Donna takes another gulp of her whiskey sour, wondering if
she should have made it a double to intensify the welcome
burning sensation in her throat every time she swallows.
Across from her Sam drains his second Bass and sets it down
on the wooden table with a dull clunk. He's taking it easy
compared to Josh, who is sitting to her right and concentrating
on his third scotch on the rocks. She knows she should cut Josh
off, that there's a lot going on and he's going to need a clear
head tomorrow -- not to mention later tonight, since she knows
they'll be heading back to the office sooner or later, no matter
how much "later" that turns out to be -- but she can't bring
herself to do it, can't bring herself to deprive him of whatever
solace and escape the liquor might be providing him.

God knows she needs as much of it as possible herself.

It has been only two hours since they got word of Mrs. Landingham's
death, but to Donna it already feels like an ice age. Time has
been moving very slowly for her ever since Charlie broke the news.
She feels as if she's swimming through soup every time she moves
a limb or attempts a coherent thought. She realizes, of course,
that the whiskey sours are not helping with this, but she can't
bring herself to stop any more than she's willing to convince Josh
to do so. Mrs. Landingham's death alone would be reason enough to
take refuge in drink, but that piled on top of the revelation of
the president's illness and the uncertainty over running for re-
election entitles them all to some unconventional medication, or
so she keeps telling herself.

"Another round?" Sam asks, getting up from his seat. His crisp
white shirt -- a bit wilted now, but that's to be expected -
stands out like a beacon in the low, golden-toned lighting of the
bar. He looks at Donna, and she's taken aback by the uncertain
expression on his face, the almost beseeching look in his eyes.
It's almost as if he's hoping she'll say no, that she'll turn
into the mother hen they expect her to be and shoo them outside
into the fresh air, away from any further self-destructive
behavior.

She's tempted to do it, feels the pull of needing to take care
of Josh tugging at her, but then she turns her head and looks
into Josh's eyes and the despair she sees there strangles the
words in her throat. Instead she raises her glass to Sam and
nods and tries to ignore the disappointed look he seems to give
her in return.

"Make mine a double this time, Sam," Josh says. Sam hesitates,
then gives in, heading for the half-empty bar at the front of
the room. Josh watches him go, then returns to his scotch.

"Aren't you going to scold me, Donatella?" he asks, not looking
at her, shaking his glass and rattling the ice cubes. He lifts
the glass to his lips and takes a cube into his mouth, crunching
on the ice, and god help her but she finds herself mesmerized by
the movement of his jaw as he bites down.

"Why?" she whispers.

"Because I'm drinking too much and I have, as you are so fond
of telling anyone who will listen, a very delicate system." He
puts the glass down and shifts toward her. As he does so he moves
just an inch closer to her, which wouldn't be a big deal except
that he's been doing that since they got here over an hour ago and
by this point they are sitting so close that she can feel the heat
from his body even though they're not actually touching.

She forces herself to concentrate on what he's saying, to ignore
the realization that she could move her leg about a centimeter
and it would be pressing up against his under the table. "I don't
feel like scolding anyone right about now, Josh," she says. "Not
even you."

He nearly smiles at that, the movement playing at the corners
of his mouth, almost but not quite revealing the dimples in his
cheeks. "I'd thank you, but I'm not foolish enough to think this
is anything but a temporary reprieve from your usual barrage of
unsolicited interference."

"And just where would you be without that interference, Josh?
Living in a van down by the river, that's where. Huddled up in
your secondhand clothes from Goodwill and heating a can of soup
over a battery lamp."

Now he does smile, and she savors her pleasure at making it happen.
"Would you visit me once in a while for old times' sake?"

She pretends to consider it. "Maybe. If I'm feeling generous.
I could bring you some chicken noodle."

Josh looks like he's trying to rustle up an appropriate response
out of his drunken haze when Sam returns to the table, doles out
the drinks and takes his seat. "This round was on the house," he
informs them. "Seems Billy heard the news."

Josh snorts. "Which news? The news about Mrs. Landingham dying
or the news about the president lying to the American people about
his health?"

"Josh," she says warningly, but Sam takes it in stride.

"The former," he says. "He didn't say much of anything about
the latter, for which I am profoundly grateful."

"I teased her about her car today," Josh says softly.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks.

Josh shifts in his seat again, and this time his leg does brush
against hers, and it stays there, searing her skin as she strives
to hide her reaction. Josh, for his part, doesn't seem to notice.
"Mrs. Landingham and Charlie were talking about her new car, and
he was razzing her about how women don't know anything about
buying cars, and I was joining in." He shrugs and stares down
at his glass. "You know, just teasing her. Stupid stuff." He
shakes his head. "It was the last thing I ever said to her."

Donna touches his shoulder. "Don't," she says quietly, and her
heart breaks at the haunted expression he turns her way. "After
all," she continues, trying to lighten the mood again, "Mrs.
Landingham would never have expected you to be anything other
than the egotistical caveman that you are. If you had been nice
about it you probably would have confused her."

He lets out a noise which under other circumstances might
constitute a laugh. "There you go. I was doing her favor."
He meets her eyes, and now they're just staring at each other,
and she's not sure what's affecting her more, the way he's
pinning her with his deep brown eyes or the fact that he is
now pressing his leg against hers in what can only be a conscious
fashion.

Sam clears his throat, and the staring contest is over. "I'm
gonna head back," he says, taking one more swig of his beer.
"The longer I stay away the more pissed off Toby's going to be
when I get there. You guys coming?"

"No," Josh says abruptly, before she can respond. "We'll be
a little while longer."

Sam pauses, taking them both in. "Okay then." He grabs his
coat. "See you later."

"Later," Josh and Donna murmur in unison.

And then it's just the two of them.

They're silent for a moment, each lost in thought, until Josh
starts talking again. "They say she died instantly," he says.
"That there was nothing...nothing anyone could do to save her.
Nothing they could have done."

"I know," she says softly.

"There wasn't even..." He rubs his forehead with his hand and
then scratches his scalp, making his bushy hair even more unruly
than usual. "There wasn't even a chance that she could have made
it, that they could have gotten her to a hospital in time, that
they could have operated on her, given her a chance." His voice
nearly breaks on the last word, and she suddenly gets it.

"It's not your fault, Josh," she tells him. "It's not your
fault that you got a second chance and she didn't."

He shakes his head. "Maybe it's not my fault, but it doesn't
seem fair, either. Why me and not her? Who says was it her time
and not mine? Not just her, but my dad, Joanie..." He trails off
and looks into space, battling inner demons.

"I don't know," she says simply. She tentatively reaches out
and places her hand on top of his. He shocks her by grabbing
onto it, gripping her fingers like a drowning man. "Maybe...maybe
you still have more to do. Maybe you're actually meant to
accomplish something beyond driving me crazy, although most days
I find that very hard to believe."

Instead of answering her he looks down at their intertwined
fingers. "I'm very drunk right now," he says.

She slowly pulls her hand away from his, places it in her lap,
not sure why she's doing so. "I noticed."

"It's because I have a delicate system," he continues.

"I know."

"You didn't cut me off."

"No," she admits, "I didn't."

"You probably should have."

"Probably."

"But you didn't."

"No."

And now the way he's looking at her changes, takes on a
different timbre; he's staring at her in a way she can't
really define even though she knows him so well. It's a
look she's doesn't think she's ever seen before. "I'm glad
you didn't," he says hoarsely.

What is that supposed to mean? she wonders, but when his
hand reaches up and touches her hair she gets her answer.
She tries to say something but can't, not until his head
starts to move toward hers and she is officially, completely
freaked out by the fact that Josh Lyman is about to try to
kiss her in the middle of a semi-crowded bar down the street
from the White House.

"I have to go to the ladies' room," she says, getting up and
moving away quickly. She ignores him when he calls out her
name behind her.

She makes her way to the back of the bar, her heart beating
fast, then makes a right into the alcove that separates the
restrooms from the main drinking area. She's opening the
bathroom door, thankful that the ladies' room is a single and
she won't have to deal with anyone overhearing her imminent
tears, when something solid bumps into her from behind. She
whirls around and sees it's Josh, who pushes her the rest of
the way inside the bathroom and locks the door behind them.
When he turns toward her, she recognizes the look that was on
his face before, a look she's never been privy to before this
evening. A look of desperation and need and desire.

"Josh, what are you --" But then he presses her up against
the wall and kisses her, hard, forcing his tongue into her mouth,
and she opens beneath him, unable to do anything but kiss him
back, because he's Josh and he is kissing her and it's all she's
ever wanted.

The kissing steadily builds from passionate to frenzied, turning
into feverish clashes of tongues and lips and teeth. When his
hands find her breasts she lets out a low moan into his mouth.
As if that were a signal he pushes up her skirt with strong,
eager hands, ruching the material up around her waist, and before
she can think to protest he practically rips off her pantyhose,
tearing the nylon down to her ankles, then repeating the process
with her panties. He caresses her legs with trembling fingers as
he rises back up to kiss her again, this time reaching under her
blouse and working his fingers into one cup of her bra.

The feel of Josh's hand on her bare breast sets something loose
in her brain and she starts tugging at his belt, grabbing his
zipper, desperately wanting him inside of her. He helps her
push down his pants and boxers and then he lifts her up slightly
and he's there, finally, filling her, driving her up and down
against the bathroom wall, his hands gripping her behind as he
thrusts harder and deeper. She wraps her arms around his neck
and listens in fascination to his moans against her ear, noises
that are Josh-like but new to her. Soon she's matching him groan
for groan in some sort of twisted sexual echo of their customary
banter, and the rhythm increases, faster and faster, until all
too soon she can feel him starting to come, and she sighs as he
pours into her and whispers her name.

He collapses against her, still inside of her, and as she holds
him she has the presence of mind to be thankful she's on the pill.
Josh is breathing harsh and heavy now, almost sobbing. He buries
his face in her neck, wetting her skin with sweat and possibly tears.
She whispers soothingly to him and smoothes his hair, presses her
fingers to the sides of his hot, flushed face.

When his breathing finally slows he slides out of her and moves
away from her to pull up his pants. "I'm sorry," he says with a
catch in his voice. He doesn't meet her eyes.

She feels as if a bucket of ice water has been dumped over her
head. "It's okay --"

"No," he cuts her off, "it's not," and his voice is so strident
that she doesn't know what to do except start to get dressed
herself, uncomfortably pulling up her panties and straightening
her skirt even though she very much wants to wash. "I took
advantage of you, and I'm sorry. That was unforgivable." He
rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Completely
inappropriate and absolutely unforgivable."

"There's nothing to--"

"I have to go," he says, looking down at the floor, and she
sees that his fists are clenched, knuckles white. "I should
go. I shouldn't be here...with you. I shouldn't have..."
He looks back up at her and the self-loathing is so vivid in
his darkened eyes it's a wonder he's still standing. "That
was a mistake, and I apologize. I hope you'll...I hope you'll
keep this between us. We can...maybe we can talk about this
later. Another time."

She nods dumbly, unable to form words anymore.

He nods back. "Okay. I uh...why don't you go home, take
the rest of the night off. I'll see you in the morning."

She nods again.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. And then he's gone.

She uses the bathroom after he's left, washing herself as
much as she can, and forces back hot tears of anger and humiliation.
And yet, if she's honest, underneath it all is a feeling of
satisfaction, almost triumph. It proves he wants you, she
tells herself. He wants you but can't give you anything more,
not yet. You know that. You have proof now.

She splashes water on her face, runs her fingers through her
hair. She wants to go to him, to make sure he's okay, to make
sure that he won't hurt himself tonight. Instead she decides
to go home and get some sleep.

She has a funeral to attend in the morning.

end.