SPOILERS: "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen, Part II"

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Never have been. Never will be. I'm trying to learn
to live with the disappointment.

ARCHIVE: Yes, just keep my name on it and tell me where it is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just to keep everyone who's ever read a story of mine from
going crazy trying to figure out the first few paragraphs, this is *not* from
Donna's point of view for once.

Also, this takes place during Bartlet's re-election campaign, so just be
prepared to jump ahead in time a couple of years. Also, technically this is
set either in the "Winning Strategy" universe, or in a world with many, many
similarities.

DEDICATION: Hey, Ryo, look what I got you for Christmas! Okay, it's a
little late and it didn't cost me anything, but you don't have to worry about
whether it fits.



I haven't had a good year.

I haven't had a good year since Bartlet took office, to tell the truth.

Damn Democrats.

This never would have happened under a Republican administration.

Damn IRS.

I blame Bartlet. Not personally, I mean, but it's weird about the timing:
Six weeks after Bartlet takes office, the IRS comes after me. The timing is
enough to make anyone bitter.

"A simple audit." That's what my accountant called it. "You have nothing to
worry about," he told me. Hell, he even told me they'd probably just look
over my tax returns for the last few years. Instead, when the bastards
showed up, they started looking at everything. Every last little thing.
Like they were on a mission of some kind. Like they had orders from
somewhere higher up the chain of command. My accountant said he'd never seen
anything like it. Said they must have been told to keep looking until they
found something.

I don't know how they could have suspected. I hid my tracks pretty well.
And it wasn't anything *that* illegal--just a little Medicare fraud. Tell me
a doctor who doesn't engage in a little Medicare fraud. A *smart* doctor,
that is.

Not that I'm a doctor anymore.

When the Republicans were in the White House, I had everything going for me.
I was just starting my own practice, I was making money hand over fist
(thanks in no small part to that little Medicare fraud), I had a house and a
Porsche and I'd just gotten engaged to Marianne. Marianne came from Old
Money. I would have had a good life with Marianne. She dropped me like a
hot potato the day the charges were filed. Said she couldn't believe I'd do
something like that.

Obviously, Marianne and I hadn't known each other that long.

Four years of the Democrats--four years of Bartlet--and look at me: No
medical license, a one-room apartment, a second-hand Toyota, and a job as a
pharmaceutical salesman. And the irony of it all? The ultimate, humiliating
irony? I'm stuck in Madison, Wisconsin.

I had plans. My plans did not include spending my life in Wisconsin. Now
I'm damn lucky I can get a job here. If it weren't for some med school pals
of mine who are still here and thought I got a raw deal from that judge, I'd
be on unemployment.

I'd probably be making more money on unemployment.

Madison, Wisconsin, as far as I'm concerned, has exactly one thing going for
it: It's a college town. College towns are filled with naïve co-eds, the
type who got me through university and med school. I haven't lost my looks
completely; I'm still young enough to appeal to the more desperate among
them; I can still find undergraduates to help me out with my living expenses
from time to time.

So I use women. What of it? They're young; they'll get over it. Hell, I
figure I've taught each and every one of them a valuable lesson: I mean, you
think they'll be that gullible again? I'm doing them a service is how I see
it.

It started innocently enough my freshman year. Pre-med is hell. You have to
take some tough classes. Math, chemistry, stuff like that. Was it my fault
that the brunette who sat next to me in math class was willing to share her
notes with me? That she helped me out with those equations? That she let me
copy off her paper come exam time?

What was her name anyway? I can never remember their names. I think of her
as The Brain. Very smart girl. Except when it came to men, of course.

We had a good thing going for a year or so. Started signing up for the same
classes. I had a great time. Did a lot of partying since I didn't have to
study. Hell, I didn't even have to go to class since The Brain was doing all
that for me. Which was, of course, my big mistake.

She figured out, once I stopped sitting next to her in class, what I using
her for. Dropped me pretty quickly after that, she did. So I was a bit more
subtle with the next one--The Sorority Girl. That lasted a year and a half,
until her little sorority sisters got her to wise up. After that there was
The Artist (a title which applied to more than her major, let me tell you),
The Redhead and finally The Chatterbox.

The Chatterbox--Dear god, those were the longest three years of my life! A
man should get hazard pay for putting up with that woman. As the name
implies, she didn't know when to shut up. Had an opinion about everything.
And a truly freakish turn of mind. I mean, this woman collected odds bits of
trivia and pulled them out at the strangest times. I kept telling her I
wasn't interested; I kept telling her to shut up; I kept pointing out that I
was a med student and therefore smarter and better educated than she was. It
didn't phase her. I would have kicked her to the curb long before I did, but
I was getting a lot out of that relationship. She took me on as some kind of
project, kept talking about how I needed to organize my life. I will admit
that my life never ran as smoothly as when I was with her. She quit school
and went to work, paid all our bills, paid my tuition. And that freakish
turn of mind of hers? She got me through a lot of classes I would have had
trouble with otherwise. Yeah, I never would have become a doctor without The
Chatterbox.

I wonder what happened to her; she was kind of cute, back in the day. She's
probably married now with a couple of kids. She's probably lost her figure.
She's probably driving her husband crazy with all that trivia she spouts.

Whenever I get depressed about my lot in life, I think about The Chatterbox.
At least I don't have to put up with that anymore.

She was crazy about me though. I bet I could get her back in a minute if I
ever saw her again. I bet she's never gotten over me.

She's probably in some little suburban hellhole worse than Madison,
Wisconsin. She'd probably give her eyeteeth to be back in good old Madison.
This probably seems like Paris, France, to her.

Come to think of it, this restaurant I'm in right now--she used to love this
place. I started coming here with her. God, she'd love it here today--all
these freaking Democrats out here to see their precious President Bartlet
campaigning in good old Madison. That's another thing I remember about The
Chatterbox: she had this thing about politics. She'd go on and on about it,
and she was very big on the Democrats.

So she'd love it here today. The place is filthy with Democrats.
Out-of-towners too, by the looks of them. I wonder how they all found out
about this place.

Take a look at the two who just walked in--man and a woman. The woman looks
vaguely familiar; I think I've seen her on TV. Tall--must be at least six
feet--pretty, but she has that look I hate. You can tell she's a real
feminazi; she's sizing up every man in the room and finding most of us
wanting. I hate women like that.

The guy she's with--now this I just don't get. Women are looking at this
guy. There are women looking at this guy like they want to jump his bones
right here and now, and he's not that good looking. He's got this frizzy
sort of hair, a receding hairline, his clothes are expensive but kind of
rumpled, and he's too damn sure of himself. You can tell that by the way he
walks, sort of like he thinks he owns the place.

You know, I think I've seen him on TV too.

They're sitting down in the booth behind me. Hey, it's not my fault if I can
overhear everything they're saying.

"Where is she?" the guy asks. "She said she'd be here before us."

"Stop worrying, Josh," the woman says. For some reason, she thinks what this
guy's saying is funny. You can tell she's close to laughing at him. "She
was going to visit those friends of hers, right? She probably lost track of
time."

"Donna does not lose track of time," the guy answers. "*I* lose track of
time without Donna."

This guy is pitiful. Like I said, you can tell there are plenty of women in
this place who would do him in an instant. And the woman he's with, while
she's not my type, is no dog. But he's whining--actually whining--because
this Donna chick isn't here waiting for him.

"What is going on with you two lately?" the woman asks. "You're acting
bizarre, even by your standards."

"It's June," this guy says, as if that should explain everything.

"I am aware of the month, Joshua."

"We got married in June," the guy goes on, as though he's offended that this
CJ woman doesn't remember when he married the legendary Donna. "To be more
precise, we got married two years ago tomorrow."

"And they said it wouldn't last."

"This is why--CJ, you owe me. Remember that you owe me."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I saved your ass, idiot boy. I saved Donna's ass too, but I don't blame her
for that. It's not entirely her fault that you nearly got her fired."

"You complicated things. You and your damn wonderings."

"It was a year-and-a-half ago, Josh. Let it go."

"No. You owe me, and I'm calling in the favor."

These two people must be politicians. Also Democrats. I hate politicians,
especially when they're Democrats.

"And just what favor am I supposed to be doing for you?" the woman--CJ, what
the hell kind of name is that?--asks.

"You know that meeting I have tonight?"

"No, can't say I do."

"It's with--I forget who it's with. Donna knows. Anyway, you have to take
the meeting."

"Again, I really don't."

"You have to take the meeting because I'll be in Chicago."

"Chicago is tomorrow."

"Not for Donna and me. Chicago is tonight."

"What half-baked scheme are you hatching, Josh?"

"It's completely baked. I have thought this out in detail."

"Which is why you're only now getting around to asking someone to cover your
meeting."

"I'm not. I asked Sam and Toby. They said no."

"Give me one good reason--other than this favor I absolutely do not owe
you---for doing this."

"Anniversary. Dinner. Dancing. Donna."

"Hey, Mr. 760 Verbal, you want to speak in complete sentences here?"

"I made reservations--in Chicago--to take Donna to dinner and go dancing. We
haven't had an evening to ourselves in a month, CJ, and it's our anniversary.
If we don't do something special, she'll get that face. Her forlorn face.
I can't function when Donna gets her forlorn face on."

"I'm going to regret asking, but just how are you getting there? We all
arrived on Air Force One, and I doubt that the president is going to let you
borrow it for the evening."

"I made reservations on a regular plane and everything."

"All by yourself?"

"Yes."

"Without Donna?"

"Yes."

"This has disaster written all over it."

"I can make reservations, CJ."

"Not without Donna you can't."

This guy is completely whipped. He can't make plane reservations without his
wife? He could be flying on Air Force One, and he's giving that up so he can
spend a night alone with his wife? I mean, unless she's a supermodel, what's
the point?

"This is important, CJ."

"So is re-election, Josh." But good old CJ is laughing, and you can tell
she's too damned happy that her buddy here is so completely under his wife's
thumb. Score one for the feminazis and all that.

God, I hate women.

"Leo will be pissed that you're missing the meeting," she tells him.

"It's not even an important meeting, and I already cleared it with Leo. He
said it would be fine if you or Toby or Sam would do it."

"Well, I suppose. But you have to brief me on this thing before I take the
meeting."

"Donna can do it."

"You're making her *work*? Some surprise this is going to be."

"We have an equal partnership," Josh says. He sounds kind of smug, like he
knows this Donna would do anything for him. Well, score one for Josh. Maybe
he's not as whipped as I thought.

Several moments of silence follow. I'm betting that this CJ chick is staring
him down. You just know this woman is a classic ball buster.

Finally, Josh speaks. "All right," he says. "I'll brief you. I won't staff
it out to Donna."

"Good boy," CJ says. "You'll--oh, there she is."

I crane my head around the booth. I have to get a look at the famous Donna
now, you know?

Wow.

She's gorgeous. Tall (though not as outlandishly tall as CJ), long blonde
hair done up in some sort of braid that makes you want to grab it and undo it
and muss her up properly. Big blue eyes. And I gotta tell you, while old
Josh behind me may be complaining about not getting any time alone with her,
she sure as hell looks to me like a woman who's been getting some lately.
Someone calls out to her, and she turns in the opposite direction and waves
to them. "Hey, Bonnie," she says. "Have you seen my--"

And that's when Josh steps up in front of her. "Your incredibly attractive
husband?"

"My overly demanding boss," she answers. But her whole face lights up, like
this jerk is the center of her universe, and they kiss.

It is, I'm telling you, one hell of a kiss. There is cheering from Bonnie's
table. Donna starts blushing--she has this really pale skin, and it's kind
of a turn on. "Shut up, Ginger," she calls as she moves to the booth, Josh's
arm around her.

These people have been married two years? And they're all over each other
like that? Freaks.

"I wish you hadn't done that," CJ says.

"It's all right, Claudia Jean," Josh says. (Oh, so that's what "CJ" stands
for.) "We're married and everything."

"Still," CJ says, "there are reporters in here. What do you want to bet that
instead of the president's position on Social Security and welfare reform,
they all end up writing about you two making a public spectacle of
yourselves?"

"Spin it," Josh says. "We're for family values."

"She has a point, Joshua," Donna says.

"Well, thank you for that vote of wifely support there, Donnatella."

Donnatella.

Shit.

There can't be two of them, can there? Two women with a ridiculous name like
that.

Because I've remembered now. That was *her* name. The Chatterbox.
Donnatella Something. And she was blonde. And tall. And she had that
really pale skin, only she used to call it something ridiculous--alabaster,
that was it. "I have alabaster skin," she used to say, like it some big
accomplishment instead of an accident of birth.

It can't be, though. I mean, for one thing, this Donnatella, she's hot.
She's absolutely and completely sure of herself. I find that a turn-on in
women, mostly because I always want to take that kind of woman down a peg or
two. Not that I ever go out with that kind of woman, but it's a fantasy of
mine. The Chatterbox, she was a kid; she didn't have that kind of--what do
you call it?--that kind of aura about her.

Can't be. This Josh guy, I've picked up enough from the conversation to get
that he's kind of a player in the Bartlet campaign. A guy like that, he'd
never look twice at The Chatterbox, would he?

She couldn't have turned out like that. I couldn't have made that kind of
mistake, could I?

No, it's a coincidence.

"So," CJ says, "did you see those friends of yours?"

"I did," Donna answers. Now that I think about it, her voice does sound kind
of familiar. "It was fun, but I kept feeling like I was probably missing
something important here."

"Ah," Josh says. "Two hours without me, and she's lonely."

"Actually," Donna replies, "two hours without you, and I feel like a brand
new woman. I was referring to the campaign."

"Two years and you still haven't got those supportive wife skills down."

"Supportive wife skills are highly overrated," Donna tells Josh. "In fact,
according to the vast majority of studies on marriage, research shows that it
is the man who benefits from the partnership. Women, on the whole, report
greater levels of satisfaction with their lives when they are single." She
then goes on for several minutes, spouting all these statistics about
marriage and how it benefits men more than women.

If I had any doubts, they vanish. That monologue has The Chatterbox written
all over it.

I ponder what to do for several minutes. Finally, I decide to go over and
introduce myself. I mean, what can it hurt? And I admit, I wouldn't mind
taking her down a peg or two. Reminding this woman who has married this guy
with too much freaking power that she used to pay my bills--this sounds like
fun.

So I get up and walk over to her. They all look at me with these polite
stares--you know, they're politicians, I'm a voter, they can't tell me to
take a hike now, can they? And Donna--my Chatterbox--she looks at me
blankly. The bitch! She doesn't even recognize me.

Until I tell her who I am.

"Alan?" she asks. She sounds absolutely delighted to see me. Not
embarrassed to be meeting up with me in front of her husband or anything.
And, dammit, it's not like she's delighted to see me because she's still
carrying a torch. She's just happy to be running into an old friend.

Not the reaction I was hoping for. I always did hate that woman.

She introduces me to her friend CJ Cregg, who it turns out is Bartlet's press
secretary. (Only Donna, she says "the president" in this sort of reverential
tone of voice, like Bartlet is some kind of saint.) And then she introduces
me to him: "my husband, Josh Lyman." And if I thought the way she talked
about Bartlet was something, this is just disgusting. She says it like it's
some kind of damn miracle that she's married to this guy, who is, as far as I
can tell, nothing special.

"This is Alan," she says to Josh. "You know, I told you about him the day we
met."

"Oh," Josh says. I'm holding out my hand, but he's making a point of not
shaking it. "Dr. Free Ride."

Dr. Free Ride? What the hell does he mean by that?

Donna rushes into the conversation before I can ask, like she's used to
covering up for stuff Josh shouldn't say out loud. "Alan, how have you been?
How's your medical practice?"

"Old Alan doesn't have a medical practice anymore," Josh says. How the hell
does the bastard know that? "In fact, I'm a little surprised that he's out
of jail. Medicare fraud, wasn't it, Alan?"

Donna's eyes grow big as saucers. "When did this happen?"

"Four years ago," I admit. Coming over here was a big mistake. How does her
husband know about this?

Donna gives Josh this strange look, and she covers her mouth with her hand
like she's trying not to laugh. CJ looks at them both like she's trying to
figure something out.

I slink back to my booth after that. It was one of the most humiliating
moments of my life.

Damn Democrats.

The three of them stay in the booth for a while, but their voices are lowered
and I can't hear anything else they're saying. Probably just as well, all
things considered.

They finally get up to leave, the women moving ahead of Josh, talking about
something political. I guess Donna has forgotten I was there, since she
doesn't even look at me or say goodbye.

The women are almost out the door, however, when Josh stops by my booth.
He's looking down at me; and he moves closer, invading my--what do you call
it?--my personal space. I have to say it: the man is scary. He's got this
whole "don't fuck with me" look that makes you think you'd better keep your
distance. But I'm hemmed in by this booth, and I can't get away from him.

"By the way," he says in this low voice--almost a growl, really--"my wife
neglected to mention: I'm the White House deputy chief of staff." He pauses
just for a second. "The IRS works for me."

And then he walks off. I can see him catch up with her. I see her laugh, in
a way I never saw her laugh in three years, and put her arm around him. I
swear she's practically skipping as they walk off together.

And the IRS works for him. He can't mean what I think he meant by that?
It's a coincidence, right? They've only been married two years, and my
problems started four years ago.

It's a coincidence. Strictly a coincidence.

Still, I think I'd better be awfully careful about what I declare on my
income tax this year if Bartlet's re-elected.

Damn Democrats.

THE END