The National Library - West Wing Fan Fiction

Refiner's Fire

Category(s): Post-Ep
Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: A frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.
Authors Notes: This plotline has no bearing on Mr. Sorkin's avowed intent to flashback to the Bartlet presidential campaign at the start of the new season.
Warning:I refuse to glorify violence, even in fiction. I will never comprehend how any person could willingly hurt another. However, violence does exist, and by its very nature it is dramatic. What follows is a coolly realistic interpretation of events, based primarily upon a frame-by-frame analysis of the last thirty seconds of the first season finale.

PART 13

********

~ TIME INDEX: 18:44:26 ~

Donna crept down the silent hospital corridors, hugging her carry bag, wishing she wore tennis shoes - never mind what they'd look like with her pantsuit - or any kind of rubber sole that didn't echo off the walls. Each footfall sounded like... a gunshot.

A few medical personnel drifted around, focused on their individual tasks, but the illusion of business as usual wouldn't fool anyone: the veritable army of Secret Service agents with their hard expressions, stiff postures and invisible yet guaranteed artillery pressed down like a funeral pall. Everyone tiptoed around them; no one wanted to make a move that ran the slightest risk of attracting their official attention.

All White House employees grew at least partly accustomed to working around this eternal presence and its fearsome reputation. That, however, was under normal operations. Here the level of alertness hummed almost audibly. The world's premier protection force had been caught out by one *incident*, and did not intend to permit any semblance of an encore. As though they were just waiting for something else to go even slightly wrong, so that they could act with utter ruthlessness... and wash away the bitter taste of failure.

Donna had been cleared to visit; she never would have made it even indoors otherwise. She did not know her way around, yet had no need to ask directions; a chain of black business suits marked her route rather more blatantly than the traditional breadcrumbs. She followed their glances, and in a few less tense cases their nods, around corners, down halls and past doors, feeling with every step that she was descending endlessly into a dungeon from which she and her fellow staffers could never escape.

If anyone had considered the level of security high around the President and his closest people before this, they were suddenly wishing for a return to those idyllic days.

At last she reached her destination. Hesitated there, debating whether or not to knock. Not wanting to awaken the occupant, but not wanting to barge in unannounced either. Not wanting to see the weakness, the pain, the helplessness... yet unable to stay away for those very same reasons. She stood in the agony of indecision for what felt like ages, before she finally gathered her nerve and tapped softly.

No response.

She inched the door open enough to sneak a glance.

"Josh?" In only the barest whisper.

He was there. Eyes closed. Hooked up to every piece of machinery in the room.

Donna slipped in and eased the door shut. At first she couldn't bring herself to move any closer, as though that might somehow threaten his delicate condition - and then she couldn't stay back. Without a sound she settled into the visitor's chair on the bed's right side.

And just looked at him. Compared to the stark walls, pillow and sheets his face looked a little less white, but not much. At least his breathing did not sound strained, the cardiograph beeped regularly, and he wasn't on oxygen, a respirator, or life support. The equally-white hospital gown showed no bloodspots, the bed's upper half had been raised several degrees, and both arms rested on top of the covers in a very natural manner as though placed by him rather than someone else. Still, he looked so frail, so still, so *un-Josh* that it terrified her.

Suddenly Donna couldn't take the silence any longer. In all the months she and her boss had worked together they'd never shared *quiet*; their days were spent playfully baiting each other and arguing about the most unimportant things. They shared humor, sarcasm and an ongoing debate over just how much he did or did not rely on her to keep his head straight. Their peculiar, tight-knit friendship thrived on noise.

This place didn't exactly encourage noise; she kept her tone down automatically. "Josh, if you're in there someplace, I'd appreciate you letting me know."

No reaction.

"Fine. I'll just sit here and wait; I've got all evening. After a full day and a half, what's a few more hours? But if you don't have the grace to wake up before they finally kick me out of here, you're going to hear about it later."

Nothing.

Donna glanced around at the small, featureless room. "Boy, you'd think they could have given you a window." Of course, the Service would hardly permit *that* risk just now.

She turned back, and a fond smile peeked through. "Honestly, Josh, we can't take you anywhere. It seems that something is bound to happen the moment I let you out of my sight." Even so feeble an attempt as that was better than the silence.

Nothing.

"Well, if you *had* to miss a day's work, at least it was the most hectic day we've ever had. You almost have my envy."

Nothing.

"On the other hand, I can't get any work done at all unless you're looming right over my shoulder. If you don't come back soon the White House is going to fall apart."

Nothing.

"Just on the offhand chance you're interested, we the junior staff have managed not to foul things up too badly without you - so far." The effort at levity faded. "Let me tell you, that first hour was pure torture. I mean, I know you like to deliberately keep me out of the loop, but this was just a *bit* excessive, and any court in the land will back me up. Consider yourself lucky to be lying there, or else I'd hold you personally responsible."

Not even a flicker.

Donna looked at her twitching hands. "Not that I've been *that* worried about you. I don't doubt for a minute that you'll be fine. You're so desperate to win at least one argument with me, you'll drag yourself back from death's doorway." She paused, blinking. "You'd *better* come back. I might even be persuaded to let you win for once."

Her gaze lifted... and she realized that Josh's expression had changed. Not much: just a subtle hint around his eyes and mouth...

Donna's brows drew together, but her quiet tone didn't alter in the least. "Of course no one else would *dare* kill you - that's a pleasure I've reserved for myself. And I'll exercise it right here if you don't open your eyes right *now*."

"Damn." Slowly, Josh smiled. With his eyes still shut, he looked almost cherubic. "You just woke me out of the most incredible dream: my assistant was saying that she actually cared for me."

"And now I'm saying I'm going to clean your clock." <The NERVE of him lying there and listening to me like that - >

He turned his head to look at her, quite smug about his safety. "There are Secret Service guys all over the place."

"Don't think that'll stop me."

He laughed, sounding like his usual brash self. "Such a mix of compassion and violence. Well, the next time I want your sympathy and your abuse, I'll know just what to do."

"The abuse is guaranteed." She tried hard not to smile, but her annoyance was losing ground to her relief.

"Perfect. I don't hurt anywhere near enough." Josh didn't give her a chance to comment on that. "So, where are my flowers?"

Donna studied him. "You never bring *me* flowers. Why should I bring *you* flowers?"

"I've never visited you in a hospital, either."

"It's the man's duty to bring the flowers, Josh. No wonder your romances don't last, but at least now we know why."

He dodged that last crack. "Well, the next time I know I'm going to wind up here, I'll order ahead. What *did* you bring me?"

She folded her arms. "For a guy at my mercy, you seem pretty cocky about me bringing you *anything*."

"I'm the invalid, and I'm also the boss. It's expected." He waggled his eyebrows, rakish and pleading at the same time.

"Josh, they're searching everyone they let into this armed fortress. They even confiscated my calculator. I can hardly smuggle in a GameBoy for your entertainment."

He exhaled in disappointment. "So much for that hope. Just to make you feel better, you're not the only one subjected to torture of late. First the boredom; then the menu. Have *you* ever eaten in one of these joints? I'm absolutely convinced they make the scrambled eggs out of Play-Dough."

Donna shook her head resignedly. And reached into her carry bag, and pulled out a package of black licorice twists.

"These may not be your favorite, but not even you can get crumbs in your sheets from licorice."

Josh grinned and accepted her gift eagerly. "The nurses will thank you." Of course, *he* didn't thank her. Not in so many words, at least.

Unable to resist, she reached out and touched his tousled hair, trying to brush it into place. Deliberately avoiding his gaze; she had no idea quite how he'd react. And, just as deliberately, she raised a new topic to distract him as she sat back again.

"Oh, and I have a message from Mandy. She sends her worst."

The red herring worked; Josh didn't comment on that now-past moment of extra-affectionate attention. Whether he *forgot* about it, Donna did not know. "Typical of her."

"Yes, she said that she's learning your job so well, by the time you get out of here you'll be able to retire."

His ready retaliation was killed by a knock at the door.

"Perfect timing," Donna smirked. "Come in!"

Of all likely candidates, it was Leo. He walked laboriously with the aid of a cane, and looked older and wearier than Donna could ever remember, but otherwise might have come straight from the White House. "Am I interrupting?"

Josh scowled. "What are you doing up already?" he demanded, not at all like a subordinate to his supervisor, but rather like a young man to an older friend for whom he felt responsible - or a son to an ailing father. Any impression of anxiety, however, was ruined one second later. "They won't even let me out of bed yet!"

"I have more experience at recuperation," the Chief of Staff boasted as he hobbled over and rested his free hand on the back of Donna's chair for added balance.

Josh pretended to grump. "Nuts. I was looking forward to trying out that office of yours for a *little* while."

"In your dreams." Leo raised his cane and planted its rubber ferrule lightly against Josh's ribs - the closer, uninjured side. "I see you out of this bed before the doctor says you can, and I'll put you back in it myself. The hard way." But the comradely grin he gave his deputy belied the threat to his words.

Josh clasped his hands across his chest. "Well, this is a banner Pick On Josh Day. Not that that's unusual, for either of you." Which made Donna snicker. "Hey, anything new on CJ?"

Leo's lined features sagged. "No," he said softly.

Josh's head fell back with a dispirited sigh, all humor gone.

Donna bit her lip. <The suspense is awful... she's GOT to pull through - >

In the West Wing, pessimism was not tolerated. Besides, with the sheer volume of concern and prayers all round, not just here but throughout the entire country, CJ simply *had* to recover. <We won't accept anything less.>

Full national support must count for *something!*

Josh peered left and right, as though searching for escape from all his medical attachments. "I gotta go see her."

Leo rolled his eyes, in a manner suggesting he'd heard that somewhere else before.

"You can't go anywhere yet," Donna stated, regretful yet firm.

Josh sighed again. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Forget the fact that she's almost my sister, and that she's right next door... "

Then he turned back to his assistant. "Would you go for me?" And Donna had never heard quite that note of pleading in his voice before.

"Of course." It would be the least she could do - for Josh, for CJ, and for *herself*.

She stood. "Heavens, Leo, have a seat." Their Chief of Staff had lost a dreadful amount of blood last night; that sort of thing isn't fully remedied in less than a day. And she knew - as did everyone else in DC and beyond - that due to his medical history Leo couldn't avail himself of so much as an aspirin. Even at a time like this.

"No, thanks. I have other rounds to make." Apparently pain, exhaustion and general weakness were minor considerations here; Leo simply denied them permission to intrude. He braced himself against the chair, hooked the cane over one arm, reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a sealed white envelope. "The President's hoping to visit later tonight, but in the meantime I've been demoted to his personal mailman."

Donna relayed the envelope, sparing both men the need to stretch. Josh accepted it almost reverently. His first name had been written on the front... and not by any secretary. Jed Bartlet's flamboyant penmanship could not be mistaken.

All three shared a meaningful look, a look steeped in quiet emotion. This was one time their Chief Executive had not delegated the paperwork. These private letters meant far too much to him - and to his people as well.

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

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