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i.
CJ doesn’t know how she got on the ground.
Except, that isn’t necessarily entirely true: she knows she fell to the ground, sometime amidst the chaos reigning around her. A cacophony of sound, of screams, of panic. A warm body colliding with her with all the subtleness of a brick wall before nothing at all.
Glass, shattering above her head.
Then silence.
Or maybe not. CJ’s not sure. Her head throbs, so she must’ve hit it.
All she knows is that she’s staring at the sky. Was staring at the sky. There’s someone above her with blurred features, mouth moving.
She really needs her glasses.
CJ’s hands fumble over her chest, where her glasses are always placed in a snug pocket when she’s not actively wearing them.
“My glasses,” she says, when she feels nothing but cloth beneath her fingers.
The person responds by shining a light in her eyes. The suddenness of it all makes her head beat like an inexperienced drummer.
But she must’ve been doing alright, because the man helps her up. Has her sit down on the hood of a broken car. Gives her a cloth and guides her hand to her head and instructs her to keep pressure on it.
CJ does, only because she’s afraid to pull her hand away. She may not like blood but she does know its sticky feeling anywhere.
The guy is talking to her. His voice is muffled. CJ isn’t sure if it’s because her ears are ringing or because people are still screaming and crying.
CJ’s almost positive that she’s crying, too.
“I’m really fine,” she babbles.
“Ma’am—”
“I hit my head on the ground. Somebody pulled me down…”
“Ma’am,” the guy says, louder and more forceful. CJ blinks, really looks at him through the flashing ambulance lights, and realizes that he’s a paramedic. “Are you CJ Cregg?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
She wishes she didn’t. She wishes it was any day before this one. “It’s still Monday.”
He stares at her with kind eyes. “Alright, CJ. You’re more shaken up than anything. You won’t need stitches, but you should find someplace to lie down.”
CJ almost wants to laugh at that statement. She stops the bubbling hysteria rising in her throat, almost choking on it.
She can’t even get a normal day of rest when her life isn’t shot to hell. After all, it’s one of the perks of being Press Secretary.
Some of the hysteria escapes her lips anyway.
“Is the President dead?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” And just like that, the paramedic is hurrying away, leaving CJ to pick up whatever pieces of herself that are undamaged.
She slides off the car, shakily making her way to where the paramedic found her on the pavement.
The drops of blood are almost impossible to see against the pavement. CJ only knows it’s there, knows it’s hers, due to way it shines off the fragments of glass, scattered haphazardly around her glasses.
In a daze, CJ picks them up, ignoring the way her fingers sting as microscopic pieces bury themselves under her skin.
The broken car window seems to reflect how CJ feels, and serves as a stark reminder that anything can only ever appear as indestructible.
“Hey!” someone shouts. CJ jumps at the unexpected noise. She whirls around, adrenaline pumping anew, only to see Sam racing to her. His hair and suit are in disarray.
“What?” she says, dumbly.
“Are you alright?”
No, CJ wants to say.
“Where’s the President?” she says instead.
“On his way to the White House. So is Zoey. They just put Leo in a car—”
Sam’s voice breaks off as he shouts at someone else rushing past them. CJ tones it out, ears buzzing as her mind whispers the one-word manta of: Safe. Safe safe safe.
The President, and Leo, and Zoey, and Sam, and Toby and Josh and Charlie—
CJ grasps Sam’s arm with a white-knuckled grip. “The others—”
“I saw Josh get in the car with Leo,” Sam responds, but he’s frowning. “Toby and Charlie, though, I — I don’t know, I don’t — hey! You’re hurt!”
His hand reaches up, as if to touch her, as if to make sure this is reality, but he puts it back down at the last second, biting his lip.
“I’m fine,” CJ says automatically. She sounds like a broken record and will continue to do so for the rest of the night, probably.
“Okay,” Sam says, in a tone that makes it clear that he does not believe her — not that CJ believes herself, either, but that’s beside the point. “Okay. I’m going to go look for—”
“I need a doctor!”
Both freeze at the voice. It’s all too familiar in all the wrong ways.
Out of all Jed Bartlet’s senior staffers, CJ is the one who’s known Toby the longest. She’s used to his mannerisms, the subtle and extravagant. Toby is a passionate man, who lives and breathes a righteousness many do not. He’s loud and opinionated, sometimes far too much for anyone’s liking.
“I need help!”
But Toby’s never raised his voice like this before, unbridled with fear and too much desperation.
He’s scared, and CJ feels it settle in her bones.
She’s moving before she can fully process putting one foot in front of the other. Sam is on her heels. If he were any closer, both would fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
CJ makes it to the top of the stairs and all the breath leaves her lungs.
She truly thought this night couldn’t possibly get worse. But this — seeing Josh limp on the ground covered in and surrounded by his own blood — this is so much worse.
Beside her, Sam lets out a strangled, horrified sound. “Is he—?”
“No,” Toby grunts through clenched teeth.
CJ is finally able to find her voice. “What the hell happened?”
“He was shot, CJ!” Toby snaps at her. “He was goddamn shot!”
“I can see that!” CJ says. Shouts, really. “I just — I thought he was — Sam, you said he got in the car!”
“I thought he did!” Sam’s face is white.
“That was Shanahan!” Toby bellows, in a way that makes CJ wonder how his vocal cords aren’t shredded right now.
Sam sinks to his knees. “I — I thought he was in the car. He was supposed to be in the car—”
“Well, obviously he wasn’t!” CJ says shrilly.
“I know that now!” Sam shouts.
“Would the two of you—” Toby begins, but is cut off as the paramedics arrive, pushing them aside as they descend on Josh like a swarm of vultures.
CJ can only watch helplessly as they work. It looks like its own kind of chaos, tools and medical jargon being passed back and forth that would make CJ feel dizzy if she didn’t already have a concussion.
She ends up having to steady herself when they rip Josh’s shirt off of him.
If CJ thought the amount of blood was too much before, this takes the cake because Josh’s body looks like a bloody mosaic, mangled and grotesque.
And if the world isn’t cruel enough already, Josh’s eyes flutter open. They’re cloudy, unfocused and confused. Open, but not seeing.
And panicked.
CJ drops to her knees. She’s careful to stay out of the way of the paramedics, but takes his bloodied hand into hers.
“You’re going to be okay, mi amore,” she whispers shakily, though CJ isn’t sure if she’s trying to reassure Josh or herself.
Josh only lets out a wet gasp in response.
CJ squeezes his hand, heart beating erratically against her ribcage. She’s his lifeline, and he is hers.
Josh squeezes her hand back, though CJ’s not sure if it’s a conscious decision or a reflex. His grip is weak, but he holds on like his life depends on it.
Because it does, CJ realizes, mouth going dry as her brain goes to the one place she doesn’t want it to go. He’s going to die.
Sam echoes this question out loud.
And if there’s a response, CJ doesn’t hear it. Instead, she watches as the paramedics hoist Josh onto a stretcher.
Her hand is ripped from Josh’s as the paramedics make their way down the stairs with ease that is nothing short of inhuman — CJ can barely stand on her own two legs.
Still, she manages, stumbling down the stairs with Toby and Sam by her side. They meet Charlie at the bottom, whose mouth is drawn into a thin line.
Together, the four of them cram into the back of the ambulance. By the look on the paramedic’s face, it’s clear that he does not want them there.
In a perfect world, CJ would oblige. There’s barely enough room for three people, let alone seven.
CJ places her hand back in Josh’s and glares at the paramedic in a challenge.
Maybe that’s unbecoming of someone whose job it is to be the public face of the Bartlet Administration, but CJ could care less at the moment.
So the ambulance rears to life, sirens blaring, and speeds off into the night.
ii.
Leo’s lost track of how many chaotic situations he’s been in over the course of his life.
An adolescence with an alcoholic father, time served in the Air Force and being the Secretary of Labor, to his current position of White House Chief of Staff — each day for the past several decades could classify as fifteen different variants of tumultuous, but what just happened in the ER easily takes the gold.
Seeing Josh Lyman, of all people, being wheeled in with a gunshot to the chest isn’t something Leo ever wanted to have witnessed.
The way his deputy had babbled incoherent nonsense, unaware of his surroundings, makes Leo want to storm outside and shout a number of obscenities at the universe.
Instead, the silence that follows the frenzied shouts chokes him. Leo’s too busy staring at the droplets of blood that trail to a small puddle on the floor — Josh’s blood — to fully register the rest of his staff.
Leo forces himself to regulate his breathing.
“What the hell happened?” he demands, with a firmness he doesn’t feel. He finally lets himself survey the remaining people in the room.
“He was shot,” Toby snarls, refusing to say anything else.
Sam is staring at the doors Josh disappeared behind. “He was supposed to be in the car.” His voice is small. Leo is almost positive that he didn’t even hear the question and is just talking to himself. “He wanted to go to New Hampshire.”
CJ is looking at her hands like she can’t believe they’re attached to her body. They’re covered in blood, and Leo doesn’t need to guess at whose it is.
Charlie is standing with his back against the wall, holding himself in a way that suggests he’s trying to make himself smaller.
All-in-all, they look impossibly young.
Shell-shocked, indeed, Leo thinks, as a nurse approaches them. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are kind as she ushers the rag-tag group out of the ER and into a waiting room that’s being guarded by an obscene amount of Secret Service agents.
Abbey Bartlet raises her head as they enter. Her expression morphs into one of confusion as Toby and Charlie sit down robotically without acknowledging her presence.
Sam has taken to staring at the wall in front of him, still wearing the same, haunted look.
“Leo?” Abbey’s voice is soft, questioning.
But Leo is staring at CJ, taking note of the red-brown stain in her hair as she sways.
“CJ, sit down before you pass out,” he snaps.
“I’m fine,” CJ says automatically, but she sinks into a chair nonetheless.
“Sam,” Leo raises his voice, “you too.”
The man in question turns around. His eyes are dull, but recognition flashes through them as he finally registers who’ s in the room. Then he looks confused.
“What are you doing here? Did someone call you?”
Leo frowns. “Why would someone call me?”
“Sam,” Abbey says, “what’s going on?”
“Josh,” Sam says, as if that explains everything. “You’re here because someone told you about — wait. No. None of us told you.” He looks around. “Did we?”
“No, we didn’t,” Toby says. He’s giving Leo a level stare. Eventually it shifts to Abbey. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Leo shares a look with Abbey, who nods minutely as she rubs gentle circles on Zoey’s head. The poor girl has been watching silently, eyes red.
There’s no beating around the bush on this one.
“The President was shot.”
The senior staffers stare at him in collective silence. Then, all at once, the sound that comes out of their mouths can only be described as a verbal explosion.
“What do you mean the President’s been shot—”
“Oh, my God—”
“Exactly how bad—”
“—oh my God—”
Leo raises his hands to quiet them down. In his periphery, he can see Zoey cringing back, eyes bright with new tears.
“Thanks for the headache,” he says dryly, when he can speak without needing to talk over them. “The President’s fine.”
“You said he got shot, Leo,” Toby accuses. “How is that, as you say, fine?”
“If you give me the chance to speak, Toby,” Leo says. “It was a clear entry-exit through the abdomen. He’ll be under anesthesia for a couple hours, but he’ll be fine.”
And even with that bit of news, as horrible and good as it is, the tension in the air only seems to thicken.
Leo wants nothing more than to sit down, but remains upright for the sake of maintaining composure.
He eyes everyone again, critically.
“Go wash your hands,” he says eventually, to no one in particular.
CJ looks at him with a tearstained face. “What?”
“Wash your hands,” Leo says again, more gently. He points to the door. “All of you. Now. You might feel better.”
“Haven’t you read Macbeth?” Toby says bitingly, but leaves the room anyway. CJ follows him methodically out the door while Sam scurries off like being in the waiting room physically hurts him.
Leo nods at Charlie. “You too, kid.”
Charlie blinks at him. He raises his hands a bit. “But I don’t have—”
“I know. Splash some water on your face anyway.”
Charlie goes without another word of protest. Seconds later, Zoey is hurrying on out after him, and Leo is left alone with Abbey.
The First Lady stands up, looking ever regal even in crisis. Her face is serious, betraying nothing of what lies beneath.
“Leo, who’d they bring in?”
Leo sighs heavily, rubbing his face. “Josh.”
To her credit, Abbey’s face remains ever stoic. “Where?”
“His chest.”
This time, she falters. “Oh, Lord…”
“Yeah,” Leo mutters, because how else is one supposed to respond in a situation like this.
She takes a step closer. “Leo…”
“I have to call his mother.”
And her face twists, because Leo knows how close she came to losing her own child. As a parent himself, the thought of losing Mallory is more than he can bear.
And Leo has made several calls before — all of which could be deemed considerably more unpleasant — but nothing fills him with as much dread as having to call Ruth Lyman and telling her that her only living child might die tonight.
Who might already be dead, but that’s not a thought Leo wants to linger on.
“I’ll go see what information I can get,” Abbey murmurs.
“Yeah,” Leo says hollowly.
With one more sympathetic glance, Abbey leaves the room.
Leo takes a breath, then two and three, and dials the number.
She picks up on the first ring. “Leo?”
“Hi, Ruth.”
“It’s awfully late for you to be calling me.” He can hear the unspoken question — the way she knows this isn’t a pleasure call.
“You haven’t seen the news.”
“I was playing bingo with some girlfriends. Why? What’s happened?”
“Ruth…”
There’s silence on the other end. There’s a faint click, some mild static of a television turning on. Muffled voices of reporters seep through.
“Ruth,” Leo says again.
“Leo, please tell me Joshua has just been too busy to call me.”
When he doesn’t answer right away, he hears a sob.
“No. Leo…”
“He was hit,” Leo confirms quietly. “It’s bad.”
“Oh, God,” Ruth whispers. “Is he — is Joshua—”
“He’s alive. They rolled him up to surgery a few minutes ago.”
“But you don’t know if he’s going to live.”
“No, I don’t.” A pause. “I’m sorry, Ruth.”
There’s some shuffling on the other end.
“Ruth, the roads will be closed.”
“Not in Connecticut. Not to the airport.”
“All flights are going to be grounded.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do then?” Ruth demands, shrill with hysteria. “I can’t just stay at home waiting for my son to die!”
Leo doesn’t point out that’s what she’ll be doing, driving or flying to DC.
It’s what Leo’s doing, and he’s at the goddamn hospital — waiting and waiting and waiting.
To see if the other shoe will drop.
To see if a surgeon comes in with blood-stained scrubs and announce that Josh’s thread has been cut.
“Leo.” Ruth is in tears. She may not be physically present, but it’s clear as day. “I can’t lose him too.”
Leo’s throat constricts. “Me neither.”
“I can’t do nothing.”
“You have to. We all have to.”
He hears a shaky exhale.
“Ruth,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
There’s a soft click. The disconnection rings in Leo’s ears.
He closes his phone slowly, places it in his pocket. He leans against the wall, head hung back, and wishes for nothing more than to drown a bottle of whiskey.
Instead, Leo pushes himself toward GW’s chapel. He should really be on his way back to the White House, but he needs at least five minutes not to be Leo McGarry, White House Chief of Staff, but simply Leo McGarry — a worried family friend.
He lights a candle, stares at the little flame dancing, and prays.
He prays for the first time in a long time, and apologies to Noah Lyman for not doing a better job at protecting his son.
iii.
Sam sits at his desk, staring at nothing in particular. He knows he’s supposed to be doing something. It is one of the worst nights of his entire life, and he still has to work.
He’s supposed to be working.
Instead, Sam is sitting at his desk, staring at nothing.
He doesn’t know what’s expected of him. He watches CJ’s press conferences, on the hour every hour. She’s shaken, but stronger than Sam could ever be, going up in front of cameras and sharing horrifying, personal news to the world while keeping an air of indifference.
He doesn’t know how she does it.
“Hey.” There’s a knock on the door. Sam jerks his head up to see Toby standing in the doorway. “The President’s awake.”
“Oh,” Sam says, absentmindedly. “Good. That’s good.”
Toby stares at him for a while. “Let’s talk in my office.”
“Okay.”
He follows Toby, body on autopilot. Around him, staffers bustle about, answering phones, talking in whispers. Some stare at them.
Sam pays attention to none of it.
Toby closes the door as they enter his office. He turns to him, face serious, and Sam knows the next words out of his mouth will be anything but pleasant.
He stands up straighter, more alert.
“I need you to write Josh’s obituary.”
There’s a sudden buzzing in Sam’s ears that was not there previously. His vision blacks out for a moment, and when he blinks, Toby is still there, face impassive.
Sam can’t count on his fingers the amounts of time he’s been rendered speechless, but this by far is the most memorable.
“No,” Sam chokes out, when he’s finally able to find his voice. “No, what the hell, Toby, no!”
“Should the worst happen—”
“I’m not going to do it!”
“—the White House will need to make a statement.”
Sam feels the heat rise to his cheeks. “Then why don’t you do it?” he snaps.
“Because,” Toby says slowly. Gently, as if he’s finally discovered the meaning behind the word. “He’s your best friend.”
Sam sinks into the couch. Buries his head in his hands.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Toby says.
“This isn’t fair.”
“I know.”
“Toby,” Sam says, desperate, “how am I supposed to write this?”
Toby stares, then sighs. He looks as if all the weight has fallen onto his shoulders, which is laughable because Sam is the one who has to write the obituary, not him.
“I don’t know,” Toby finally says.
“If I write this,” Sam says, so quietly he can barely hear himself, “it’ll be like I gave up on him. It’s like I’m asking him to die.”
“It’s a precaution,” Toby grinds out.
“I don’t care! This isn’t going to be like writing a goddamn concession speech or the State of the Union — this is Josh.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Toby’s composure is fracturing. Cracks become fissures until the only thing left to do is shatter completely. “I found him, Sam.”
And yet they’re all living the same nightmare, this terrible night that doesn’t end.
He swallows slowly, unsteadily. “Do you really want me to write this?”
And Toby looks at him with tired eyes. Sam can see his own reflection in them, looking not much better himself.
“It’s not about what I want, Sam.”
Sam doesn’t say anything. What he does do is bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. What he does is nod stiffly and see himself out the door.
There’s no changing his mind, when Toby makes decisions. It’s what gets him in argument after argument with the President, with Leo, with CJ, with Josh. It’s what lets him win some fights and lose so many more.
Toby is a stubborn man — stubborn, and smart.
And Sam hates the fact that Toby is right. He is so brutally right. It takes all of Sam’s effort not to slam his office door shut, but it still closes with more force than necessary.
Instead of going back to his own office, Sam finds himself walking away from Communications and into Josh’s domain. It’s a walk he’s done a million and one times, something that’s ingrained into his subconscious.
It’s a somber walk, into a somber place: staffers do their duties with due diligence, silent and stone-faced.
Most look up when Sam enters the bullpen; there’s not a single dry eye, and they all look away just as quickly.
Something tightens in Sam’s throat. He quickens his pace, even though all he wishes to do is sprint away and never come back.
Of course, he stops short just outside Josh’s office. The door itself is ajar — as if Josh started to close it before, most likely, getting distracted.
He hesitates, just for a moment, before fully opening the door and stepping inside — it’s contents on display, mocking.
Files and papers are lying haphazardly on the desk. There’s a faint humming noise coming from the computer, indicating Josh never actually turned the damn thing off.
And that’s the worst part of it all: the room is the way it’s always been since 1998. It’s the intention of coming back.
It was just another Monday.
Sam eyes the target on the other side of Josh’s wall and feels the rage and obscurity of it all boil beneath his skin, threatening to burst.
A relic of their days at Yale. A stupid inside joke, something that let them let out excess energy with anything they could get their hands on: darts, pencils, pens, even some chewed gum at one point.
Seeing it makes Sam feel sick to his stomach. In three steps, he crosses the room, swipes it off the wall, and snaps it in half over his knee in one fluid motion.
iv.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”
“It’s a town hall meeting, Donna. You complained the last time you went to one.”
“Last time the power went out and we got locked in the building for an hour. Is the power going to go out?”
“What am I, an electrician?”
“Josh.”
“It’ll last two hours — two and a half, tops. I think I can handle being on my own. I am a grown man, after all.”
“Need I remind you that you forgot you didn’t have a chair in your office five minutes ago?”
“It had a wobbly wheel, Donna! Maintenance could’ve fixed it in, like, three seconds!”
“I’m being a good samaritan, Josh.”
“Well, you can be a good samaritan by going home and — I don’t know, painting your nails pink, or something.”
“Or something?”
“Whatever it is that women do.”
“I thought you were a master in all things women. Are you saying you’re not?”
“You know, for someone who likes to complain that you never have any free time, you sure like to protest me actually giving you a night off.”
“I just want to make sure—”
“Donna!”
“Alright, alright, don’t yell my ears off, Josh. I will order pizza and watch a movie and be in really comfy pajamas, and tomorrow we will compare notes over who had a better evening.”
“There’s the enthusiasm.”
“I’m never getting rid of it.”
“You will when I tell you that you need to be here at 6:30 tomorrow morning.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m giving you tonight off.”
“You just love ruining my newfound freedom, don’t you?”
“So, so much.”
“One of these days, karma’s going to bite you in the butt.”
“It certainly will try.”
“I really mean it.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Donna sits uncomfortably in the waiting room.
The lights are overly bright. Pressure builds behind her eyes, but that’s not the reason Donna’s eyes sting with unshed tears.
She thinks of all the voicemails she sent Josh in the horrifying hour of hearing the news and getting to the hospital. She must’ve run half a dozen red lights.
She thinks of her irrational irritability every time Josh didn’t answer and her silent promise to give him hell for making her worry.
The guilt is so strong that Donna very nearly chokes on it.
Josh didn’t answer her calls because he was lying around bleeding out somewhere — on the ground as Rosslyn and probably all over the hospital floor. She wonders if he was with someone when he went down, or if he was alone. And if he was alone, he was probably scared and in pain, thinking no one was going to find him.
She wonders if he was even able to call out for help.
Donna shudders at the thought, rubbing her face furiously. She needs to stay calm. She needs to be calm. Calm, and strong.
She needs to not think about their last conversation, bantering like they always do, because it was just another normal day in the life of Josh and Donna.
She needs to not think about his dimpled smile, or the way he fondly and exasperatedly says her name, or his devil-may-care attitude because Donna’s very attuned to Josh and knows that he does care — about everyone, probably too much for his own good.
Almost robotically, Donna pulls out her phone and dials the number she knows by heart. Bringing up to her ear, she listens patiently as the phone continues to ring — and ring and ring.
She knows the person on the other end is not going to answer, but this doesn’t stop Donna from hoping against all hope.
There’s a beep, and then — “Josh Lyman. If it’s about work, call my office. If not, leave a message. I may or may not get back to it.”
Donna promptly closes her phone and wills herself not to cry.
She’s trying very hard not to, but as Josh’s voicemail echoes in her ears, she thinks of his laugh, his boundless energy, and his eagerness to fight for what’s right, wondering if it will end tonight.
She doesn’t want to be, but Donna knows deep in her heart that she’ll be the woman who will continue to replay the voicemail until Josh’s phone gets disconnected.
And she doesn’t want to be thinking about these things. Donna can’t deny that Josh already has one foot out the door, but she can’t stop thinking about the what-ifs, the maybe-thens.
She looks at the clock. The lines blur enough to make her wonder if it’s 3:30 or 3:45. But in the end, it doesn’t really matter.
Josh has been in surgery for hours, and will continue to be until the sun rises.
Whether he’ll be alive or dead — that’s the question of the century.
She shifts in her seat — once, twice, thrice, looking around the waiting room. There aren’t many people in the waiting room, currently. Sam is across from her, frowning and scribbling furiously while Toby pretends not to pay attention.
The most surprising, however, is Abbey Bartlet. Donna would’ve thought she’d be with the President. Zoey hasn’t left his bedside since he woke up a few hours ago, and Donna assumes Charlie is with her.
That, or he’s taken Mrs. Landingham home.
Donna picks at her nails. The uncertainty of it all weighs heavily on her.
“Mrs. Bartlet,” Donna says suddenly, then chews her lip. The First Lady only looks at her with concern, inclining her head for Donna to continue. Finding some semblance of courage, Donna does. “You’re a — a doctor. You’ve been talking to — you have the knowledge, to understand—”
Sam looks up sharply. “Donna,” he says warningly.
But Donna ignores him, because she has to know. She has to. So she looks Abbey Bartlet in the eye and asks the question she’s been longing to ask.
“What’s his survival rate?”
“Dammit, Donna,” Sam snaps, sounding choked. Next to him, Toby simply looks pissed off — but he’s been looking like that ever since she’d entered the waiting room, trembling and out of her mind with worry.
The First Lady looks resigned. “It’s not good, Donna.”
Toby’s words are on a loop in her head: The bullet collapsed his lung and damaged a major artery.
“I know it’s — bad,” Donna says. It’s critical. “But — how — bad?”
“The bullet lacerated his pulmonary artery,” Mrs. Bartlet says quietly, except Donna doesn’t know what that means, other than it not being good. “Most people who sustain such an injury don’t survive.”
“But the percentage,” Donna says desperately. Her throat begins to constrict. “Please—”
She soaks up information like a sponge — statistics, mainly. It’s what allows her to keep up with a man like Josh. Donna needs the numbers in the same way Josh does with polling. It’s like an insatiable thirst that makes her legs jittery and weak.
Mrs. Bartlet seems to realize this, though it takes a long while for her to speak. When she finally does, her voice is detached and controlled, exactly how doctors speak when giving bad news to family.
“There’s a twenty-five percent chance that Josh will make it off the operating table alive. Give or take.”
“Oh,” Donna whispers, turning her gaze to the floor as her eyes burn. She wants to curl up in the uncomfortable hospital chair, legs pressed against her chest in a vague form of comfort, but she’s frozen.
There’s a snapping sound, and her eyes follow the broken pieces of a pen that’s fallen out of Sam’s hand. His lips are pressed together in a thin line, muscles clenched.
“Sam,” Toby says.
“I’m going for a walk,” Sam snaps. He violently pushes the chair back as he stands up, storming out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” Donna stutters. Her fingers twitch with muscle memory of the old habit of hair pulling. “I’m so sorry, I’m—”
“It’s not you,” Toby says. He sounds so tired. “Trust me on this. Sam’s not angry at you.”
There’s a knot in her throat, blocking her ability to speak. She’s not completely emotionally compromised to understand that something has happened between the Communication’s Director and his Deputy, though Donna has unpleasantly learned her lesson in asking questions you don’t want the answers to.
So she nods — then brings herself to the floor, clumsily picking up shards of plastic. Ink stains her hands, but Donna pays no mind to it.
“Donna,” Mrs. Bartlet places a gentle hand on her shoulder, “come for a walk with me, yeah?”
“But the mess—”
“We can clean it up later.”
Donna blinks in response, unsure, but she lets Mrs. Barltlet pull her up and guide her out the door.
She leads Donna down a hallway. At this time of night, there doesn’t seem to be many healthcare workers roaming the halls, but those they pass all have the same pity in their eyes.
Donna hates it.
She spares a glance at Mrs. Bartlet, who doesn’t even seem to notice the stares, with her head held high.
Eventually, the two reach their destination. At least, Donna assumes it’s where they’re supposed to be: Mrs. Bartlet slows their pace, reaching to open a door.
It opens before Mrs. Bartlet touches the handle, and Donna finds herself face to face with the President, with Leo right behind him.
Donna blinks, feeling flustered.
She’s been in the same room with the President before — she’s spoken to him on numerous occasions. Hell, she knew him back when he was Governor .
She’s seen him in formal and informal suits. Working in the White House means seeing professional people at their best and worst.
Donna’s never expected to see the President in a hospital dressing gown.
Her face reddens. “Mr. President!”
He smiles. It’s small and pained, but it’s genuine. “Donnatella! How are you?”
“I — I’ve been better, sir.”
The President chuckles. “Me too.”
Donna chuckles weakly, mouth dry. Beside her, Mrs. Bartlet huffs.
“Jed, I said once.”
“That was hours ago, Abbey.”
“That was one hour ago, and I told you that you could be out of bed for fifteen minutes.”
Mrs. Bartlet puts her hands on her hips and glares at Leo.
Leo only shrugs. “He’s the President.”
“Get him back to bed,” Mrs. Bartlet snaps.
“Abbey,” the President whines, but does not protest further. A wise move on his part, as the First Lady is not one to cross when angry, if Donna’s learned anything from Josh.
She watches as Leo guides the President away, only for a brief moment, before Mrs. Bartlet is once again pulling on her arm.
The room they enter is small and dim. One long light hangs above them, flickering every so often. There are rows of chairs, empty. And in front of them—
Donna exhales loudly. Unsteadily.
Before her, only separated by a single pane of glass, is Josh. He’s barely recognizable, hooked up to wires and surrounded by half a dozen people in masks.
“I always find it easier to understand when I can see what’s going on,” Mrs. Bartlet says, by way of explanation.
Donna only puts a trembling hand on the glass, transfixed.
As much as he tries to hide it, Josh wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s strange to see it so plainly now.
“It’s beating,” she breathes.
“With some help.” And at Donna’s confused expression, Mrs. Bartlet points to a machine. “Josh is on bypass. It takes over the function of the heart and lungs, and maintains circulation while the surgeons work to repair the damage.”
Donna feels a bit lightheaded. “So Josh isn’t actually — Josh is dead?”
“He’s not,” Mrs. Bartlet says gently. “The risk of complications increases the longer someone stays on bypass, but as long as his heart beats, as long as there’s a rhythm, Josh is alive.”
A single tear slips from her defenses. She wishes to break through the glass, to provide some comfort for the broken man on the table.
But she cannot, so Donna stands in the operating theater. She stands there long after Mrs. Bartlet leaves, stands as the minute hand continues to move.
She watches Josh’s heart continue to beat.
Fight. Fight for me, and everyone who loves you.
v.
Toby is beyond tired.
He’s had his fair share of all-nighters. One doesn’t go to college, to grad school, and all the way to working in the White House and not expect to stay awake for over twenty four hours.
On that alone, Toby should be an expert.
Instead, he feels exhaustion sink its teeth into his skin. It goes to the bone. It spreads and covers him like the tallit he wore when muttering Mi Shebeirach until his voice became raw.
The comings and goings between the White House and the hospital becoming frighteningly second-nature.
He pauses on his way out, standing outside CJ’s office. At this point, he doesn’t need to announce his leaving, but everyone is on edge and it provides some semblance of comfort.
“CJ.” When she doesn’t answer, Toby raises his voice. “CJ.”
She startles, tearing her face away from the television. Seeing his jacket hanging from one arm, CJ says, “Sam called. He’s on his way back.”
This is news to Toby, as Sam didn’t bother to let him know.
Still Toby shrugs and says, “He did good.”
“Yeah…” CJ turns back to the television, where the news is playing and replaying Sam’s multiple interviews for the early morning shows, rubbing her neck.
Toby’s eyes flicker to the screens as well, where Sam appears put together. For someone with no background in media, he’s done a damn good job at looking composed. He’s sure to win the hearts and sympathies of the American people as they listen to a firsthand account of something devastating.
“Right,” Toby says. He lingers for a moment longer, before he finally leaves.
The sun is just starting to appear over the horizon when Toby walks outside. It’s a rich glow that stains the sky with hues of pink and red.
The dawn of a new day.
Toby hates it.
His black mood follows him all the way to the car and to the hospital.
There aren’t many flashing lights anymore, hours after the initial event, but Toby can see them every time he blinks. The only lights now illuminate the hospital, and the people outside of it, still sending prayers and well wishes to those inside.
Some of their cameras turn to Toby.
It’s expected, when one works for the President. Toby’s used to it. Still, he dislikes the idea of people gaping at him like he’s an animal at the zoo, and he especially dislikes people greedily wanting more information on his and his coworkers’ personal pain.
Vultures, the lot of them.
Toby doesn’t go straight to the waiting room. Much like his office, the room has become a sort of prison. Any amount of time there suffocates him.
Instead, he heads to the restroom and splashes water on his face, hoping it’ll make him more alert. What is hard, though, is avoiding looking into the mirror. Toby is not a vain man, but even he knows his appearance isn’t up to his usual standard.
The water cannot hide the dark shadows under his eyes.
Toby scowls at his reflection. It scowls back at him, hard and unyielding.
He storms out of the restroom, but still does not venture into the waiting room. He is too restless to sit and wait in a place where the wounded go to die.
Instead, Toby finds himself wandering through the halls. He is not a man to do things aimlessly, and yet, that is exactly what he is doing.
In an adjacent corridor, Toby passes two Secret Service agents. A few feet away is Zoey Bartlet, pale and red-eyed as she stares out the window.
Toby’s not sure what compels him to walk up to her. He’s not good with kids. Hell, despite his job, most who know him would say he’s not much of a people person, period.
Zoey acknowledges him by having her reflection stare at his. She doesn’t break eye contact as she picks her nails.
“Did you know,” she says, and she’s so quiet Toby has to strain his ears to hear her, “that they were aiming for Charlie?”
“Yeah,” Toby says, after a long pause.
“All because they didn’t like him dating me.” Zoey’s nails are now bloody. Toby loathes the site of it, but keeps his mouth shut as the girl begins to cry. “Why is the world so full of hatred?”
“I wish I knew,” Toby says honestly.
If he did, he’d have more living relatives, Josh wouldn’t be close to death, and Charlie and Zoey wouldn’t be blaming themselves for the simple crime of falling in love.
Zoey finally turns around to face him.
“My dad got shot because of me. And Josh—”
“None of this is your fault. Not yours, not Charlie’s. You’re both kids.”
Zoey’s face twists. “From what I hear, so were they.”
And isn’t that the true tragedy of it all?
Instead of being taught to love, the generations above strive to twist and bend the minds of the young until they’re hardly recognizable.
Toby doesn’t find it in him to feel sympathy. He can’t, and even if he could, he won’t.
“They stopped being kids,” he says slowly, “the minute they decided to abandon their morals. They stopped being kids the second they pulled the trigger. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Zoey whispers.
“Good.”
They’re silent for a while, watching as the sun steadily continues to rise. Then — “Does that make me a bad person, too?”
Toby raises an eyebrow at her. “What do you mean?”
“I just,” Zoey states, then bites her lip, looking nervously over at her Secret Service agents. She lowers her voice. “God preaches for us to be kind. To ourselves, to others, to strangers. But I — I think I hate them. And I’m glad—” She shudders, curls in on herself. “Doesn’t that make me just as bad as them?”
“Ah,” Toby says, unprepared. Zoey is pulling out all the philosophical questions. It’s like finding oneself in uncharted waters. “Shouldn’t you be asking your parents that?”
“They’re not here. And if they were, they’d tell me only God can provide me answers.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
“You won’t lie to me.”
“God lies to you?”
“No!” Zoey says harshly. “No, God never lies.”
“Then what?” Toby says, and he’s finding that he’s genuinely curious.
Zoey shrugs. “I’m here, you’re here. You always tell things as they are. And I want to know.”
“I think,” Toby says, “it’s normal to be angry.” Lord knows I am. “But you need to trust me when I tell you that you’re a good person.”
“But how do you know?” Zoey demands.
“You’re you.”
Zoey doesn’t say anything to that.
Toby isn’t sure if she really believes him. But it’s all the reassurances he has for her. It’s all he can give her.
Eventually, Zoey exhales. “Right. Thanks, Toby.”
“Yeah.”
And Zoey walks away, the Secret Service agents falling into step behind her, leaving Toby alone to wait with his thoughts.
It’s a terrible place to be, but he’s used to it by now.
The sun is fully out now, just barely clearing the horizon. It almost blinds Toby, though he doesn’t look away.
Instead, he starts reciting the Mi Shebeirach again — and again, and again, and again.
Bless those in need of healing
with r’fuah sh’leimah,
The renewal of body,
the renewal of spirit,
And let us say, Amen.