It's almost four, and I'm ready to be at home in bed.  This is unusual, because I am, as Donna likes to point out, an unapologetic workaholic.  I prefer to think of myself as energetic.  Also incredibly intelligent.  Loyal and--

"Josh?"

I jerk my head up to find Zoey Bartlet standing in my doorway with a hesitant smile in place.  "'Sup, Zoey?" I ask, tossing aside the briefing memo on Honduras.  I'm so not the guy for that anyway.  I think Leo's still pissed about the crack I made in staff this morning.  Hey, I thought it was funny.  The White Sox do suck.

"Coffee?" Zoey offers.

I perk up.  "You brought me coffee?"

"No, you dolt," she laughs.  "Do you want to go get some coffee with me?"

I'm momentarily at a loss.  I mean, Zoey hasn't dropped by to bug me for a long time.  Not since--

Oh.

I nod quickly.  "Sure.  Who cares about Honduras, anyway, right?"

"Josh," Zoey admonishes me.  "I'm sure you do, for one.  But why don't you just admit you don't understand the briefing memo and let Donna start on the index cards now?"

"What?" I demand, pushing myself upright with a slight wince when I feel that familiar ache in my lower back.  I've become pretty good at hiding my reaction to the recently acquired chronic pain, but there are some times when it catches me off guard.  Like now.  And I can tell from the look on Zoey's face that she noticed.

Zoey forces a smile, but her voice is a little unsteady when she answers.  "Just admit that Donna does your job better than you do.  I'm sure you'd make a fine assistant."

I can hear Donna's inelegant snort even from inside my office, so I roll my eyes at Zoey and yell, "That was lovely, Donnatella."

"Shut up, Josh," she gamely shouts back.  I reach Zoey where she's been hovering in the doorway and lean past her to meet Donna's gaze.  "Me and the kid are going for coffee.  And just for that, you're not getting any."

Donna's amused gaze flicks to Zoey and she mutters something I don't quite catch.  Beside me, Zoey bursts into laughter, clapping one hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles.

I glare down at her.  "What'd she say?"

Zoey shakes her head.  For her part, Donna just turns placidly back to her work without another word.

"Yeah, Donna, you're definitely not getting any with that attitude," I yell, absently patting my pockets to locate my wallet.

"You know, Josh," CJ says as she passes by at a good clip, "just keep in mind when you make comments like that in public that I'd happily testify for Donna in the sexual harassment suit."

"What?" I yelp.

Zoey just laughs and pulls me by the elbow towards the door.

"Donna--"

"Oh, go away, Josh," she calls after me, smiling at her computer screen.  "I'll have the Honduras thing deciphered by the time you get back."

Gina Toscano falls into step beside us, flashing me a smile accompanied by a nod.

"Hey, Gina," I say.  "What's up?"

"Not a lot," she answers, that familiar piercing look on her face.  I think she still blames herself for That Night.  "How's your back?"

"Fine."  I shrug, because I really hate talking about it.  Then I slide on my sunglasses as Zoey, Gina and I emerge into the wan sunlight.  Zoey glances up at me.  "You're gonna bring Donna--"

"A hazelnut latté.  Yes," I confirm with an exaggerated sigh.

"Good boy," Zoey grins.  She leads the way through the gate and out onto the street, promptly turning the wrong way.

"Uh, Zoey?"

"Yes, Josh?" she asks sweetly with a knowing look to Gina.

"Where are we going?"

"To get coffee."

"By way of Saturn?" I ask, pointing back to the green awning I can see even at this distance.  I have an uncanny knack for locating Starbucks.

"Oh, we're not going to Starbucks," Zoey answers cheerfully.

I stop right there on the sidewalk, and Gina gives me a dirty look.  I don't suppose she's too fond of protecting Zoey in the outdoors anymore.  Zoey doesn't stop, though; she just turns and starts walking backwards.  "Joshua Lyman, get your ass over here.  We're going to support an independent business owner.  Place called The Coffee Urn.  They have heavenly mochas and--"

"Okay, okay," I answer, tossing up my hands in surrender.  Then I hustle to catch up with her, panting a little.  It pisses me off sometimes, the way my body changed after That Night.  Jogging ten feet to catch up with someone shouldn't even cross my radar screen as a potentially painful activity, but now I get a searing pain every once in a while.  And then there's my back.  Also some weakness on my right side.

Zoey hooks her arm through mine.  "Josh, how's Donna doing?"

My brow wrinkles as I consider her question.  "She's fine.  Why?"

"You're not going to send her those obnoxious flowers again this--"

"Zoey!" I protest.  "First, that's none of your business.  Second, I'm a nice person.  Nice people do nice things for other people."

Zoey laughs up at me, then turns and enters The Coffee Urn.  Gina sweeps in just behind her, leaving me outside to take in the simple exterior and plastic lawn furniture gracing the sidewalk.  It appears to be more of a college crowd than your average coffee shop: students huddled in groups of twos and threes, their books spread across the plastic tabletops.

I miss those years when my upcoming history test was the weightiest issue on my mind.  I especially miss the way my body was free of the lingering aftereffects of fourteen hours of surgery.  Not to mention hideous scars.

With a small sigh, I head inside and find Zoey already ordering.  The woman working the counter is young, mid-twenties, maybe, with her hair in these strange little curls all pinned to her head, and she appears to know Zoey.  "And for your friend?" she asks, giving me a skeptical look.

"Josh?" Zoey asks, turning to me.  "What do you want?"

I'm not really supposed to have much caffeine or sugar or all that other stuff that's bad for you.  But I ignore that as always and say, "Just a large coffee.  Do you have any caramel sauce?  Not the syrup, but the actual--"

"Yeah," the girl behind the counter interrupts with a grin.  "We have the sauce, Josh."

I raise an eyebrow at her familiarity, but don't comment. Zoey rolls her eyes, plants her hands squarely on my shoulder blades, and gives me a little push.  "Go get a table."

I look to Gina for some assistance, but she shrugs, leaving it up to me.  I'm not a big fan of the outdoors, especially not since the memories of That Night have started coming back.  I don't think I'll ever remember all of it, but I can recall enough to be wary of being outside.  So I choose a table against the window and drag a third chair over to it, leaving the one facing the door open for Gina.

Zoey and Gina settle in, handing over my coffee.  I take a couple sips and grin.  "Yum."

"Told ya," Zoey gloats, tucking one foot beneath her.  "So how's Leo been, Josh?"

"Leo?" I repeat, somewhat puzzled.  I mean, Leo's practically her godfather; why's she asking me?  "Leo's fine.  He's... Leo," I finish lamely.

Zoey laughs, choking a bit on a sip of coffee, then glares at me.  "Don't say stupid stuff when I'm drinking, okay?  I don't think my dad would be too pleased if you killed me--"  She breaks off, suddenly pale.

I am at a loss.  Zoey is a joker.  Facetious comments like that are her trademark, a trait she picked up from her father.  Well, from both of her parents, actually.  It's quite a witty family.  But I don't know what to make of her when she's cutting her jokes off and looking all scared.

Gina gives me a small smile, picks up her coffee, and says, "I'm just going to go get some... sugar."

Zoey nods, but her keeps her chin down so I can't quite read her expression.

"Zoey?" I ask softly.  "What's going on?"

"Nothing," she tries, her voice wavering just a bit.

Gently, I touch her forearm.  "Zoey, please tell me what's wrong."

"I'm fine," she answers with a small sniffle.  Then she looks up at me, her eyes large and sparkling with tears.

"Zoey?"  It's barely a whisper.  I'm transfixed by the anguish in her features.  I can't do anything but sit here, helplessly waiting for some indication of what she needs from me.

"I'm fine," she repeats, a bit stronger this time.  "How--"  She stops, fumbling.  A tear escapes, and she brushes at it impatiently.  "How are you?"

I blink at her.  "What?"

"Josh, don't--"

"I'm fine, Zoey," I interrupt her.  "You know that.  Is that -- Why are you upset?"

"I'm not upset," she argues stubbornly, and I let out a relieved breath.  If she can still argue, she's still okay.

"Right." I allow myself a small smile.  "Which is why you're crying into your coffee."  A thought occurs to me.  "Zoey, it's not Charlie, is it?  I thought he was..."  I trail off with a shrug.

"Charlie's doing better than me," she answers, flashing a rueful grin.  I don't think she realized how revealing that remark was, because she's giving me an expectant look.  "Seriously, Josh.  Your back, I know it bothers you--"

"Yeah," I admit, still unwilling to go into details.  Some things are best left unexamined in the harsh light of day, screw what my therapist says.  "It's fine.  It's annoying, but not unlivable."

Zoey takes a slow, careful sip of her coffee.  "But you're okay?" she asks again, her tone tentative.

I really don't understand this.  I squeeze her arm a bit until she looks at me.  "Zoey, I really am fine.  The scar's not even too bad anymore.  My lungs barely give me any trouble and--"

She drops her head again to hide her trembling lips, and I am completely lost.  I don't know how to talk to her about this.  Everything I say seems to reduce her to tears.  "Zoey?"

"My mom," she mumbles, refusing to meet my gaze, "she told us about you.  I mean, she -- your scar and your heart and all that."  Zoey takes a deep breath and meets my gaze.  "I wasn't talking about physically, Josh.  I mean," she shrugs, "are you okay?"

I stare at her for a long moment, trying to formulate an answer.  "I don't know what--"

"Christmas, Josh," she interrupts quietly.

Almost involuntarily, I glance around to make sure no one's within earshot.  "Excuse me?"

"Josh, Stanley talked to all of us who were there," she answers my unspoken questions.  "He wanted--"  Her voice catches, and her hands tangle together atop the table, but I can still see them trembling.  "He was trying to understand what happened then, and what was happening with you."

I manage to nod.  "Okay.  But how did you know--"

"I was at the Congressional Christmas party, Josh."

My heart is beating very fast, and I'm slightly dizzy.  I stare at her.  "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she nods.  "I was with my mom, and I noticed she was watching you.  I'm not sure how she knew -- my dad probably told her he was worried -- but she was watching you really carefully.  Then I realized Toby was watching you, and CJ kept shooting you looks, and Donna--"

"Okay." I wave off her story.  "I get it."

Zoey watches me for a moment.  "I know you probably don't want to talk about it, especially not with me, but I've been worried about you and I just wanted to make sure--"

"Wait, Zoey," I interrupt.  "Why wouldn't I want to talk about it with you?"

She shrugs off my question.  "I don't know, Josh."

"Yes, you do," I answer, shaking my head.  I'm starting to understand this, and I'm not liking it at all.  "Zoey, look at me."

Zoey resolutely stares at the tabletop.  "Josh--"

"Zoey, you can't possibly think that I blame you for--"

She flinches.

I can't believe this.  "Zoey," I whisper.  "Come on, you know I don't blame you."

She shrugs a little, still avoiding my gaze.  "They were trying to kill Charlie because of me.  And you nearly died--"  She chokes on a sob.

I slide an arm around her shoulders and give her an awkward hug.  "Zoey," I murmur, "none of that was your fault.  None of it.  You're a bright girl, you know you can't control other people's actions--"

"I wasn't even going to go, Josh," she sniffles.  "I shouldn't have gone.  My dad wanted me to go."

"So you think it's your dad's fault?"

"No!" she answers vehemently, giving me a startled look.

"Okay, then how can you think it's--"

"They were upset that I was dating Charlie.  If I hadn't been there--"

"Charlie would still have gone," I point out gently.  I pull back a bit, but leave my arm around her shoulders.  "You can't change the violent impulses of others.  My mother -- You've met my mom, right?"

Zoey grins at me, tears still sparkling in her eyes.  "Yes.  She yelled at Leo."

"I'm surprised she didn't yell at your father."

"Oh, she did that too," Zoey answers.  "But only because he tried to step in and defend Leo."

I roll my eyes.  "It was something about baseball, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Zoey laughs.  "Your mom rocks, Josh."

"Yeah," I agree, grinning.  "She does.  And you know what she told me when--"  I break off.  "When I was little, something terrible happened, and she was trying to convince me it wasn't my fault.  She told me that we can only control our own actions, so as long as we live our lives honorably, we can know that we're not to blame for the tragedies that happen along the way."

Zoey watches me for a moment.  "But I could have prevented--"

"You could not have prevented those three ignorant thugs from getting their heads filled with racist garbage.  You could not have prevented them from buying guns legally with the intent to do illegal things.  You could not have prevented them from shooting anyone, Zoey.  The only thing you could have prevented was you and Charlie falling in love."

She takes a deep breath and nods.  "Okay."

I grin down at her bent head.  "You don't believe me, do you?"

"No," she admits with a shadow of a smile.

"Okay," I answer.  "Just think about it. For me."

She nods.

I give her another squeeze, then withdraw my arm.  Glancing over my shoulder, I see Gina leisurely standing over by the little table holding sugar and milk, carefully not watching us.

"Zoey," I venture as I turn back to her, "have you talked to anyone about--"

"No," she answers, shaking her head for good measure.  "I mean, just Charlie.  No one who -- No."

I feel sort of like I've been dropped into the middle of the woods without a map here.  How does one kindly and inoffensively suggest to the President's daughter that she seek counseling?  This is not a situation I could ever have foreseen.  I gnaw on my lip for a moment, then say, "Maybe you could--"

"I can't."  Her mouth is set in a determined line.

"Sure you can, Zoey."

"Reporters follow me almost everywhere I go," she says, pointing out the window to the man trying his damnedest to look like he's reading a paper at a curbside newsstand instead of waiting for Zoey to emerge.  "If I went to a psychologist, it'd be on the cover of the Enquirer."

"Zoey--"

"'President's Daughter Is Insane,'" she intones bitterly.

I can't really argue, because she's right.  "I'm sure Leo could work something out," I say instead.  "I'm in therapy."

Zoey's gaze swings over to mine.  "You are?" she asks, surprised.

"Yeah."  I curb the urge to glance around covertly to make sure no one's eavesdropping.  My paranoia is not at all what Zoey needs right now.

"Do you--"  She stops, giving the scarred plastic tabletop an embarrassed smile.

I struggle for a moment, then lower my voice.  "I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Well," I amend, frowning, "I did.  I mean, I'm not sure it ever goes away entirely, but--"  I force myself to stop prattling.  "I probably would've lost it if I hadn't seen someone, Zoey."

When she looks up at me, there are tear tracks on her cheeks.  "I'm sorry, Josh," she says, her tone anguished.

I want nothing more than to hug her until she understands that I harbor no ill will towards her, but I can tell that she knows it; she's just having trouble believing it.  That's not something I can help her with, as much as I'd like to.  So I give her a playful poke in the arm.  "Zoey, what did I just tell you?"

"I know," she nods.  "But it's hard."

"Yes."

She's quiet for a long moment, tracing patterns on the green plastic with one finger.  "I thought it would go away on its own," she confesses, her voice broken.

I cover her restless hand with mine.  "Do you want to tell me--?"

"Panic attacks."  Just saying it seems to relieve her burden slightly.  Voicing your fears aloud can be quite therapeutic, according to Stanley.  "I had some just after," she waves her hand around instead of referring directly to That Night.  "My mom gave me Paxil and explained them to me.  She told me I should talk to some of the doctors at GW, but..."

"You didn't."

"No."

I weigh that for a moment.  "Did talking to your mom help?"

"A little," she nods.  "And it was easier when--"  She blinks a few times, turning her face up the ceiling.  "This sounds horrible, but it was easier when everyone else was falling apart."

My heart breaks for her.  She's so young and so innocent and the fact that she has to deal with something that very nearly sent a jaded, cynical, middle-aged politician down the poppy-lined path to chaos and insanity makes me so angry.

"You," I tell her, "exhibit amazing grace under pressure, just like your mom."

She smiles a little, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling.

Encouraged, I continue, "When I was, you know, you would pop in and entertain me.  You gave Donna much-needed time away from me when I was being an ass.  You kept your parents in good spirits.  And you were there for Charlie while he worked through his emotional fallout."  I pause, waiting until she looks over at me.  "Don't you think you deserve a little time for yourself after all you've done for everyone else?"

She shrugs, but I can see the hope in her expression.

"You do," I tell her.  "And everyone I mentioned, plus Mrs. Landingham, Leo, Margaret, Millicent, CJ, Sam, Toby, the guy who runs the muffin cart--"

Zoey interrupts, laughing.  "Okay, Josh, I get it."

I grin at her.  "I'm serious, Zoey.  Anything you need."

She nods thoughtfully.  "Can I ask you a question?"

I take a deep breath and ease my hand away from her.  "Sure."

"What are they like?  Your... episodes, I mean."

I can't look at her and say it out loud.  Instead, I stare down into my coffee, swirling it a little in the cup.  "It's...  I can't remember much about That Night.  Just bits and pieces.  Some sounds.  Impressions.  But when I have... an episode... I'm there."  I swallow hard.  "I'm back there and I can hear the screaming and feel the panic, and the gunshots are so loud.  I feel this searing pain in my chest and then a spreading numbness.  I can see the stars, really faint, almost drowned out by the lights of the city.  I can smell the blood.  My blood, and I can feel it on my hands.  I see the horrified look on Toby's face.  I can hear CJ crying and Sam yelling for help, and that's when I realize I'm dying.  It feels like there's something really heavy on my chest, compressing it, and I can't breathe and I get really lightheaded and I would do almost anything just to make it stop," I finish, gasping a little for air.  I belatedly realize my free hand is clutching at my chest, so I deliberately wrap it around my coffee cup and take a sip.  My hands are shaking, and I spill a bit on my chin.

"Josh?" Zoey asks in a tiny voice.  "Are you...?"

"I'm okay."  I wipe the drops of coffee from my chin.  "If I'd actually been, you know, I wouldn't have even heard your question."

"I'm sorry," she says.  "I didn't mean--"

"Don't be.  Can I ask--"

"They're not that bad," she interrupts, her tone dismissive.

"Zoey, we're not playing Rate the Psychological Trauma," I tell her with a lopsided grin.  "Just--"

"I don't relive it or anything."  She takes a fortifying gulp of her mocha.  "I just -- I feel panicky."  She shrugs, obviously frustrated by her inability to voice this.  "I'm cold all over and my stomach knots up and my hands start to shake.  I have trouble catching my breath."

I don't answer immediately in case she's not done.  "That doesn't sound like very much fun."

"Nope," she says with an unsteady smile.  "I mostly just want to hide in a corner and scream as loud as possible."

"I know the feeling."

Zoey actually laughs and I feel absurdly pleased.

"Do you know what triggers them?" I ask softly.

"No," she sighs.  "Do you?"

"For me, it was music.  I kept hearing sirens."

Zoey looks at me as if I can fix her, and I'm incredibly angry with myself for not being able to oblige.  "Does it help?" she asks.  "To know what causes it, I mean?"

I shrug.  "Yeah, I guess.  It helps knowing I'm not the only one who's experienced this.  It helps knowing that people come out the other side."

"But..." she hesitates, turning her coffee cup in endless circles.

"But what?"

"But if you know what causes it, you can avoid it, right?" she asks hopefully.

"Music?" I ask, laughing.  "Well, considering there's music in just about every commercial, TV show, and movie out there, not to mention the radio, it's kind of hard to--"

"Sorry.  Stupid question.  It's just..." she shrugs.  "We're coming up on midterms, and I'm behind on the readings and I'm missing some notes from lecture and--"

"Zoey?"

"I've been skipping some classes," she confesses.

I feel, suddenly, as if I'm wandering around in a minefield. I must tread very lightly.  "Really?" I ask, trying for a neutral tone.  "Can you tell me why?"

She sips at her coffee.  "I can't have a panic attack in public, Josh," she answers finally.  "We'd be right back to the 'Insane' headlines."

I nod slowly.  "Okay.  But what makes you think you'd have a panic attack in public?"

"Because I have before," she answers with a rueful grin.  "But I just got up and left the classroom before -- I don't think anyone noticed."

I reach for her hand again.  "Zoey?"

She still won't look at me.  "Yeah?"

"You can't start skipping class just in case you have a panic attack," I tell her.  "You can't let them win.  If we fall apart, it's letting them win.  We can't let their hate and their intolerance lay waste to our lives."

Zoey is silent for a long moment, digesting my words.  Then she ducks her head to hide her giggles.

I have no idea why she's laughing right now.  "Zoey?"

"'Lay waste to our lives?'" she repeats, snickering.

I grin at her, even though she's still not looking at me.  "You gonna sit here and make fun of me, or are you gonna listen to what I'm saying?"

"I can do both," she points out, still grinning.

"Zoey!"  Exasperated, I'm laughing too.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, suddenly sober.  "But I can't--"

"You can, Zoey," I interrupt, squeezing her hand.  "You're ten times stronger than I am.  If I can do it--"

"Please, Josh," Zoey scoffs, meeting my gaze with an expression of disbelief.  "I'm stronger than you?  You nearly died!  You were in surgery for fourteen hours.  You were back at work in three months, and then you didn't lose it completely even during the flashbacks.  You're stronger than--" she stops, shrugging.  "Than anyone I know, really."

I am absolutely taken aback.  I've never considered my life from the outside before, and the difference between how Zoey sees me and how I perceive myself is... well, staggering.  My physical recovery was characterized by frequent bouts of uncontrollable anger, too many moments of absolute despair, and so much goddamn pain.  I don't consider that bravery.  I don't consider it strength.  I merely did what I needed to do.  As for the PTSD, it was weakness on my part that let it go unaddressed for as long as it did.  I probably would have spun off into insanity if Donna hadn't overcome her own fears and enlisted help.  But then, it's not surprising that I owe her my sanity.  Donna has always been the strong one.

I can't find the words to refute Zoey's incredible version of events, so I just shake my head at her.  "You're wrong."

"I'm not," she assures me.  "That's why I wanted to talk to you."

I gape at her.  I actually gape at her.  "Zoey, you're laboring under some serious misapprehensions, here.  I'm not some bastion of strength.  I've just got amazing people around me, and a damn good therapist." I shrug.  "That's it."

"Okay," she answers carefully.  Zoey contemplates that for a moment, then lifts her gaze to mine.  "I've got the people."

I watch her for a moment, then ask, "Does that mean you'll consider seeing a therapist?"

This time she's the one squeezing my hand.  "Will you talk to Leo for me?  I don't know much about clandestine meetings."

"You're in luck," I tell her, grinning, "for I am the master of clandestine meetings!"

"Please, Josh," Zoey laughs.  "I've heard about your foray into dirty politics."

For the second time, I am left speechless.

"Sam's friend?" Zoey prompts.  "Leo had you tailed--"

"How did you know about that?" I demand.

"I have my sources," she answers haughtily.  "Hey, are you done your coffee?"

I glance down.  "Uh, no."

"Well, hurry up!" she orders with a grin.  "Don't you have a country to run?"

"Okay, clearly you've been spending far too much time with Donna," I tell her, even as I gulp the rest of my tepid coffee.  Doesn't taste that great, but at least there's caffeine.

Gina arrives at the table just as Zoey stands, pulling me with her.  "Couldn't find the right kind of sugar," Gina tells me.  "You ready?"

"Sure," I answer.  I grin down at Zoey. "You know, I would hug you, but Mr. Paparazzi's over there, and the last thing I need is Charlie coming after me for hitting on his girlfriend.  And we won't even mention what your father would do to me."

Zoey laughs and follows Gina to the door.  "You're an idiot."

"Wow," I grin at her as I catch up.  "So all that stuff you just said--"

"Don't let it go to your head, Josh.  You're still an idiot."

"Okay, so here's a new rule:  No more hanging out with Donnatella Moss -- Damn!"

Zoey stops right there on the sidewalk and gives me a challenging look.  "You forgot her coffee," she notes.

"Yes, I did."  I weigh my options here, but there's only one choice, really.  I point back at The Coffee Urn and ask, "You wanna wait for me or--"

"Good boy," Zoey tells me.  "But I've got class."  She gives me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek.  "Thank you, Josh."

"You're welcome, kid," I answer as she starts off with Gina.  "I'll talk to Leo today, so give me a call later on, okay?"

"Okay," she tosses over her shoulder.  "Now run along and get your assistant her coffee."

"No respect," I shout.

In reply, I hear the sound of Zoey's laughter.

THE END

06.12.01