Josh doesn't seem to notice much these days.  Or, to be more precise, he notices things and reinterprets them through some weird filter of his own that I haven't figured out yet.  And I worry, not just about the fact that Josh is sinking deeper into this funk he's been in for the last month or so, but about whether other people are noticing just how bad off he is.

I can't deny it any longer.  I can't refuse to say the words.  I don't want to say them, but denial is not going to help Josh.  So here it is:  Josh has become self-destructive.

I worry for all the obvious reasons, but I don't share my fears with anyone.  In fact, I pray that CJ, Toby, Sam, Leo and President Bartlet never find out.  As much as they all care about Josh, they will have to think in terms of matters of state.  They will have to worry about the fact that Josh is privy to matters of national security.  The White House Deputy Chief of Staff cannot afford the luxury of a nervous breakdown.

This thing, this horrible thing which is not Josh's fault, could destroy his career.  No matter what spin CJ puts on it for the press, if Josh is let go -- even if he's given a leave of absence -- for reasons that anyone suspects relate to his mental state, his career in politics will be over.

Josh lives for politics.  This is more than a job for him; it's who he is in the most fundamental sense.  If he loses that, nothing else will compensate.

I send him off to meetings every day, just like always.  I think of all the enemies he has made -- enemies in both parties, though the Democrats he's antagonized are going to be more circumspect than the Republicans in their criticism of President Bartlet's Deputy Chief of Staff.  But I worry while Josh is in those meetings; I pray he won't lose it in the middle of one.  I can hear the voices that would start whispering on the Hill, the glee with which small, petty people would pass on the news:  "Have you heard?  Lyman's finally lost it.  The bastard's vulnerable."  I'm only his assistant; I don't have the power to keep him safe from that.

For the most part, I pretend around Josh that nothing's wrong.  I tease and I banter, even when he refuses to respond.  I ignore the impulse to run to someone -- probably CJ -- and beg for help.  But I make plans in my head.  I try to figure out what will be the sign, the moment when I know I have to get someone's help.  I will not let Josh destroy himself.

I worry that he will hate me if I tell someone else what he's going through.  I've decided I'll let him hate me before I let him destroy himself.

So I watch him slip away a little more each day, and I watch him for an indication that we've reached the moment when there's no longer any chance he'll snap out of this on his own.

I worry that I'll miss the signal.

At night, I call him.  It's always easy to find an excuse -- a meeting he needs to prep for, briefing memos I want to make sure he's reading.  No doubt he sees through my excuses -- Joshua and I have never had trouble seeing through each other -- but he doesn't complain.  Some nights he's curt with me: he listens to my message, mutters a brief reply and hangs up.  Other nights, he wants banter.  He brings up some silly subject just, I know, to hear me go off on it.  Of course I oblige, wheeling out every inane bit of trivia I can recall.  It seems to cheer him, at least a little.

I have never been more thankful for the admittedly quirky way my mind works.

Tonight, for the first time, Josh doesn't answer the phone.  I tell myself not to worry: he just stayed at the office later than usual.

Later than usual for Josh.  The mind boggles.

He doesn't answer his office phone either.  That's when I start to worry.  If he were in the White House, he would answer the phone.  You never, ever let your phone go unanswered at the White House.

His cell phone goes unanswered too.

I drive to his apartment in record time.

He doesn't answer the doorbell, but that doesn't matter.  I have a key -- just something a good assistant does.  You never know when you'll have to pick up something for him at the last minute, after all.

I let myself into a darkened room.  I am going to feel like an idiot if he's asleep.

A relieved and deeply grateful idiot.

Almost immediately, I hear a voice from the middle of the living room.

"Took you long enough," Josh says.

"What?"

"You called forty-five minutes ago."

"And then I called the office."

"Oh.  That's what slowed you down."

His voice is flat, devoid of any amusement or even anger.

Enough of the brooding, sitting-in-the-dark crap, I think.  I turn on the light.

Josh is where I thought he'd be, sprawled out on the sofa.  I'd guess he's been sitting in the dark for some time since he winces and covers his eyes from the light.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Just a quiet evening at home," he answers.

"Also dark," I add.

"I was sleeping."

"You weren't."

"Trying to sleep?"

I look at him closely.  No, not trying to sleep.  In fact, I'd bet he was trying not to sleep.  "No," I say.

He sits up and grins.  Not one of those "I just kicked Republican ass" grins that I find adorable but a wry, "can't put anything over on you" grin.  Adorable in most situations, but scary tonight.  "No," he agrees.  "Sleeping is a problem."

I close the distance between us, but I don't sit down.  "Why?" I ask.

"Let me count the ways.  I have trouble falling asleep.  When I do fall asleep, I wake up too early."  His voice trails off, and I know there's more he isn't sharing with me.

"Sleeping well is important," I offer.

"Are you going to tell me to see a doctor?"

"Why would I waste my efforts?  We both know you won't."

"You are a wise woman, Donnatella Moss."

"And you are a mess, Joshua Lyman."

"Yes, I am."

Okay, this worries me.  Josh does not easily admit to weakness of any kind.  I sit down beside him and take his hand.  I review a dozen different things I could say, but none of them would reach him.  Except, you know, maybe The Thing We Don't Say.

Luckily for my notoriously low sense of self-worth (yes, after all these weeks, I am still pissed off about that remark), Josh speaks first.  "I know you're worried about me," he says.

"Well, duh, Josh.  What was your first clue?"

"You don't have to be--"

I keep talking over top of him, which is really the only way to get your point across sometimes.  "You know that stuff you're always telling me about how you went to Harvard and Yale and you were a Fulbright scholar and you had a 760 verbal SAT score?  Are you sure you haven't been lying about that all these years?  Because for such a supposedly smart guy, you are remarkably stupid."

"And I love you too," he says.

What?

Platonic.  He means love in a platonic sort of way.  That's all.  For I am Donnatella, controller of the schedule and comic relief in the on-going angst fest that is Josh's life.  Platonic.

Ignore it.

"You're not an easy man to love, Joshua."

I give myself such good advice.  Why do I never take it?

And he smiles.  A genuine smile.  Okay, that's worth making a fool of myself for.  Score one for Comic Relief Girl.

"You, on the other hand, are a remarkably easy woman to love."

This is, of course, wonderful to hear.  Also dangerous.  Also very much the wrong time.  Very much.

"Shut up, Josh."

He smiles again.  "Not the reaction I was expecting," he mutters.

"And yet the only reaction you're getting."

Then suddenly I'm in his arms.  This should be a good thing, right?  This should be near the top of the list of Good Things That Could Happen With Josh.  Yet it feels all wrong.  I'm trying to figure out what feels wrong, and I get it in one of those blinding (and truly annoying, given the circumstances) moments of illumination.

This feels wrong because it's not truly about Josh loving me and me loving Josh.  This feels wrong because it's about Josh trying to find something to replace the pain he's in for a few minutes.

Damn.

I am not going to be a one-night stand for anyone.  Most especially not Joshua Lyman.

I mean, I have to work with the man every day.  Also, I've got this fantasy in my head about what sex with Josh is supposed to be about.  If we do this tonight, under these circumstances, we could destroy everything we have now and everything we could ever have in the future.

Josh is giving me this hurt, puzzled look.  I push him away from me and start fumbling for the right thing to say.

"I didn't mean -- I don't think it's a good idea -- we shouldn't--"  (I told you I was fumbling.)  I take a deep breath and start over, promising myself I'll just say what I'm thinking and to hell with the consequences.  "Josh," I say, "if we did this now, it would ruin everything."

"You're giving me the 'let's be friends' speech?  I hate the 'let's be friends' speech."

"No, I'm giving you the 'I'm not going to ruin this thing between us because you're in a rotten mood and you think getting laid will make the pain go away for a while' speech."

"A variation on the 'let's be friends' speech," he says.

"Don't mock.  If I'm ever going to make love to you, I'm going to do it when you're happy and healthy and I can tell you care more about me than about your own pain.  Which rules out anything happening tonight."

He rests his forehead against mine.  "I hate when you're right," he says.

"And when I used the word love," I add, "I of course meant that in a completely platonic way."

"Of course you did," he answers.  He doesn't, I notice, say that he used that word in a platonic way as well.

Probably assumes that goes without saying.  After all, he's a man.  The fact that he was considering having sex with me a minute ago doesn't necessarily have anything to do with love.

We end up sitting together on the sofa, Josh's arms around me.  I rest my head against his chest for a minute, then look up.  He looks so sad.  Broken, really.

"You're not going to want to hear this," I start.

"Then don't say it."

"You need help," I say.  "You need to talk to someone."

"I'm talking to you."

"You know what I mean, Josh."

"I also know what you think.  I'm not blind, Donna.  I see you sitting there at your desk, watching me, and I can tell what you're thinking.  I know why you haven't gone to CJ or Leo or someone, and you're right.  You're absolutely right.  If anyone besides you knew about this--"

"But that's the point.  I don't know.  I haven't got a clue what this is all about or how to help you."

"I thought psychology was one of your many majors."

"Only for half a semester.  Political science was much more fun.  You need someone who can help you."

"I'll help myself.  It's a temporary thing.  It's nothing."

"Liar."

"I'm not jeopardizing everything I worked for because I've been in a bad mood lately."

"This is more than a bad mood."

"I'll handle it myself," he insists.  "I can find a way to make it stop.  I just have to try harder."

There's something fairly ominous in his word choice, not to mention in the defeated tone of voice he uses.  I ignore all that.  He won't listen to me if I keep telling him to get help, and pretty soon he'll stop confiding in me if I keep insisting.  So I change the subject.

"I'm staying in DC this Christmas," I announce.

He looks at me skeptically.  "So you can watch over me?"

Of course.

"No.  Because I can't take another holiday season with my mother and sister trying to fix me up.  I'd rather stay here.  Less hassle.  I will, of course, try to find a way to blame this on you." I  pause, warming up to this theme.  I'm starting to really enjoy this idea.  "I figure this is worth three or four months of guilting you.  By the time I'm done, you'll be so remorseful that I'll finally get that trip to Maui."

"A one-way ticket," he suggests.

"Ooh, we're going to stay?"

"You are.  I'm not going.  After three or four months of the guilting, I'll be too eager to get rid of you."

"You wouldn't survive a week without me."

He gives me his serious face again.  "No, I wouldn't."

He's quiet for a long time, and I'm hoping he's falling asleep.  Then suddenly he says, "I get it."

"Why you've been in such a mood?" I ask.

"No," he says.  "Why I love you."

Platonic, I tell myself.  Platonic, platonic, platonic.

"Because I'm brilliant, witty, impeccably organized and I don't let you get away with any crap?"

"Besides that," he says.  "I love you because you are the only truly joyous person I have ever met."

I'm sitting here in the middle of the night, sick to death that Josh is going to do harm to himself one of these days, and he's describing me as joyous?  I'm not joyous.  I'm worried.  Terrified.  Also sexually frustrated.

"Where do you come up with these ridiculous ideas?" I ask.

"No, really," he says.  He's excited about this, like it's some great revelation.  "I mean, you're -- sure, there are things that get you down--"

Most of which have to do with you, I add mentally.

"But fundamentally," he continues.  "I mean, I've never known anyone who gets so much pleasure out of the smallest things.  Even that stupid stamp assignment.  You were enjoying the hell out of that."

"I was finally making a substantive contribution."

"It was a terrible assignment.  Leo forced it on to Toby, Toby stuck me with it, I made you do all the work, and you acted like it was fun."

"Again, Josh, I point out that philately--"

"Okay, once more I beg you to watch how you pronounce that word.  Especially tonight."

"Well, it was fun is all I'm saying."

"And I'm saying it was excruciatingly boring.  Except for the part where I got to watch you get all excited over something so trivial.  You have this phenomenal capacity for enjoyment.  You are a fundamentally happy person.  I wish I knew how to do that."  He looks at me like I should be able to hand him a briefing memo, with bullet points, on how to be joyous.  I am disappointed with myself for not being able to do that.

"You should try to sleep," I tell him, for lack of anything better to say.

"I'm not a big fan of sleeping," he says.  "It's a highly overrated activity."

"I am not sending you into the Oval Office tomorrow if you look like you haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks.  You may have to report to the president, but I'll get grief from a higher authority."

"There's a higher authority than President Bartlet?"

"Mrs. Landingham."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think that if I leave, he'll go to bed.  I start to stand up and get ready to leave, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back down on the sofa.  "You could stay here tonight," he suggests.

"We've covered this already."

"I don't mean that. I mean -- I think maybe I could sleep better if you were here."  He gives me this pleading look.  Joshua Lyman is not a man who pleads for anything, so I don't think I'd be capable of leaving if I wanted to.  I know what it's costing him to be this vulnerable in front of me, and I can't reject him.

We have an animated conversation about who will get the bed and who will sleep on the couch.  I finally convince him that my staying over is pointless if he can't sleep because he's decided to be stupidly chivalrous and take the couch.  Then comes the discussion of what I will wear to bed, seeing as how I didn't come prepared for a sleepover.  After digging around in his closet, Josh locates those ridiculous pajamas CJ gave him and hands me the top.

"You don't have anything a little less -- large?" I ask.

I swear he blushes.  "Actually, no."

"Josh, you have to have regular pajamas."

"No, I sort of don't."

"Sort of don't?"

"I don't usually -- I rarely -- I hardly ever wear anything to bed."

Well, isn't that an interesting piece of information?  Let's just file that one away in the Details to Use When Fantasizing About Josh compartment of my brain.

"So we're dividing these pajamas up tonight then, are we?"

"We are."

There's something intimate about that, in a strange sort of way.  I decide I like it.  I also like the whole shared "getting ready for bed" ritual, the idea that while I'm undressing in the bathroom Josh is also naked on the other side of the door.  I decide that I really have to stop thinking about that.

I assure Josh that I'm going to be perfectly comfortable on the sofa, as I say good night and turn the lights out.  But I don't sleep.  I listen, instead, to Josh.  I listen to him toss and turn and punch his pillow a few times.  I hear him mutter a few things I can't quite make out, although I'm fairly certain I hear my name in there.  After an hour or so, however, I can tell he's finally fallen asleep.  I smile and let myself drift off too.

I'm not usually a light sleeper, but I wake up when I hear Josh say my name.  I run into the bedroom.  Josh is still asleep, but he's calling my name.  Not the way he bellows it when he wants something at the office, but a soft, plaintive "Donnatella."  I don't know what it means, how I figure into this nightmare he must be having; but I decide not to wake him.  I don't think he would appreciate my discovering him like this.  I don't think he's ready to be quite that vulnerable.  But I have to do something.

After a second, I throw caution to the wind and climb into bed with him.  I gather him up in my arms and whisper his name.  He doesn't wake; but after a few minutes, he calms down.  His breathing grows more regular, and he seems to fall into a deeper sleep.

Obviously , I like this.  Oh, not the "Josh has a nightmare" part -- that part is hell.  That part I could do without.  But this part -- being in bed with him, holding him -- yes, I could become seriously addicted to this.  And this is without sex; imagine how fond of this I'd be if -- I'm not going there.  We're platonic, after all.  Platonic, platonic, plat -- oh, who the hell do I think I'm fooling?

Still, this is what I can do for Josh right now.  I'm not sure it's enough, but it's a start.  And I'm thinking that, if he woke up, I could tell him how to be joyous.  I could tell him just to be still and feel what this is like, the two of us so intimate.  This is joy.  This is why he needs to get well, so we can get to a place where we can make this work out.  If I am what he said, after all, it's because I have him.  It's because of this weird relationship of ours.  So he has it too, that sense of joyousness.  He just needs to get to a place where he can discover it.

Tomorrow I'll think of some way to get that across to him.  I'll keep after him to get the help he needs.  I'll tell CJ or Leo or somebody; I'll work out who it's best to tell and I'll find the right words to say it without hurting the career he loves.  Tonight, however, I'll just stay here in this bed with him, and the joy I feel in holding him will have to be enough for us both.

THE END

12.18.00