By Lacy

After sunset, Donna enters my office and informs me that my presence has been requested in the Oval Office. Something about going over last minute confirmation details.

President Bartlet glances up from the proposal he's reading, and takes off his glasses.

"Shut the door, Josh."

Something tells me I haven't been called in here to discuss the confirmation. I smell a rat. A somewhat short, very well educated, incredibly charismatic rat.

"Yes, sir," I respond as I close the door behind me. "My presence was requested?"

"How are you, Josh?"

"I'm fine, sir. Thank you for asking, Mr. President."

He stands from behind the mahogany desk and begins to roll up his sleeves. His actions only serve to make me wonder what this dangerously crafty man has in store for me. "Have a seat, Josh," he tells me. Clearly, I'm going to be here for a while.

"When Abby and I first started dating," he begins, "we didn't have a lot of time to spend together. She was in medical school which demanded most of her time."

"Medical school has a way of doing that, sir."

The President likes to talk, which I discovered through personal experience, shortly after the Chicago Primary. Occasionally, when he wants to get his mind off things, he'll randomly call someone into the Oval, just for one of his little chats. I pulled the short straw tonight.

"It was tough," he says. "Trying to build a lasting relationship with the few quality moments we could spend together whenever we found the time. Luckily we discovered that it could be done."

"Wha--?" He continues on, heedless of my attempted interruption.

"We found that if were able to make each conversation, each word, count -- then we would be able to say whatever needed to be said." He pauses for a bit as he remembers the by-gone days. "Go home, Josh."

"Sir?"

"Go home," he repeats. "Don't think I haven't noticed the hours you've been putting in on Prescher's confirmation. You're tired and Donna's worried about you. Go spend some time with her. It's after seven, and I'm declaring you off the clock. Get out of here," he shoos. "Get some sleep. Get some...whatever."

"Mr. President, I still have--"

"You heard me," he says, simply. President Bartlet has obviously made up his mind on this issue, and once he's been this decisive, I've found that he can rarely be swayed.

I stand from the sofa and head for the door. "Yes, sir." As I reach out for the doorknob, something makes me stop. I turn and examine the President, deciding if I have the leeway to say one last thing, before he decides to have me forcibly removed. "Mr. President, can I ask you a personal question?"

"It's not about my health, is it? I'm so tired of being asked about my health."

"No, sir," I smile.

"Then shoot."

"The other night, Donna and I had one of those conversations you were talking about earlier." I decide he'll probably need some background so he won't go jumping to any conclusions. "About the future...our future." He narrows his eyes in the way he does when he's listening intently. "We talked about children and if there might be any...someday."

"Already there, huh?"

"We've got history," I explain.

"Ah." The President understands it, too.

"Mr. President, you have children."

"Yes, I do."

"Did you always know you wanted to have kids?"

"I was planning on becoming a priest, Josh," he reminds me. "You could say that children were never a consideration until they became a possibility."

"But...when they came, you were all right with it?"

"Josh," he laughs. "You talk about it like it's changing your hair color or growing a beard."

"I guess my real question, Mr. President, is: Was it worth it? Would you do it all again?"

"Become a parent?" I nod. "Yes, Josh, I would. You think I love this job? This job is dull in comparison, a not nearly as rewarding. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"Get out of here."

"See you tomorrow, sir. Have a good night."

I leave the Oval Office feeling lighter, and head for the bullpen. Donna looks up and smiles as I approach her desk.

"Let's go." It's all I need to say, and Donna is scrambling for her things as I retreat into my office to grab my coat. We're out the door in less than five minutes and home in fifteen.

We have some things to make count.

****

I can hardly hold my eyes open as I watch Donna ransack the closet in search of something. The room is dark with the exception of the single light coming from the closet.

My wrinkled dress shirt floats over her form as she moves things back and forth on the garment rack. Her brow is creased with worry again.

"What are you looking for?" I drawl. My speech is marginally slurred, a byproduct of the satisfaction I'm feeling after making love to her.

"The dress," she answers, her pitch rising. "The gold dress. The one I wore to the...." her voice trails off.

"The Christmas Party," I finish.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Why?"

"It has to be cleaned and pressed."

I smile the smile of man who has a delicious secret he's not willing to share quite yet.

"You look beautiful in that dress." I need to ease the concern that's stamped across her features and being transmitted through her voice.

"I'll look beautiful in it...again." She's not even trying to convince herself. "While everyone is watching." She pulls an opened garment bag from the dowel and hangs it on a hook on the back of the bedroom door. Her shoulders slump as her eyes rove over the dress, wishing it would magically become new.

"Come here," I demand.

She turns and walks back to the bed, climbing directly into my waiting arms.

"You worry too much, Donna. You're a worrier. It's got to stop."

"I know," she sighs, placing a delicate hand on my chest to lovingly trace the scar there.

"You're going to outshine them all. Trust me on this. I'll have to spend the entire night beating them away with a stick."

"It's okay, Josh," she whispers. "I'll only have a eyes for you."

"I knew there was something about you when I hired you. I could tell that you were a smart girl."

"You could not. You thought I needed a straightjacket."

"I thought you were adorable. Irresistible, even."

"Liar."

"You got the job, didn't you?"

She says nothing to this, but only places her mouth on my chest, her talented tongue doing talented things. With our first day fresh in my memory as she kisses me, I regret all the time we lost pretending that these feelings didn't exist. Three years and some change. We could've had this all along. Her mouth continues its eager audition as she slides lower and lower down my body. God, I love this woman.

There goes the last of my edge, slipping away.

The End