Analecta

by: N. Y. Smith

Disclaimer: Not Mine

Category: AU (very), Josh/Donna Romance, Josh POV, Angst,

Spoilers: Through Season Three

Rating: PG-13

Author's Note: Contains references to 9/11/2001. Amy-free universe.

Four Funerals and a Wedding (sort of)

There's really no such thing as a vacation when you work in the White House. Donna and I were, technically, still honeymooning after our wedding-which meant we only expected to work twelve hours a day rather than eighteen. And so it was that, since our schedule was so light, we were elected to represent the White House at the funeral of Evelyn Saunders.

First, let it be said that I hate funerals. When you've been as close to death as I was, and as I remain, you tend not to stand in its presence any more than absolutely necessary. Sometimes, however, your respect for the deceased surpasses your fear of your own mortality.

Evelyn Saunders was one of those people who brightened up your day even when she was having to help you fix something idiotic you'd done. Not that she ever had to pull my fat out of the fire. No. No way. Not me. Right. Never mind how. That's how a Connecticut Yankee found himself in a small country church in the Mississippi delta saying goodbye to a gracious Southern woman.

We'd flown commercial into Memphis and ridden down to the funeral with Congressman and Mrs. Williford from the Tennessee Eighth. The service had been very representative of Mrs. Saunders-very Southern, spiritual and full of music. Because she had worked for the Congress, the regional politicians still managed to make it a opportunity for hay-making while appearing appropriately grief-stricken. Maybe I'm being unfair. After all, Southern politicians are the ultimate political multi-taskers: they can, depending upon the audience, be outraged, saddened and gladdened about a particular issue. And I had brought my bride, my sweet Donna, and dropped her into the middle of this quagmire. I needn't have worried.

One of the things I love about my wife is that she is exactly what she appears to be. And, at the funeral of Evelyn Saunders, she was genuinely sad but compassionate with the stricken family. It was apparent to everyone in attendance. It showed in the pictures that appeared in the Washington papers the next day.

After the requisite schmoozing at dinner with the local Democratic leadership, we returned to The Peabody Hotel. Turning the elevator key that would take us to our room, I couldn't resist slipping my arm around her waist and guiding her into the Romeo and Juliet Suite. Hey, we were still technically on our honeymoon-- and it didn't cost the taxpayers a dime. We passed a quiet evening, barely making our 8:35 a.m. flight back to DC.

Our performance at the Saunders funeral fit perfectly into Gianelli's "Put a Young, Healthy Face on the Administration Master Plan"-which sounded suspiciously like my "Put a Young, Healthy Face on the Candidate Master Plan" in the first election. It involved trotting out the Senior Staff in a variety of political outings to prove that the administration was still vibrant and vital. As I said, our performance at the Saunders funeral made us the perfect representatives to attend the funerals of the three other anthrax victims. The second was in New York, the third in New Jersey. The last was in Milkwaukee, a postal worker, and, since it was Thanksgiving week, we stopped off in Madison and visited with the Mosses. On my desk the next Monday we found an envelope, addressed to us both.

"What is it?" I asked while hanging our coats on the rack.

"A dinner invitation," Donna answered, "from Toby and Andrea. Tonight at the Palms."

"Toby and Andrea?"

"Yeah."

"In public?"

"They go to temple together..."

"Temple doesn't count as public, Donna."

"What does it count as?"

"Temple," I replied.

"What do you suppose this means?"

"What do you suppose this means?"

She thought a minute. "Do you think they're coming out?"

"Donna," I chortled, "it's not like they've been in the closet."

"Or do you think," she ignored my perfectly reasonable response, "they're planning to out Sam and Mallory?"

"I think Sam and Mallory pretty well outed themselves at our wedding reception, don't you?"

"Oh," she said pensively. "What do you suppose this means?"

We had to wait until the evening to find out. Andrea had been detained in a meeting on the Hill and Toby, being Toby, refused to answer any questions until she arrived. When she arrived, all our questions were answered: she wore a ring, third finger, left hand. CJ, Donna and Mallory didn't even let Andy sit down before forming the girly-squeal huddle right there in the middle of the restaurant. We men were a bit more dignified, offering civil handshakes to the Director of Communications. Just about the time Toby snatched Andrea away from the gaggle and into his embrace we saw a flash reflect off the picture glass. Rather than grouse, Toby and Andrea smiled and the flash popped again.

"When is the wedding?" Mallory and Donna chorus.

"What wedding?" Andrea asked coyly.

The younger ladies were non-plussed. "Your wedding!" Mallory exclaimed loudly enough that Sam clamped his hand over her mouth and looked around nervously before uncovering her face.

"Andy?" Donna prompted.

Andy's glance gave the question to Toby. "There isn't going to be a wedding."

"Excuse me?" Sam's brow furrowed.

"There isn't going to be a wedding because there's already been a wedding," Toby stroked his furrowed brow.

I looked at the rest of our little party for illumination, but was struck by the fear that my face bore the same dumbstruck look.

"You're going to live in sin?" Sam asked.

"Sam," Mallory chided.

"Nobody uses that expression anymore, Sam," CJ corrected.

"They did when they thought Donna and I were doing it," I defended.

"We're surrounded by idiots." Toby's exasperation escalated before he sputtered, "We're having the divorce set aside."

"We're trying," Andrea corrected. "It seems to be a lot more complicated than getting divorced to start with."

"Sounds like a government operation," a voice said from behind CJ.

"Will Sawyer," she greeted cautiously.

Immediately the table fell silent in response to a blip on our reporter radar.

"Relax, guys," Sawyer placated. "I'm off-duty."

"Right," CJ crooked an eyebrow. "Like you'd pass up a good story."

"Story?" the reporter picked a chip from CJ's plate. "Oh, like the un-divorce of the White House Director of Communications and a member of Congress?"

We remained stone-faced while CJ did her job. "Something like that."

He leaned closer to the Press Secretary. "Stories are for novelists; I report the news."

Their eyes locked for an instant until Toby coughed. "Some of your colleagues," CJ sputtered, "don't climb to the high moral ground you occupy."

He filched another chip and Mallory elbowed Sam. "Oh, you mean the photographer out there?"

"Yes, him," CJ replied over his chip-crunching.

He reached for another chip but captured CJ's hand as she tried to swat his. "He wouldn't know real news if it bit him in the..." CJ tilted her head and he colored slightly. "Sorry, ladies." He spoke to the table but his eyes never left CJ even as he stood. "Kiss me goodbye?"

"Until tomorrow?" CJ scoffed.

"Until I don't know," Will replied. "I'm leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow." Then, to our shock-and especially hers-he leaned forward and kissed her soundly. "See you around, Claudia Jean."

We resumed our prior conversation but she stared at the door through which he'd exited, confusion, anger and fear clouding her face before she murmured, "See you around."

Chapters - Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

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