Spoilers: Up through "In The Shadow of Two Gunman", "The Portland
Trip" and the as yet unaired "Noel".

Synopsis: Post shooting angst/romance for Josh and Donna

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Authors Notes: This is my second WW fic. Please feed the feedback
machine.


THIS ROCKY PATH
by Lacy


"Tell me again why you're dragging me out of the warmth of the White
House to go to this meeting?" I turn to see Donna shiver as she
pulls her coat tighter around her body.

"Because Congressman Reynolds won't hit me in front of a lady." I
gallantly open the car door for my assistant and watch as she tucks
herself neatly in the passenger seat. I walk around the front of the
car, but before I can even get my door open I hear her voice.

"So, basically, I'm your shield?"

"You're my insurance."

"Nothing like feeling truly wanted, Joshua. What if my presence
isn't enough to keep the Congressman's temper in check? Shall I
throw myself in the path of his flying fists?"

"Donna, don't be so melodramatic."

"Have I mentioned how big you're going to owe me for this?"

"What?" I feign the usual innocence.

"You'll owe me big, Joshua," she says. "Huge. We're talking record-
setting payback here."

"C'mon, Donna." The car's engine fires as I turn the key in the
ignition. I rev the engine for a moment, allowing the car to heat
after a full day of sitting in the parking lot.

"I canceled a date, Josh – again. A date with a great guy who is NOT
a political operative. Do you know how rare that is in this city?"

"I could venture a guess."

"A veterinarian, Josh. We were going to go see the new Brad Pitt
movie, but more importantly, we were going to avoid the topic of
politics altogether. Now, here I am with you, being dragged to a
political meeting -- on a Friday night, mind you – and I am Pitt-
less."

"There are so many things I can do with that statement," I chuckle.

"Let it go, Josh."

"Think of it this way, Donna. I'm saving you from the inevitable
heartbreak of discovering this guy isn't Mr. Right. In the long run
I'm doing you a favor."

Her shoulders tense and she crosses her arms against her chest. In
my experience, this can never mean anything good. "What are you
saying, Josh? That all my relationships are doomed for failure?"

"No, I—" I mentally review the words I have just said to her. Was I
actually stupid enough to use the word `inevitable'?

"That I'm going to end up living alone with my twelve cats, watching
my stories on daytime television? Is that how you see my future?"

"I never said—"

"Save it, Josh." She turns away from me, and directs her gaze out
the passenger side window, her nose tilted slightly upwards.

"Donna!" Realizing I have, once again, spoken without truly
considering how my words will affect her, I decide to keep my mouth
shut on this subject. I know, I know -- too little, too late. I vow
to never again say a word about her dating record – or at least I'll
make a full-hearted attempt. Trouble is, I made the same vow a few
months earlier after what I like to call The Great Todd Fiasco. Yet,
despite the promise I'd made, I just can't seem to keep my nose out
of my assistant's personal life – and I have no idea why.

I glance over at her and her face is turned slightly away from me.
Just enough to let me know that, for the moment, I am in the
doghouse. My shoulders slump, and I realize that we haven't even
managed to get out of the White House parking lot.

Out of the corner of my eye, I note that her body language states
clearly and unequivocally that the banter portion of the evening, so
easily initiated, is now over. I am hard pressed to explain the
sudden empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The silence must have lasted only a few minutes, yet it felt
unendurable.

"Reynolds is new, right?" she asks, quietly. "I'm not familiar with
him. All I've heard is rumors."

"Yeah," I answer, grateful for the reprieve from the punishing
silence. "He's from Louisiana, and he's loud and obnoxious."

"Then you two should get along great." I can't tell if she's making
a joke or still angry with me for my earlier slip.

"I'm sorry, Donna. Okay?" In the three years we've worked together,
I have gotten pretty good at extending the proverbial olive branch.
In fact, it seems to practically be a knee-jerk reaction lately. I
think I have apologized to her more in the last three weeks than in
all of our previous three years of acquaintance.

"Whatever," she shrugs, still keeping her face turned away from me.

`Why was she so easily offended lately?' I ask myself. Even in the
beginning of our relationship, though her self-esteem had taken a
beating, she always gave as good as she got. It just seemed as
though she couldn't bounce back quite like she used to.

The car is quiet again, but this time it is the silence of two people
lost in their own thoughts.

Ever since my blow-up with the President she's been distant.
President Bartlet had urged – okay, ordered – me to get professional
help. Lucky me, he knew just the right guy for the job.

Ever since The Shooting, Donna had seen me through it all. Hell,
she'd practically held my hand through the worst of it…the parts of
it that I couldn't hide, anyway.

I like to think she doesn't know about the nightmares and the
drinking, but I can see in her eyes that she does. Sometimes I pray
for the banter to begin, for our long hallway conversations, because
when she walks beside me, I don't have to look too deeply into her
eyes.

It suddenly occurs to me, like a lightening bolt on a clear night,
that while she's been holding me together, no has been holding HER
together. She's done it all by herself. She's been strong for far
too long, and her emotional sensitivity of late was just a sign that
the cracks were beginning to show in her carefully shored up façade.

How could I have been so blind? How could I have been so self-
absorbed? I glance over at her again and the almost prideful tilt of
her chin now translates as abject loneliness.

And for the first time in my memory I experience heartache.

Not the mythical, often-talked-about `heartache' that you read about
in romance novels, but actual heartache. I feel my heart being
ripped unceremoniously from my chest. I ache…for her. More than
anything, I want her to be okay. More than anything, I want my
Donnatella back.

She senses my pain and suddenly the proud angle of her face
changes. "Josh? What's wrong?" she asks. The pitch of her voice has
gone up a few notches and I know that her earlier anger is gone. She
is worried about me.

There is another slashing pain in the area of my heart, and this
time, I grab my chest. My lungs are unable to take in air, and I can
feel the blood drain from my face. Let me tell you, THAT is a really
strange feeling.

"Stop the car, Josh!"

Oh, right. I'm driving. For a moment, I forgot. As the pain in my
chest eases, I ease my foot onto the brake pedal, steering into an
empty parking lot.