By Lacy

"What?" My head bangs against the wall again. Sam goes silent beside me as I weigh the implications of this new development. "He's firing me, isn't he?"

"No," Sam holds up a hand. "He's not firing you. He would never do that. That's a direct quote, by the way. I asked the same question myself."

"But...a leave of absence? That's a death sentence and you know it."

"It’s not a leave of absence. I want to be crystal clear on that," he swears. "Look, you’ve had an incredibly traumatic year and now, with Donna..…He knows what happened between to you, and he suspects there's more to this than simple anger."

"He'd be right."

"He's pretty perceptive, Josh."

"So, are there rules involved here?"

"He wants you to take some time so that you can make this right. For whatever that means to you." His eyes roll up briefly and his mouth turns up in a quirky half smile. "Wow, that was really bad grammar, wasn't it?"

"Despite your momentary breakdown in communication skills, I got the point."

"Anyway, you're not being replaced Josh. We're going to carry you through this, but you have to lead the way, okay? Donna is going to need you. I saw how she looked when they pulled her from the car, and you don't recover from that overnight. Spend a little time taking care of her. Consider yourself on flex time. You’ll be expected to attend all Senior Staff meetings, and to stay in the loop, but the President suggested you work from home as much as possible and take fewer meetings on the Hill. No more than three hours a day in the office Leo said. See your therapist, Josh. You have to understand that you do us no good unless you've got both barrels working."

"Your imagery really sucks. Have I ever told you that?"

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

"You need this, Josh. You both need this. And now, with the baby...you're going to need time to process. Nobody in the West Wing is ready to give up on you. On either of you."

"You need me there."

"We know."

"You can't run this country without me," I remind him.

"We'll try not screw up too badly when you’re not there," he smiles. "And we'll endeavor to seek confidence in the fact that you're always a phone call away."

"Damn straight."

"So...are we okay here?" he asks. His worry is painted across his face. I nod with a sigh coming from deep within my chest.

"We're okay," I assure him.

"Okay."

We sit in a comfortable silence, both of us sipping from our coffee. He observes, unabashedly, every person that walks by, whether they stride or saunter. I watch him as he watches them, and I wonder where I would be right now without him in my life.

"Why are you here?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He sits up straight and turns to me, his head cocking perceptibly to one side. "Do you want me to leave?"

I stand from my chair, locating a trash bin for my empty cup. "No," I say. "That's not what I mean?"

"What do you mean?" He stands as well, throwing his cup in garbage as I did. He places his hands on his hips and awaits my answer.

"I mean, why did you come rushing over when I called you at three in the morning? Why did you go with me to police station? Why did you deal with the cops and stand behind me when we went to the crime scene?"

"I'm your friend," he shrugs.

His cavalier response floors me. He's my friend? He did all of that just because he's my friend?

"Sam," I say. "How long have we known each other?"

"Ten years," he replies. "Give or take."

"I don't deserve the kind of loyalty and support you've shown me through this. I can't remember being there for you the way you're here for me. I can't remember a time when I put your needs ahead of my own. I just can't fathom the kind of strength it takes to be a man like you."

His spine stiffens and I know that I have just offered him the best possible compliment I could ever give.

"You're a great man," I continue. "You're as good as he is, you know that? You humble me. You're the real thing, Sam."

"Thank you," he whispers.

"I'm not the real thing, am I?"

He takes a deep breath, his brows kitting together as he scrutinizes me. I can tell that he's mentally replaying the past ten years of our acquaintance. His eyes meet mine and he shakes his head. "No."

I know hearing the truth from him should feel like being hit in the privates with a line drive gone wrong -- but it doesn't. The half smile on his face and the compassion in his eyes softens the blow.

"Then, why?" I choke out.

"Because you've got potential."

We share a smile then, and his words are uttered with such an absolute conviction that something inside of me takes flight. He opens his mouth to elaborate, and promptly shuts it again. He's apparently decided that too many words would spoil the moment we're sharing. To be honest, I agree with him. See what I mean? Sam knows exactly when he's said enough.

"Mr. Lyman?" Clements emerges from the trauma room, and my eyes tear away from the Sam's to meet the doctor's.

"What've you got?" I ask, forgetting momentarily that we're on his turf and not mine.

"Donna's regained consciousness," he announces. I release a breath I hadn't know I'd been holding. "She can speak, which is an excellent indication. She was, however, combative, which again, is not unusual -- especially when you take into account that she's a victim of assault. She's slipping in and out, and has little if any awareness of her location. She did, however, tell us that it's 2001 and that Jed Bartlet is the President." The doctor smiles then. "She also mentioned something about reelection."

"Yeah," I smile. Donna's in there, I realize. After everything Proctor did to her, she's still in there.

"I gave her credit for getting the President's name half right. Sometimes with head injuries we have to grade on a curve."

"She didn't," I inform him.

"Didn't what?"

"Get it half right. She got it all right. President Bartlet is 'Jed' to his friends."

"Really," he says. "Well, we're prepping to take her to Radiology right now. We're deferring spinal films for obvious reasons, but I don't think they'll be necessary. Her reflexes are intact and her response time is good -- considering -- which is a pretty good indication that there's no spinal injury. You can see her for a moment, if you like."

I turn to Sam, still standing silently behind me.

"I'm going to make a few calls," he tells me, pointing to lobby.

"Okay."

"You want me to meet you in Radiology when I'm done?"

"You don't have to," I tell him.

"Josh," he sighs, as though about to launch into a lecture. "Part of being the real thing is knowing when to ask your friends for help when you need it, and not being afraid to accept it when they offer."

"I'll remember that," I promise.

"So, do you want me to meet you Radiology?" he tries again.

"Yeah," I say. "See? I told you I would remember."

With only a limited time to see Donna, I end my conversation with Sam and stalk purposefully into the trauma room. They repositioned her on her back, and managed to cover her with a hospital gown for the trip to the third floor. Her hair has been cleaned of the matted blood and bandages placed over the injuries. Though still on the backboard, they removed the neck brace. The color has returned to her face, deepening even more the vivid shades of her bruises.

"You can talk to her," Angela says. "She can hear you, but she's drifting in and out. It's hard to hang on to consciousness when you're suffering from a head wound."

"Thanks," I tell her. "And thank you for not letting her die."

She nods then, and steps away from the exam bed. "We'll be taking her up in a minute."

"Okay."

I haven't been able to touch her in over twelve hours and I'm jones-ing for just the slightest feel of her warmth against mine. I take her hand in mine and I'm disappointed to discover that her hand is cold and clammy still. She jerks slightly and I discover a deep gash in the center of her palm.

"I'm sorry, Donna," I say, easing my grip on her hand. I apologize for hurting her hand, but really I'm apologizing for so much more. I've never realized before just how inadequate the words 'I'm sorry' can be. Some things -- a dictionary full of words can't begin to cover. There are times when words, or the lack of them, can only serve to remind us how immeasurable our crimes are. "Donna? You're going to be fine, Donna. You're so strong and so amazing. I need you to be okay. Okay?"

So...what if sometimes a crisis steals away my verbal skills? I'm doing my best here.

One of her eyes cracks open and I can tell that it takes a Herculean effort on her part. Her aqua blue iris swims in a sea of disturbing red. The blood vessels in her eye must have burst when she was beaten.

"Josh?"

Let's be clear here. I'm not sure if I actually heard that, or if it was just wishful thinking on my part. I'm going to assume, for the sake of my own sanity, that she did in fact, ask for me.

"I'm right here, Donna."

She swallows, painfully. "Hell," she whispers.

She's still mad. I don't blame her. Plus, this could be a good thing. I mean with injuries like hers, I could have hoped for a slight case of amnesia -- that would have made my prospects a little more palatable. But, as it stands, I think she remembers the fight -- or rather, my yelling.

"You're not in hell, Donna," I assure her. "You're in the emergency room. We found you and brought you to the hospital. You're safe now. Can you understand that?"

"Hurts," she chokes.

"I know it hurts," I commiserate. "Try not to think about today, Donna," I suggest. "Try to think about next week. Next week you are going to feel so much better. Every day you're going to heal a little bit more. I promise."

"Mr. Lyman?" the nurse interrupts. "We have to take her now."

"Josh?"

"They're taking you upstairs now, Donna." I'm forced to step back, to break my contact with her, so that the nurses can lift the protective railings on the bed. Each of them take an end of the bed, and after unsnapping the stoppers, they wheel her from the room.

There's blood on the floor and what's left of her clothing. Her shoes, haphazardly thrown in the corner, are splashed liberally with crimson. I drop down to examine them more closely, rolling them over until they're upright. The blood will turn brown soon, leaving only ugly stains as reminders of this night. Her clothes are cut to shreds, and her body is broken, but these shoes, despite the blemishes, are still whole. I pick them up and carry them with me as I follow the gurney.

TBC

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