Disclaimer: Not mine, but I like to play with them anyway.

A/N: Okay, here it is. More is coming, fun stuff, but I had to finish this up…I don't know if it's realistic, or in character, but…here you go. I reprinted the letter from "25 Things;" speaking on the video is in italics. I hope you like it! Feedback will help me finish!

I spend the next few hours alternating between slick, icy dread and unreasoning anger. One minute I'm berating myself, thinking myself the lowest form of scum, and the next I'm so angry at him I could spit. What the hell right does he have to put that kind of responsibility on me? I'm his reason for living? And I thought it was bad before! How am I 'sposed to feel about that, think about that, do about that? How does a guy live up to that? And then I hate myself again. I should be honored, right? And grateful, and…

There's a loud rapping at the door. I open it, only to be faced with a tight-lipped Sam and an irate CJ.

"What the hell did you say to him?"

"Well hi to you, too."

"Don't give me that, smartass. What did you do?"

I feel the anger bubbling up again. "Well you're awfully quick to…"

"Listen, pal. It took the two of us this long to calm him down and prevent him from drinking himself into a coma. I've never seen him that low before, and I've seen him through plenty. He's on the phone with your mother now, so brace yourself. He might not be ready to bust your ass, but she sure will. And I will, too," she finishes darkly. "Now, start talking."

I look at her, at Sam, stony and inscrutable with his arms crossed over his chest. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "He came over this morning. Brought breakfast. We talked, and it was okay for a while. Then he asked me if I wanted to come home for a while. To DC." I look up.

"Yeah, so?"

"God, none of you get it, do you? I'm just an extension of him there. I'm not JJ, I'm Josh Lyman's son, the one who didn't follow him into politics."

"JJ, if you let that get to you…"

"I've been getting that ever since I can remember, CJ. From other people first, and then, more obliquely, from Dad. I've wanted to get away since forever. Why do you think I begged to go to boarding school? But then he made applying to Harvard conditional, so that was out."

CJ's voice is softer. "Why do you think he did that, JJ? He wanted you to stay. The thought of you leaving broke his heart. He knew you wouldn't do anything you didn't want to do, even to get away, so that's what he did. Maybe it was wrong, but…"

"He couldn't just say that?"

"And you would have listened, right? When all else fails, Josh strategizes. He didn't know how to reach you, so he did what he does best."

"But why does he care so much?"

"Why?" For the first time, Sam speaks. He's incredulous, indignant. "You're his son. He loves you."

"Yeah. Um. That's another thing. I kind of, well, I kind of asked if, um, I was here because he was sick."

"WHAT?!?!"

"Well, it makes sense," I say defensively. "You know Dad. With his ego, and…and everything, he might have wanted to, you know, leave something behind."

"Do you really know him so little?" Sam's voice is resigned, sad. "They found out about you right before the diagnosis. He was so happy. He walked around with this big, dumb grin on. Leo was afraid to send him to the Hill, because he was too damn cheerful to scare anyone. He was so damn happy," he repeats.

"Well, if I wasn't a mistake, or a legacy, or something, why the hell did they wait so long to have Suzy?"

There's a long pause. CJ and Sam look at one another. I look between them, confused, panicky, and with the fear that I might just really have done something very wrong indeed.

Haltingly, CJ speaks. "They wanted to make sure…they wanted to make sure he…that he made it past the five year mark, before…"

Oh, jeez.

"And then, it took them awhile, to…because of the chemo, he couldn't…he took some things, to help…" She's uncomfortable, looking at Sam.

My father. My father, with the ego the size of Texas, took drugs. For that. I can't imagine it.

I speak. "He said…he said something else. He said that…that the only reason he didn't let go is because of me. Is that true?"

CJ shoots an inquiring look at Sam. "Things were bad, JJ. They were really bad," Sam reiterates. "Based on some things he said to me, yeah, I'd guess it's probably true."

"But how can he do that to me?" I explode angrily. "I know it's irrational, unreasonable, but…I can't live my life for him, you know? I have to do it for me! I don't know what he wants…I can't…I…"

"So ask him."

I look up. Chris is standing in the doorway. From the look on his face, he's heard quite a bit, and isn't very happy about it. "Chris, I…"

"Shut up. Just shut up, man. I am so fucking sick of hearing you bitch about your dad. He cares. He cares. Do you know how lucky you are? Hell, my dad wouldn't care if I died tomorrow. So stop screwing around."

His eyes are blazing; I've nevebr seen him so worked up. "Chris, you don't know…"

"Look, JJ. You're one of the best guys I know. I mean that. But when it comes to your dad, you just can't give in. You won't. I've seen it, heard it. And that's stupid. Just talk to him. Talk to him. Please. Let it go, man. Just let it go. You're bigger than this shit. Don't screw with a good thing. Not anymore. Get your head out of your ass," he enunciates crisply, and stalks off with a glare.

He leaves. "Well, he saved me the trouble of delivering a further ass-kicking," CJ says dryly.

I wince, thinking of the other time today I've heard that phrase. "Yeah…"

"Listen," CJ continues. "We brought you some things. When your dad got sick, your mother asked me to keep them. And afterwards, too. She couldn't bear to have them around for a while, and I guess I never gave them back. There's some videotapes, a scrapbook your mother had. Maybe they'll, I don't know, lead to something."

I take the box. I'm feeling a little lightheaded. "Um, thanks. Thanks. I'll just go and…take a look…"

They glance at me worriedly. "Well, okay," CJ says. "We'll go check on Chris."

I don't really hear them. I feel as though I've got a sort of Pandora's Box. I'm afraid of what it might mean for me.

I take out the scrapbook, flip through pages. The first thing is an article on the Bartlet campaign, from a Wisconsin paper. There are pencil marks. I imagine my mother reading it, underlining things she thought were insightful. She would do that.

There's more memorabilia…napkins, coasters, tickets, from all across the country. A faded newspaper picture of my father and Toby and President Bartlet.

There's a photo from the first Inauguration. Of my parents. They look young, and giddily happy.

More newspaper articles. Of bills passed, screwups of my father's. The Mary Marsh thing, stuff like that.

Then, the shooting. The magazine pages have been torn out, shoved in, not neatly affixed. As though my mother was driven to preserve them, but couldn't bear to look at them.

I smile at the folded Chinese takeout carton, at a note about physics. He still trots that stuff out when he wants to annoy one of us.

The rest of it is more stuff like that. There's an engagement photo…it looks as though it was taken at the Bartlet farm. They're standing in front of a wooden fence. My mother's head is on his shoulder, his arm is around her waist, and they're smiling. Grinning like loons.

And then it stops. I know what comes next, though.

I slip the first of the tapes into the VCR.

It's in one of the bullpens. People have glasses of wine. The filming's a bit shaky, but eventually the camera zooms in on my mother and father. My mother is speaking: "Guys, I know this is just supposed to be a, well, rather late now, ah, engagement party, but ah, Josh and I, well, we have some news." She's blushing, and she turns to Dad.

He beams. "We're having a baby!!!" he announces jubilantly.

Pandemonium ensues. From somewhere comes a "God help us," delivered in tones that can come from no one but Toby.

"You couldn't have waited a few more months, mi amor?" It's CJ, exasperated but grinning.

"With a woman like this? You gotta be kidding me!"

"Joshua!"

"Sorry, Donna, but it's true."

"Chauvinist, hormonally-overloaded pig," CJ mutters.

"You're just jealous."

"You wish."

The tape flickers, then another scene comes up. Sam's slightly giddy face fills the screen, and then it zooms back to show him with his arm slung around my mother. "Do you know, Donna, that once when Josh and I were out he started singing along to "Lady in Red," and then informed the bartender that it was dedicated to you?"

"I did not!" my father screeches indignantly.

"You did! You did!" Sam chortles gleefully. My father lunges for him, and proceeds to chase him through the bullpen. There are more bits like this, and through all of them, I'm drawn toward my father. Even on a tape a quarter-century old, you can tell he's something. Even on a tape, you follow him, watch him. The charisma, the energy, the confidence, it rolls of him in waves. It's surprising, and yet not at all.

I envy him. For his magnetism. God, how could you not? For the first time, I admit it to myself. I envy him.

The party must have migrated to the Residence at some point, because my parents are now on a couch. My mother is asleep, with her head in my father's lap. One hand idly strokes her hair, and the other shades his eyes. All of a sudden he looks up, with a gentle smile of welcome for whoever holds the camera.

"They're sleeping," he says softly. On his face, there's this look of wonderment and peace. Wow. I hope to God, I get that look someday.

I take a deep breath before inserting the other tape. It's just other amusing stuff, from the Bartlet days, and I start to wonder whether I should really get dressed, when I look up.

Nothing could have prepared me for this. It's my father and mother again, except…they're in a hospital. My father is barely recognizable, gaunt and pale. His eyes dominate his entire face. As the moment unfolds, and he sings the lullaby, one that licks at the corners of my memory, I keep staring at his eyes. My eyes. No one should be that sick and have eyes that look so…awake, and so full of hope.

I'm getting jittery. It's the…it's the damn love in his eyes! I can't look at it. I feel so exposed, so low. If I look, my anger might melt. It's been a part of me, this resentment, for so long, that I don't know how to feel about the world, without it.

I can't look at that, and deny it anymore.

My father loves me.

With a sudden burst of energy, I shove the album and other tape back into the box. I feel the need to punch something. What do I do?

I notice an envelope lying on the floor. It must have fallen out of the back of the album, or something. I recognize my father's handwriting, a little shaky, and my name, Joshua Josiah, which I've detested for so long. I open the envelope. My hands shake.

Dear kiddo,

If you're reading this, you know I was pretty sick, once, so sick that I never got to see you. I'm sorry for that, really I am. But I love you; I have since the moment your mother told me. And I'm so happy to have been your father. I know it's probably going to be hard to grow up without me; it was hard enough losing my dad, and I was nearly forty. So I thought I would write you this list, just some general things to keep in mind. Some of them will hopefully be obvious to you by now, others you may need explained. I know your mom will be happy to, though she might cry at first. She always was a crier. I'm sorry it's not more, buddy, but I'm pretty tired, and I wanted to do this by myself, so you'd have something, from me to you, just between us.

I love you, Joshua.

Dad.

Cats are bad. Period.

Red meat's got to be burned. It's the only way to go.

The backpack makes the man.

A good pair of sunglasses is a necessary investment. Trust me on this one.

Always buff the bottom of your shoes. Yeah.

Never underestimate the power of a good smirk.

Avoid "winging" anything, especially a press briefing. Just ask CJ.

Any shrink named Stanley's a good bet.

Whatever you do, please, please, don't let your Uncle Sam turn you into a Gilbert and Sullivan freak. Stick with the Doobie Brothers.

Don't mess with your Aunt CJ, 'cause, you know, she'll hurt you.

Don't let Toby scare ya. Underneath the bluster, he's one of the best guys you'll meet. Just don't believe him when he starts talking about the Yankees. We're Mets men.

When President Bartlet starts lecturing, just run. He'll like you. You can probably get away with it.

If your mother ever instates The Rules, do yourself a favor and just do what she says. Life'll be better that way.

If by some cruel twist of fate you inherit my sensitive system, always keep a fresh set of clothes in the office. I ended up in fishing waders, once.

Just in case you wonder, your mother will never, ever, order her own fries. She'll eat yours. I know it's odd, but it's just a thing. It's okay.

So. Girls. First of all, be wary of the brunettes, okay? Although blondes are scary enough, as I'm sure you've discovered by now.

The dimples. I know you hate 'em, but yeah, never grow facial hair. They're your fallback with the ladies. They'll work where all the chocolate and roses in the world won't do a damn thing.

Unexpected gifts. They're much more meaningful than traditional ones. And just between you and me, you'll get luckier. But just do your old man a favor on that one, okay? Wait awhile.

Don't stop for beer, or even red lights, when something's important, cause… just get your mother to explain that one. Someday you'll understand.

Keep your family close.

Don't be afraid to take risks, to trust, when it feels right, about people. That's how I met your mother.

Speaking of your mother, you have my permission to sabotage any dates she has with gomers, or rather jerks you don't like. If you like'em, that's another story, though, 'cause I want you both to be happy.

Voting. Is. Important. If you don't, I'll kick your ass.

Hold out for the real thing. Whatever, whenever. Just do it.

Remember that I love you. Always.

I feel…lost. And found.

It's my dad. Funny, sarcastic, outrageous, demanding, kind, surprisingly perceptive.

But his bottom line? I love you.

That's it. That's always been it. Somehow, somehow I lost sight of that.

But now I've found it, and I know what I have to do.

I'm pacing. I've been here for the past half hour, ever since Sam and CJ 'fessed up to their scheme, and since Becca called to tell us JJ's been locked in his room for hours. CJ and Sam are with me. CJ's tried, unsuccessfully to get me to sit down. I won't. I'm worried. He's never done anything like this before.

Suddenly the door opens, and JJ shuffles out. He looks like hell. He's in the same boxers and ratty t-shirt, his glasses are crooked, and his hair is doing its best to go everywhere. God, I love this boy.

And then I look at his face. It's…tearstained. He looks lost. I have this incredible urge to just hold him, to rock him like I used to when his nightmares made him cry out.

"Dad?" He says it haltingly, almost pleading.

"It's all right, Jay." I open my arms, and he grabs me almost desperately.

"God, Dad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And then he starts to sob. I haven't seen my son cry since he was eight years old.

And so I do what a father can without bitterness. I forgive him.

"Shhh, Jay. It's all right. Calm down, son. It's all right. I'm here, Daddy's here, it's all right." Without realizing it, I've slipped into the mantra I used when quieting him as a baby. It's just, he's starting on these convulsing, hiccupping sobs, the same ones as…I guess it's instinct. "Shhh, boy. Shhh, son. I'm here. It's all right. It's all right, Jay."

He finally quiets, his body still shuddering with the sobs he's trying to suppress. I rub circles on his back, kiss his hair. "Good boy," I murmur, "it's really all right."

Finally he pulls away, looking embarrassed, not meeting my eyes.

I give a small grin. "I believe that was what your mother refers to as 'emotional purging.'"

He smiles weakly, then gives a wry laugh. "And how." He scratches his head. "Sorry. I just…sorry."

"No need. Absolutely none."

"Um, so, um…what do we do now?"

"I have no earthly idea."

He smiles, and I grin back.

It's a start.