Chapter Text
Strategy.
It's a crucial concept.
I learned that from Josh.
You should always have a strategy. In fact, it's probably best if you have an alternate plan in case your original strategy fails.
I had a plan on May 17. Oh, I was clever. I had everything figured out. Hadn't I managed, in my own subtle way, to defeat both Mandy Hampton and Joey Lucas?
My strategy was simple and elegant: Wait it out.
Two years until re-election. Four years after that.
Just wait it out.
Because, when everything was said and done, Josh hadn't needed Mandy, he didn't need Joey, he wouldn't need whomever he developed an irrational obsession for next.
No, the only woman Josh Lyman truly needed was me -- Donna Moss, personal assistant extraordinaire.
If he was too dense to understand that he needed me for reasons that had nothing to do with keeping track of his schedule, that was fine too. After the events of last Christmas, I was all too aware of the fact that Josh and I couldn't act on our feelings until we left the White House.
And it wasn't as though I intended to stay home and learn to knit while Josh went out and got laid. No, thank you; that was never part of my strategy. I had learned a valuable lesson three years ago: don't pin all your hopes on a man. That just never works out.
On May 17, as I went about my spring cleaning binge in the deputy chief of staff's office, I was thinking a lot about strategy and the conclusion I came to was this:
Sooner or later, he'll get a clue. Not even Josh is that stupid.
Until then, get on with your life. Have fun.
But don't give up on Josh. 'Cause, you know, sooner or later, he'll figure it out.
Being Josh, of course, he figured it out later.
And almost died in the process.
Will someone explain to me again why I love this man?
***
It's amazing, really, how small decisions can have such grandiose effects on our lives. Of course, if you want to trace the chain of events, there were many decisions, big and small, which led to that phone call.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It also wouldn't do to go too far back, to include misplaced mistletoe, irresistible cheesecake, Donna Moss in a bikini, and the temp from hell. So I'll start with the afternoon of The Phone Call.
That's how I've come to think of it: The Phone Call.
Which is silly. The outcome might have been worse had I not lagged behind the rest of the staff. But I'm an impatient man, and I had to call Donna at my first opportunity.
Such a small decision.
Now I don't believe in fate or predestination, but someone out there is bound and determined to hold me to my word. I would like to suggest, you know, for the future, a nice, simple flat tire. Or maybe a broken cellphone. Because I gotta tell you, an assassination attempt seems a bit on the extreme side.
Well, if this introduction isn't proof enough that I was not, in any way, cut out for a communications job, I don't know what is.
All you really need to know is this: I tried to be a nice guy and I ended up in intensive care.
I have learned my lesson.
***
"Feel free to go home early tonight," Josh says.
The earth shifts on its axis, and everything is topsy-turvy.
"What did you say, Joshua?"
"I said you should feel free to go home early," he answers, smiling in a way I do not trust. Granted, I find it wise to be suspicious any time Josh Lyman smiles at me. But there's something just, well, off about this.
Unless...
"No, Josh," I say.
"No?"
"No to whatever you want. I will not come in at 5 a.m. tomorrow; I will not work this weekend; and I will not under any circumstances clean that mess on your desk."
"I'm not asking."
"You're not?"
"I'm just telling you to go home."
"Now?"
"Now," he says. He's still grinning, damn him, and I know he's pleased that he's got me so confused.
I scramble for a way to regain control of Moss v. Lyman, Section 7083.
"Well, Josh, in the rest of the world, anyone working from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. would be calling for overtime pay, but I do appreciate the sentiment." I figure I'd better get out of the office before my benevolent dictator rethinks his position.
"Donna?"
Right. I knew this was too good to be true.
"What is it, Josh?"
"You'll be going straight home, won't you?"
"Yes, I -- Josh, what are you planning?"
"Nothing. Just asking."
He's lying. He's up to something here, but I can't figure out what.
I'm too puzzled -- too busy trying to figure out his motives -- to come up with an appropriately witty reply. I hate when he leaves me speechless.
I take one last look at Josh, who is smiling at this secret he's keeping from me. He's practically bouncing on his heels with glee. I shake my head, and I leave him.
God help me, I leave him.
***
I am feeling pretty good about myself. Not that this is a particularly uncommon occurrence, but I do believe I have earned a bit of good karma.
I gave Donna a half-day.
Okay, so technically it's already 6 p.m. But still -- I usually keep her here until at least 8 or 9, which qualifies this bit of kind-hearted generosity as a half-day. At least in spirit.
"Josh."
I turn and find Sam hovering in my doorway.
"Samuel," I smile at him. "Are we going?"
He gives me a dubious look. "What's wrong with you?"
"What?"
"You're positively chipper," he says.
"Just basking in the glow."
"The glow?"
"Of my good karma."
"You know, " he says, "I don't think karma so much glows as it does... well, nothing."
"Boys," CJ pokes her head into my office. "Load 'em up."
"'Load 'em up?'" I smirk.
"Josh, don't start," she warns.
"Okay," I agree. Quite pleasantly, I might add.
CJ frowns at me.
"Good karma," Sam explains. "I'm guessing he doesn't want to lose it by making fun of you."
"That's not all he'd lose," CJ says.
I snort and grab my jacket.
"So, the karma?" Sam says, trailing behind CJ and me as we head to the waiting cars.
"The good karma," I correct.
"Right," Sam says. "What'd you do?"
"I gave Donna a half-day."
"I just saw her ten minutes ago," CJ says, shooting me a strange look.
"Yes."
"It's six o'clock, Josh," she points out.
"Yes."
"She got here at, what, 8 a.m.?"
"Yes."
"Well," Sam says, "technically--"
"I know, I know," I interrupt. "It's the thought that counts."
"It's really not," CJ counters, climbing into the limo.
I settle next to her, and Sam takes the seat across from us.
CJ glances at me. "So what'd she do?"
"Who?" I ask.
"Donna."
"What'd Donna do about what?"
"For the night off," CJ explains, exasperated.
"Oh," I say. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Sam asks.
"Nothing," I confirm. "I figured she deserves it."
"Anyone who works for you longer than a day deserves it," CJ notes dryly.
"Well," I say, "I've been a little busy lately. And Donna seemed kind of down..." I'm getting an inkling of something here, like an almost-finished math problem. But the solution eludes me.
Sam is still talking. "You know, now that you point it out, Donna has seemed a bit less perky."
"Yeah," I say, half-listening. It's like an algebra equation with one too many undefined variables.
"For the last week or two, actually," Sam says.
"Since Joey Lucas got here," I confirm.
My brain chooses this moment to finish the equation: Donna has been depressed because Joey Lucas was here. More to the point, Donnatella Moss was jealous because she thought I was interested in Joey Lucas.
And the only reason she'd be jealous is if she wanted me.
I grin like a bloody idiot.
"Josh?" Sam asks.
"Hmmm?" It occurs to me that I am in the presence of two of the four people who would hand me my ass if they even suspected I was thinking about what I'm thinking about. I attempt to modify my expression.
I fail.
"Joshua," CJ says, her eyes narrowed. "No. Don't even think it."
"Think what?" This stupid grin is kind of uncontrollable.
"I'm serious, Josh."
Sam is staring at us, confused.
"Don't worry about it," I say.
"Worry about what?" Sam demands.
"Nothing," CJ and I say together.
"What are you talking about?" Sam asks.
"I'm just planning how best to use my good karma."
"Seriously?" Sam asks.
"Yes," I answer. And I'm not even lying.
The conversation shifts, and I spend the rest of the ride mentally rehearsing my phone call-cum-verbal victory dance. CJ spends the remainder of the trip staring at me with a disapproving frown.
I try to look innocent.
I must fail, because CJ sticks to me like a burr on the way into the Newseum. I can't very well call Donna and tell her I know she's got a bad case of Lyman Fever with CJ glowering at me.
Fine, I think. I'll just call her after the speech.
***
I've been home for a couple of hours. I've changed out of my business suit, and I'm in the middle of nuking some Lean Cuisine when the phone rings.
I knew it.
"No, Joshua," I say as I answer the phone.
"You couldn't say hello like a normal person?" he asks.
"What do you want? What unreasonable thing do you expect from me now?" I ask.
He laughs, and I can picture that mysterious smile on his face. "Nothing. I'm just calling to see how you're enjoying your night off."
"You're calling in the middle of the night -- during the president's thing at the Newseum -- to find out about my evening?"
"Basically. Although the president's speech is pretty much over. It's just a matter of getting him out of here before he tries to shake hands with everyone in the building."
"And yet you're calling to annoy me."
"And to ask a question."
"No, Josh."
"You haven't heard the question yet."
I'm intrigued, so I settle on giving him my long-suffering sigh instead of any one of a dozen clever comebacks, and I wait.
"So, Donna," he says, "you still going to be home about an hour from now?"
"Yes, Josh. I have to go to bed early, you see, so I can beat my workaholic boss into the office tomorrow."
"Well, don't go to bed too early," he says.
"Josh, what is going on?"
"I'm coming over to your place as soon as we get back to the White House."
"Oh God, you're drunk again, aren't you?"
"Not even close. Look, I've got to go. Otherwise, I'll be stuck getting a ride on the bus with the reporters, and that just wouldn't be good for anyone."
"Josh--"
"Gotta go. I'll see you in an hour."
And that's the last thing he says to me.
The very last thing.
***
It's not at all like on TV, getting shot.
I am late leaving the Newseum because I was inside calling Donna. I am still grinning in anticipation as I start to catch up with my friends.
I'm about 100 yards behind them when I hear the noise. Even after 17 years in D.C., I never recognize gunfire for what it is.
The sudden panicked screams from the crowd finally clue me in.
No one's ever accused me of having great instincts in emergency situations. I hear gunfire and screams, and all I can think about is Getting There. I have no medical training; my presence in the midst of an assassination attempt will do nothing more than provide another target. None of this matters.
I run full out towards the street.
The gates are bottlenecked with terrified civilians, so I head for the fence, intending, I guess, to scale it. Instead, I stop. And stare, utterly horrified by what I learn much later is less than ten seconds of undisguised, naked violence.
I see CJ go down, her body slamming into the pavement. Sam is right behind her, diving for cover. I can't tell if either of them is hit.
I think I am screaming, my hands grappling at the fence.
I can't find Leo, can't see Toby.
I'm having a hard time breathing.
The presidential limo squeals away. At least the president is on his way to safety.
My chest feels strange, like it won't expand all the way.
I wonder if Zoey and Charlie are in the limo, too.
I glance down. I am bleeding.
I look around for help. There is no one near me.
There is so much blood.
When my brain processes the fact that I've been shot, I start to feel it. A slow burn through my chest, increasing in magnitude by the second.
I drop to the ground and crawl behind a nearby cement wall.
It occurs to me that the gunfire has stopped. There are still screams.
I can't concentrate for too long on any one thing.
The blood -- my blood -- seeping from the bullet hole is burning my hands.
I can't catch my breath. It feels like I'm drowning.
My leg is folded awkwardly beneath me.
No one knows where I am. I have to get help.
My head falls back against the rough cement.
I try to call out, but only manage a small sound. Like a dying animal.
Which is when I realize that I, Joshua Lyman, am going to die. Not in some long-distant future, but here, on the cold pavement.
By myself.
***
You don't know, until the world comes crashing down around you, how very blessed your life has been. You can't know, until the one thing that matters most is about to be taken from you, how lucky you were to have it for just a little while.
Not even three years.
Even in that first instant, when you hear the words "shots have been fired at President Bartlet and members of his staff," it doesn't register. You sit there for a second, and you try to remember who was there. Leo, of course. And CJ. Toby and Sam. Charlie. Someone told me Zoey was going.
I am paralyzed for a moment. These are people I care about. Then I remember the procedure.
Everything connected with the White House has an order, a protocol. Things must be done just so. Before President Bartlet even took office, we were drilled on the procedure regarding assassination attempts. It is supposed to be second nature to us. I would have sworn it was. Yet five minutes easily go by before I remember that I have a place I am supposed to be and things I'm supposed to be doing.
My assigned place at this moment is a very easy one to remember: I'm supposed to be with Josh, doing whatever he needs me to handle. I grab my jacket and my car keys and run out the door.
Andy, who lives across the hall, opens his door and asks, "Have you heard?"
"Yes," I answer. "I have to go. I have to get to Josh."
"I'm so sorry," he says. I assume he's referring to President Bartlet, so I nod and hurry to my car.
My only thought is that I have to get to where Josh is. He's probably screaming orders for me already. I'm pleased to note that my brain is functioning again, even if my hands are shaking, and I remember which hospital the Secret Service will take the president to.
Of course, I get caught in traffic. All of DC is caught in traffic tonight. The entire city has gotten out of bed, left their homes and started the trek to the hospital. Another time I'd wonder about this universal need to be at the center of events, but right now all I want to do is scream. I want to jump out of my car and scream at all these people who have come to gawk that these are my friends who are fighting for their lives and they need me.
And I hear myself saying the same word over and over and over: "Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh."
So maybe, on some subconscious level, I understand what could be happening. But my conscious brain -- the small, functioning part of me that isn't chanting his name -- can only process the fact that Josh is going to be so angry that it's taking me this long to get to him.
Finally, I arrive at the hospital, but there is nowhere to park. I say to hell with it and put the car in the first available, illegal spot I can find. Let them tow it away. I have to get inside. I can't be bothered with worrying about parking spaces now.
But getting inside isn't easy. Everyone wants inside -- reporters, bystanders, everyone claims a legitimate reason. The Secret Service has the place barricaded, and I think I'm going to cry in frustration. And then I realize -- and again I wonder why it's taken me so long -- that I know Secret Service agents. By name. I look around until I find a face I recognize, and I go up to him.
"I'm Donna Moss. I'm Josh Lyman's assistant." I'm shaking again.
"I know who you are, Ms. Moss," he replies.
"I'm supposed to be inside."
"I'll need to see your I.D.," he says. And it doesn't strike either of us that there is anything absurd in a man saying he recognizes me and then asking to see my I.D. This is a national emergency, and that is the procedure.
I'm shaking so badly that it takes me two minutes to find my I.D. But once I have it, the Secret Service agent waves me in. "Mr. Lyman's assistant," he announces. "She's cleared."
Josh, I think, will be even harder to live with when I tell him how invoking his name parted a sea of Secret Service agents.
*
I have never seen a hospital look like this -- so few people except for the Secret Service agents lining the hallways. I can hear my heels clicking against the tile floors, and it is such an eerie sound. The one woman at the nurse's station looks at me as though she can't understand how I got there.
"I need to find Josh Lyman," I tell her. "He's part of President Bartlet's staff. He's the one--"
"I know who Mr. Lyman is," she says.
"Where is he?"
She looks around, uncertain about how much she can tell me.
"I'm his personal assistant," I explain. "It's my job to be here."
She hesitates some more, then gives me directions to the waiting room.
CJ's there. And Toby, Sam and Charlie. I've walked into the middle of a conversation they're having with someone. A doctor?
They all look at me as though they don't know what to say. I ask about the president, and I can't believe how relieved I am when they tell me he's going to be all right. I didn't realize just how worried I was. And then I'm babbling. I'm doing that babbling thing Josh hates. I'm going on about the Secret Service and how I was shaking and I know I should be quiet, but I can't. I can't be quiet because if I am I will realize that the person who should be here telling me to be quiet isn't here.
Why isn't he here?
"Donna," Toby says, "Josh was hit."
Even then, it doesn't register. I don't understand. "Hit" -- I've heard that word before; I know it means something, but I can't quite remember what.
Why isn't Josh here to explain it to me?
Toby is saying something about Josh being hit in the chest. I hear the words "collapsed lung" and "artery." It's beginning to make sense now. I understand it.
Josh isn't here.
Josh isn't here because he's dying.
*
CJ and Charlie have gone back to the White House. Toby and Sam are here with me.
"You should take your coat off, Donna," Toby says. He's moved to the chair next to mine, and he's speaking slowly to me, the way you speak to a child. I suppose that's because I'm in shock. "You need to take your coat off now."
I shake my head. "I'm too cold," I tell him.
Toby and Sam exchange looks. "I'll find a doctor," Sam says and leaves.
I'm not sure why we need a doctor, unless there's news about Josh.
"He called me," I tell Toby. "It must have been just before. He said he had to catch up to the rest of you."
"That's right," Toby says. "He was behind the rest of us. We couldn't find him after--"
"After the shooting."
"He wasn't in the group. There were Secret Service around the rest of us, but Josh was cut off."
I don't know how I figure this out, as difficult as I'm finding it to think. But one piece of the puzzle has just slipped into place.
"You found him, didn't you, Toby?" I ask.
Toby nods.
"Was he...how did he look?"
"Frightened," Toby answers. It strikes me suddenly that this is why I like Toby, because he tells the truth. Someone else might try to convince me that Josh hadn't known what hit him, that there was no pain.
Toby, however, knows that the only comfort is in finding out what really happened.
"I think..." Toby hesitates and starts again. Maybe some truths are too hard even for him. "I think he believed he was dying."
Josh believing in his own death. I try to wrap my brain around that concept, but I can't make it work. If ever a man was convinced of his own invincibility, it is Josh Lyman. Even if -- well, it's just cruel. It's cruel to let him think, even for an instant, that he's as vulnerable as any of us.
And he was so happy when I talked to him. He was happy, and then he went out into the crowd and someone shot him.
"Did they catch the shooters?" I ask.
"Yes," Toby tells me. "The Secret Service got the men who shot Josh."
"Are they dead?"
"Yes, Donna, they're dead."
"Good," I say. "I'm glad they're dead. I hope they suffered."
Toby nods, whether in agreement or just understanding, I'm not sure.
He sits quietly beside me for a very long time.
*
The doctor Sam returns with wants to put me under observation.
"Josh would have a field day with that one," I mutter.
"You're under a great deal of strain, Ms. Moss," the doctor says. "You should lay down; we can find a bed for you."
"I'm all right," I say.
"Josh will be in surgery for at least ten hours," the doctor says. "There won't be any news. Getting some rest will help you cope with... the outcome."
It's the tiniest pause there -- "the outcome." I know what he really means, and there's a part of me that's angry and wants to shout at him to just say it. But another part of me -- a suspicious part I didn't know existed -- is afraid to say it. Afraid to think it.
If I don't say it, it won't happen.
I turn down offers of a bed, of tranquilizers, of food. I can't eat, and what good is being numb through all this? How will being numb from tranquilizers help? Josh is fighting to stay alive; I'd say this is a pretty good time to start getting in touch with my emotions.
As for rest, even if I could, it just seems wrong. It's a national emergency; there's a procedure; I have a job. My job is to be by Josh's side. This is as close as I'm getting, and this is where I'll stay.
Toby went back to the White House, and Sam is the only one with me right now.
"How ya doing?" he asks.
This strikes me as a singularly stupid question, but I know Sam means well.
"Okay," I answer. Then, because Sam is Josh's best friend and he deserves the truth, I add, "Worried."
Sam nods. He's quiet for a second, like he's gathering the courage to say something. Then he tells me, "I've been thinking, and I've decided that you need to tell him."
"There is nothing to tell," I say.
"I'm just saying," Sam goes on, "that it would be wrong if he never heard it. That's all I'm saying."
This should be comical. Josh is fighting for his life, and Sam is giving me dating advice. It should be comical.
"You know what CJ would say," I reply. "Not to mention Leo. Or the president."
"I'm just saying," Sam repeats. "Josh is just clueless enough not to know. So you should say it. He should know."
I am so damn tired of not having any secrets from these people.
*
Mrs. Landingham comes by next. I adore Mrs. Landingham. I want to be Mrs. Landingham when I'm her age. Her sons died in Vietnam; her husband passed away five years ago; the Bartlets are the closest thing to family that she has. Nobody could blame Mrs. Landingham if she just said to hell with everyone and became one of those bitter old women who sits around waiting to die. But she keeps working; and she has this great sense of humor; and if she ever gives in to self-pity, no one else sees it.
I adore Mrs. Landingham.
"Well," she says as she sits down by me, "isn't this just like Josh?"
I look at her curiously.
"He has to be in the center of it, doesn't he?" she asks. "The president comes away relatively unharmed, and Josh stays behind to do the really dirty fighting. Isn't that just typical of Josh?"
I smile. "It really is," I agree.
"I've noticed," Mrs. Landingham says, "that Josh usually wins those fights."
"Not always."
"Most of the time he wins," Mrs. Landingham says. She takes my hand. "I don't think it would be wise to bet against him this time."
If it's possible, I love Mrs. Landingham even more than before.
*
END PART I