Rating: PG. Language.

Spoilers: this is a post-Noël, and anything before it is fair game

Summary: it's, well, a post-Noël. Everyone else's were so good
that I didn't want to try just yet, but I was inspired to write this
while stalking around in the snow at night (and now my fingers are so
cold I can hardly type)

Archive: anywhere you like

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We walk slowly away from the White House, her arm tucked securely in
mine. Actually I have very little to do with that arrangement. I
barely notice she's there; I'm so spaced out right now. But
occasionally her grip on me tightens and I look over and she tries to
smile, but her face looks kind of pinched. I get the feeling she
doesn't feel safe letting go of me just now, and since my hand is out
of commission my arm has to do.

She squeezes my arm again. I look up and she gives me that smile -
that strange, forgiving, casual, trying-to-get-back-to-normal smile
that she flashed Leo as we were leaving. I smile back, because I
can. She examines my face unabashedly, looking for signs that I'm
faking it. I'm really not. She must see that, because she stops
looking.

We don't talk. This is in a way unusual for us, but in a way not,
really. I mean, we're both big talkers but it also feels totally
normal to walk the streets of DC with Donna and not say a word. I
know why, of course. It started during the campaign. Those weeks
right before the election, when we spent a lot of time in freezing
New Hampshire in November, and Donna had been working with me for
nearly eight months. She was starting to learn her role in the grand
scheme of things then. Looking back, it was November that she started
taking care of me. Before that she was wholly focused on keeping my
files in order so I didn't sack her. But in early November I started
to go, well, a little on the unhinged side. Stress, you know. It
seems I don't respond well. Anyway, I didn't totally flip out
(didn't, you know, break anything, like windows) but I stopped
eating, stopped sleeping, started smoking (not a lot, of course,
about a cigarette a day), started drinking more than I had before.
CJ was my companion on a lot of these late night bar sojourns, but as
we got closer and closer to the wire she spent more and more time
with the press. I started going out alone. Donna noticed. Donna
started following me. At first I was annoyed - this college kid, even
though I was grudgingly beginning to like her - had no business
stalking me. Damnit, I'd just put her on payroll. But she was
surprisingly unobtrusive. Yeah, Donna being unobtrusive. The thing
is, she knows the time and place for chatter - usually. And she was
still a little afraid of me then. But she started following me to
these bars, sitting across from me and watching me nurse two, maybe
three drinks slowly, waiting for me to start fading so she could
escort me out at my weakest and most submissive. We'd walk back to
the hotel, her arm probably in mine just like it is tonight, holding
me up. And we wouldn't talk, not at all. Without words she'd walk
me to my room, take off my shoes, make sure I collapsed in a position
where I could breathe, and then she'd vanish. This started happening
nearly every night. We never discussed it. The matter was never
mentioned between us.

The night Jed Bartlet was elected President of the United States the
brand-new senior staff went crazy. After I'd joined in the general
melee (and, as I recall, kissed CJ soundly to the very great delight
of the press), I found Donna. She was being quietly ecstatic over in
a corner with Margaret, who we all knew Leo wouldn't go to Washington
without. Donna gave me a tremulous smile and started to say,
"Congratulations," as I came toward her. She never got the word out
- I think I nearly suffocated her in my sweater. I picked her up and
swung her around, hugging her so tightly I could have counted her
ribs. When I set her down I saw the look on her face. She looked
sad and worried.

"What?" I asked, concern making its way slowly through my victory
elation.

"It's over," she said simply.

"Yeah. It's over. And we won!" I was practically doing a little
dance there.

She nodded. "You're going to Washington."

I may be an idiot, but at that point I did get it. I pulled her face
close to mine, close enough to rest my forehead against hers, and I
whispered, "And who would drag my sorry ass out of every bar in DC if
I didn't take you with me?"

Her eyes widened. I really think she wasn't expecting that.
"Really?" she asked.

I reached out and rumpled her hair, grinning in delight at the
strands that stayed out of place, as if she'd just pulled a shirt
over her head. I remember this because that moment of jubilation and
shared victory was the last time I really touched her until she threw
herself on me at Christmas a year later. "You need to look for
apartments in DC," I told her.

Of course, the Deputy Chief of Staff of the White House does not have
the luxury of getting his ass dragged out of every bar in the
capital. Our late night outings - fortunately for Donna's health and
sanity, and probably mine - pretty much ended. But it seems we
haven't forgotten how to walk arm-in-arm in silence.

Donna. I smile to myself thinking about her. She really has been
there through it all - poor kid. I bet when she promised me she'd be
useful she never planned on this. I doubt she expected that three
years later she'd be dragging her crazy boss to the hospital to get
his self-destructive rage cleaned up and disinfected.

I reach over with my good hand and pat the one that's holding my arm.
She smiles indulgently. She's still worried, but for my sake she's
doing a pretty good job of hiding it.

There's not much the doctor can do. The cut is too old to be
stitched. It's still pretty nasty, though - Donna can't keep herself
from gasping and looking away when the nurse unwraps my bandage job
and reveals the gash across my palm. I tell them calmly that I did
it on glass. I don't look at Donna. Then I do, because if she
thinks I'm avoiding her eyes she'll get worried again. I smile at
her, then yelp as they pour something antiseptic over my hand. So
much for putting up a brave face. She actually laughs.

We're halfway to her apartment before I realize where we're going.
"Where are we going?" I ask, in the obvious sense of I know where
we're going but why are we going there?

"The super hasn't fixed your window yet," she replies, completely
cool. "Your apartment is going to be freezing. You're staying with
me."

I'm terrified by how well she's handling this. I go nuts and it's as
if I asked her to make some photocopies. "Your roommate won't mind?"

"She went home for Christmas."

Oh. "Why didn't you?"

"Didn't feel like it."

"You were afraid I'd freak while you were gone."

"Yup, pretty much."

Wow, she is being way too casual here. I keep waiting for something
to snap.

For some reason I wait until we're in her apartment to say, "I'm
sorry I made you stay here."

"You didn't make me."

"But you stayed because of me."

She stops for a minute and looks me up and down, trying to decide
whether she should say something or not. I can read her like a book.
"Josh," she says finally, "if you had somewhere to go, some
occasion, and I - got sick or wound up in the hospital or something,
wouldn't you be calling every ten seconds?"

"No," I say, "I'd be with you."

"Exactly." Oh. That was what she meant all along. She just - she
knew she could make the point about me caring, but she wasn't sure if
I would actually blow something off to be with her. It bothers me
that she wasn't sure about that.

"Donna."

She's already puttering around, boiling tea water. "Yeah?"

I can't decide how sentimental it's good to get here. I go with the
old standby - say something neutral that gets across the same point
as the hearts and flowers. So instead of saying that I should care
enough to put my life on hold as she's done for me countless times, I
say, "Don't ever not tell me if you need help."

Our eyes meet. She understands. She gets that little smile, the
slightly shy one with just a hint of a blush. My assistant is
adorable.

We drink tea mostly in silence. I insist on the couch, and she
finally relents with the stipulation that I'll wake her if I can't
sleep. I love Donna in mothering mode. God knows I saw it enough
this summer. As she gets up to go to bed I stop her. "You went to
Leo?"

She turns back to me nervously. "I did. Don't be pissed. I was -"

"I'm not pissed. I was - okay, at first I was pissed that Leo was
making me talk to this guy, but it helped. It helped a lot. You, uh
- you did a good thing."

She smiles a little. "Okay."

For a second we stand looking at each other and then I go and hug
her. It's really not clear who's reassuring who, but it doesn't
matter. I kiss her forehead and send her to bed before I settle
myself on the couch with the spare blanket that smells like Donna's
fabric softener. I think it's easier to be here with her tonight than
alone at my apartment - the scene of the crime, so to speak. This is
- no, it's not even neutral turf, it's - I feel cared for here. I
feel her protection. I actually start to fall asleep.

And when I get "Carol of the Bells" stuck in my head and I sit bolt
upright in panic, it's actually not because I hear sirens. It's
because I just realized that I'm being taken care of by my very
lovely and loving assistant who gave up her family Christmas for me
and I forgot to get her a Christmas gift. Oops. I am a jerk. Okay,
so I was a distracted jerk, but probably a jerk nonetheless.

I lay down thoughtfully. I'll have to remedy this. Nothing will be
open tomorrow, but soon.

Christmas morning with Donna is kind of cute. Someone has talked to
her - and they did it fast - probably Stanley stopped by and had
three words with her while I was talking to Leo - but there is a
conspicuous absence of music. What there is, is breakfast and coffee
and lots of Donna beaming at me for the very great accomplishment of
having slept through the night. I make my exit rather hastily after
eating and she looks a little worried and more than a little hurt,
but I have a mission. And I have to go see CJ, because she's left
nine messages on my machine and the last four sounded a little
panicked. And I have to get my window fixed.

CJ lets me into her apartment and hugs me hard. "I'm okay," I tell
her. "All better."

She frowns at my obvious exaggeration and says, "Last night -"

"I spent the night at Donna's," I reassure her. "She kidnapped me
and took care of me. I was fine."

And then I freeze. She has a CD on. Some kind of folk music is
pouring from the stereo. Okay. Obviously no one talked to CJ. Why
would they? I strain for a minute, just as I did outside the gates
last night. Nothing. Just music. I relax. "This isn't Christmas
music."

"No," she says, tugging my coat off and prodding me inside. "It's a
CD of Irish women singers."

"Oh." I really don't have a lot to say to that. She leaves to put
tea on - what is it with women and making me tea? - and I settle on
the couch. The woman singing has a deep, smooth, but otherwise not
uncommon voice. "Who is this singing?" I ask to be polite.

CJ's brow furrows as she rummages through a cabinet. "Don't know.
The next one is someone called Delores Keane though."

She takes a while to make the tea. The next song, the one apparently
sung by Delores Keane, starts up. It starts with something about the
stormy wind and the raging sea, and something about rain lashing my
face. The odd rhythm of the words catches my attention - plus I'm
really enjoying the fact that this isn't making me want to panic -
and I listen more intently. She says something about bones breaking
and burning skin, and I think, wow, this song is really kind of
strange.

As if on cue, CJ yells from the kitchen, "I love the lyrics."

Okay.

"You bind up my wounds with your healing hands
You whisper sweet words all in the dark
You raise me up and you calm me down
You're starting a storm in my heart"

I'm still not sure I know where Delores is going with this - until
the chorus, which is really just her repeating "a storm in my heart"
a bunch of times. But now I get the beginning, all that stuff about
the storm and getting beaten and battered and then the second person
picking you up. And then the storm is on the inside because now you
have this thing with this person that you don't understand, you just
have feelings rushing all around that don't make sense. But you're
safe. And that makes sense. Sing it, Delores.

Which she does almost without background music, just her harmonizing
with what sounds like a bunch of guys. It has that otherworldly
quality of a lot of Irish folk that goes straight to your center, and
I realize with no little glee that music is having an effect on me
and it has nothing to do with flashbacks of getting shot. This is
good stuff.

It goes on:

"The ghosts are there behind my back
Racing clouds all in the night
Breaking waves on the lonesome shore
That leave the spirit bright.
You touch the pulse and lift the clouds
You whisper sweet words all in the dark
You chase away the hungry wolves
You're starting a storm in my heart"

Okay, so we've established I'm not so quick on the uptake sometimes.
But even I get eventually that this song is affecting me because it
might as well be about me and the shooting and everything that
happened after. And I'm thinking as CJ hands me a cup of tea that
I'm so lucky I have all these friends to pick me up like the second
person in the song. This is a spiritual moment. Delores is my
goddess. I grin at my best friend and thank God for her, and Donna -

Donna. Yeah. I mean, if there's anyone who really took care of me,
I think we all know it was her. Donna in full-scale protective
overdrive. All of a sudden the line of the song that didn't really
mean anything the first time, the one about whispering in the dark,
on the second repetition calls up images of Donna leaning over my bed
in the middle of the night those first harrowing days home, soothing
my nightmares and putting me back to sleep. And by the time Delores
hits this repeat of the "you're starting a storm in my heart" bit in
full semi-mystical harmony, my mind is full of images of my adorable,
caring, maddening, gentle, sarcastic, sweet assistant. I think my
heart actually skips a beat. I told you I'm not very quick. But I
get it now. I still can't quite sort these feelings out - that's
what the song is about, after all, about having these feelings for
someone that rock your entire existence to the core but rush around
you not making sense - but I know that they're there. "CJ," I say a
little too urgently, "what's this CD called?"

I can't believe a song did this.

When Donna comes into work on the 26th, she looks at me a little
awkwardly. I can understand that. I mean, she took care of me and
was sweet and perfect and everything I needed and then I busted out
and haven't talked to her since yesterday morning. Plus I'm late,
and I can see that she was worried. She probably didn't call me last
night because she was trying to give me some space, but I bet she
called CJ to see how I was. Well, I have a reason for being late and
I know how to handle this.

I lean over her shoulder to put a small, flat, CD-shaped package into
her hands. "It's late, but Merry Christmas," I say. Then I scoot
into my office and close the door. Not all the way. I peek through
the crack and watch her.

She opens the note on top slowly. I stood in the music store at nine
this morning composing it.

"Donnatella,

There are a lot of things I need to say to you and I don't have the
words. Fortunately someone else does. Just follow directions. Open
this and put it in the CD drive - there are headphones in the
Communications bullpen. Listen to the eighth track before you do
anything else.

Merry Christmas.

Love,
Josh"

She furrows her brow in confusion, which is very cute and makes her
look about ten. She unwraps the CD slowly - yes, obviously it's the
same one I heard at CJ's. It's actually an anthology called "Holding
Up Half the Sky." She mouths the words to herself. Holding up half
the sky. Yes, you do, Donnatella. You really do. She sets the CD
on her desk and goes looking, presumably, for Cathy. I'm practically
squirming with anticipation. She returns with a set of headphones,
glances at my mostly-closed door without catching me, and sets
herself up to find the track. I watch her face as she strains to
catch the words. For a few harrowing moments it remains completely
blank. I think I can tell when, half a minute in, she hits the "you
bind up my wounds" part. I know I can tell when she gets to the
chorus, because her eyes widen a little and she starts to blink
rapidly. The last verse is a little disturbing at first, but I liked
it a lot. I think I know when she hears it because she starts really
fighting to keep the tears back.

"The timber is weak and the sails are torn
Ready to betray my loving trust
To fix the rope around my neck
And deliver me to my rest"

I realize that if I strain I can hear enough of the melody to tell
where in the song she is. I was right, she's just getting to the
next part:

"I fall forever in the night
You whisper sweet words all in the dark"

I don't know why that one line is repeated in each verse, but this
third time it really makes an impact - I don't know, maybe she's
finally conjured up the same image I did. Her hand flies up to her
mouth and she doesn't move for the remainder of the song.

"You brave the night of time and tide
You've started a storm in my heart."

It ends with another repetition of the chorus, that achingly
beautiful harmony. By the time Donna clicks off the CD function and
slides the headphones off she's barely able to hide her tears. I
rush to make it back to my desk, because she's coming my way -
probably desperate to keep the rest of the bullpen from seeing her
cry.

I don't look up until I hear the door close behind her. She opens
her mouth and tries to say something, but the words won't come and
she just shakes her head. I stand and come around the desk and she
rushes, predictably, into my arms.

"Josh," she manages to say after a moment, but she's still crying.
It's been a long couple of days and now that she's finally started
she can't stop. I rub her back and kiss her hair.

"I'm sorry I never told you how much -" Oh God, now I'm tearing up.
I stop to regain control. "I just didn't know how."

Her arms tighten around me and she buries her face in my neck.
"Thank you."

I haven't given up yet. "I needed you to know I don't take you for
granted."

"I know," she says softly, not moving from my embrace. That's okay
with me.

"Good." I rest my cheek against her head and hold her a while
longer. "Good."

The End.