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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.
"Trust me, National Register of Historic Places is a euphemism for 'Federally Protected Money Pits.'" I leaned
back in an antique Adirondack chair, a glass of decaffeinated, artificially sweetened, iced tea sweating in my left
hand in the muggy July twilight.
"It doesn't have to be on the Register to be a money pit," CJ observed wryly. "My dad's place was built in 1904
and needs more constant attention than William." She glanced across the side yard at her son who was playing
chase with my sons, among others.
"Our house is only ten years old but the sea air is eating away at it." Mallory shifted in the chair she shared with
Sam who rested his chin on her head.
Toby tossed a foam baseball back toward the knot of children trampling Donna's precious grass. "There's not
enough carbon in the air here to cement things together," he sniffed. "Things fall apart in clean air."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Donna nudged my knees apart and deposited herself between them, her back resting against
my chest, sandaled feet propped between mine on a granite boulder.
Andrea Wyatt waved to their child then lightly brushed her husband's beard with the back of her fingers.
"Toby's polishing his curmudgeon schtick for the rubber chicken circuit."
"It's no schtick," he protested over a swallow of tea.
"Amen to that," CJ grinned then we listened for a while to the gurgling of the mill stream and the shouting
laughter of our, combined, seven children.
"How's the book?" Mallory asked and Andy groaned.
"We're discussing the title," Toby answered curtly.
"They think Freedom's Voice is too vague," Andrea explained.
"Welcome to Publishing Hell," CJ snorted. "They wanted to call my book Dorothy's Adventures in Oz instead
of Sister, Sister."
"I think that Dorothy title's already taken, CJ," Donna observed then snitched a sip from my glass.
"Much to my relief," CJ replied.
"And L. Frank Baum's, too, I would imagine," Andrea craned her head to see the children.
Sam refilled his glass from the pitcher on the picnic table near the back door. "Didn't Baum write another Oz
story?"
"So, Toby," Mallory tried again, "how's the book?"
The ringing telephone tore me away from his reply.
"They back?" Donna asked when I returned, keys in hand.
I nodded. "Ten minutes out, according to Ron. I'm going up to the house," I explained to our guests.
"I'll go with you," Sam offered and I almost refused, but...
I nodded and climbed into a beat-up pick-up truck.
"I never thought I'd see you in one of these," Sam said quietly.
I shrugged. "It's okay for running around the farm."
In a few minutes we stood in front of the President's beloved farmhouse, another glass of iced tea sweating in our
hands. As if on cue a dark SUV crackled up the graveled drive and crunched to a stop at the bottom of the steps.
Setting my glass against the front rail, I descended and tugged on the handle.
"Good evening, J-josh," the former President greeted, grasping my forearm. I pulled him to vertical then slid my
arm just beneath his as he slowly ascended the steps.
"How was your trip?" I could see Ron Butterfield shaking his head out of the corner of my eye.
"G-great," Jed Bartlet's once-strong voice creaked breathlessly when we reached the top of the porch steps.
"Good evening, Mr. President," Sam offered his hand, which the President gripped first with his right, then with
his left as he swayed a bit.
Even in the twilight, the former President looked exhausted.
"It was a great day," Abigail Bartlet breezed past, nodding to me as she passed. "Charlie and Zoey came up,
Eleanor was there..."
"With some old coot of a brain surgeon," the President growled his way to the stairway to the second floor. "He
had to have been at least forty." The older man crooked his eyebrow my direction.
"That's a young man, Mr. President." I grinned, following him up the stairs, my hand gently steadying his ascent.
"G-good night, S-sam," he called as Sam disappeared beneath the second floor landing. After chatting a few
minutes, I gathered Sam and returned to the truck.
He stared at me in the glow of the dashboard lights. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"Tell you what?" I tried the denial act.
Sam snorted. "That it was this bad." He fished through the air for the words. "That he was this bad."
"It just happens when he gets tired-like after today."
"Un-hunh."
We returned to the mill in silence with only a brief word before retiring. The next morning I found what, since
moving to our tumbledown landmark, I usually found when I walked out my back door to the edge of the mill
pond.
"Good morning, Josh!" the President greeted cheerily as I handed him the extra cup of coffee I always brought.
He nodded to his companions. "These ragamuffins and I were just checking out the day's prospects."
"Morning, Daddy," my older son, Noah, waved, fishing pole swinging wildly as he turned to greet me. "Happy
Independence Day!"
While I can't even begin to phoneticize his mispronunciation of "independence," since he was five years old it
was far better than the various manglings uttered by the younger six children. The boys-my five-year-old Noah
and four-year-old Kennedy, four-year-olds William Sawyer and Isaac Ziegler-- were lined up on the pond bank,
flanking the former President, eyes intent upon his face as he explained the importance of keeping the worm very
still. My older daughter, three-year-old Moss-who was named by her mother in my absence while under the
influence of post-partum Demerol-sat right next to the President, proudly holding her pole relatively still. Our
preemie, Joanie the Pixie-- who was a tiny, elfin two-tended to her duties as worm-wrangler, merrily stirring her
hands in the bucket of dirt and retrieving wigglers as needed or as she wanted. It was a day to remember, a day
to...
"Josh," Sam's voice preceded him through the door, "have you seen Abigail?"
"Good morning, Sam," the President greeted and I couldn't help but smile because Sam was currently rendered
speechless.
Sam's daughter's name is Abigail and that's what they call her-never Abby, always Abigail. They dress her like
an Abigail-exquisite dresses, elaborate hair ribbons that my girls would leave behind in about five minutes,
perfect little shoes, demure little earrings, in short, like a china doll.
As I said before, Pixie had assumed the solemn task of worm-wrangling. I forgot to mention, however, that she
had recruited an assistant who had spirited away Sam Seaborn's considerable powers of speech. Her assistant, of
course, was the doll-like Abigail who, dressed in her perfect little shorts, perfect little sneakers, perfect little hair
bow, ran to her father grinning a perfect little grin holding in her perfect little hand an absolutely perfect
earthworm. Sam looked perfectly sick. It was the perfect start to, what I hoped would be, a perfect day.
And it was a perfect day. The President was chipper which meant Dr. Bartlet was relaxed which meant Donna
and I were relaxed which meant everyone else was relaxed. We ate, we drank, we cried, we laughed, we were
together again, as if we'd never been apart. Ron and Margaret Butterfield (who, at five months pregnant, looked
like a snake who'd swallowed a basketball) surprised us by joining the party and bringing a guest-Jordan
Kendall. For an instant, Mallory seemed upset but then she folded Jordan in her arms. It was a perfect day.
Well, almost perfect.
As it neared twilight I strolled around to the far side of the mill pond with Sam in tow. He wanted to talk, I could
tell, and I knew what he wanted to talk about. I perched on a granite boulder and awaited the onslaught. It
wasn't long in coming.
"You've got a great life, here, Josh," he began, scuffing his toe against the granite. "Donna, the kids, you-you
look great, like you were meant to be here."
"Maybe."
"That makes it really hard for me to do this--to remind you..."
"I can't come to San Diego, Sam."
His face fell. "I need you, Josh."
I shook my head. "You've got everything it takes to win that judgeship, Sam."
"This race was the first of many steps. We were going to do this together."
"I know but..."
"Is it Donna?"
"No."
"It's the President, isn't it?" his face reddened. "He set up that foundation to keep you here to take care of him."
"It's not the President, it's not Donna, it's not the Foundation, Sam." I pulled a neck chain and medallion over
my head and tossed it to him. His eyes widened at the sight of the red Medic Alert caduceus. "My DC
cardiologist was a real comedian. Just before he releases me from the hospital after Rosslyn he comes into my
room and tells me he's got good news and bad news." I studied the skink skittering across a fallen tree branch by
the water. "The good news is, the arterial repairs they made came with a lifetime guarantee." I licked my lips
while he studied my face. "The bad news is, they didn't expect that lifetime to last more than ten years. That
was seven years ago, Sam."
His shoulders fell and he rubbed the medallion with his thumb. "Does Donna know?" he asked quietly.
"She's the only one other than Dr. Bartlet."
"What does she say, Dr. Bartlet, I mean?"
I rubbed my hand on my chin before answering. "If I behave myself, I might make it to Noah's bar mitzvah."
"I don't know what to say."
I shrugged.
He held out the chain which I retrieved and strung it around my neck.
"So, what's the plan?" he said, hesitantly.
"Get Donna through school. Get the kids in school. Endow their college funds. Finish restoring that damned,
money-eating hovel she loves so much."
"Daddy!" my children ran ahead of my wife, then swarmed me for hit-and-run hugs before entertaining
themselves chasing after the lightning bugs in the meadow beyond the mill pond.
"And in the meantime," I paused to pull Donna to me, wrap my arms around her and prop my chin on her
shoulder, "I plan to make love to my wife as often as I can for as long as I'm able."
"That's my man," she turned her head and beamed at me, her smile irresistible so I kissed her.
Sam just grinned then walked halfway around the pond to where Mallory was waiting.
"I love our life." Donna leaned her head against mine while we gazed on our family then our friends. "It's more
than I could have hoped for."
"It's more than I deserve."
She spun around sharply, her eyes meeting mine. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that."
I grinned sheepishly and she turned and settled back into me. "Thank you," I whispered into her soft hair, "for
my life."
Gently, so gently, she pressed a kiss into the palm of my left hand. "I am to my beloved..."
I kissed her right palm then knitted our fingers together, laying them over her heart, our children's laughter
dancing like the lightning bugs in the summer twilight, "... as my beloved is to me."
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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