Title: "The Lamentable Demise of George" Part 1
Author: Madeleine Mitchell Carr
Email:
Category: General, Josh/Donna
Rating: PG
Summary: Josh, Donna, a chinchilla. General mayhem and confusion. Many misunderstandings ensue. A touch of angst and a pinch of romance
Spoilers: Post-'Noel'. General season 2 stuff
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Aaron Sorkin and NBC; I'm just borrowing them. Please don't sue me as I have no money.
Feedback will be taken in, fed and loved to excess
I am not a sentimental man. I don't pine for lost loves, or lost … anythings; spring days and fall foliage leave me cold, I never remember anniversaries by buying gifts (unless they are work related and therefore likely to received in a similarly unsentimental manner viz by Donatella Moss) and if anyone ever finds me mooning over a sunset, I want them to shoot me….
OK, bad example. Deep breath Joshua.
I repeat, I am not a sentimental man, but like any (relatively) normal person, I am subject to … whims. Whims, which may, to the casual observer, appear on the surface (the very shallow surface) to be acts of sentiment. Which they are not.
George was a whim.
Actually, George is a chinchilla, but he started as a whim.
And why, I hear you ask did Joshua Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff have a whim which turned into a small furry rodent?
That my friends is a long story. So I'll distil it a bit. In a nutshell, when I was recuperating from a gunshot wound to the chest, I spent 3 very long, painful and boring months confined to my apartment. This woeful state of affairs was only mitigated by the presence of my assistant Donatella Moss who bullied me into eating, resting and doing my physiotherapy, bullied the rest of the White House Senior Staff into following her unnecessarily stringent, one might say even Machiavellian "Rules" and not least, bullied her way onto my couch at night and into my heart forever.
OK, did that sound a little sentimental? Well, it's not; it's the plain unvarnished truth. I love Donatella Moss. Am I in love with her? That's a question for another day, a day when I'm well again, when I can offer her more than a man who's selfish, self-obsessed with his own misery and who still shakes when he hears sirens.
OK, I'm so not going to go there now.
Back against the wall. Breathe
So.
When I returned to work, and Donna moved out of my apartment, her second job as Florence Nightingale over, I was lonely. I couldn't sleep. By Christmas, I was angry, scared and lonely. So much so, that I couldn't see beyond myself. Florence stepped in again, and Leo sent Stanley to save me.
I got shot, but I recovered, I have PTSD, but I'm learning to cope. I'm beginning to learn that life is not just the big things, it's the daily struggles, the small kindnesses, the simple pleasures.
Which brings me to George.
George was Stanley's idea. I don't mean that Stanley actually said,
"Josh, you have PTSD, get a chinchilla",
But he did say that perhaps a pet of some sort would give me something to think about, and to take responsibility for instead of brooding on my own problems. Actually, I thought that he was joking and ignored him completely when he said that. I wasn't that keen on animals. Cats were OK, but rather too prone to random acts of unprovoked violence. I quite liked dogs, but frankly, who the hell has time to walk a dog? In Washington DC?
So it was in this completely chinchilla-free state of mind that I found myself strolling past a pet shop a couple of blocks down from Dupont Circle. (The walking was Donna's idea. She says that therapy makes me restless and cranky and she makes me walk it off so I don't ruin her afternoon).
It was there that I saw George. He didn't know he was George then of course, in fact given the size of a chinchilla's brain, he'll probably never know that he's George, but this small, abject, cowering thing, a proto-George if you will, became actual-George five minutes later when I stepped into the shop and bought him.
What can I say? It was a whim.
I looked into George's eyes, he looked into mine. There was a connection. Really. We were simpatico. Two Guys against the world. We made a pact - I'd look after him and he'd… well, he'd give me something else to think about.
That's how I acquired a chinchilla.
*********************************************************
"DONATELLA!"
I look up from my screen to see Ginger roll her eyes at me as she passes my desk. I'm very aware that the assistants in the West Wing believe that I have the worst and most difficult job - keeping Josh Lyman in line.
They couldn't be more wrong.
"WHAT?" I yell back. He likes it when I yell, it appeals to his competitive spirit or something. He tries to out-decibel me.
"USGS"
Not bad. I think even Cathy-the-mild may have winced. That's enough for today though, I don't want him straining his lungs. I get up and peer round the door into his office. He's lifting papers from the surface of the black hole that is his desk and stirring them around in a chaotic fashion. His hair is standing on end, but this is actually a good sign, it usually means that he's on a roll…
"Vermont or Florida" I say quietly.
Geared up for another ear-bursting yell, this quiet tone actually makes him jump. He gets all wide-eyed when he's distracted - it's actually kind of cute.
He glowers at me
"Florida. And why are you lurking Donna?"
"I'm not lurking, I'm in a state of alert readiness for my next task"
He gazes at me incredulously,
"People who hover behind doors are lurkers. YOU are a lurker."
I sidle up to his desk.
"And now you're creeping"
"I'm not creeping, I'm discretely entering your presence. And I don't think 'lurkers' is a real word."
"Is too" says Mr 760 verbal.
I allow myself a tiny little smirk. Hey, he doesn't have the patent on them.
"Zing! - Great comeback Josh, I'm deflated and abashed."
He rolls his eyes at me, but I can see a hint of amusement in their brown depths, so I give myself a mental pat on the back. Now if I can get him to smile today…
Defeated by my wit, his eyes fall back to his disaster-area desk,
"USGS Florida, Donna, the Everglades thing, I have a meeting in half an hour…"
I make a mental note to ask his Mother to buy him a watch for his birthday.
"Twenty minutes. And by 'thing' I assume you mean reclamation zoning. I have index cards."
He gazes at me suspiciously.
"How many?"
I smirk; he looks alarmed, so I relent.
"3"
The relief is overdone, but he's got some leeway at the moment. After the strain of the last couple of months, you couldn't expect even a Joshua Lyman to bounce straight back into the old banter-rhythm thing.
"Okay"
Hmmm, see what I mean?
Actually, the last couple of weeks have been better. He still works criminally long hours, but he hasn't slept on the office couch for quite a while. He's also less edgy. Not that anyone else would notice - I mean he still gets mad, shouts and stomps around, spreading misery like a crop-sprayer, but this is pretty close to normal for Mr Deputy Chief of Staff. When I think…
No, I'm putting that behind me now.
It's fine, he's fine, we're fine.
The phone on his desk rings and I reach for it, just as a pile of precariously and probably nationally-important papers slide onto the carpet. With a small cry of alarm, Josh follows them. As I pick up the receiver, there is a rustling sound, a small thud and a muffled "Ow" from floor-level.
"Joshua Lyman's office"
Ha! At least some of us around here have dignity.
It's a Dr Anderson on the line. Now this is weird. I know all of Josh's doctors - probably better than he does. In fact, we were on first name terms at one time. Who the hell is Dr. Anderson?
"Hold the line please"
"Josh?"
He drags himself to his feet, his face slightly flushed from bending over.
"Dr. Anderson is on the phone. He says he's returning your call."
I can't help the slight interrogative tone of my voice. Perhaps I'm being paranoid, but my Josh-radar has started beeping.
He looks blank for a moment, then a look that can only be described as - furtive creeps over his face. It's unmistakable; I'm watching him carefully. Is that a hint of embarrassment there too?
He practically snatches the phone from my hand. Then he looks at me a moment, as if unsure what to say.
"Um… Donna?"
"Yes?"
"USGS?"
That was a dismissal if ever I heard one. I walk reluctantly back to the bullpen and turn at the last minute to see him with his back to the door, practically whispering into the phone.
Beep, beep, beep
TBC
Do we get to meet George? What about his lamentable demise? Who is the mysterious Dr Anderson? The answers to these questions and more in the next exciting instalment