Josh Lyman paused at the staff gate, gazing up into the crisp autumn
sky, Orion's belt clearly visible despite the glare of the lights of the
District. The rimy wind from the Potomoc, more New England than Mid-
Atlantic, flash-froze his curls, still damp from the shower in the White
House gym. He turned up his collar against the chill, closed his eyes,
then turned and stared at the Executive Mansion, so long his True North,
before hitching the nearly-empty gym bag on his shoulder and climbing into
the cab waiting for him at the curb.
"Mr. Lyman asked that I give these to you personally, Mr. McGarry." The White House Security Officer of the Day proffered a fat manila envelope. "I'm about to go off-shift."
McGarry nodded a dismissal and stared briefly at the familiar signature scrawled across the envelope's flap before tearing and tilting it. On top of the latest polling numbers tumbled a pager, a cell phone and the Last Will and Testament of Joshua Lyman. "What the hell?" he muttered as he hobbled down the hall toward Donna Moss' office, nearly bowling her over as she burst out the door, eyes wide with terror, clutching a folded sheet of paper, a ring of keys, a wallet and a well-worn watch.
Merely puzzled before, the Chief of Staff was now alarmed. "What's this all about?"
Admission papers signed, blood drawn, IV port in place, the "vacationing" DCOS carefully folded his clothing before stacking it and his sneakers neatly in his previously-empty gym bag. He grimaced at the chill that intruded through the back opening of the hospital garb, then slipped between sheets that were as scratchy as the gown. He flexed his hand, stretching the tape holding the needle in the vein that bulged between his wrist and his fingers, listening to the sounds outside his door–pages for doctors and departments, casual and urgent conversations–sounds much like the White House. Beneath it all his pulse pounded, but not loudly enough that he couldn't hear the near-silent footfall pause before the door hinges hissed.
"Hey, Josh."
He turned his head toward the voice, a scrub-clad brunette in her fifties, swallowing hard before replying, "Dr. Taylor."
"You usually call me Evan," she set a notebook and two syringes on the bedside cart, then pulled a blood pressure cuff from the wall hanger, wrapped it around his arm and pumped it up. "Rough day?"
"At the White House?" he snorted and she grinned an absent reply while finishing the blood pressure reading.
Cuff back in its caddy, she tugged him to a sitting position, warming the stethoscope before sliding it across his back. She'd noticed the little wince as he sat up, the involuntary hand flutter toward the old surgical scar. "When was the last time you ate and drank?" She moved the instrument lower on his back.
"Last night," he replied, sincerely.
"I'm impressed," she teased and moved the instrument to his chest. "Where's Donna?"
His heart rate doubled. "Her meeting ran long," he stammered.
"But she will be here before we take you in?" the doctor prodded, searching the patient's face.
"Yeah," a couple of post-ventricular contractions confirmed the lie.
The doctor draped her stethoscope around her neck and leaned back against the bedside cart. "Your BP's elevated."
"I thought that's why I was here . . ."
The doctor's expression cut off the feeble jest. "With the change in your meds your BP should barely register, Josh."
"Typical bad day at work," he offered lamely.
She gently pushed him onto his back and pulled the hand with the IV port to rest on his belly. "It's got to come down before the surgery, Josh. This is to lower your blood pressure." She swabbed the IV port then injected the contents of both syringes. "And this is your pre-surgical tranquilizer." She dropped them both into the hazardous sharps receptacle. "I'll check on you in a little while and we'll decide then." She pulled the bed controls near him. "Do you want the TV on?"
"You want my pressure down, right?" he joked.
She raised the bed rail and patted his hand. "Relax as much as you can, okay?"
"Yeah," he closed his eyes as the door closed.
The doctor walked directly to the nurses' station, picked up the phone and dialed. "Abigail? I need to consult with you about a patient."
"'I just don't need these things for the next two weeks,'" Donna Moss quoted from the paper fluttering in her shaking hands. "'Don't worry; I haven't done anything stupid. I'll call you when I can. Love, Josh.'"
Leo McGarry turned to Lyman's hapless intern. "And you're sure he hasn't gone to his mother's early for Thanksgiving?"
"I'm sure, Mr. McGarry," the young man stuttered. "He had me cancel the ticket yesterday."
"And that didn't strike you as odd?" the Chief of Staff raged.
"Lots of things Josh does strike me as odd," Ryan explained.
Donna rifled through uncharacteristically orderly drawers that held up the desktop devoid of anything but personal mementos. "What about his current portfolio?"
"He farmed it all out on Wednesday."
Donna froze and her face paled. Leo dragged his hand down his face.
Abigail Bartlet's tiny form loomed large in the doorway. "Leo McGarry, you're a jackass."
He was doing The Right Thing; he knew it in his heart–well, the part of his heart that hadn't been damaged by the caffeine, poor diet and stress–which brought him to his current quandary–to call or not to call? He hated being alone but, had Donna known, she'd be here, stuck with him. She was Better Off Without Him–which left him here. Alone. Childless. Doing the Right Thing–for Donna, at least.
For his mother, though, it was far from The Right Thing. She'd be highly aggravated with him for not letting her help him through this. She'd be even more aggravated if she knew how close she'd been to grandchildren.
He was aggravated with himself over how close he'd come to prospective progeny. Flush with success after the march on the Capitol, he'd given Donna the Full Court Press: flowers, drinks, romantic dinners, the whole deal. It had almost worked, too. For two weeks.
"You're afraid of being alone, aren't you?" she'd asked just as he'd unbuttoned her blouse, her skin rosy with passion even in the candle light. He'd remained mute, but his shaking hands had betrayed him. He should have known she'd recognize the desperation in his romantic gestures. "I think," she'd said as she'd reluctantly brushed his hands aside and fastened her blouse, "we should finish this when it's more about us than it is about you." She'd taken his hands in hers and met his gaze. "When, Joshua, not if."
"When, Joshua, not if." She'd meant it when she'd rebuffed him. He'd accepted it that night, she'd been right, after all, and had gone home. The next morning she'd found a steaming Starbuck's cup and a single rose in a Crisa vase on her desk. She picked up the accompanying note, fingers caressing the fine linen paper. He'd been leaning against his door frame, hands in pockets, sleeves folded up to expose those arms, suit already delectably rumpled. His eyes were a warm, sunny brown this morning and his gaze no longer undressed her with naked lust but bathed her in eternal adoration. Blushing, she'd unfolded the paper leaf, finding his distinctive scrawl.
Just say when.
She'd nearly swooned but settled for acknowledging him with a shy smile. He'd grinned and nodded and disappeared into his office.
The lurch of the limousine brought her out of her reverie and she, with a little mewl, pulled her makeup kit from her purse and dabbed at her face.
"What in God's name are you doing?" Leo asked incredulously. "There won't be any press at the hospital."
"This isn't for the press; it's for Josh." She applied her powder with a vengeance. "If he sees me looking worried and tired, he'll worry, too." She turned to face the Chief of Staff. "He doesn't have the energy to waste on worry."
Leo McGarry nodded, then fell back into his own reflections on loyalty and love.
Twelve days. It had been twelve days since the note had appeared on his desk beneath a red rose.
When.
It was unsigned, but no signature had been needed. He'd discovered it after he'd returned from an afternoon appointment–one allegedly on the Hill but, in actuality, with his cardiologist. She, his cardiologist, had given him an adverb, too. It was, "Now." And it was the note from his cardiologist that rendered the note from Donna moot.
He'd told her nothing; but he'd done nothing, either. They continued their habit of meeting in the Mess for lunch. He continued the roses, but he did nothing to escalate the relationship beyond the friendship he cherished. By day four she'd cornered him in the elevator–his doctor had forbidden stairs–and asked quietly, "When, Joshua?"
He'd paused, gathering up every bit of courage he could before responding with a single word, "Never." He'd refused to explain, to excuse, to do anything but say, "I'm sorry, but never."
She'd buried her pain in work, mostly for Angela and Leo, and he'd quietly divested himself of his portfolio. With the assistance of his attorney, he'd changed his insurance, his will, his medical power of attorney, to benefit Donnatella Moss. There was no sense in putting it into an estate; he had no heir but his mother and she was sufficiently well off.
They'd managed to work together without being together. Occasionally, they'd be in the same hall or the same room and she'd turn her eyes toward him, the hurt nearly melting his resolve to protect her. He'd last seen her yesterday, in the Roosevelt Room. She'd lingered after a staff meeting, sighing sadly, "We could have been so good together, Joshua."
He halted, turned and met her gaze sadly, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
Her eyes widened in recognition of the quote from Hemingway and she brushed past him without even a backward glance.
He knew.
He'd watched.
Josh breathed deeply, succumbing to the sensation that he was melting into the mattress. He felt oddly heavy yet surprisingly light–and light- headed–so that he'd been totally surprised by the hand on his arm.
"Josh?" the doctor pulled him from a pleasant drift through his favorite Donna memories.
"Is it time?" His brown eyes refused to focus and his tongue felt thick. As though from a distance he heard the pumping of the blood pressure cuff, felt the tightness around his bicep. Then there was the relief and cool fingers pressing against his wrist.
"Your vital signs are still marginal but we really shouldn't wait."
"Let's do it," he murmured while the nurse, whom he'd just now noticed, fussed with the wires and tubes.
"She's not coming, is she?" the doctor asked as she unlocked the wheels on the bed. "You didn't even tell her," she grunted while tugging the bed away from the wall and pushing the foot toward the door.
"I ended it, Evan," he began and tears coursed down his face. "She deserves better than this," he swallowed hard but his speech became more slurred, "than me." His eyes drifted shut and the wheels whirred down the hall.
"Wait!"
His eyes sprung open at the sound of the seemingly-distant voice. The rolling stopped and her scent, subtle yet distinct, warmed his heart while her breath warmed his face.
"We're not through yet, Josh."
"No, Donna," his head rocked slightly and he licked his parched lips.
"I'll love you as long as you draw breath, Joshua." She pressed her lips to his forehead, then his cheeks, then lingered over his mouth. "As long as I draw breath." And her kiss took his breath away.
"Mr. Lyman asked that I give these to you personally, Mr. McGarry." The White House Security Officer of the Day proffered a fat manila envelope. "I'm about to go off-shift."
McGarry nodded a dismissal and stared briefly at the familiar signature scrawled across the envelope's flap before tearing and tilting it. On top of the latest polling numbers tumbled a pager, a cell phone and the Last Will and Testament of Joshua Lyman. "What the hell?" he muttered as he hobbled down the hall toward Donna Moss' office, nearly bowling her over as she burst out the door, eyes wide with terror, clutching a folded sheet of paper, a ring of keys, a wallet and a well-worn watch.
Merely puzzled before, the Chief of Staff was now alarmed. "What's this all about?"
Admission papers signed, blood drawn, IV port in place, the "vacationing" DCOS carefully folded his clothing before stacking it and his sneakers neatly in his previously-empty gym bag. He grimaced at the chill that intruded through the back opening of the hospital garb, then slipped between sheets that were as scratchy as the gown. He flexed his hand, stretching the tape holding the needle in the vein that bulged between his wrist and his fingers, listening to the sounds outside his door–pages for doctors and departments, casual and urgent conversations–sounds much like the White House. Beneath it all his pulse pounded, but not loudly enough that he couldn't hear the near-silent footfall pause before the door hinges hissed.
"Hey, Josh."
He turned his head toward the voice, a scrub-clad brunette in her fifties, swallowing hard before replying, "Dr. Taylor."
"You usually call me Evan," she set a notebook and two syringes on the bedside cart, then pulled a blood pressure cuff from the wall hanger, wrapped it around his arm and pumped it up. "Rough day?"
"At the White House?" he snorted and she grinned an absent reply while finishing the blood pressure reading.
Cuff back in its caddy, she tugged him to a sitting position, warming the stethoscope before sliding it across his back. She'd noticed the little wince as he sat up, the involuntary hand flutter toward the old surgical scar. "When was the last time you ate and drank?" She moved the instrument lower on his back.
"Last night," he replied, sincerely.
"I'm impressed," she teased and moved the instrument to his chest. "Where's Donna?"
His heart rate doubled. "Her meeting ran long," he stammered.
"But she will be here before we take you in?" the doctor prodded, searching the patient's face.
"Yeah," a couple of post-ventricular contractions confirmed the lie.
The doctor draped her stethoscope around her neck and leaned back against the bedside cart. "Your BP's elevated."
"I thought that's why I was here . . ."
The doctor's expression cut off the feeble jest. "With the change in your meds your BP should barely register, Josh."
"Typical bad day at work," he offered lamely.
She gently pushed him onto his back and pulled the hand with the IV port to rest on his belly. "It's got to come down before the surgery, Josh. This is to lower your blood pressure." She swabbed the IV port then injected the contents of both syringes. "And this is your pre-surgical tranquilizer." She dropped them both into the hazardous sharps receptacle. "I'll check on you in a little while and we'll decide then." She pulled the bed controls near him. "Do you want the TV on?"
"You want my pressure down, right?" he joked.
She raised the bed rail and patted his hand. "Relax as much as you can, okay?"
"Yeah," he closed his eyes as the door closed.
The doctor walked directly to the nurses' station, picked up the phone and dialed. "Abigail? I need to consult with you about a patient."
"'I just don't need these things for the next two weeks,'" Donna Moss quoted from the paper fluttering in her shaking hands. "'Don't worry; I haven't done anything stupid. I'll call you when I can. Love, Josh.'"
Leo McGarry turned to Lyman's hapless intern. "And you're sure he hasn't gone to his mother's early for Thanksgiving?"
"I'm sure, Mr. McGarry," the young man stuttered. "He had me cancel the ticket yesterday."
"And that didn't strike you as odd?" the Chief of Staff raged.
"Lots of things Josh does strike me as odd," Ryan explained.
Donna rifled through uncharacteristically orderly drawers that held up the desktop devoid of anything but personal mementos. "What about his current portfolio?"
"He farmed it all out on Wednesday."
Donna froze and her face paled. Leo dragged his hand down his face.
Abigail Bartlet's tiny form loomed large in the doorway. "Leo McGarry, you're a jackass."
He was doing The Right Thing; he knew it in his heart–well, the part of his heart that hadn't been damaged by the caffeine, poor diet and stress–which brought him to his current quandary–to call or not to call? He hated being alone but, had Donna known, she'd be here, stuck with him. She was Better Off Without Him–which left him here. Alone. Childless. Doing the Right Thing–for Donna, at least.
For his mother, though, it was far from The Right Thing. She'd be highly aggravated with him for not letting her help him through this. She'd be even more aggravated if she knew how close she'd been to grandchildren.
He was aggravated with himself over how close he'd come to prospective progeny. Flush with success after the march on the Capitol, he'd given Donna the Full Court Press: flowers, drinks, romantic dinners, the whole deal. It had almost worked, too. For two weeks.
"You're afraid of being alone, aren't you?" she'd asked just as he'd unbuttoned her blouse, her skin rosy with passion even in the candle light. He'd remained mute, but his shaking hands had betrayed him. He should have known she'd recognize the desperation in his romantic gestures. "I think," she'd said as she'd reluctantly brushed his hands aside and fastened her blouse, "we should finish this when it's more about us than it is about you." She'd taken his hands in hers and met his gaze. "When, Joshua, not if."
"When, Joshua, not if." She'd meant it when she'd rebuffed him. He'd accepted it that night, she'd been right, after all, and had gone home. The next morning she'd found a steaming Starbuck's cup and a single rose in a Crisa vase on her desk. She picked up the accompanying note, fingers caressing the fine linen paper. He'd been leaning against his door frame, hands in pockets, sleeves folded up to expose those arms, suit already delectably rumpled. His eyes were a warm, sunny brown this morning and his gaze no longer undressed her with naked lust but bathed her in eternal adoration. Blushing, she'd unfolded the paper leaf, finding his distinctive scrawl.
Just say when.
She'd nearly swooned but settled for acknowledging him with a shy smile. He'd grinned and nodded and disappeared into his office.
The lurch of the limousine brought her out of her reverie and she, with a little mewl, pulled her makeup kit from her purse and dabbed at her face.
"What in God's name are you doing?" Leo asked incredulously. "There won't be any press at the hospital."
"This isn't for the press; it's for Josh." She applied her powder with a vengeance. "If he sees me looking worried and tired, he'll worry, too." She turned to face the Chief of Staff. "He doesn't have the energy to waste on worry."
Leo McGarry nodded, then fell back into his own reflections on loyalty and love.
Twelve days. It had been twelve days since the note had appeared on his desk beneath a red rose.
When.
It was unsigned, but no signature had been needed. He'd discovered it after he'd returned from an afternoon appointment–one allegedly on the Hill but, in actuality, with his cardiologist. She, his cardiologist, had given him an adverb, too. It was, "Now." And it was the note from his cardiologist that rendered the note from Donna moot.
He'd told her nothing; but he'd done nothing, either. They continued their habit of meeting in the Mess for lunch. He continued the roses, but he did nothing to escalate the relationship beyond the friendship he cherished. By day four she'd cornered him in the elevator–his doctor had forbidden stairs–and asked quietly, "When, Joshua?"
He'd paused, gathering up every bit of courage he could before responding with a single word, "Never." He'd refused to explain, to excuse, to do anything but say, "I'm sorry, but never."
She'd buried her pain in work, mostly for Angela and Leo, and he'd quietly divested himself of his portfolio. With the assistance of his attorney, he'd changed his insurance, his will, his medical power of attorney, to benefit Donnatella Moss. There was no sense in putting it into an estate; he had no heir but his mother and she was sufficiently well off.
They'd managed to work together without being together. Occasionally, they'd be in the same hall or the same room and she'd turn her eyes toward him, the hurt nearly melting his resolve to protect her. He'd last seen her yesterday, in the Roosevelt Room. She'd lingered after a staff meeting, sighing sadly, "We could have been so good together, Joshua."
He halted, turned and met her gaze sadly, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
Her eyes widened in recognition of the quote from Hemingway and she brushed past him without even a backward glance.
He knew.
He'd watched.
Josh breathed deeply, succumbing to the sensation that he was melting into the mattress. He felt oddly heavy yet surprisingly light–and light- headed–so that he'd been totally surprised by the hand on his arm.
"Josh?" the doctor pulled him from a pleasant drift through his favorite Donna memories.
"Is it time?" His brown eyes refused to focus and his tongue felt thick. As though from a distance he heard the pumping of the blood pressure cuff, felt the tightness around his bicep. Then there was the relief and cool fingers pressing against his wrist.
"Your vital signs are still marginal but we really shouldn't wait."
"Let's do it," he murmured while the nurse, whom he'd just now noticed, fussed with the wires and tubes.
"She's not coming, is she?" the doctor asked as she unlocked the wheels on the bed. "You didn't even tell her," she grunted while tugging the bed away from the wall and pushing the foot toward the door.
"I ended it, Evan," he began and tears coursed down his face. "She deserves better than this," he swallowed hard but his speech became more slurred, "than me." His eyes drifted shut and the wheels whirred down the hall.
"Wait!"
His eyes sprung open at the sound of the seemingly-distant voice. The rolling stopped and her scent, subtle yet distinct, warmed his heart while her breath warmed his face.
"We're not through yet, Josh."
"No, Donna," his head rocked slightly and he licked his parched lips.
"I'll love you as long as you draw breath, Joshua." She pressed her lips to his forehead, then his cheeks, then lingered over his mouth. "As long as I draw breath." And her kiss took his breath away.