Disclaimers:

Based wholly or partly on characters and situations created by Aaron Sorkin, John Wells, NBC, Warner Brothers Television Production Inc., and who knows what others. An unauthorized work of speculative fiction. Parental discretion is advised. Do not distribute for profit or without notification. Not to be taken internally. No user serviceable parts inside. Made in the USA. I wouldn't stop for red lights. Strongest fan fiction available without a prescription. May cause dizziness, dry mouth or nausea. Do not read my fanfics while driving, drinking or operating heavy machinery. I'm ReverendKilljoy and I approved this Disclaimer.

Note: post-series. Spoiler free.

Every Romance a Tragedy, Every Tragedy a Romance

"Donna. Donna Moss."

Joshua Lyman held the photograph carefully, almost reverently, by its edges, the way people his age did. He also tipped his head back, habitually looking through the bottoms of the bifocal glasses he no longer wore. Glass spectacles were as rare as gasoline engines, but the habits of a lifetime endured.

"She was beautiful," the young man noted, mentally discounting the odd twentieth-century fashions. He watched as Josh tipped the photograph back and forth as if it were a hologram, as if the flat image would reveal hidden views at certain angles.

"Alabaster," Josh mused. "And seven freckles, on her nose. She worried so about the freckles."

"You counted her freckles?" The younger man laughed. "You dirty old man!"

"Not old!" Josh snapped, pursing his lips and scowling, the bushy white eyebrows mobile over the warm brown eyes. "I wasn't forty, when she and I met. Nashua. That's New Hampshire. Bartlet for America."

"Josiah, or Elizabeth?"

Josh scowled. "If I had meant Liz Bartlet, I'd have said Liz Bartlet, son." His pensive smile returned as he studied the photograph. Taken at some sort of gala, it showed a stunning young blonde woman in a quaint formal gown, a shy mile in here yes and a broader, goofier smile quirking her lips. She was looking radiantly into the camera.

The man standing next to her, on arm casually at the small of her back, had a formal jacket slung over the other arm and an untied bow tie draped around his neck. He seemed to be looking into the camera as well, and sported a hugely dimpled smile and an unkempt nimbus of surprising thick hair framing his lean face.

Only careful, closer inspection revealed that his smile was not for the camera. It was all in the eyes, right there, caught by the split-second opening of a camera shutter back when they used real film to capture moments. If you really looked, you could see it all there in his warm brown eyes. They shaded, seeking out the woman next to him from the corners of his eyes even as his casual smile proclaimed his total innocence.

"How long were you in love with her, Grandpa Lyman? The younger man watched as his great, great grandfather, with fingers so old that the skin was translucent as ancient paper, traced a feather touch across the photograph. There was a smile on the old man's face even through the pains of age and illness and incalculable loss.

"Until the day I die, Samuel. Until the day I die."

-Fin-