IX

Josh was beginning to get an eerie sense of dj vu. However, he strongly suspected that it had less to do with any kind of mystical convergence than it did to do with the fact that the military knuckleheads they were meeting with kept reciting the same arguments and stock lines over and over again.

Knucklehead #1, also known as Major Whiting, was repeating his point; either for emphasis or just through lack of imagination. "The uniform code prohibits-"

"The uniform code is wrong," Sam spoke up fiercely.

Josh really didn't like the look of contempt in Whiting's eyes as he glanced at the Deputy Communications Director. "The current policy has worked for-"

"It doesn't work!" he retorted. "Over one thousand discharges every year, of servicemen and women who are not, in any way, unsuited to active duty-"

"It's a matter of unit discipline," put in Knucklehead #2, Major Hardcastle.

"Gay people are undisciplined?" Josh put in incredulously.

"They disrupt the normal functioning of the unit," Whiting said coldly.

"Yeah, by having the temerity to be beaten up, harassed, threatened and bullied into admitting their sexuality," Sam retorted. Josh shot him a warning glance.

"Major... we will repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell," he said firmly. "There's legislation in the House right now that will blow your defence out of the water, and you know it."

"It won't pass," said Hardcastle smugly.

"We have the support of Congress on this one," Josh told him.

"Oh, I think you'll find you don't..."

Sam scowled. "Would you care to elaborate on that?"

The major sat back in his chair, and smiled to himself. "Congress will never stand behind legislation which makes such a radical departure from common sense and common decency."

"Major," Sam said sharply, "would you care to comment on a series of meetings in the last few days between representatives from a number of military training bases and Democratic Congressmen?"

"I wouldn't know anything about that," he said neutrally, but he didn't even bother to disguise the arrogant smirk.

"Listen-" Sam began explosively, and Josh held up a hand to cut him off.

"Okay, I'm afraid we're going to have to call a break here. I have another meeting in a couple of minutes - can we continue this tomorrow?" They all packed up and left.

Out in the corridor, Sam glared at him. "I don't need to be reigned in, Josh."

"Nobody's reigning you in."

"You need to let me tell them exactly what-"

"Don't give them the ammunition to make this about you, Sam," Josh advised him quietly.

"This is about me, Josh," he said sharply. Josh looked at the floor.

The awkward moment was broken by the British Ambassador passing by. "Lord Marbury," Josh nodded.

"Samuel, Joshua! Out to lunch?"

Josh glanced at his watch. "Heading that way," he agreed.

"Were those dour-faced military chaps by any chance with you?"

"Gays in the military," Sam said, with a bitter twist to his mouth. This had been a pet issue of his since long before it started hitting a little closer to home.

"Ah, yes, disgraceful business. Good to see your country is finally taking a few tottering steps towards civilisation."

"Thank you, your lordship," Josh said dryly.

He smiled. "Her Majesty's armed forces have been pursuing for the past few years what was referred to as 'A policy of complete indifference'."

"We prefer to reserve that for more important issues," Sam said dryly.

"So I've discovered." He gave them both a brief bow. "Good day, gentlemen."

Josh shifted awkwardly, uncomfortable with Sam's unusual cynicism. "So... you want to get lunch or something?"

"No." He shook his head. "I have to go ask Ginger to pull some information for me."

Josh watched him go, and wished he possessed the key to banishing all the prejudice and frustrations his friend was going to encounter. But he knew from experience that changing the world wasn't nearly so easy; the scar on his chest could attest to that.

Thinking about it brought back the phantom itch of fading pain for a brief moment, and his hand touched to his chest. But then it was gone, and he headed off to grab a bite to eat before his next meeting.

"You need to quadruple the budget."

"With what?"

Andy glared at him over her lunch. "You spend enough on military applications."

Toby rolled his eyes. "You think I can slash the defence budget?"

"Oh, so it's okay to fund bombing other countries but not rebuilding afterwards?"

"Right now, the American public is not feeling very sympathetic towards sending money to nations who try to bomb us!"

She gave him a look. "And with that attitude, you're really going to win some friends."

"Sending monetary aid to countries with corrupt infrastructures doesn't work! It doesn't get to the people! It pays for bribes and, and security systems for the dictatorship and suicide bombers!"

"And if only five dollars out of fifty billion goes towards a meal for a twelve-year-old girl starving on the streets in Afghanistan, isn't it worth it?"

And this, he knew, was why he should never hold an argument with his ex-wife. Toby looked down. "We can't quadruple the foreign aid budget," he said quietly.

Andy was silent for a moment. "It has to go up, Toby," she said softly. "And not just because the British say so."

He sighed, and just looked at her.

"Eight billion dollars is a pathetically small amount in today's terms, Toby, and you know it."

"We've had to fight tooth and claw to keep that," he reminded her.

"So why stop there?" Andy demanded. "If you're already fighting, we might as well fight for an increase as to stay the same."

"We'll be laughed out of Washington if we try to earmark thirty billion dollars for overseas aid."

"Twenty billion, then."

He shook his head and shrugged. "It's still more than this Congress will swallow."

"So we package it in with something they want."

He looked at her. "We're not conceding ground on the Hate Crimes Bill."

Andy nodded, knowing better than to argue that point at least. President Bartlet had made it very clear - on national television, no less - that nothing was getting in the way of his anti-prejudice initiative. "The estate tax, then."

Toby pulled a disgruntled face. "No."

"Toby-"

"No."

She gave him a sharp look. "Beating the Republicans vs. the twelve-year-old girl in Afghanistan."

He narrowed his eyes at her, and then pushed his sandwich around on his plate. "We'll talk about it."

"Thank you."

"On one condition."

She raised her eyebrows.

"The words 'Mr. Grumpy-Pants' will never be uttered again in the confines of this building. Or, you know, anywhere."

Andy smiled, and pushed her plate aside. She covered his hand briefly with hers, and he wished there weren't so many memories associated with that. "So let's talk," she said.

CJ absently munched on an apple as she flipped through pages in her lunch break.

Blah blah school. Blah blah excellent grades. Blah blah Catholicism. Blah blah parental friction. Blah blah-

Oh, hell.

She very slowly stopped chewing. Putting the rest of the apple down on the edge of her desk as she promptly reread what she'd just skimmed over. And then she read it again, hoping that if she stared at it for long enough, it would suddenly start to say something else.

It didn't.