USAS got Shenkman to sign the contract.  The sit-in is officially over."

Donna beams at him.  "Excellent news, sir!" I nod my agreement.

"In celebration," President Bartlet continues, and I experience dread, "Abbey and I are having you all to dinner tonight.  To celebrate the triumphant return of my activist daughter."

"Chili, sir?" I ask.  Please say no.  Donna elbows me sharply in the ribs.

"No, Josh," he grins.  "Real protest food!"

Donna's mouth drops open.  "Protest food?"

"Trail mix and water?" I guess, smirking.

"Just for that, Josh," the President answers, rocking a bit on his heels, "you're in charge of the entertainment."

"Excuse me?" I sputter.

He regards me for a moment, grinning, then says, "You watch what stories you tell my impressionable daughter, Josh."

I pale.  "I--"

President Bartlet waves a dismissive hand in the air.  "Don't worry about it, Josh.  But I will hold you responsible if Zoey ends up in the papers for attending a -- What was it?"

"A Drink-a-Thon, sir," Donna pipes up from beside me.  It's my turn to elbow her, but she yelps and then glares at me.

"Now, Josh, be nice to your assistant," the President says, a wave of sorrow passing over his features.

I'm fascinated, suddenly, with my shoes.  "Yes, sir."

"Tonight," he repeats, his former cheer dimmed slightly.  "In honor of Zoey and the first political activist I ever met, Delores Landingham."

Beside me, Donna straightens up . "I'd be honored to attend, sir."

President Bartlet flashes us a grin, then turns to leave.  "Nine o'clock."

"Yes, sir," I call after him.

As one, Donna and I settle back against the desk, our shoulders touching.

After a moment, she shifts against me.  "I'm proud of Zoey."

"Me too," I answer absently, my thoughts on more sobering subjects.  "You too."

Donna nudges me.  "I just said that."

"No, I mean I'm, you know..."

Donna looks over at me.  "Are you trying in your typical, Josh fashion to say you're proud of me?" she asks, smiling softly.

I shrug, trying to lighten the moment.  "Don't get all, you know, girlie on me or anything.  Just -- classes at night.  That'll be good for you."

She nods slowly.  "So you're not freaking out anymore?"

"Me?" I ask, turning my head.  Wow, she's really close to me.  I'm mesmerized by her eyes.

"Yeah," she says, her voice sending a thrill of awareness down my spine.  "You."

"No," I answer.  "I'm not freaking out."

"Good," she grins.  "'Cause I'm not going anywhere, Josh."

I swear my face is in serious danger of splitting right in half, what with the ridiculous smile I've got right now.  "Good."

Donna holds my gaze for a moment longer, then pushes away from the desk, pausing to tangle her fingers with mine momentarily.  "I'm going to see if the President needs help organizing the dinner."

"'Kay," I answer, circling my desk and dropping into my chair.  I really don't want to read anything else about chicken-slaughtering techniques.

Then I start laughing, because I can hear Donna as she heads to the Oval Office, shouting protest slogans back and forth with the rest of the bullpen.

"What do we want?"

"Democracy!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

Oh, yeah.  We'll make it through this partisan witch hunt.  And better still, we'll do it with our fighting spirit intact.

I should really make sure I thank Zoey for reminding us what the hell we're doing here in the first place.

THE END

06.06.01