Six and a half long, tired hours later she pulled up to the curb in front of what she assumed was his house. It was after 1:00 a.m. on a dark, wet night, but there were lights on in the house, which didn't surprise her—he'd always been a nightowl, and she'd been counting on his still being up. The lights in the house together with the streetlamp across the road gave enough light for her to get a good impression of what the place was like. She'd printed a street map of Westport off Yahoo!Maps, so she was pretty sure this was the right address, but she sat in the car, staring in surprise. Something stirred inside her, making her feel lonelier than she'd ever felt in her entire life before.

She'd been driving for several minutes through a surprisingly rural-feeling neighborhood of houses that were very much like it: turn-of-the-century or older grey-shingled or white-frame New England-style, family-sized homes set in big, spreading lawns and gardens, many of them almost invisible to their neighbors. At least half had flags waving patriotically by the front door. This one was smaller than most of the others, a quaint-looking Cape Cod whose multi-paned windows poked in old-fashioned dormers out of its shingled roof, and whose welcoming little porch was overgrown with a woody vine that looked suspiciously like roses. Thick bushes massed protectively around its foundations—hydrangea, she guessed, or lilac or rhododendron, though it was hard to tell that early in the season—and two ancient-looking apple trees stood in the front lawn, their bark glistening silver in the lamplight. The grass beneath them was scattered with little flowering bulbs—tiny little bluebells and crocus and daffodils. It was the most home-like place she could imagine. It made her feel unutterably lost and homeless.

She couldn't imagine Josh living someplace like this. This quaint, rose-covered cottage was as far removed from his Georgetown apartment as anything she could think of, and farther still from the endless anonymous hotel rooms where he'd been perfectly content to spend half his time. She double-checked the address on the map, but she knew she hadn't made a wrong turn; this had to be it. She couldn't understand it—unless, of course, he wasn't living here by himself. That must be the answer: he must be living with someone, someone who meant enough to him that he was willing to adapt to her sense of style and hole himself up here in this old-fashioned, country-style place, so unlike anything he would choose for himself. Living with someone. That was a possibility Donna hadn't even considered before. What kind of idiot was she going to make of herself, showing up in the middle of the night, unannounced, at the door of a man who was living with another woman? She should just start the car and drive back to town and look for a motel, and then drive back to D.C. tomorrow. But she wanted so much to see him. Needed to see him. She'd been aching with impatience to get here every minute of the long drive; she couldn't bear the thought of turning around and leaving without getting even a few minutes to talk to him.

There were lights on in the downstairs windows, and by the front door. A man walked across one of the rooms, and even with the light behind him she recognized him instantly. She couldn't stand it any longer—let his girlfriend think what she wanted, let Josh think what he wanted, it didn't matter, she had to see him, now. She climbed out of the car, opened the little gate in the fence—the place even had a white picket fence, for goodness' sake—and made her way up the stepping-stone path to ring the bell.

There was a pause. Then she heard a chair scraping back, footsteps crossing a floor. The door opened, and she was looking at him. His face registered complete shock, and for a moment he just stood there holding the door, his mouth open and his eyes wide. Then his expression changed, and something like fear washed over it.

"Donna?" he said, his voice cracking. He let go of the door and took a step towards her. "What's the matter? What's happened? Are you all right?"

She stepped forward and said, "Oh, Josh," and suddenly his arms were around her and her face was down against his shoulder and she was shaking. She was afraid she was going to cry: oh God, she didn't want to cry. He squeezed more tightly.

"What is it, Donna? What's the matter? Tell me. Just tell me." She couldn't seem to stop shaking.

"Has something happened? Has someone hurt you?" She shook her head, her face still buried on his shoulder, and felt him relax a little.

"Is it your parents? Has something happened to them?" She shook her head again.

"What is it then? What's happened?"

She shivered all over, and forced herself to try to get some control. Gradually her breathing steadied out. She shivered again, but pulled back a little from his arms, blinking back the tears that were still threatening to fall.

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to smile. "I honestly don't know where that came from. I must be tired or something. It's a long drive."

He looked at her bemusedly. "You drove? From D.C.?"

"Yes, I did. Six and a half hours. The traffic around the city slowed me down."

"You must have been speeding the rest of the way then," he said, smiling a little.

"I wasn't going any faster than anybody else. Or not too much faster, anyway."

"And you always tell me to slow down."

"That's different."

"Naturally. But, Donna—why were you driving here? Why here? Why now? It's the middle of the night."

"I know. I'm sorry. I—could we go in? I'm getting kind of cold."

He looked startled, then laughed. They were standing on the threshold of the door, which was still wide open. "Yeah. Good idea. Come in." He stepped back, letting go of her so she could walk inside. She glanced around, feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious. It was a good thing his girlfriend hadn't come down and found her in his arms like that, but what would she do if the woman appeared now? And how on earth was she going to explain herself? Now that her almost primal need to see him—and, more, to touch him and be held by him—had been met, she was starting to realize how completely inexplicable her sudden appearance really was.

"What a nice place," she said, inanely. She was standing in a comfortably wide entranceway with arches on either side leading to what seemed to be pleasantly large rooms, a pretty staircase in front of her with an old-fashioned newel post and railing that climbed partway up, then bent and kept going across the far side of the hall. Under the stair and facing the door was a little alcove with a built-in seat. The walls were a fresh yellow, the woodwork bright white, the floors warm oak. It all looked, she thought, just the way she would have imagined from the outside: nicely renovated but full of old-fashioned charm.

He was smiling at her, looking, she thought, almost shy.

"Thanks," he said. "There's still not much furniture, I'm afraid. I've almost finished the painting, though."

Donna looked at him as if he'd grown another head. "You've almost finished doing what?"

"The painting. The walls—they were pretty bad when I moved in. Wallpaper, a lot of it pink, and this really creepy green."

"You're doing the painting yourself?"

There was that shy look again. "Yeah. It's nice. Kind of calming, you know? Takes me forever, though; I've been working on it for almost six months now."

"Your girlfriend must be a very patient woman."

Now it was his turn to look at her strangely. "Who?"

"Your girlfriend." Donna felt proud of herself, working that in like that. If it was obvious that she knew he was with someone and wasn't surprised about it, they couldn't think she'd had anything in mind except political concerns when she'd driven up here so suddenly like this.

He was grinning a little now. "Really? Tell me about her; you seem to know something I don't."

"Oh come on, Josh. You can't tell me she isn't patient, if she's putting up with you taking six months to do the painting, instead of hiring a pro and having it over with in a couple of weeks."

The dimples were in full play now. "Yes, I suppose she'd have to be. But why do you seem so convinced that she exists at all?"

Donna stared at him. "You mean, you're not living here with someone?"

"Well, not that I'm aware of. Do you really think any woman would be willing to live with this little stuff?"

Donna's focus had been entirely on him. Looking around with more attention now, she realized that the rooms she could see into were, in fact, almost completely unfurnished. In the living room to her left there was a deep couch opposite a fireplace, a standing lamp, the t.v.—sitting on its cardboard box—and a few photos propped on the mantelpiece; it was a large room, but otherwise it was empty. The arch to her right opened into what seemed to be intended as the dining room. The only furniture in it was a table and a couple of chairs. Josh's laptop was open on the table, which except for a reading lamp was completely covered with books and papers. The cords for the computer and the lamp trailed across the floor. It did not, in fact, look like an arrangement any woman would put up with for long.

Her smile was bigger than she meant it to be. "I hadn't had a chance to notice, but now that you mention it, it does seem unlikely."

He tipped his head and looked at her quizzically. "Why were you so sure I was living with someone?"

"This place. The way it looks outside—the house, the garden. Especially the garden. I couldn't imagine you choosing a place like this by yourself. I don't know what I was expecting, exactly—maybe a loft in an old mill or something. Just not this."

He smiled again, but didn't offer any explanations. "Well, I wasn't exactly expecting you to show up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, either. You're going to have to tell me what you're doing here, you know, but could I get you some coffee first?"

"That would be heaven," Donna said appreciatively. "The coffee at the gas stations on the New Jersey Turnpike sucks, it seriously sucks. And I need to use your bathroom."

"It's through that door, on the left. Did you bring a bag or anything?"

"It's in the car."

"Give me your keys; I'll bring it in."

oooooo

Ten minutes later they were sitting beside each other on the couch in the living room, cradling their coffee mugs. The French press was on a tray on the floor between them. "I guess I should get a coffee table sometime," Josh said. "I've never really missed having one before. I don't have a lot of visitors here."

"I thought you'd have friends here still."

"Parents of friends, mostly. I've been to dinner at a few people's houses. They don't expect me to invite them back."

"That's bad, you know."

"I bring flowers! They're taking pity on a bachelor who isn't supposed to be able to cook for himself; if I started handing out dinner invitations, I'd lose the sympathy factor right away, and they'd probably think I was gay. I fill them in on how my mother's doing and tell tales of the White House; I earn my keep."

Donna laughed over the edge of her coffee mug, but thought how strange it was to think of Josh dining out on tales of the White House instead of being dined by Congressmen and Senators as part of his job there. She also wondered how many single women were paraded in front of him at those dinners, and whether he'd gone out with any of them. Just because he wasn't living with anyone didn't mean there wasn't someone he was involved with, or interested in.

Somewhere between Baltimore and the New Jersey Turnpike she'd stopped even trying to lie to herself about what was really driving her to see him.

"You're enjoying your work now?" she asked, avoiding that subject.

"Yeah, I am. We've got a good group of people at the Foundation. And when President Bartlet's got his library going, he's going to be more involved. We should be able to get some really interesting projects going then. It's mostly been domestic issues we've been focused on so far, but I'm hoping to expand our range to get some conferences going about starting to tackle some of the problems in the Third World. There are so many that just don't have to be problems. We'd like to sidestep the political process and get individuals more engaged with solving them. There's so much wealth in this country; if we could just get more of the people who own it to take a personal interest, we could really make a difference."

"With our party in control of the House and the White House, you could be working through legislative channels, Josh."

"Yeah, and look where that's gotten us. Four months in office, and what has Russell done? He has all the cards, and he's throwing them away. Where's the big education bill, Donna? Health care reform? Campaign finance? Full rights for gays in the military? Aid to undeveloped nations? Where's anything except a few easy, feel-good bills that would have passed just as easily if Vinick had won and the Republicans had taken the House?"

Donna dropped her eyes, and sighed, the corners of her mouth turning down unhappily. He was right, of course—it was exactly what she'd been thinking. She'd wanted to talk to him about it, but what could she say? She bent over, picked a spoon off the tray on the floor and started stirring her coffee so she wouldn't have to look him in the face.

Josh noticed the change in her manner immediately, and stopped. "I'm sorry, Donna," he said in a gentler tone of voice. "I didn't mean to get going on that. I know you must think differently. And besides, that's not what I want to talk about. I want to know why you're here, and why you seemed upset when you arrived. That's all we need to worry about right now."

Donna stirred her coffee again, keeping her eyes on her drink. "I saw you on t.v. tonight."

"I see you on t.v. lots of nights."

"Not that many nights."

"No. It could be more. You look good, though. You do a good job."

"Thanks," she said, smiling a little. "So do you."

"So—what does my being on t.v. have to do with your being here?"

She sighed. "I'd been worried about something all day and thinking of you, wishing I could talk to you about it. When I went home and saw you on the t.v., I went and packed a bag and got in my car and came."

He shook his head, smiling. "How did you know where to come?"

"You're listed in the phone directory; I got it off the internet."

"My phone number's listed too. It would have been a lot easier to call, wouldn't it?"

She bit her lip. She didn't really want him to know how much she'd just wanted to see him again.

"I—I wasn't comfortable talking about this on the phone." Well, that was true enough. "I wanted to see you. This seemed the quickest way."

There was concern in his eyes now. "What was it you weren't comfortable talking on the phone about?"

Donna got up and crossed the room to the entranceway, where he'd put her suitcase down. She opened it, took out a manila envelope, and walked back to stand in front of Josh. "This," she said. He raised his eyebrows, but opened the envelope, took out the papers, and started to read.

oooooo

Donna leaned back against the sofa cushions and watched him as he read. She'd always loved watching him work; he had an intensity even when he was reading that she found utterly compelling. And this was the first chance she'd had to really study him since she'd arrived. He seemed older, she thought now, though not in a bad way. There were a few lines she didn't recognize in his face, and some grey hairs just starting to appear in his thick curls, but there was also something quieter and calmer about him that impressed her; he seemed more relaxed and at ease than she'd seen him in a long time. Paradoxically he was also tidier: although his shirt was a little crumpled, as she'd expect at that hour, his sleeves were still neatly buttoned at his wrists. She knew when he got to the worrisome part of the bill: his shoulders tensed and he leaned forward a little, his jaw tightening and that muscle in his cheek starting to work. He seemed to read that page over several times, then flipped back and looked at something else. Then he relaxed a little and read to the end, turning the pages more quickly than before.

When he was finished, he put it down on his lap and looked at her. "I see why you were worried," he said. "That's potentially pretty risky language they've got in there. It's open to too many interpretations."

"That's what I thought."

"You thought right. I'm surprised nobody else there caught it; it's a good thing you did. It probably would have gotten worked out in committee, of course, but your guys would have looked pretty bad if it had been a Republican who caught it. And if for some reason it had slipped by, it could seriously compromise privacy rights in quite a few areas, not just school computers and teenagers' internet use."

"That's what I thought. It's been bothering me all day."

"You're very good at this."

"I had a very good teacher, Josh."

He turned his head quickly, dropping his eyes back to the papers in his lap. Following his gaze, Donna was startled to see his hands gripping the papers tightly. She looked back up at his face, and even in profile could see that his mouth was trembling a little and he was breathing hard. She had no idea what was the matter.

"Josh?" she said, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head and half-laughed. "Nothing," he said, his voice sounding a little rough. "It's all right. Will doesn't seem to be doing the job he should now, though, if he's letting language like this go through."

"Will?" Donna said, totally bemused. "Why are you talking about Will?"

"You said you had a good teacher—you meant him, didn't you?"

"I meant you, Josh. How could I possibly have meant anyone else? You taught me everything. Everything. You know you did. All I knew when I showed up in that office in Manchester was typing and filing and how to answer the phone. I hadn't finished my college degree, I was trying to bluff my way into a job, and you saw right through me and gave me a chance anyway. You brought me to the White House. You took time most people would never have taken to show me things I'd never have seen without you, explain things I'd never have had a chance to understand. And now I'm the White House Press Secretary. I'm there, in your old office, doing C.J.'s old job. I still can't really believe it, but I think about you every day, and I'm so incredibly grateful. . . ."

She broke off, because she saw his face working more than before.

"Josh?" she said, bewildered. She reached out a hand and touched his arm. "What's the matter, Josh? What did I say? What's the matter?"

He took a deep breath and wiped a hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. Nothing's the matter; it's fine. I'm sorry."

"What did I say? Why did that upset you?" Her hand was still on his arm. He put his other hand over it for a minute and squeezed it tightly, then dropped it. She hesitated, then took her hand away too.

"It's okay, Donna. I'm not upset. It just—that meant a lot to me. More than you can know." He was looking down at his hands, fingering the cuff of his left sleeve.

"Oh, Josh." She thought she was beginning to understand a little. "I'm sorry. I should have said those things to you when I left."

"It's okay."

"It wasn't okay though, was it? I shouldn't have left like that, after all those years, after all you'd done for me. I should have talked to you about it, explained why I needed to go. I shouldn't have left you thinking I wasn't grateful, that I didn't care."

"I thought you were angry with me." His voice was low.

She had been angry with him, but she'd realized long ago how petty her reasons had been.

"I—I wasn't myself that fall, Josh. It's no excuse, but I had a hard time after the explosion, after Gaza. I tried to come back to work too early, I think, and I felt so tense, so stressed. I was having trouble sleeping—"

"Oh, God, Donna," he said, his eyes going wide. He looked horrified. She didn't let him finish.

"It's okay, Josh. It didn't last that long. I talked to someone—to a couple of people—and I felt better afterwards. But I felt different, too. I realized I couldn't go on and on in the same job, doing the same things, every day. I wanted to grow. I felt like I could do more, and I wanted to find out if I was right, if I really could or not. I'd been wanting to do something different for quite a while, really, but after the bombing, I just wanted it so badly, I couldn't wait any longer. I felt like I had to do something just for me. I suppose I was angry with you, a little, for not giving me more responsibility, but I've realized for a long time now how unfair that was." That wasn't all she'd been angry about, but she wasn't going to mention her other reasons now. "It wasn't your job to find better things for me to do. That was my job."

"I'm sorry," Josh said, sounding as stricken as he looked. "I'm so sorry, Donna. I should have seen what you needed. I should have helped you."

"You had too many other things to worry about, Josh."

"I should have seen what you needed. I should have seen—I can't believe I didn't see—if you still weren't well, if you needed help, after Gaza—it should have been me you were talking to. I should have found you the right people to talk to."

Donna sighed; she couldn't help it. That had been what had hurt the most—that Josh hadn't seen or guessed that she needed help then. She'd been so aware of the changes in him after Rosslyn, and so concerned about them; in the strange state of mind she'd been in when she'd been hurt herself, she'd wanted desperately for him to notice that something was wrong with her and step in to make things right. But that was Josh, she'd finally decided—totally undependable for that kind of thing. He could blow you away by unexpected gestures sometimes, but you couldn't rely on him for them. He could fly halfway around the world to sit by your bedside when you were hurt, and then, when you came home, hardly notice whether you were in the room or not, or what sort of state you were in when you were there.

"It's okay, Josh," she said, trying not to let her sadness show. "I talked to Kate Harper. She helped a lot."

He shook his head. "It should have been me. I'm so sorry, Donna. I'm so sorry." His voice was tight with anger that she knew was directed, not at her, but himself.

"It's okay," she said again, more firmly this time. But he wasn't ready to let it drop.

"Did you—are you—" He had to stop to clear his throat. "Was it—did you get—what— I got, after Rosslyn?" He wasn't looking at her, and although his voice was very low she could hear the current of anger in it still. The question startled her.

"No, oh no. It was never as bad as that, Josh. I was just upset, and under a lot of stress. Kate said that was normal, after an experience like that—most people feel some sort of effect. They'd warned me about it in the hospital, actually; I recognized what was happening. I just needed to talk it out a bit, and then I was fine."

"You're sure? You weren't having flashbacks to the explosion?"

"No. Really. Most people don't, you know."

"Yeah, I know. But—you're sure? You're sure you're okay now, Donna? Sometimes—sometimes these things can happen in different ways, ways you don't expect. You might not be reliving the explosion, so you might think you're fine. But if you feel you're under a lot of stress, if there's stuff that's bothering you and you're not paying attention to it, thinking it will just go away—you want to watch out for that."

Donna felt her eyes sting. Josh might not have been there for her when she needed him, but she was incredibly touched by his concern now.

"Of course I'm under stress, Josh," she said lightly, trying to reassure him. "I'm the White House Press Secretary. But it's nothing like that."

"You're sure? You're really sure? You don't ever feel like—you don't ever think you—might—might,"—he was having a hard time getting the words out—"do something? To—hurt—yourself?" His face had gone white and beaded with sweat, and the muscle was working in his cheek again. Donna remembered that terrible Christmas when he'd put his hand through a window, and shivered. Tears started to push behind her eyes, hovering, getting ready to fall at any moment.

"No, Josh, really. I'm all right. I got help when I needed it, and I didn't get PTSD. Kate gave me the name of a good therapist, and I talked to her a few times too. You don't have to worry about me. Really."

"You're sure?" he asked again, still sounding urgent. There was an intensity in his eyes that Donna didn't really understand. "Please be sure, Donna. Because I can't bear to think of you, going through that, doing that. . . ."

She lost the battle with her tears then, and felt them start to slip down her face. "I'm sure, Josh," she whispered. "I can't bear to think of you going through that, either. I'm so sorry you had to, that Christmas . . . ."

"It's all right; don't worry about that. That doesn't matter. Don't cry, Donna; please don't cry. I can't stand for you to cry."

He reached out to wipe her face, brushing the tears from each cheek gently. His eyes were burning into hers. She felt her eyes glowing back, her skin flaming where he'd touched it, every part of her catching on fire in response. She made a little noise and shifted, moving closer to him. He paused then, his hand still on her face, staring into her eyes for what seemed like forever. Then he began slowly, almost reverently to caress her cheeks, the angles of her jaw, the sides of her neck. Slowly and gently he ran his fingers along her collar bone, brushed them along the scoop neck of her top, then stroked them back again along her collar bone and slipped them behind her head, running them through her hair. It felt as if he was trying to memorize the shape of her face, her head, her throat, but all the while his eyes never left hers.

"You do know I love you, don't you?" he asked huskily, a catch in his voice, before tipping her head up and pressing her mouth into his.

oooooo