Rating: G

Spoilers: In the Shadow of Two Gunmen

Summary: Two characters we don't get to see together often.

Archive: sure, anywhere.

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I hate the way she looks right now. I don't think I can stand it.
People say I'm a hard man. They're right. I am. I can handle a lot
- I have handled a lot. But this I can't take. For some reason, of
all the pictures of this night that will stay in my head forever, her
face will be among the most vivid. It's not the fear, the horror,
the grief that's getting to me, either. It's not the pale, drained
look of utter anguish. It's the confusion. Written clearly across
her expressive features is the truth that she doesn't understand.
She doesn't understand why this was allowed to happen, doesn't
understand how it happened, doesn't understand why she wasn't somehow
able to stop it. She can't comprehend what will happen to her if . .
.

None of us can think about that. Her eyes are a mass of confusion
right now, a whirlwind of emotion that's not allowing her to think
clearly anyway. She's not processing information, not hearing
anything - about an hour ago Sam offered to get her some coffee and
she didn't even glance at him. She can't drag her eyes away from
that window.

To be honest, I never knew. I never knew it went so deep. When she
arrived tonight, high on adrenaline and nervous in the face of
crisis, mine was the first face she landed on. I may have been the
only one close enough to see her eyes cloud over as they scanned the
room. Seeing who was missing. She'd come charging over to be at his
side, helping as always, and it had to be me - I had to be the one
whose eyes were locked with hers when she realized he wasn't there.
I had to be the one - I looked at the faces of my friends, my
coworkers, and saw their horrified expressions mirroring mine, the
same thought running through all of us - she doesn't know. None of
them were going to do it. I had to be the one.

A lot of people have said a lot of things tonight. Some of them I
have already forgotten. But "Hit with what?" I think I will remember
for the rest of my natural life. Along with that stunned look that
came over her face as she dropped into the nearest chair, that look
that hasn't left her face since.

She's barely spoken. The First Lady started to get hopeful when she
pulled herself out of her haze long enough to ask if there was
anything she should be doing. Maybe someone should have said yes.
Maybe we should have given her something to do. Because as soon as
she knew she wasn't shirking her responsibilities she lapsed back
into shock and no one's been able to reach her since.

I don't think any of us really understood how much he is the center
of her life. Until she got that look.

I can't handle that look anymore.

I don't know what she needs, but someone has to be able to help her.
Especially if God forbid . . .

I say her name very quietly but firmly, coming up behind her. Unlike
her I can't stand to watch, so I focus instead on our reflection in
the glass. It reflects her confusion perfectly. I take a deep
breath. No one else is going to be able to do this, and we can't let
her fall through the cracks. I won't let her.

"Donna."

She doesn't turn, but her head moves a little and I know she's heard
me. She tries to talk, but all she gets out is, "He . . ." and then
she starts to cry. I don't know what to do. She rubs her face hard,
almost violently, with her hands and says without looking away from
the glass, "Did you know I never finished college?"

What? All right, now I'm really worried that she's going into shock.
If she starts being incoherent I need to tell the First Lady. But
she's talking. I need to keep her talking. "No, I didn't know
that," I say.

"I didn't." Her voice is monotone, detached. "I dropped out. He -
Jo- he gave me a job even though I never finished." She can't say
his name. But now I get it. The connection. She's not incoherent
yet. She's beginning to think about it. About how her life would be
different.

I don't know how to make her keep going. "Yeah, he did," I reply.

We're very carefully not looking at each other. This could be a
phone conversation. "I begged him," she says quietly, not losing
that horrible empty tone. "He didn't want to hire me, but I begged.
And he finally gave in. He gave me a chance even though he didn't
think he should. If he hadn't . . ." She can't finish, but it's
because she's about to cry. And it occurs to me that even though her
eyes are red she hasn't really cried, not full out, not the way you
might expect. And somehow I think that if she did that it might
shatter this locked-away state that she's in. I need to make her
cry. I need to let her cry.

"I understand," I say, and I really do now. I understand what none
of us really got before - just how much he might have saved her. How
much he gave her when he hired her. "We all need him. You most of
all."

She presses her hand to her lips, but the battle to hold back the
tears has almost replaced the stunned look and that's a relief. "I
don't know what I would do," she almost whispers, and I hear the
tremble in her voice. "I don't know what I would do. He has to be
all right. I would be lost . . ."

Her shoulders start to shake. She buries her face in her hands and I
hear the sobs that she's been trying so hard to fight. And I hate
this too, I don't know what to do about this - but it's better than
seeing her so empty. So even though I know I'm probably the last
person she wants for comfort, I do the only thing I can think of. I
reach out and gently turn her to face me. It's a fight to pull her
away from the window, as if she thinks if she stops watching they'll
lose him, but I get her to look at me. She lifts bright, tearful
eyes to my face and the fear in them floors me. It floors me enough
that I'm reduced to instinct, which turns out to be a good thing
because my emotional instincts are good and too often repressed.
They lead me to treat her as I would if she were not a coworker with
whom I have little interaction but a relative, a sister, my wife -
ex-wife. I manage to shake my inhibitions. I'll probably feel a
little silly later, but this is what she needs now. I can't keep the
words from pouring out. "Oh, Donna, honey. Come here."

I pull her into my arms, hoping she won't fight me, mentally working
out how to get her to Sam, CJ - anyone who can better comfort her.
The surprise of the hour is that she doesn't seem to mind. Maybe
she's so far gone it doesn't matter, or maybe she doesn't see me as
so hard and untouchable after all, but she wraps her arms around me
and leans into my chest, letting me hold her. After a moment her
breath catches and I feel her sob, her entire body wracked by it.
"Oh, God, Toby," she cries out and I close my eyes in relief that
she's really with me now, still in pain but facing it. I rub her
back as soothingly as I can manage and murmur over and over again,
"Shh. Shh. It's okay. It'll be okay. I've got you." I lose track
of what I'm actually saying but it doesn't seem to matter. I think I
must close my eyes, because everything's dark all of a sudden. I
lean my cheek against her hair and feel her arms tighten around me,
and then I'm holding onto her with just as much desperation as she's
holding onto me. I think I needed this as much as she did. Her
crying is gradually lessening in violence, and she's getting calmer
against me. I lean close to her ear to say, as much to myself really
as to her, "We'll be all right. We'll both be all right." She hugs
me even tighter in response, and I'm holding her so hard I'm
practically lifting her off the floor.

I open my eyes and come face to face over Donna's shoulder with CJ,
who's clearly been watching us for some time. Our eyes meet and hers
shine with gratitude. I think I will remember that look from her for
a long time. She doesn't come closer or say anything out loud, but
she gestures toward the waiting room couches and mouths, "If you need
me." I nod, and she gives me a sad smile and goes. I pull back a
little and brush Donna's hair off her face, tucking it behind her
ears for her. "CJ just got here," I say gently, my face close to
hers. I reach up and brush the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs
as if she were a child of mine. "Let's go sit down for a while?"

She nods, which was more than I expected. My arm still around her
waist and one of her hands clasped firmly in mine, I lead her over to
CJ and sit her between us. CJ slips an arm around her shoulders and
kisses her cheek, without forcing me to relinquish my hold on her.
CJ's hand clasps my arm behind Donna and we share a relieved glance.
I pull Donna toward me and let her head settle on my shoulder, and
the three of us sit and wait, and watch.


The End.