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.

Noel

For the first forty years of my life Christmas held little significance for me. But then, Rosslyn happened and nothing was the same. Donna, on the other hand, is the original Ghost of Christmas Present: from Thanksgiving until New Year, she is so festive that Scrooge would have driven a stake of holly through her heart just to get some relief. I understand the feeling.

Until Christmas 2000 when she had spent the holidays, well, Danny Concannon's unauthorized biography of us describes, in exhaustive detail, how she spent the holidays. Suffice it to say she spent Christmas Eve 2000 in the Emergency Room with a sick friend and that sick friend was determined Christmas Eve 2001 would be decidedly more festive or at least as festive as the war would allow. This year we'd stay home, basking in the glow (or was it glare?) of the thousands of lights Donna had wrapped around the artificial tree I had forced on her when she realized that we wouldn't be at home enough to keep a real tree watered. So, at noon, I stood in my office planning how I would pick up a couple of steak dinners from Ruth's Chris and a bottle of wine on the way home. I knew for fact that Donna had the Alistair Sim version of "Scrooge" already cued up in the DVD player.

The President, as was his custom, had taken "personal staff time" in the Residence, including Charlie and his sister. CJ had gone home to California the Friday before. Toby was just finishing up the noon briefing before going home to Andy's place. Leo had already sent Margaret home, much to Donna's consternation, but remained in his office, waiting for Mallory, who was at Donna's desk, trying to wheedle information about her Christmas present from Sam. Sam had gone out to pick up said Christmas present. All was as it should have been this Christmas 2001.

At 12:36 pm, while I was harassing Mallory for harassing my wife, a loud blast rattled the windows on the north side of the Executive Mansion. Within seconds we could see smoke rising from what looked to be only two blocks away. In the next instant, in what had become entirely too commonplace an occurrence, additional agents flooded the rooms. "Lurch," my friend from September 11, became my shadow again.

The monitors in the bullpen were still looping reports of the futile cave searches so we crowded around the windows, watching the smoke rise into the gray buttermilk sky. Brown at first, the plume darkened and widened with each passing moment. I felt Donna clutching my elbow and, automatically, handed her the handkerchief I'd begun keeping in my pocket for her while I slid my arm around her waist, defying our "hands-off in the office" agreement with Leo.

"Hey, Lurch," I called over my shoulder and the agent took a step or two into the office. "What do you know?"

Lurch, apparently I wasn't the first to call him that, pressed a finger to his earpiece before replying, "Apparent car bomb, Mr. Lyman. Near Farragut Square."

"Sam," Donna gasped and I spun to dial, "isn't the jeweler on Dupont Circle?"

Before I could call, my phone rang and I jerked it up, expecting to hear former Indiana governor Jack Buckland, who'd been named Homeland Security Director after the anthrax letters began. Instead, I heard the Officer of the Day.

"Mr. Lyman, I have the DC police on the line about Mr. Seaborn."

I must have blanched at what the officer asked. Donna blanched as she heard me describing our friend.

"Where's Mallory?" I demanded, grabbing both of our coats from the rack.

"She went down to Leo's when the crash began." I held out her coat and she donned it. "Josh?"

"Sam's hurt." I had never walked the familiar path to Leo's so quickly.

"How?"

I slowed slightly to prevent her from falling off those damned heels she still insisted on wearing despite the Little Dude and jerked my head in the direction of the smoke plume. Donna gasped. With only a perfunctory knock I opened Leo's door. "Sam's hurt."

Mallory's face grew round in bewilderment and she stood, motionless, as though stunned. Donna recognized the look and threw Mallory's coat over her shoulders and tugged her into the hall while Leo grabbed his.

"You can't leave the building, Mr. Lyman." Lurch blocked the door. "The White House is locked down because a bomb exploded two blocks..."

I cut off the rest of the words with a fiery glare but my voice was icy. "Get out of my way."

Lurch stonewalled for nearly a minute before raising his arm and mumbling into his sleeve. It took nearly another minute for the response. "Either you or Mr. McGarry will have to remain. You both can't be unsecured."

I shot a glance back at Leo, who looked at me, then at his distraught daughter. Squeezing her hand he ordered, "Go; Sam needs you."

It's odd how some events in your life go in and out of focus. I remember the first sight of that smoke plume, and the call from the DC police, with perfect clarity. But, to this day, I remember little of the ride to George Washington University Hospital except goading Mallory into the back of a Secret Service SUV between Donna and me. I don't really remember going into the hospital. But everything snapped into sharp focus when, as they wheeled him through the hall to surgery, I saw Sam.

He was covered with a sheet from toe to bare chest, arms veritable pincushions attached to dripping bags of clear fluids. His head was strapped between two foam blocks-thick padding swathing his left eye and the rest of his face swollen and already turning black. In short, if I hadn't known him I wouldn't have known him. We chased until he reached the Surgical Wing doors, Mallory crying out his name. Memories of a similar trip flooded my mind but I waded against them to do one of the few things I remembered from before my own surgery. "Sam, we're here."

The doors swung shut and we stood, motionless, until I noticed Lurch haranguing a nurse. After a moment he returned to us. "I've secured a private waiting room down the hall, Mr. Lyman." He herded us a few feet. "Here." He ushered us into the room, but remained in the corridor, our own private sentinel. I lingered at the door, watching Donna guide Mallory to the hard couch. "Get me a cop who can tell me what happened and," I growled to the agent, "get me a doctor who can tell me what's going on."

The doctor, actually the hospital spokesperson, arrived even before Lurch talked into his sleeve. He explained it all in great technical detail, using many words I-we-barely understood. Mallory nodded numbly, while Donna closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

"How long," Mallory asked absently, "before he's recovered? Completely?"

The spokesman sighed indulgently. "I'm not sure you understand, ma'am. Shrapnel from the bomb burst the left eye itself and obliterated the inner ear. The loss of both is permanent."

Now we understood.

As my mind calculated the shrapnel's trajectory (a word I had only a passing familiarity with before the summer of 2000), an awful question asked itself, "What about brain damage?"

The spokesperson hesitated slightly, but it was enough to force a gasp from Mallory. "We'll know more if he wakes up." He clasped his hands in front and rocked from his heels to his toes. "His surgery could take five or six hours; it could be several hours after that before he comes around."

Dismissed by my nod and mumbled thanks, the police liaison passed the hospital spokesperson in the doorway. Her self-introduction barely registered as I stood. "I'm Josh Lyman, Deputy White House Chief of Staff and White House Deputy to the Director of Homeland Security."

Her scowl prompted me to continue. "Which means your report is not just personal to me but official."

She swallowed before beginning, "At 12:36 p.m. a car bomb exploded in front of 1120 Connecticut Avenue, Northwest. Although our investigation is just beginning, residue indicates it to have been of the ammonium-nitrate/diesel fuel variety."

"How big?"

"It's hard to say; one-twentieth of Oklahoma City?" she guessed before continuing. "The building contains-contained--the Legislative Offices of Planned Parenthood."

"Casualties?"

"Two killed inside, ten deaths on the street." She studied her notes a moment. "Mr. Seaborn was the only survivor from inside the kill zone."

A whimper rose behind me.

"Th-The bomb experts," even the officer wasn't made of stone, "think it was his SUV that saved him-protected him from most of the shrapnel, absorbed a lot of the energy from the blast." She glanced at Mallory. "How is he?"

"Still in surgery; we'll know more later," I supplied. "Any idea who's responsible?'

She nodded. "A phone call was received at a local TV station at 12:42 p.m. from someone claiming to represent the Children's Army. Apparently, they've escalated from bombing empty abortion clinics."

"Apparently," I jammed my left hand in my pants pocket and chafed the back of my neck with the other hand. "Suspects?"

"We're still investigating. I can notify you if anything develops..." The officer's eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Thank you, Captain." After a brief handshake, she was gone and we were alone.

Mallory sat stiffly, Donna's hand wrapped around hers, seemingly focused on the row of chairs opposite hers.

I crouched in front of her, dipping my head to meet her gaze. "Can I do something for you?"

Her eyes met mine but they were wild, angry, "Can you make Sam well?" her voice sliced through me.

Rocked for a moment, I studied my hand--the scar from last Christmas now a white cord on my palm. "No," I confessed, then met her gaze again, "but I can help him get well-like he did for me."

Tears welled in her eyes and mine, too. Donna pulled Mallory's head onto her shoulder and grabbed my hand. >From the corner of my eye I could see Lurch moving discreetly to block the door.

"I don't understand," Mallory's voice hitched, "what he was doing on Connecticut."

Donna and I shared a guilty look but maintained our silence.

"Mr. Lyman?" Lurch asked from the door. "There's a nurse who needs to see you."

"Yeah," I replied huskily, stepping into the hall.

"It's about Mr. Seaborn's personal effects," the older black woman began. "When I was bagging his topcoat, this fell out of the pocket. I didn't think you'd want it to get lost."

"It" was a black velvet box which I slipped into my jacket pocket. I already knew what was inside; I'd been with him when he'd ordered it. "Thank you," I whispered hoarsely. Patting my hand gently, she padded quietly down the hall. I swallowed hard, noticing only then Lurch's questioning look. "He was planning on proposing tonight," I almost choked on the words. "Now..."

"He'll still have the chance," Lurch said quietly. "Anyone who's made it through a campaign, an assassination attempt and three years in the White House doesn't give up easily, Mr. Lyman."

I looked up, and up, at the agent. He was thin, face seemingly chiseled from granite, but beneath the stony glare was a gentle strength. "No, we don't, Agent..."

"Vladimir Lurcael," he supplied.

"You're kidding. And people call you..."

"Lurch, sir."

"Thank you, Agent Lurcael."

"You're welcome, sir." He cocked his head. "The White House has stood down," he relayed. "Mr. McGarry and Mr. Ziegler are on their way over."

I nodded and scuffed to the seat on the other side of Mallory, where I remained, except when I was pacing, through phone calls to Sam's parents (separately), Leo and Toby's arrival, a phone call from CJ, a phone call from the President, a visit from the hospital liaison saying the surgery was progressing as well as could be expected, another phone call from CJ until the until the scrub-clad doctor informed us that Sam was in the Recovery Room. It was nearly seven o'clock. We waited another hour, then moved our camp to an Intensive Care waiting room, our privacy again insured by Lurch. Every thirty minutes a pair of us would be allowed into his room. We'd talk to him, still unconscious, until they ushered us out again. Remembering my own experience, I made sure that Mallory went every time: hers should be the first face he saw. The rest of us rotated: me then Donna then Toby; Leo had returned to the White House when he'd been moved to ICU. On my second visit we stood on either side of the bed, Mallory holding his right hand where he could see her, I his left. She chattered nervously about something that had happened in her class, until she stopped abruptly.

"Did you feel that?" she whispered.

I nodded. "Sam?" I chafed his hand and she copied. "It's okay to wake up now, Sam." He moaned softly then slid a dry tongue across parched lips before the unbandaged eye fluttered open.

"Hi," she whispered and he croaked a dry reply.

Confusion and fear clouded his vision. "What-where?"

"You're at George Washington Hospital," I explained.

"You're gonna be fine," Mallory said too quickly.

Sam tried to turn his head to see me but flinched and groaned from the tiniest motion.

Mallory slid her palm alongside his bare cheek. "Be still, Sam," she whispered desperately, tears teetering in her already red-rimmed eyes. "Just be still."

"Hurts," he sighed, eyes closing and blanching.

With my free hand I lay a pushbutton control on his chest. "Press the button for more pain medication."

I released his hand and he took the control, thumbing the button. Mallory smiled reassuringly and he relaxed after a few minutes.

"Good stuff, huh?" I grinned and he hummed agreement. "Enjoy it while you can."

"Yeah," he replied heavily before his breathing deepened and became regular.

With a nod to the door I ushered Mallory back to our private waiting room where she sat numbly on the hard couch. A pillow appeared in the hands of Agent Lurcael which I stuffed under her head and pushed her down gently. "Sam would want you to rest, Mallory."

At first she resisted but, noticing that Donna was already asleep on the other couch, she finally relented. His parents arrived around midnight-Leo had arranged their transportation and Donna and I alternated with them waking and accompanying Mallory on the semi-hourly visits until my turn came around four a.m.-very, very a.m. Reaching to shake her awake I saw the weariness on her face, the panic, and could not-would not-disturb her.

Quickly, I smoothed my hand over my shirt, straightened the loosened tie, raked fingers through the unruly curls while stepping down the hall, pausing just inside Sam's door. It was dark and quiet and, for a moment, memories threatened to overwhelm me-the heart monitor beeping in time to the pounding of my heart, the antiseptic odor souring a stomach filled with too little food and too much caffeine-so that, for a moment I was back in that hard bed, staring at the clock on the wall, fitful sleep forever interrupted by CICU nurses. The memory closed around me, the pounding in my ears so loud I almost didn't hear the ragged whisper, "Someone there?"

"It's me, Sam," I stepped around to the far side of the bed, shaking my head as the memories slithered back to that nook of my mind where they lurked, waiting for occasions such as this to reappear. His eyes-eye-strayed to the clock on the wall at the foot of the bed.

"Which four is it?" His voice was weak, scratchy.

"A.m." I said quietly.

"You should get some rest."

"I'm fine." I wrapped my fingers around the bed rail. After a long silence he timidly brushed the back of his hand against my fingers. I folded the hand around his and worried with the IV line with the other hand.

His eye drifted shut and I thought he may have fallen asleep again before he spoke, "I don't remember anything." His eye flew open and found mine, whatever white that wasn't bloodshot contrasting against the deepening bruise on the unbandaged side of his face. "Nobody will tell me."

"That may not be such a bad thing, Sam." I shifted my feet and leaned against the rail. "Give yourself time to heal a little before you have to deal with that."

"Would that have helped you?"

I dropped my head in defeat, looking up at him through my eyebrows. "Probably not." His face was pale, what little wasn't darkening from bruises, so that the white gauze that covered his left eye almost blended in. The left side was swollen, a neat row of fine stitches just inside the hairline revealed how they'd peeled his face away from his skull to repair damage to the eye socket. Another gauze pad was taped behind his left ear where the hair had been shaved from an area the size of a coffee cup. It was no wonder Mallory could barely look at him and that his warring parents had sobbed in each other's arms for half an hour after the first sight of him.

"It's not my place, Sam," I croaked. "It should be Mallory or your parents or..."

"Please," he rasped. "You'll tell me the truth. They won't."

With a sigh I brushed my thumb across the tear that was coursing down his cheek. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He closed his eye for a moment then replied, "Wake-up call to CJ after Senior Staff. She was pretty pissed."

I smiled at the memory, "Yeah, well, it was six in the morning in California, Sam."

A smile skittered across his face. "And then I talked to somebody over at OMB." He ran his tongue across his lips. "Ira... Ira..."

"Epstein."

"Yeah, Ira Epstein," he swallowed hard. "I talked to Epstein before I went to..." His eye flitted about, unfocused before returning to me, fear clouding his expression, "Mallory's ring. I went to pick it up from the jeweler's in Farragut Square and I put it in my pocket and..."

"I have it; I have the ring."

Relief seemed to wash over him for a moment until the confusion returned. "And?"

"Do you remember driving back down Connecticut?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

He wasn't ready for this. We both knew it. But, how can anyone be ready for something like this? "There was a bomb: the legislative offices of Planned Parenthood."

"I don't remember."

"It destroyed the building and killed everyone within a fifty-yard radius. Except you, Sam."

He blinked rapidly. "I don't remember," he soughed. "How bad is it?"

How much should I say? Should I lie?

"Josh?" he begged, voice like a fearful child's.

Please let this be the right thing. "Your were close enough to the bomb that your car was blasted with debris and shrapnel. The police said they were surprised you were even alive."

"Josh..."

I took a deep breath, praying to the God I'd only recently rediscovered. "They think the car protected you from the concussion wave and most of the blast debris but one piece hit you in the eye. It," I had to lick my parched lips, "It ruptured the eye itself before destroying the middle and inner ear and exiting just behind the left ear."

Sam's face remained frozen in a teary expression of shock and fear that had registered at the first mention of his eye. His breathing shallowed and quickened and I lay my hand in the middle of his chest. "Sam..."

His lips were moving and I leaned down to catch the sound.

"How bad?" His gaze locked onto mine, searching for any shred of untruth.

My face was only a few inches from his. "Total loss of vision in the left eye, total loss of hearing on the left side."

He drew a ragged breath, then his hands flew to his face so quickly I almost didn't grasp them in time. "You're lying," he hissed.

"It's the truth, Sam," he struggled but was so weak my chest didn't even twinge from the effort.

"I want to see it," his struggle lessened in force but not in fury.

"Sam..."

"I have to see it," he begged, surrendering to my grip.

"I know." The nurse I summoned seemed hesitant at first, but finally assented to assist. When I'd been shot, I'd waited until the first time I was alone-it had seemed like forever-before I pulled down the gown and peeled off the gauze padding. The sight of my own blood crusted along the incision that was held together by metal staples was at once horrifying and perversely comforting. The knowledge that I had been, for all intents and purposes, dead but had lived seemed to awaken a determination to survive. Once I saw the truth, I knew how to fight. I hoped-I prayed-it would be the same for Sam.

The nurse returned with his doctor in tow. Actually, it was the opthamologist who was only one of several "-ologists" tending him. He was surprisingly gentle, pulling away the tape then the thick pad. I moved to the head of the bed and leaned my head next to my friend's so I could see what he saw. He nodded and the nurse held up a mirror.

It seemed like forever before he breathed and then it was a desperate gasp as he turned away from his own reflection.

The doctor's voice was consoling. "The swelling will subside in a few days, Mr. Seaborn-the bruises may take a couple of weeks. In about six weeks, when the facial fractures have healed, we'll fit your temporary prosthesis." The doctor paused before continuing. "All-in-all, Mr. Seaborn, you're very lucky to have..."

"Thank you, Doctor," I cut him off and, out of Sam's line of sight, waved a dismissal at him. I took the mirror from the nurse and dismissed her, too. "Look, Sam."

He swallowed hard and waited

"It's just what you look like, Sam; it's not who you are."

The back of his hand brushed against my arm. "What if that's changed, too?" He matched my gaze.

I could feel the hot tears streaming down my face and smiled sheepishly before focusing on our reflection. "What hasn't changed is that there are people who love you and accept you. End of story."

Reluctantly, he extended his hand, fingers tracing the changes in his reflection on the surface of the mirror. "I hope so," he sighed.

I met his stare in the mirror. "I know so," I promised huskily. "They did the same for me."

A hint of an expression of hope skittered across his battered face before sleep overtook him again.

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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