II

Josh walked through the corridors of the West Wing, coffee in hand. "Hey Toby," he nodded.

"Josh. This morning, I am cheerful. Do not talk to me."

"Okay."

They walked on for a little way. Toby shot him a look. "You have something. There is something lurking in the wings of your turbulent excuse for a brain that is waiting for an excuse to make me unhappy. I can feel it."

"No, there isn't."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You're still lying."

"Okay, so there may have been a little bit of a snafu on hate crimes," he admitted. Toby stopped walking.

"Define 'snafu'."

Josh waved it off. "Five Congressmen stepped off the reservation. Nothing huge, but they're solid guys, so I'm pulling them in to see what's what."

"Don't break my bill," Toby warned him.

"Your bill?" he demanded. The president's radical new hate crimes bill had been number one item on the administration's agenda for the past three month. True, it had been Toby's bulldog tenacity pushing through most of the parts Congress found difficult to swallow, but there was practically nobody in the Bartlet White House who didn't have some stake in it somewhere.

"My bill," Toby confirmed shortly.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you it was nice to share?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Don't break it," he repeated.

"I'm not worried."

"That's why I'm worried."

Josh grinned. "I've got my secret weapon."

"Now I'm very worried."

"Sam."

"Sam is your secret weapon?"

"We're debating the Discrimination on the Basis of Sexuality section," Josh explained.

"Ah."

"We push him out in front of them, he smiles sweetly, they trip over their defences of institutionalised homophobia."

Toby shot him a look. "You're using him in a dual role as strategist and poster boy?"

"That's the plan."

"That's also underhand, exploitative, and morally dubious."

"I know."

"Keep it up."

"I will."

CJ swung in from a side corridor to join them. "Toby, I need you to meet with a somebody with ties to International Relations about a story that's circulating."

Toby came to a halt. "I know where this is going."

"She was the obvious choice."

"I don't want to talk to my ex-wife."

"And yet she's pencilled in as your ten o'clock."

Josh frowned. "Why do we need the International Relations Committee?"

"We've got a problem with our international relations," CJ said dryly.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, and what poor excuse for a fair-weather friend country is raking us over the coals today?"

"Britain."

Toby glared. "The British are making waves?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"They obviously don't know this is this years' designated five minutes of cheerful Toby time," Josh said dryly. He turned to CJ. "So what's the problem?"

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer made some remarks about our Treasury Secretary; specifically, we got broiled on overseas aid."

"So... what's the problem?" Josh repeated.

She gave him a look. "The Prime Minister picked it up."

"We just got dissed on international policy by our biggest international ally?"

"Hey, we've still got Canada," CJ shrugged.

"Us personally?" he asked, ignoring her interjection.

"Are we Americans?"

"Last time I checked."

"Then yeah."

"Is there a quote?"

"'In the matter of bringing peace and stability to its most underprivileged peoples, the world looks to its richest nations for an example - and finds America sadly wanting'," CJ supplied.

"Ouch," he agreed.

"He was speaking to the press?" Toby asked.

"Yup," CJ nodded. "He was throwing out a challenge - no way we can't respond."

"Isn't this guy supposed to be, like, on our side?" Josh wanted to know.

"Apparently, he's decided to take our policies into account before deciding whether he agrees with us."

"Well, that's a very irresponsible attitude."

"So we need you to meet with Congresswoman Wyatt," CJ told Toby. He looked depressed. "And the British Ambassador." Toby looked considerably more depressed.

CJ left, and Josh turned to him.

"Still feeling cheerful there, Toby?"

"Mr. President."

"Ah, Ron." Jed nodded at the head of his Security detail. "Your men have had a chance to check out the venue?"

"Yes, sir."

"And?"

Butterfield hesitated. "Mr. President, you know it's the recommendation of the Service that the wedding be held in the Rose Garden."

Jed nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I know. But Zoey has her heart set on being married in the same church Abbey and I did."

"Yes, sir." Ron acquiesced, but he was well aware the agent didn't like it. He himself had mixed feelings; torn between pride in his daughter's desire to be tied to family tradition, and the pressing fear that something would happen he could have prevented. His future son-in-law had been brutally beaten on the streets of DC a few days after the engagement was officially announced. If one of Charlie's assailants had been holding a knife, he could have had a dead future son-in-law.

Now Charlie had a Secret Service detail of his own, something that he was less than thrilled about. Jed didn't care, at least not beyond the vague sorrow that your own twenty-four hour bodyguard was now as much a part of joining the Bartlet clan as getting your own place at the Thanksgiving table. He sympathised with Charlie's chafing under the new arrangement, but if his aide thought any amount of arguing was getting him out of it, he was in for a rude awakening.

He looked up at Ron. "This is important to her, Ron, and I don't want to ruin Zoey's special day." He hesitated for a beat. "I want every exit covered by snipers and the Secret Service ready to jump on anybody who blinks in the wrong direction... but I don't want to ruin Zoey's special day."

Butterfield gave a single brisk nod. Though Jed was no better at interpreting that impassive mask than the next man, he was sure Ron saw Charlie not as the boy who'd almost got the president killed three years ago, but rather as just another protectee he would do anything in his power for.

Which reminded him.

"Ron, could you just confirm for me... the Secret Service are, are they not, some of the world's leading experts in the field of covert operations?"

If Ron's curiosity was sparked, he hid it well. "Yes, Mr. President."

"In that case, do you think it would be within the considerable scope of your agency to possibly procure for me a packet of cigarettes?"

His tone and expression didn't so much as flicker. "No, Mr. President."

Jed gave him a sharp look. "Would you mind telling me why not?"

"The First Lady has made her position on the matter extremely clear, Mr. President."

"Aren't you people supposed to be willing to do anything for me?" he demanded.

Ron gave another military nod. "Secret Service members are ready to accept any risk for their protectee, up to and including their own death."

"But you won't go up against the First Lady?"

He didn't crack a smile. "Up to and including their own death."

"I hear that," Jed agreed sincerely. He waved a hand. "Okay. You can go."

He sat back in his chair, and sighed to himself. Maybe he could pressurise one of the staff into buying him a pack... but Charlie wouldn't be back to working full time until Monday, and he was convinced at least one of his temporary replacements was a spy for the First Lady. The only other explanation for her ability to know exactly when he was contemplating dietary rebellion was a sudden emergence of psychic powers. And that was frankly too scary to contemplate.

He'd been very good, even Abbey had to concede that. He understood that it was this new health plan or goodbye to the White House, and he'd stuck to it. And while he was extremely reluctant to ascribe as much to replacing steak dinners with salads, he did have to admit that he'd been feeling considerably better recently. The stiffness in his back and legs had subsided somewhat, and now blurry vision only descended on him when he was pushing the edges of how long he could stay up.

There were even, from time to time, days when he remembered what it was like to actually have energy. Humiliating as it had originally been to contemplate the idea, having a half hour or so set aside from his afternoon schedule for an 'energy replenishment period' - which Abbey would persist in referring to as a 'nap' - really did help amazingly in keeping the crushing weight of fatigue away.

Abbey, alas, had steadfastly refused to listen to all of his highly convincing arguments about how having her join him up in the Residence for said energy replenishment period would do amazing things for his level of relaxation.

Yes, he and Abbey could both agree that he'd stuck to his health plan extremely faithfully; where they differed was in their opinion on whether this afforded him the right to some form of small reward. Surely one cigarette, one single slice of pizza, a few little sips of bourbon... when he was looking after himself so well the rest of time, surely such a minor indulgence now and again couldn't hurt?

Apparently, it could. Or rather, Abbey could hurt him. And apparently she'd been dead serious when she claimed to be putting the entire staff on a high state of alert as a deterrent against diet-breaking.

He sighed, and headed back to his desk to read more reports.

And think about pizza and cigarettes.