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.

The Mile-High Club

My children began, as most do, as the spark of love and life that resulted from a twinkle in their father's eye and the shy smile on their mother's face. They seemed to arrive in this world, however, with a bit more hoopla. They are, after all, my children.

My first inkling that the arrival of my firstborn was imminent was this very strange look on his mother's face as she quietly closed the bathroom door behind her. This odd look preceded the three words that instil panic into the heart of the bravest--myself included.

"My water broke."

Being the erudite, alpha-male I responded in the requisite manner, "Are you sure?" followed by a gulp.

Her caustic response did little to calm me. "Yes."

Normally, this little exchange would be followed by the gathering of suitcases and focus items and a journey to the hospital where the delivery would occur.

Normally.

"You're not due until June first," I reasoned.

"Six weeks from now."

Most normal people don't travel to Russia at the behest of their country reasoning that it would be okay since they had six weeks until arrival of aforementioned firstborn.

"Josh?" Donna's voice quivered. "I can't do this, we can't do this here."

"Here" was Air Force One.

"Are you sure this is it?" I tried to confirm before panic set in.

She nodded, then gasped, grabbing her belly and sliding down the nearest wall. In a flurry of folders I tried to catch her, or at least slow her descent. In the process my hand brushed her stomach and felt, from the outside, what she must be feeling from the inside--a tightening vise of steely muscles. Terror filled her eyes as they met mine and I said the only thing I could remember from the one childbirth class we'd attended before we left.

"Breathe through it, Donna."

She snarled and I repeated the instruction, calmly (or so I hoped it seemed) rubbing her belly while her panting nearly drowned out the jet engine roar.

It would probably do to mention at this point that the crew of Air Force One is top-notch. They're so good you don't even notice they're there until they're bringing you something you hadn't realized until just then that you needed. Thank God. The steward appeared with the doctor just as I was about to scream for one. The pain subsided and we settled Donna on the couch where the doctor proceeded to reassure Donna that first babies take forever and this was probably just a false alarm.

It would also do to mention at this point the doctor was a Navy surgeon, a trauma specialist who'd boned up on MS since he'd be traveling with the President--who'd not delivered a baby since the Reagan administration. Yeah, I looked him up. So, when the next contraction began a scant five minutes later, too soon even by my crappy watch, I did what a smart man in my position would do: I sent for the First Lady.

Both Donna and the Doctor seemed relieved.

As a doctor, I loved Abigail Bartlet. When I was hurt, I looked forward to her visits--she'd tell me the hard truths in that no-nonsense voice of hers and temper it with that mother's smile that told me she knew I could get through whatever life had thrown my way. Donna was well into another contraction by the time she arrived, calm and collected. My family could not be in the hands of a better doctor.

Only, she wasn't a doctor anymore. She'd voluntarily surrendered her license on her last birthday rather than wait for Board sanctions regarding her treatment of the President. She could not practice medicine. Damn.

"Well," she kneeled in front of us, "what seems to be the problem?"

Her face was so blank that Donna's eyes widened with fear before Mrs. B. giggled. Donna giggled, too. "Oh, you know," Donna said jokingly, "the usual."

The First Lady smiled reassuringly and lay her hand on Donna's belly, squeezing and poking a bit. "How long have you been in labor?"

"Fifteen or twenty minutes," Donna answered. "Since my water broke."

Dr. Bartlet-Mrs. Bartlet-continued to prod. "Did you feel anything before that: restlessness, pain in your lower back?"

Donna nodded but I answered. "She's had a terrible backache since last night."

"Well, now," the doctors exchanged glances that could only mean trouble, "let's find you two a little privacy."

It was only when we tugged Donna to her feet that I noticed we had gathered an audience. Donna blushed furiously but followed the First Lady.

"You sure know how to liven up a long flight, Donna," the President waved us into his private cabin.

"I'm really sorry, Mr. President," tears slid down Donna's face. "We had no idea..."

"Don't listen to him, Donna," the First Lady chided while helping me lower Donna onto the bed.

"No, don't listen to me, Donna," the President riposted, "I drove through four false alarms with Elizabeth, two with Eleanor and one with Zoey. All of them in a driving snowstorm, I might add."

"Do you think this is a false alarm?" Donna asked hopefully.

"Jed," Mrs. Bartlet smiled, "get out. And take Josh with you."

Fear darkened Donna's face.

"Mrs. B.," I protested.

She took me by the arm, "Just for a minute, Dad," and shoved me out the door, just behind the President.

The very picture of patience, I shifted my weight at least six or seven times before I spoke. "You think it's a false alarm?"

The President smiled. "No."

I closed my eyes and hung my head, trying to catch my breath.

"Josh?" The First Lady was using her mom voice.

"How soon?" It wasn't until my eyes met hers that I felt the hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

"A hour, maybe two."

"Then we've got time," my mind was spinning. "We can find an airport, and a hospital and..."

"Josh," the President interrupted, his hand resting lightly on my tightly crossed arms. "We're on the Trans-Artic Vector. We're nearly six hours from any airfield big enough to take us much less one that has a Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit nearby."

I swallowed hard as the truth soaked in.

"It will happen here, Josh," the First Lady said quietly. "Are you up to it?"

"Do I have a choice?" I asked acidly.

"More than she," the First Lady replied sharply. "If you can't support her, Josh, can't be strong for her then you need to..."

"He's up to it," Leo McGarry growled as he moved to my side. "As was his father, and his father's father."

"I'm not sure I'm the man they were, Leo."

Leo's hand barely touched my arm. "I am."

"As am I," the President agreed.

I nodded quickly then turned to Mrs. Bartlet. "Now what?"

"We wait," Mrs. Bartlet smiled as I groaned. "I had the steward bring up your luggage," she waved a hand at my rumpled suit. "You both may want to change into something more comfortable-and washable."

I grabbed the door handle but stopped and faced them-Mrs. Bartlet, Leo, the President-before slipping quietly into the President's cabin as the doctor slipped out. Donna was, not surprisingly, in tears.

"This isn't happening," she said determinedly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Not here. Not now."

I knelt before her. "I think Mother Nature has other ideas."

"Not here, Josh," she sobbed. "Not now."

I pulled her into my arms, her belly hardening against my chest. "We'll be okay."

She sucked in a short breath and stiffened before, without instruction, commencing her little puffs. "Easy for you to say."

I chuckled as I kneaded her back until the muscles relaxed. "So," I stepped over to the suitcase and rummaged around. "Can I interest you in something more," with a mild leer I held up a slinky nightgown by the shoulders, "comfortable?"

"God, no," she followed me. "It's things like that that got us into this mess." From the very slim selection of casual clothes we'd packed, she picked out a flannel shirt, Harvard sweatpants and white socks.

"Uh, Donna," I helped her slip off her suit, "you realize those are my clothes you picked out, right?"

Her eyes flashed ire. "Nothing of mine fits comfortably anymore, Josh." She pulled on the sweats and buttoned the shirt. "And it's all your fault." She stood tall, hands braced at the small of her back. God, she was huge.

I finished slipping on the only clothes she'd left me--ragged jeans, a waffle-knit pullover and white socks.-before turning her around and pulling her close. "Guilty as charged, your honor," I nuzzled her neck while slipping my arms underneath her belly and gently lifting. She relaxed back into me.

"This is so us, isn't it?" she said ruefully. "Only we would have our first child on Air Force One."

"That's because we're us."

"Yeah, and there's about to be more of us." She turned in my arms. "Aren't you afraid?" Her eyes rounded.

"It'll be fine."

She pecked me on the cheek then led me to the door.

"Where are we going?"

"Josh, I can't sit in here alone with you. You need playmates or you'll drive me crazy before, uh, you know."

Sock-footed, she dragged me down the corridor to the President's salon where we found a poker game in progress.

"Hey, Donna," CJ called, "wanna play?" With a stockinged foot she prodded Sam to scoot over.

"No, thanks," my sweet wife shoved me into the spot made by Sam, "but please keep him entertained for a while."

"Deal him in," Toby instructed and Charlie laid out my cards. "He should be even more of a pigeon than usual."

"Hey," I protested, trying to arrange the really awful hand I'd been dealt. "That's my kid's college fund you're talking about."

"If the college fund is dependent upon your poker skills, your child will be lucky to go to a community college," Sam joked.

One of the great unknown secrets about the Bartlet administration Senior Staff is that, yes, we were all raised in a barn. In times of crisis, or long flights like this one, the shoes come off. Your tie is loosened, the suit coat handy, but the shoes come off. It's kind of like our little rebellion. This-shoeless poker--felt good, normal. Despite the light conversation around the table I tried to concentrate on my hand as Donna rested her forearms on my shoulders until I felt her grip tighten. "Another one?"

"Um-hm."

"Fold," I threw down my cards and stood beside her, kneading her lower back while she rested her forehead on the back of my chair.

"Check," she panted.

"Donna," I chided but Leo picked up my cards. "Now's not the time..."

"Donna's right," Leo grinned. "Josh checks."

Leo ghosted my hand for me until the latest contraction eased and Donna plopped wearily into my chair. He pushed the pot in front of her.

"We won?" her face brightened while she straightened the bills.

"Yup," Charlie confirmed.

"Viva la sisterhood," CJ crowed, leaning back while scratching her belly.

"Viva la sisterhood," the First Lady agreed.

"Guys, I think we're in trouble," the President warned while dealing the next hand. "Seems the estrogen level is especially high tonight."

The First Lady arranged her cards, "Well, it's about time."

"Damn straight," Donna agreed, sorting my hand as I leaned over her shoulder. We'd nearly finished that hand when the next pain began. Donna stood suddenly and paced, stopping with her hand again the wall. I backed against the wall and drew her, sideways, to me, massaging belly and back until they relaxed. Then she returned to her hand. This continued, poker and pain, for another hour until, as her knees buckled she buried her head in my shoulder and whispered, "It's time."

I called quietly to the First Lady and she followed us back to the cabin, closing the door to the rest of the world. It was, as had been our entire relationship, at first awkward and uncomfortable, fumbling to find some way to accomplish the task, until, through trial and error we found our way. Only then did I cease to be the superfluous "cheerleader" Leo said he'd felt himself to be at Mallory's birth. This was us-Donna and me, together, producing the miracle we'd dreamed of. And what a miracle it was. He was tiny and thin, but broad-shouldered as Donna pointed out, with whisps of honey-blond hair. His hands were the size of a half-dollar and his feet barely the length of my thumb. He was, as Mrs. Bartlet later said, not quite done yet, but the most important worry we had was silenced when his lusty cry filled the room. I swear he was screaming, "Donna!"

Donna must have heard it, too, because she grinned at me at said, "His father's son."

In a few more minutes, the Doctor was through with the baby and Mrs. Bartlet and I helped Donna crawl into the bed. She rolled onto her side and the Doctor settled our son into the crook of her arm with warnings to keep him warm.

"Congratulations," Dr. Bartlet whispered before pushing the doctor from the room and then we were alone-our little family, alone together for the first time.

With him between us, I reached for the tiny hand-his fingers wouldn't even wrap around mine. "Oh, my God," I breathed. For some things, there are no words.

I don't know how long we lay there while Donna and the baby dozed wearily.

"How're you doing, Dad?" the President leaned in the door, Leo peeking over his shoulder.

"Come on in," I whispered.

Donna's eyes opened dreamily, "Hi."

"Abbey says he's doing great despite being a little underdone," Leo smiled.

The President elaborated. "She says that with Moss strength and Lyman stubbornness, I'll be lucky if the kid isn't President before we land."

"It may take a little longer than that, Mr. President," Donna smiled.

"Well," Leo tugged at the President, "we just came to say congratulations and drop off your poker winnings."

"Poker winnings?" Donna sat up slightly.

"Yeah, the kid's gotta go to college somehow."

"Get some rest," the President instructed as he was dragged out the door.

"Mr. President?" Donna called. "Would you leave the door open?"

Our son spent the next few hours until landing getting to know his family-his White House family. After a quick ride to George Washington University Hospital we were ensconced in a private room for twenty-four hours of observation. The little dude was rooming in-he'd been handled by way too many strange folks to be allowed in the nursery. We'd enjoyed another round of visits from Senior Staff, with the added pleasure of Jordan, Mallory and Andrea. But it had grown late and our little family was finally, blissfully alone. Donna slept peacefully but the baby stirred and I moved beside his little glass crib.

Gently I pulled him into my arms, reveling in his cooing protest at being disturbed. I gazed on my child, newly-born and innocent, and realized that -- be they in Poughkeepsie, Paris, or Pakistan -- other fathers felt this way. In America, we grew and produced a surplus of everything known to man and, rather than share that surplus with the needy of the world, we stockpiled it until prices rose which, of course, they never did. The world didn't resent America's wealth; it resented America's prodigality. Leaning back, I laid him on my chest, over my scar, and nuzzled the honeyed fuzz that capped his tiny head. He cooed when I brushed my fingers across his cheeks then snuggled in, the second miracle in my life covering the first. He deserved shelter and security and sustenance; every child did. Little had I known that a trip to Nashua, NH, to hear a minor New England academic governor would lead me here. 'We will give our children better than we ourselves received.' I had finally found my jihad.

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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