The Fountain

by: N.Y. Smith

Disclaimer:

Category: Josh/Donna Romance, Cliff POV

Spoilers: Everything through "War Crimes"

Rating: PG

"What's October fourth and fifth?"

"You."

Josh Lyman is legendary in Washington politics. Some have called him the President's Pit Bull, but that doesn't quite capture the essence of the man. He's more like a Killer Angel. And I'm in his sights.

"That's fair," I say evenly, I hope .

His glare carries the wrath of the Almighty before he silently hands me the diary then returns to the bench where Donna Moss waits, rigid and tall. I find a seat in the coffee shop across the street, one where I can see them, by the way, and open the journal.

It takes a while to decipher the scrawl, but I soon become accustomed to her wry script and read of long days, hectic days, days of joy and sorrow and emptiness. He said he hadn't read it. I look out the window, at the two of them sitting side-by-side on the bench, recognizing the distance now between them despite his comforting hand on her back. It's more than geographic; you can sense, even from here, the wall that's gone up between them. And I helped put it there.

I read on, of Lyman's father's death, of some jerk she says he refers to as Dr. Freeride, of the ennui of serving in the White House.

She writes daily, faithfully, until last summer when there's a lapse of several days. When she does write again her words are sorrowful, fearful, weary. It breaks my heart just to read them.

Everybody in Washington knows about Rosslyn-that the President and Lyman were shot. But, until I read about the daily battles, first just to survive and then to strive toward some facsimile of normal, the full effect of the tragedy is lost on me. It's no wonder they hate the guns and think we're stupid for defending gun ownership. I'm beginning to wonder if they have a point.

She was there for him--every day, through every thing, she was faithful. I can't even comprehend the level of commitment that must have taken.

But then he returns to work and, for a while, her entries details the day-to-day with an easy style. As the entries come into the fall, her tone becomes darker, worry about Lyman forming the substance of most items. There's no entry for Christmas Eve--or for several days after. When she writes again it is with a sense of terror and relief. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Six months after nearly losing his life, Lyman nearly loses his mind. Nearly. And she had known. Everyone on the Senior Staff had known and had risked everything to save their friend.

This was it. This was the deep, dark secret she had lied to protect--to protect him. I gaze for a moment at them, the distance only slightly lessened and swallow hard before continuing. The rest is nothing. She'd not known about the President until Ziegler told her. Even then her worry had not been about the President but about the man, and his family and health and about how all of this would affect Lyman. Donna Moss has class.

I do not. I slept with her-- her inherent sweetness and the desire to, in a manner, cuckold the great Josh Lyman an intoxicating combination--and chose to betray her. Funny, I always thought the Republicans wore the white hats.

There they remain on that cold bench. Occasionally he glances at her and strokes her back, but mostly they stare off into the unknown, seemingly.

He knows. He knows I'll find out about the PTSD and he's turned over the diary anyway. He's offered himself up to save her.

I can't even comprehend the depth of love that must have required.

I close the book, carefully retying the ribbons. The crisp wind rises and her hair floats around her head. Only one question remains: why had she come looking for me?

I stop on the pavement, puzzlement hindering my step. She loves him like life itself and he loves her enough to give up his life for her, so why had she come looking for me?

I think back over the entries, the details, the stories until I realize the sad truth. It's like an O. Henry story: she's dedicated her life to him, but his job prevents her having him; he's endangered his job for her, which could take him from her. She'd come looking for me because she couldn't have him.

Silently I return to the fountain, handing him the book, "There's nothing here."

He nods and returns to her, guiding her back through the darkened streets.

I remain for a moment, watching them navigate the obstacles, wondering if they understand what had just happened. I am an idiot; of course they understood. And that's the reason for the wall. Their last excuse has crumbled at their feet: he has chosen her and she him. And they still can't do a thing about it.

Damn.

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