V

"Hey, Sam." Donna slid into the seat across from the speechwriter, balancing her lunch tray with a practised grace. Sam barely looked up from the draft he was scribbling over.

"Hey, Donna."

She noted with both sympathy and amusement that there seemed to be more penned amendments to the text than there was actual text. "Writer's block?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders, as much a tired stretching-exercise as a statement. "It's the speech for the thing on Thursday," he elaborated.

"Still?" Donna frowned. "What's wrong with it?"

Sam looked up to meet her eyes, and shrugged again. He pulled a face as if he didn't know whether to laugh or jump off the nearest high building. "I honestly have no idea."

"It's one of those, is it?" Donna sympathised, taking a bite of her sandwich.

He shook his head helplessly. "I don't know what it is. I didn't see anything wrong with it, but Toby kept tweaking things, and I edited it, and then I edited it some more, and now I think somewhere along the line I've lost my ability to read."

"Relax, Sam," she reassured him. "It's only an after-dinner speech."

"Toby thinks it's the Gettysburg address." Sam sighed, and ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. "I honestly don't know why he's got such a bug up his ass about this."

"Because he's Toby?" she suggested, not entirely joking.

"It's just..." Sam waved his hands helplessly. "It's so pointless. He's getting so worked up about this, and all I can think is it's not even important! It doesn't matter how good the speech is, because it's not gonna make anything happen. It's not gonna change anything." He sighed, and his voice dropped. "I sometimes wonder if we're ever gonna change anything."

Donna put her sandwich down, and patted him gently on the arm. "We change things, Sam," she insisted, with a tentative smile. "I mean, look at this Healthcare Bill. Josh's running round like Godzilla on a rampage, stomping Congressmen into shape... we change things."

"Yeah." Sam leaned back in his chair, and sighed again. "Josh is out there, making things happen. What am I doing? Sitting in the mess-hall, drafting and redrafting a completely inconsequential speech."

Donna offered him a smile of commiseration, and hurriedly finished up the rest of her sandwich before Josh could come charging down the hallways looking for her.

"Hey, Toby." CJ had known the Communications Director for long enough that she didn't need to look up to recognise his silent presence in the doorway.

"We've got word back on the hostage situation."

CJ looked up and slid her glasses off. "They resolved it?" she guessed optimistically. Toby shook his head.

"No. But they ID'd the guy. He's a political aide who used to work for Congressman Whittaker. I'm guessing he had some sort of issue with his severance package."

"Whittaker's one of the hostages?" CJ surmised, and Toby nodded. "How many others? Do we know who they are?"

Toby shrugged. "They're working on that now."

"Great." CJ grimaced, but tried to look on the bright side. "At least we know he's not a terrorist."

"At least this'll stop the Healthcare Bill dominating the news cycle," Toby said gloomily.

"We should trust Josh," CJ insisted, "he knows what he's doing." Toby only shrugged grumpily. The Communication Director's demeanour, never very far above morose at the best of times, had been completely unreasonable of late. Ginger had taken to issuing the bullpen a daily Toby Report, warning them whether to expect to be thundered at, given the cold shoulder, or have their parade rained on.

"You should stop riding Sam about this speech on Thursday," CJ advised. Toby glowered.

"Sam's a grown-up."

"So you should start treating him like one. He doesn't get paid to have you shouting at him every four seconds, Toby."

"He gets paid to write speeches," Toby said. "Which he is doing, if only in the sense that he is putting words onto paper which could, theoretically, be read out loud."

CJ sighed and rubbed her neck. "Toby..." She trailed off. "We're all under pressure, okay? Don't take it out on Sam."

Toby looked as if he wanted to say more, but just nodded and walked out.

"Hey, baby." Jed felt his mood lighten even as he lifted the phone. His wife's throaty laugh echoed down the telephone line, and he ached from wishing she could be with him.

"Do you always answer your phone that way?" she teased.

"Always," he rumbled, unable to keep the longing from soaking into his voice.

"I could have been delayed," she laughed. "It might have been Senator Rogers, calling about the assault weapons thing."

"Ah, he'd let me call him anything I liked if he thought I'd be willing to relax the restrictions," he shrugged it off. Listening to Abbey's laugh over the phone line was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it still raised the same thrill of gooseflesh he'd got the first time ever he heard it. "I miss you," he said quietly.

"I miss you too," she admitted, the laughter fading.

"I'm counting the days," Jed told her.

That made her laugh again. "Two days, Jed. I bet that's a real challenge to all that math you took in college."

"The days are longer when you're not here."

"Josiah Bartlet, did you just use a line on me?"

Busted. He hedged "Maybe. But I meant it."

"Thursday night, Jed. It's only Thursday night."

"That's forever away," he sighed.

"I know, I know." He could picture her smile as she changed the subject. "Zoey'll be there."

"Yeah." He started to smile himself. "Our little girl - who, I might add, despite living barely a hairsbreadth away, might as well have disappeared off the face of the planet."

"College girls, Jed," Abbey chided him. "She's growing up, she doesn't have time to come running every time her daddy claps his hands anymore."

"Studying, ha," Jed shrugged. "She doesn't need to study, she'll get As. All my girls get As."

"Not just the studying," Abbey jibed gently. "She's got to fit in the raves, the orgies, the all-night-keggers..." She dissolved into giggles at his disgruntled huff of air. "You can't keep them in a box forever, Jed."

"On the contrary, I know of several good nunneries in the DC area-"

"Seriously, though-"

"Oh, you think I'm not serious?" he interjected.

"Seriously, Jed, has she spoken to you about what she wants to do after college?"

"No," he said, a little sombrely. All joking aside, it pained him how little he saw of his youngest daughter these days. He adored all his daughters, but Zoey had always been the one who was most like him, and she'd been a tiny shadow following his footsteps since the day she was old enough to toddle after him. "I haven't really spoken to her at all lately. She's always rushing off, or I'm always rushing off."

Abbey sighed. "Well, we'll see her Thursday. All three of us together, think of that."

"It'll be like Christmas," he said, but it came out as something deeper than the light-hearted quip he'd intended. It really did seem like they only gathered the family together during the holiday season.

Of course, his wife read his mood as easily as she always did. "Everybody's kids grow up, Jed," she said gently.

"Yes, but not everybody's the President of the United States while they're doing it." He winced at the way the words slurred together; he had trouble with his sibilants when he was exhausted.

Naturally, Abbey picked that up, too. "You're slurring your words, Jed," she said worriedly.

"I'm very tired," he admitted, a yawn escaping to accent the words.

"Get some rest," she ordered.

"Not much chance of that," he told her wryly. "We've got a hostage situation in a gym downtown, Josh is setting the building on fire to roast a couple of Congressmen..."

"Nevertheless, you're going to get some rest." She had her doctor voice on, one he knew better than to argue with even if she didn't have the licence to back it up anymore. A few years ago he'd have called her Dr. Bartlet and teased her about it, but though that sore spot was no longer fresh, it was still a bad idea to poke at it.

"I'll try," he promised.

"Okay. I've got to go now."

"Yeah. So have I."

But they both held on, like teenagers reluctant to give up the family phone even though their parents were pointedly tapping the phone bill and glaring.

"I love you," said Abbey, finally.

"I love you. Bye."

"Bye."

He replaced the phone in its cradle and straightened up, revitalised and filled with the energy that came from contact with his better half. But, as always, the boost faded away all too quickly.

CJ strode confidently up to the podium. "Okay, folks, I've got a little more for you on the situation downtown. I can now tell you that the gunman is a former aide to Congressman Whittaker. He's believed to be holding the Congressman and approximately half a dozen others hostage in the back room of Sharkley's Gym. No shots have yet been fired, and we're holding out hopes for-" She broke off as she noticed that a number of reporters were holding a hushed conversation amongst themselves. "Folks, I could use a little love here. If you've got something to say, put up your hand and wait for the teacher to call on you."

She was puzzled and a little disconcerted by the worried eyes that snapped up to meet hers. CJ hesitated. "Is there something I should know about here, guys?"

After a slightly uncomfortable pause, Katie cautiously raised a hand. "Um, CJ? Sharkley's Gym? You're sure?"

She blinked. "Well, I'm in the business of reporting the news for you guys to spread to the world, so... one would hope." She frowned. "What's at Sharkley's?"

Katie glanced around at the faces of her fellow reporters. "That's Rick's gym," she offered tentatively.

"Rick- our Rick?" CJ's eyes, like everyone else's, were drawn to the still-empty chair where Rick Maskey usually sat.

"He goes to the gym most mornings before work," Katie confirmed. CJ was aware of a new buzz of discomfort rippling through the press pool. These were seasoned journalists, well used to confronting doom and destruction, and some of them had probably been in no little danger themselves reporting from the middle of war zones as foreign correspondents. But none of them had expected one of their own to come to any harm on the DC streets.

CJ found herself completely disconcerted - as much by the press corps' sudden uncertainty as by the news. "Okay. Uh, okay, well-" She made a snap decision. "You know what? There are people who should probably know that. Excuse me."

She quickly descended from the podium, and for once there was no chorus of catcalls begging her to linger a moment longer.