TITLE: People Move On

AUTHOR: Micky Fine

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters from The West Wing belong to me. Some of the situations used in this story were initiated on the show and thus are not entirely mine. A few bits of dialogue from the show will also be used. See if you can pick it out. I'll give you a prize. No profit is being made from this fiction.

SPOILERS: Impact Winter, In the Shadow of Two Gunmen Part II, and 17 People are the main ones.

SUMMARY: When things seem to have ended, Josh and Donna reflect on the beginning. J/D

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, this general idea of exploring the very beginning of Josh and Donna's relationship has been rolling around in my head for a long time but the idea of how to do it just showed up a couple days ago. If I could place it ideally, this story would occur just after Josh's conversation with Leo about Donna leaving in Impact Winter. However, I would want it to come before his trip to Houston. So if you could insert a big space in there for this story it would be much appreciated. So would feedback.

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I'm sitting in my apartment staring at the cardboard box of stuff I carried home with me yesterday, wondering if Josh has even realized I'm gone yet. When I came back from Germany everything had seemed so full of promise. Hadn't Josh looked me in the eyes and essentially said that he was going to stop taking me for granted. And yet in less than six months I feel just the same as I did before I left for Gaza, under appreciated and ill-used. I'm ready to fly and Josh refuses to see that I've grown wings.

I feel a slight pang of guilt for not even giving Josh my two weeks' notice but then considering the unconventionality of our total working relationship it somehow doesn't feel unprofessional any longer. I'm looking forward to the new challenges I'll face on the Russell campaign, and yet I am somehow compelled to look back on the past, if only for today. I pull forward my box of White House mementos.

There are two large stacks of cue cards held together with elastic bands. These are the highlights from every project for which I've ever had to make notes for Josh. I pick up the first stack and randomly thumb through it until a few cards catch my eye. They're all on the process of how someone is put on a postage stamp. I find myself muttering aloud.

"Philately is fun, Josh."

I put down the cue cards and rummage through the other things in my box. There are the normal paraphernalia like hand lotion, lip-gloss, a hairbrush, and Kleenex; but in amongst all the necessities are items that have a much deeper psychological value. I pick up a large pile of photographs and flip through it. There are large group photos spanning both terms of President Bartlet and I gaze at all the familiar faces smiling up at me. I find myself staring at me, searching for some part of myself that I lost somewhere between Gaza, Germany, and home. But as I study my past self my eyes are drawn to the tall, dark-haired, omnipresent man by my side. I'm surprised to see that in photo after photo Josh is not smiling at the camera but at me or giving me that long inscrutable gaze that I still don't understand. The one that utterly confuses me and takes my breath away at the same time. The look that Josh is giving me in the framed photograph I have of us from Bartlet's second inauguration.

Placing the photos on my coffee table, I return back to the box and continue to browse. Campaign pins, newspaper articles, bumper stickers, and ticket stubs. All reminders of significant moments in my life that have taken place over the past seven years. Combing through the miscellanea I find a receipt for gas from Madison, Wisconsin and my Bartlet for America ID tag. Gazing at these two rather inconsequential items I am transported back to a time before I knew Joshua Lyman inside and out.

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"Here's your receipt, miss."

"Sorry?"

"Your receipt. For your gas."

"Right, thanks."

"You sure you don't want anything else?"

"No, I'm fine."

I continue to stand at the counter of the small gas station store and the attendant looks at me with growing suspicion. I suppose I'm not the picture of the ideal customer at the moment. My hair is mussed, my clothes are disheveled, and my eyes are bloodshot. As I put my change in my pocket I notice that my hands are shaking and I know my breathing is unsteady. At this moment I'm pretty sure the attendant is running through all the faces he saw on the last episode of America's Most Wanted and attempting to match mine to some serial killer's. I step back from the counter and head towards the refrigerators at the back containing beverages. Maybe I can find some grapefruit juice. Pink grapefruit juice always cheered me up. Gram used to give it to me when I was little and getting whiny. She always said it took the sourness right out of a body because it was so sour itself. I find myself wishing for Gram's common sense at this moment. She'd always gotten me through all of my previous break-ups.

Gripping the bottle of fruit juice I return to the counter. I give it to the attendant to scan and dig in my wallet for money. As I wait for my change, my attention is caught by the television.

"The story this morning is the 19 of the vote picked up by former New Hampshire Governor Jed Bartlet, who leapfrogged several democratic candidates to finish a surprising third. And we're going to go now to Governor Bartlet, who's standing by live... okay, I'm told we don't have the Governor at this moment."

My mind starts running away with me. I had been playing close attention to the Bartlet for America campaign when I wasn't busy working my two jobs and looking after Brett, my now ex-boyfriend. After leaving the place I had shared with Brett, I had planned on going home for a few weeks until I found a new apartment and a single, well-paying job. But now I started forming a new plan, one that as it blossomed felt more and more right. I was going to drive to New Hampshire. I was going to volunteer on the staff and prove myself as a fantastic addition to the team. So fantastic that hopefully they would put me on salary and I would be able to pursue my seemingly long-lost dream of a career in politics.

"Miss?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you want your change?"

"Oh. Yes, thanks."

I feel myself perking up as I grip the few coins in my hand. I walk out to my rather beaten-up looking car with my head held high. I may have been dumped three days ago by the boyfriend I supported for six years because he suddenly felt that "we just don't fit" but I had a plan. Climbing into my car, I pop open my bottle of juice and take a long sip. The instinctive pucker that the sour liquid causes makes me smile. I turn the key in the ignition and point my car in the direction of Manchester, New Hampshire.

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I pull my coat closer to my body to ward off the pervasive chill common to New Hampshire in February. I tug on the door of the Bartlet for America campaign office and step inside. I suddenly understand the concept of organized chaos. There are people everywhere, half of whom are yelling. Yelling at each other, into phones, there is even one woman yelling at the fax machine. There are also mountains of paper as far as the eye can see. But despite the seeming anarchy there is an overall sense of order. Maybe they don't need my amazing organizational skills after all.

I peer at all of the people filling the relatively small building, attempting to find anyone who looks like they have some authority. In particular, I try to find someone who might be in charge of volunteers. However, despite the gust of cold wind and snow that accompanied my entrance, I am almost entirely ignored. I hold a brief internal debate about going around the office looking for someone in charge, but I somehow don't really feel comfortable interrupting all of this work.

Spying a coat rack, I hang up my coat and then wander through the campaign office, trying to look busy while actually finding something to do. My meanderings are halted when I suddenly see a familiar face. Three feet away from me is the candidate I've seen on television so many times, Governor Bartlet. He strikes me as a very commanding figure and I realize that this man has the air one would expect of a President. My contemplation of his powerful presence is interrupted when another man calls out to him.

"Jed, come with me."

A sudden sour expression crosses Bartlet's face, and I'm tempted to offer him some grapefruit juice.

"What now, Leo?"

"The staff wants to talk with you. C.J. in particular."

"C.J.'s the woman, right?"

"Yes, the tall, blonde woman who's in charge of all your media appearances."

"Ok, let's get this over with."

I inconspicuously watch as Bartlet and the man called Leo walk towards a small group of men and one tall woman, whom I assume is C.J. Despite the powerful presence of the Governor, I sense that he somehow isn't really prepared for the concept of winning the Democratic nomination and becoming President. Leaving the more crowded area of the building I head further back.

Here I find a row of offices. Or what apparently passes for an office here, as they are only slightly larger than a cubicle. I gaze at the names pasted in the window of each office. Leo McGarry's office is neat and there is a tall redheaded woman bustling around inside the small space, organizing various papers and answering the phone. I look at the successive line of names: Sam Seabourn, C.J. Cregg, Toby Ziegler, Josh Lyman. It is this last office that draws my attention the most.

Unlike the organized nature of the chaos near the front door of the campaign building, there is no sense of organization in this room whatsoever. There are boxes stacked haphazardly on most of the floor space and the shelving unit behind the desk is stuffed to capacity. This man is in desperate need of help on the neatness front. I have a sudden urge to go in and clean but I feel that maybe I should go and look again for the person in charge before I plunge in where I don't belong. As I stand in the doorway, torn as to what I should do, the phone rings.

This seems to me to be the answer to my internal struggle and I step into the office and scoop up the phone.

"Bartlet for America, Josh Lyman's office."

I am able to manage the conversation ably despite my total lack of instruction and I use the skills I had learned while working as an assistant in a law office. After hanging up my first phone call at what I hope will be my new job, I begin to tidy the office. Looking at the papers stacked on the desk, I organize them into piles, segregating by general subject. During this project, I discover a golden item, an appointment calendar for the as-yet-unseen Josh Lyman. As more phone calls come in, I am able to describe his schedule and predict the time when he will be able to call back.

The whole time I work in Josh's office alone, it remains fairly quiet, although there are several points when staffers come in, grab a file, and rush out. None of them give me more than a cursory glance. I continue to work uninterrupted in the small office when the phone rings again. Picking it up, I begin to talk.

"Josh Lyman … No, he's not available right now ... this afternoon? He's got a media session, and then a four o'clock with Finance... If you leave your name, I can give Josh the message when he gets back? ... Thank you very much."

As I speak with the man on the line, I observe a tall, somewhat handsome man with disheveled hair, rush into the office, grab a file, and I assume that he rushed back out until several seconds later when I still feel his presence. I hang up and turn around to face the first person in the campaign office that has actually taken an interest in me. I wait for him to speak.

"Hi."

"Hi."

So far so good.

"Who are you?"

Well, that's a fairly simple question. But maybe I should make it sound like I belong here.

"I'm Donna Moss. Who are you?"

"I'm Josh Lyman."

Crap. Oh, and now I'm going to blush.

"Ah."

"Yes."

Well, at least he hasn't called security. Time to hedge my bets.

"I'm your new assistant."

"Did I have an old assistant?"

So much for hedging. But seriously, what person in his position, which I assume to be one of a fair amount of power, doesn't have an assistant?

"Maybe not."

"Who are you?"

Oh yeah, this is going well.

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To be continued…