Classification: I think this series went completely Alternate Universe long ago — although I’m trying to stick as close to canon as possible

Spoilers: Anything could pop up.

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Rating: PG

Synopsis: Sometimes we learn more than we ever wanted to know

Warning: angst

Series: This story is twenty-fifth in the 'Rocky Path' series.

Series So Far:

Safe Passage 1/3

By Lacy

The days since Donna was removed from the critical list have quickly fallen into an identifiable routine. Senior Staff meets at eight to prep for the day so I’m usually at the hospital by nine-thirty. I go home for a few hours at lunch. Sometimes I try to get some work done, make phone calls, and set up meetings. You know -- that sort of thing.

Other times, I continue the unpacking Donna started the day we moved in. When she comes home I want the house to be habitable.

I usually head back to the hospital from four to seven, before going to the office for a few hours. The Operations bullpen is quiet after hours, and I don’t feel like people are sending me pity-filled glances on the sly. I stop by the hospital one last time after midnight to check in before going home to get some sleep.

The police came by again yesterday, wanting to cull as much information from her as possible. Seeking the details of what Proctor did to her that night. No detail is too small, they said. I want to protect her from this. To tell the cops they can damn well wait until she’s ready, but there’s a cop killer that needs to be behind bars, and the legal system won’t wait forever.

She’s going to have to testify -- a trauma I was spared -- I know that much for sure. The defense attorney will tell her she can’t possibly be sure Leon Proctor is the man who hurt her. She’s recovering from a head injury after all, and her brain might not be as reliable as it could be.

She was sure though. One hundred percent sure, when Detective Jefferson brought in a series of photos and laid them out in front of her. She didn't hesitate for a moment when she pointed to a picture of Leon Proctor.

He was arraigned the day before yesterday, and the bail was set so high he’ll be seeing nothing but bars between now and his trial date. It’s a small relief. I was tempted to go to the arraignment. You know, just to get a look at him up close, but Sam talked me out of it. He knew I would’ve probably lost it the second Proctor stepped into the courtroom. The Deputy Chief of Staff going berserk in a court of law isn’t exactly positive press for the Bartlet Administration.

I’ll be seeing him though, one way or another. You can count on it.

She’s being released today. One week after being admitted — one week after nearly losing her life. I think she thinks she’s been at a standstill for too long. I remember that feeling. She’s no more used to remaining sedentary then I was.

Talking has become easier for her, but she doesn’t seem to want to do much of that. The neurologist said that’s normal. Talkative people often become uncharacteristically quiet after a head injury, he said. He told me to try not to let it worry me.

But it does. It worries me that she only speaks to me when she deems it necessary. In the ICU and later, down in the ward, I would touch her and she would unconsciously reach for me. But now, she avoids my touch altogether.

I can't face the prospect of losing her; I've wasted too much time staring into that abyss already. So, I've decided that I won't. I have set my sights on the goal of getting her back. And, being the political operative that I am, I've formed a basic game plan to facilitate attaining the aforementioned goal. So, here it is.

Whatever Donna wants, Donna gets.

Well, like I said, it’s a work in progress. I'm still outlining the particulars. I'm sure that later there will be specifics and stipulations, maybe even some terms and conditions, but for now, that's where I stand. Whatever Donna wants, Donna gets.

It’s a pretty broad strategy, I know, but I think I can pull it off. I mean I got a President elected, for God’s sake. I think I’m capable of winning back Donna’s heart. Okay, so I had help getting a President elected -- and no small amount of background knowledge on how to do it.

That’s my real problem in this situation. I have no background. I don’t know how to win back the heart of the woman I love. I’ve never had to do that before. I’ve had relationships end, but I’ve never actively attempted to rekindle them. Usually, I just chalked them up to a loss and moved on. I’m not willing to chalk this one.

Donna isn’t going into my ‘loss’ column.

So, to that effect, I’ve spent a good deal of the week preparing for Donna’s return. I’ve reduced my schedule, made sure the extra bed was assembled in the guestroom. It’s her bed really, from her old apartment. A place I’m sure she would return to, if only it was convenient.

What I’ve really been doing is spending the week getting to know the house that Donna loves. Learning what it was about this place that claimed her the moment she clapped eyes onto it.

There’s a soothing sort of echo here that I didn’t notice on my first visit. The dark wood floors on the ground level and throughout the upstairs hallway creak reassuringly beneath my feet as I move about the house. This was a house designed for a family — for the resonance of multiple pairs of feet moving about on the floor that creaks and cracks, and occasionally groans.

The living room with its elegant fireplace inspires images of children and domestic stability, and maybe even a dog. I’ve decided that the room needs an Oriental rug. The dining room is painted a deep shade of green and the simple crystal chandelier is set on a dimmer, for the proper mood setting. The wood floors seem to be oldest there, as though part of the original house. Perhaps because it was used only for special occasions and wasn’t subject to the same wear and tear as the rest of the house.

The stair railing doesn’t have even the slightest wobble. The staircase is narrower than I would’ve liked, but such is the way with these Victorian brownstones. At night, the upstairs corridors are lit with antique wall sconces rather than glaring overhead lights, giving the house an ethereal historical glow. The dark wood of the floors seems to absorb any additional light not necessary for navigating the house.

The rooms on the third floor have angled ceilings and feel buffered from the rest of the house, as though built especially to accommodate rowdy children. Sometimes I just tour the house, touching its walls, and cataloguing each sound it makes.

From the moment she left, I couldn’t wait to get her home. But in the hospital she seemed reluctant to return here — to this place she’d claimed. She has nowhere else to go really, no place to recuperate. She mentioned the idea of going back to Wisconsin for a while, but luckily I was able to talk her out of it. She’s in no condition to fly and certainly in no condition to drive.

She needs to be taken care of, at least for a little while. She needs someone to make sure she doesn’t get dizzy and fall, or other things that happen to people recovering from head injuries. So, I offered her my assistance. I think I may have mentioned there being no pressure.

Everything is ready and now I wait for the perfect moment to put my game plan into action. All that’s left is to retrieve Donna from the hospital. I feel a surge of optimism, because I’m taking her home.

I negotiate the color-coded corridors of the hospital with my backpack slung over one shoulder, except this time it’s not filled with files. When I arrive, I push open the door of her private room, and find her sitting up in the bed, her legs dangling over the side. Dr. Hayward is there, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed at his chest and her medical chart tucked neatly against him.

"Mr. Lyman," he greets as I enter. "I think our patient is chomping at the bit to get out of here."

"I’m not surprised, Doctor," I say.

"I’ve just been telling her the importance of taking special care of herself for a while. It takes time to heal from a head injury. I’ve warned her that she’ll probably have bouts of dizziness and nausea for the next month or so. Of course, these symptoms can also be attributed to the pregnancy, so you’ll have to keep a special eye on them."

"I’ll take care of it," I say, with all due gravity.

"Did you bring clothes?" Donna asks in a flat tone.

"Yeah," I respond, removing my backpack and placing it in the bed beside her. She stares at it as though she’s never seen it before.

"Stitches out in seven days. A final MRI follow up in fourteen," he hands me a business card. "‘Here’s my office number to set up an appointment."

"Thank you, Dr. Hayward."

"Well, she’s all signed out. You can leave any time."

"Thanks," she mumbles.

Dr. Hayward nods sharply before turning to leave. The door closes slowly behind him as he leaves, and I’m left alone in the room with Donna. She reaches for the backpack and unzips the flap. Delving inside she retrieves a pair of jeans I packed for her, her undergarments, and a sweater.

I almost expect her to carry the clothes into the bathroom to dress, but she does not. Still sitting on the bed, she slips one foot into the leg of her underwear and then the other. She steps off the bed and pulls the soft cotton garment on underneath her hospital gown.

As though just realizing her equilibrium had shifted, her body sways for a moment, and I instinctually reach out to steady her. She accepts my touch briefly before stepping away from me. My arms drop uselessly to my sides, their aid clearly rejected.

She dons her jeans, one leg at a time, making sure to take a deep breath between each weight shift. She fidgets uncomfortably in them, when she buttons them at last. She turns away from me to remove the gown and reaches for her bra. I’m still struck by the purple and yellow bruising on her right side and on her back. I can make out the fading boot prints.

She threads one arm through the bra strap and reaches behind her for the other. I hear sharp and painful intake of air, and I know that she unintentionally overextended herself.

"Let me–" I begin.

"I can do it," she cuts me off sharply. "I can do it." The second time her voice is softer, as though realizing her first attempt gave away too much. She grasps blindly behind her again, more gingerly this time, before one hand achieves its goal, her fingers wrapping around the other half of the bra. She takes a moment to connect the front closure, before turning around for the sweater.

Her breasts are slightly bigger. I wonder why she didn’t notice. I wonder why I didn’t notice. She glances briefly down at her chest, as though reading my mind, and speaks.

"I lost so much weight," she explains. "I thought I was just..." her voice trails off.

"Gaining it back, " I finish for her.

"Yeah."

I should have brought her a button-up sweater or shirt, but I guess I wasn’t thinking. She examines the sweater, her mind forming a plan of attack that must end in the garment covering her upper body. Not able to bear her obstinate helplessness, I take the sweater and hold it up. I slide the opening tenderly over her bandaged head, and assist her arms, one at a time, into the sleeves. She avoids my eyes the entire time, but even then, I imagine that it’s a bit like dressing a young child.

"Sit," I tell her, and she pulls herself painfully back onto the bed. I did some shopping yesterday, and I remove from the bag the new pair of cross trainers that were object of my search.

"New shoes?" she asks. "What happened to the old ones?"

They’re on the top shelf of the guestroom closet, but I don’t tell her that. "They were ruined anyway," I shrug, as I navigate her feet into a fresh pair of soft white socks.

"Oh. Did you bring the other stuff I asked for?"

I reach back into the knapsack. "I had to buy something a little larger," explaining as I pull out a large, knit cap. She takes it from me and carefully puts it on over the bandages.

"Sunglasses?"

"Here." I hand her a large pair of dark sunglasses, and she wastes no time donning them to cover the still-brilliant bruises on the right side of her face. And now I can’t see her eyes at all. I have no way of knowing what’s going through her mind.

"The press?" she ventures.

"Blessedly ignorant," I respond, as I tie the laces of her new shoes. "For now, the police are keeping your name from the public record. They’re treating you like a…." I just can’t say it. It’s the small mercies that keep me going sometimes. Now I’m the one who can’t meet her eyes.

"Like a rape victim," she fills in the blank.

"Yeah. Anyway," I continue, "anybody who can’t keep a secret thinks you’ve gone back to Wisconsin for a family emergency. Human Resources has been sworn to secrecy that you’re actually on temporary medical leave."

"I wonder how long that will last," she comments cryptically.

"Until Proctor goes to trial, I’d imagine. I don’t think we’ll be able to keep it a secret after that."

"Whatever," she says.

A knock on the door ends the conversation that isn’t going anywhere, and we discover an orderly and wheelchair waiting in the hall. I aid her in standing and place my hand on her lower back, but she slips away from my touch yet again.

"Let’s go," she says without feeling. I grab my now-empty backpack and follow her out. She lowers herself into the exit wheelchair without the complaints I expect, and the orderly wheels her away from the room.

TBC

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