The DoD

by: E. E. Beck

Character(s): Ensemble, no pairings.
Category(s): Humor. As close to fluff as I ever get.
Rating: YTEEN
Disclaimer: Aaron Sorkin writes them. Owns them too. I just try.
Summary: Sam had a plan. Sam had a secret plan. Takes place in the month following Noel.
Spoiler: Noel, obviously, and very small, in-joke sort of things from various episodes including Galileo, What Kind of Day Has it Been, and Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics.

CJ was the first to join, though there wasn’t much to join at that point other than, well, Sam. But she’d noticed a few things and she finally had a chance to ask Sam about it late one evening a few days into January. And later she made it a point of pride to have been the second.

“It’s sort of a New Year’s resolution,” Sam said, squinting down into his coffee in embarrassment. The mess was deserted around them, but CJ still leaned close and lowered her voice.

“Has it been working?” she asked.

“Well...I’ve stuck to it, if that’s what you mean,” Sam said, looking up through his lashes with a small, self-deprecatory smile. “But I wanted...needed to do something, you know?”

CJ did. That was who they were-they were doers, accomplishers. The helplessness that had gripped them for the past weeks, hell, for the past seven months, was a more frightening foe than the Republican majority ever could be.

Donna was next, unsurprisingly. CJ told her about it because Sam said it was the sort of thing a woman could tell another woman and have it be precious and neat, but if a man told a woman she’d start to wonder about him. CJ said he was being stupid, and that she wondered about him already, but she was the one who told Donna.

“Do you have meetings, or something?” Donna asked.

“Well, sort of,” CJ said. “We tell each other when we can. Just in passing.”

“You should have a password or something,” Donna said. “Something you can say so we’ll know. Without being weird, I mean.”

“Just don’t let Sam pick it,” CJ said. “He’ll just turn it into a big old semaphore thing.”

After that, people joined quickly. Donna got all the assistants in on the act, and once Margaret knew, most of the building wasn’t far behind. Not to mention Leo and the President.

“Don’t you people have enough to do?” Leo demanded. “Because, I assure you, I can fix that.”

“Why, Leo, it almost sounds like you don’t think you can handle it,” the President said.

Leo scowled and grumbled, and spent the next week weirding the hell out of Josh with a succession of conversations ranging from reminiscences about old days with Noah Lyman, to some adroit praise on Josh’s progress with the childhood nutrition thing, to a really very odd joke about eating one egg in France.

Charlie, being Charlie, got organized. He got hold of (stole from his sister) a truly obnoxious red notebook, decorated with big, sparkly smiley faces, and drew a chart for each day. The thing sat on his desk most of the time, though Donna sometimes had possession of it.

After Donna and the assistants, most of the new members joined pretty quietly. The only way to get a really accurate head count was to check the notebook, and figure out who was doing what. Not everybody, after all, was comfortable initialing their work. It was only when she caught Toby at one-thirty in the morning, hunched furtively over Charlie’s desk and writing rapidly at the bottom of that day’s page that CJ even realized he knew what was going on.

But everybody still looked to Sam as their founder and leader. Some people came to him for advice when their carefully laid plans went awry, or simply to pick his vast knowledge on the subject for ideas. Even the President was seen leaving Sam’s office, late one mid-January evening when only Toby, Sam, and the State of the Union were awake. He strode away up the hall, a pleased look on his face, and a gleam his wife would have instantly recognized as scheming in his eye.

That weekend, as Air Force One hummed westward towards Oregon, Sam, Toby, and Charlie organized a seemingly spontaneous soccer game, using the corridor running the length of the aircraft to great advantage. Josh, with little coaxing, joined in. Charlie won by dint of being the only one with, well, Sam called it “experience,” but Charlie said it was “skill.” The President stuck his head out of his study, ostensibly to see what all the shouting was about, and heaved a great put upon sigh. He told them to please not rupture either themselves or the airplane as his wife was in Belgium and he had no desire to die a fiery and ignominious death, and retired with a small, satisfied smile on his lips.

Margaret was the one who eventually came up with the password. They were having a rare meeting that was more of a random confluence, just a bunch of them who happened to be at Charlie’s desk at the same time. They formed a rough line behind Sam, who was taking his sweet time noting down that day’s accomplishments. Really, getting the Secret Service to change Josh’s code name to “philatelist” had been a stroke of genius. Even Ron Butterfield had a hard time keeping a straight face as he announced the change through those nifty little earpieces. Say, that was an idea, maybe Ron would let him borrow-

“Spork!”

The subdued murmur of conversation stopped, and Sam’s head popped up. “What?”

“Spork,” Margaret repeated, looking inordinately pleased with herself.

“Okay,” Sam said slowly.

“No, spork,” Margaret said, making a gesture to gather them all close around her and lowering her voice. “For the password.”

There was a short silence.

“You don’t think that might be a bit...conspicuous?” CJ asked.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Margaret said. “Nobody will ask because it’s so...”

“Spork?” Charlie said.

“Yes,” Margaret said, nodding triumphantly. “They’ll think it’s a secret code, or something. Which, of course, it is. And if anybody does ask, we can just tell them that it’s a secret code.”

“Isn’t that, I don’t know, misusing our positions?” Sam asked.

“Well, can you come up with a better password?” Margaret demanded.

Sam paused. “I liked zucchini,” he said.

Margaret won because, well, spork.

There were objections, of course. Toby, in particular, was vehemently opposed.

“It’s a spoon with the little fork tines on the end,” CJ explained patiently.

“I know what a-no. That word is absolutely not passing my lips. Ever.” He glared belligerently at her from the bastion of his desk.

CJ sighed. “Well, you could join Sam and say zucchini instead,” she suggested. “It’s the revolt of the zucchini.”

Toby grumbled and mumbled and glared, and resorted to the ever versatile “the thing,” when he used the password at all.

There was a brief period in the third week of January when Sam started to worry that the notebook wasn’t perhaps the greatest idea.

“It’s fostering competition,” he told Charlie.

“You mean Donna?” Charley asked.

Sam sighed. “Yeah. She’s been giving me the cold shoulder all week because I got two on Monday and she didn’t get any.” He tilted his head thoughtfully to the side. “She got sort of the opposite effect, actually.”

“You think we should count minus points for that?” Charlie asked.

“That’ll just make things worse,” Sam said. “It is a thought, though. Maybe we should just put them in separate columns.”

The discussion was rather moot, as Donna got over it the very next morning. Sam did go for the spectacular, what with setting the building on fire and the soccer thing, and she still wasn’t sure where he’d gotten the Secret Service earpieces he and Josh hid in Leo’s office and piped country music through, just loud enough to be audible, but not loud enough to be traced. But she, she had something at once simple and effective. She had banter.

“What do I have today?” Josh asked, arriving in the bullpen only a few minutes after her at a luxuriously late 7:15 due to the icy roads.

“Senior staff at eight, conference call with Aaron Graves and Peter Slone at eight thirty”

“Why can’t we meet in person?” Josh cut in. “I hate conferencing with those two. They always eat something loud near the mouthpiece.”

“Well, they’re in Oregon and Zaire, respectively,” Donna said.

“Now those are two places you don’t put in the same sentence often,” Josh mused. “And, oh God, different time zones. I hate this stuff. Why can’t we all live at the same time?”

“Because the earth spins on its axis?” Donna suggested dryly. “May I continue?”

“Go.”

“The President wants you for half an hour at ten, you have lunch with Matt Skinner, and you’re meeting Senators Stackhouse, Williams, and Zapata in the afternoon.”

“All at once?” Josh looked alarmed. “Because that could be...I should just dial 9-1 and wait to dial the last one.”

“One at a time,” Donna assured. “I figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to put them all in the same room.”

“Putting them in the same room to vote isn’t even a good idea. I swear, if Zapata could vote on an issue without agreeing with either one of them, which is impossible since they always disagree, he’d do it just to be ornery. What else do I have?”

“Dinner with Sam to talk about notes for the State of the Union. Toby said he needed to see you sometime today, and Leo said stop by sometime this evening.” Donna glanced up. “You also have some extraordinary bed head, and there’s coffee on your desk.”

Josh stopped, one foot raised to take a step. What?”

“You have extraordinary-“

“Is somebody dead?” Josh asked, turning to face her. “Is my mother alright? Am I getting fired? Is there a global emergency?”

“No, she’s fine, no, and not unless your hair qualifies.”

“Then why did you-you never bring me coffee.”

“Just like to keep you on your toes,” Donna said cheerfully, turning back to her desk.

Josh stared for a moment, and Donna had to get the angle just right to catch it as he finally turned and entered his office. Not even eight in the morning and she was already one up. It was going to be a good day.

***

Josh sighed tiredly as he returned to the Operations Bullpen. Leo’s little “stop by,” had actually been more of a four hour discussion on domestic policy for the coming year. Every aspect of domestic policy. Most of the building was deserted around him, though he thought he’d seen a light on in Sam’s office. Donna was gone from her desk, and Josh was just about to get his jacket and escape while he could when he saw it again.

He’d caught glimpses of it here and there for several weeks now. It was hard to miss, really, what with the red and the sparkly smiley faces. He’d seen it on Charlie’s desk, and Donna’s, and Cathy’s a few times as well. Josh glanced furtively around the silent bullpen. It wouldn’t do, after all, to appear nervous about examining his own assistant’s desk. But he was nervous, and rightfully so-the glue gun incident had taught him well.

Seeing nobody, Josh cautiously approached and lifted the notebook. There was nothing written on the front cover, so he flipped it open. On the fly leaf someone, he thought it was Charlie, had printed:

DoD

In big block letters. Josh frowned. There were no security seals and warnings on this, as there seemed to be on every DoD document, down to a requisition of paperclips. And, well, red. And the smiley faces.

Intrigued, Josh turned a page, then another and another. Each was divided into a chart, labeled at the top with a date, beginning in the second week of January. The chart had several columns, including “number,” “quality,” “reason,” and “member initials.” Most of the pages were filled to bursting with nearly incomprehensible data, like the following entry:

1        excellent, full D’s,  crack about Toby’s balls  S. Seaborn

Scanning the list of members, Josh recognized most of the names and initials. SS and CJK were easy enough to spot, as were DM, LM, and even JB. Most of the assistants were accounted for as well, and there were even a few from outside the West Wing, like ZB, and MS. That last one took Josh a moment until he saw it signed more in full, M. Skinner, accompanied by something about scaling the capital dome. Josh smiled, recollecting the conversation from lunch that very day, something about things that were just a bad idea to try naked. Matt must have entered that when he’d walked Josh back to his office.

Josh stared uncomprehendingly at the page for a long moment, completely baffled. Finally, he shut the notebook and replaced it on Donna’s desk, resolving to ask someone about it tomorrow. Couldn’t be all that top secret if they were letting Republicans in on it.

Gathering his coat and backpack, Josh made his way out of the West Wing. It had been only a little over a month since that reeling, awful Christmas Eve closeted up with Stanley, and Josh knew Leo liked him to get a decent amount of sleep each night. He was running a bit late, but he figured that if Leo said something he could just hum a few bars of Faith Hill. That was bound to turn Leo a lovely green and shut him up in a hurry.

As he passed through the security checkpoint into the lobby, Josh smiled.

***

Sam hurried into the Operations Bullpen, frowning worriedly after his friend’s retreating back. Normally he would have stopped Josh, chatted a little and maybe offered a quick drink in his office, but not tonight. Donna was going to kill him, hell, they were all going to kill him, but he’d forgotten to pick up the notebook before Josh came back from Leo’s office. Josh was a curious sort, after all, and fear of Donna’s uncanny ability to know when he’d disturbed her desk in her absence or not, he was bound to go sniffing around eventually. Sam had already seen him glancing at the admittedly out of place item on Charlie’s desk.

But even if he had looked, Sam consoled himself, picking up the notebook and clutching it to his chest, he probably wouldn’t have figured it out. Most of the entries were pretty cryptic, anyway. The DoD rivaled its acronym twin in the obscurity of its records.

As he headed back towards Communications, and his own coat, Sam marveled over the power of one silly, little idea. One smile a day, he’d promised himself that New Year’s, with Josh asleep on his couch at midnight, his face still lined with strain and fatigue. Just one flash of dimples per day. It’s something, I need to do something.

A month later, rarely a day went by when at least five people didn’t mutter a surreptitious “spork” to him in passing, signaling their success for the day. A passing joke, a kind remark, a well-executed prank, a silly, pointless conversation. Sam had tried them all over the past month, with varying results, as had nearly half the population of the West Wing.

Sam set the records of the activities of the Department of Dimples on his desk, and got ready to leave for the evening.

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