Disclaimers:

Based wholly or partly on characters and situations created by Aaron Sorkin, Thomas Schalmme, John Wells, NBC, Warner Brothers Television Production Inc., and who knows what others. Rated R: An unauthorized work of speculative fiction with adult situations and sexual content, graphic language, brief nudity and mature themes. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Do not distribute for profit or without notification. Not to be taken internally. No user serviceable parts inside. Made in the USA. I wouldn't stop for red lights. Strongest fan fiction available without a prescription. May cause dizziness, dry mouth or nausea. Do not read my fanfics while driving, drinking or operating heavy machinery. I'm ReverendKilljoy and I approved this Disclaimer.

Author's Notes: AU. Set two years after season 5, one year after Bartlet's second term ended. My dark answer to a "What if Donna had died in Germany before Josh could get there?" challenge from a friend… WARNING- if you like my usual romantic fluff, be advised- This Ain't It!

Liar

W.W.

"Donna!"

Josh sat up suddenly. He had fallen asleep in his clothes again. On his couch, again. Drunk, again. He ran his hand over his chin, and decided from the stubble he could not have been sleeping long.

He wasn't really drunk. After one beer he was still serious. After two he was maudlin. After three, he would be sitting on the stoop of Her old apartment, waiting for Her to come home. After the third time that had happened, he'd almost lost his job.

He'd pulled it together. They had all been so understanding. So supportive. Whatever.

He'd seen the second Bartlet administration through, and he'd waved off offers to run Hoynes' campaign. Russell hadn't offered, not after Will Bailey had seen what Josh was like day in and day out over that last year.

He was still able to turn it on. Once a week he broadcast live on "Capitol Beat" as the featured commentator. He still had admirers, political and otherwise. He still had the dimples and the boyish charm. It's amazing what they can do with makeup and decent lighting.

He turned on the TV and watched for a moment, CNN with no sound. It was all about the President, and how he was winning over support for a Free American economic trade zone. It was NAFTA without job securities, but he'd managed to broker quite favorable terms for both Big Labor and Big Business on some of the offsets, so it was President Vinnick's big day. Go America. Go team.

He dialed his phone, and when the pager answered he entered "0208." The irony wasn't lost on him. It was their anniversary, the actual anniversary, not the one he'd teased about for years.

Almost immediately his phone rang.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"Got your page," the younger man's voice told him. "What can I do for you this fine evening?"

"Call one, Sam." Irony again. Of course, his name wasn't really Sam. Josh didn't actually know his real name. That worked fine for both of them. And if 'Sam' had any idea of why Josh called him that, he wisely kept it to himself. "Now. Tonight."

"No problem," Sam told him. "You need anything special, or…?"

"Just call one, you know what I want. Do whatever you do. I'll be here." Josh hung up.

He thought about shaving. About brushing his teeth, about getting up off his ass. He watched CNN with the sound off. When the news repeated at the top of the hour, he switched to CSPAN.

After about an hour, there was a buzz on his intercom. He levered himself off the couch and hit the button.

"Yes?"

"Uh, hello?" She sounded young, scared. Maybe a little excited, maybe a lot excited. "Um, Sam sent me. He said…"

Josh hit the buzzer and unlocked the door. He went to the kitchen counter and got two glasses that looked fairly clean, and a bottle of Bushmills. He turned his stereo on and answered the door.

"Hi! I can't tell you what an honor it is," she started as he motioned her in. There was more. There was always more. She'd seen him on TV. She'd read about him. She'd quoted him in her master's thesis or on last week's midterm. She was his biggest fan. They were all big fans, that was how Sam found them for him.

He nodded and said, "Mmm," a lot, the way you do when you're keeping a young woman talking. He waited for a break, not really listening to anything, and then said, "Really? Why don't we sit down? Come on."

He didn't bolt the door. She was free to go, as if she would. He took her coat and laid it across the back of the chair, and they sat on the sofa, knees touching.

"Drink?" He poured himself two fingers of Bushmills neat.

"Well, do you maybe have any wine?" Her smile tugged down a little bit at the corners, but she was too excited to complain. "Or I guess whatever you're having is fine."

The Irish whiskey splashed into her glass.

"So, tell me more about you." He leaned back and watched her as he drank his whiskey, small quick swallows so he wouldn't be too drunk too fast, but enough to kill the taste in his mouth.

She kept talking, and he watched the light playing on her hair. It was long and straight, of course, and pale blonde. Her high forehead was framed in wispy strands that had escaped the ponytail she wore. Her eyes were blue, more or less, and she was slender and young.

Another man might well have found her beautiful. Another man might have enjoyed her company and shared stories and thrilled to the touch of their legs as they talked.

She paused and took a drink, eyes widening briefly at the burn of the whiskey in a way that showed she was trying hard to seem sophisticated.

He put his hand on hers, and she looked at him, eyes still wide, throat still burning from the harsh spirits. He leaned towards her and captured her lips in a kiss.

He felt it all, her pulse racing, her hands grasping at him, her mouth too eager on his. There was still Bushmills on her teeth and tongue. She didn't really know what she was doing, but she had forgotten to try to appear sophisticated. He was who he was, and for her, that was all she needed.

When one of his hands was in her hair, pulling her to him, and the other was caressing her bottom through her fashionably short skirt, she pulled back. Her eyes, closed for so long, opened wide again and she whispered to him in what she must have thought was a sexy way.

"Which way is your bed?"

He looked at her, not at who she was but rather at who she wasn't.

"My bed, there's work stuff in there. It's not-" he reached out and took her hand. "This is good."

He guided her hand to his belt buckle, and she blinked rapidly, and then smiled. She made fast work of his belt and his fly. He lifted his hips slightly but did not make any move to take off his shoes or socks, or to lower his pants past his thighs.

His hands returned to their previous positions, one wrapped in her long blonde hair, the other caressing the curve of her ass. His eyes stayed open, unseeing. He moved against her, her mouth surprisingly practiced and eager around him.

He held out for a minute or so, not against the feeling but against the memories. Finally his eyes closed, and at once there She was, laughing at something he'd done, smiling over a book, stealing his egg rolls. Warm. Vibrant. Alive. Without warning, he took one deep gasping breath and then he finished. She was gone. He opened his eyes.

He slipped away from the girl and stood. He fastened his belt and turned to her. She was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and she was saying something.

"Listen," he said, then realized he had forgotten to get her name. "Listen, I have a lot of work to do tonight, and I'm afraid I need to get to it. Thanks."

"Oh, well, could I help? Or, you know, I wouldn't bother you. I thought we could…" And then he saw the moment. The moment when she realized this was it. This was what he had taken, and all that he would give. This was all he was. "Oh. Okay."

He grabbed her glass from the table, knocking back the rest of her drink in one fiery swallow. The whiskey didn't help, but it no longer hurt either, and he didn't want her nursing her drink along.

"There'll be a cab downstairs." He took her coat from the back of the chair and offered it to her. "Do you need cab fare or whatever?'

She stood, smoothing her blouse, trying to find some dignity the only way she saw how. "No thank you, I'll be fine," she told him, and for that moment of pain and disappointment and regret, he saw it: he saw Her in her. Only in the pain, in the disappointment, and of course in the regret.

He could not say another word. He opened the door and she left. He closed it behind her, and she was forgotten before the cab drove away. Josh sat down and looked at the empty glasses. He filled one with another two fingers of whiskey. He noticed some lip-gloss on the edge of the glass, and he ignored it as he tried to drown himself, two fingers of Bushmills at a time.

He closed his eyes, and he remembered Her leaving for Gaza.

"Thanks for this, Josh," She had said, "for this chance. You won't regret it."

Liar.

End note: I know, I know. Sick. Dark. I don't drink, but there's a long line of Black Irish drunks stretching back to Ireland before me on the family tree. The self-destructive turn of the once great is a common thread in many of our stories. Hope you enjoyed this peek behind the curtain. We now return to your regularly scheduled fluffy bunny. -ReverendKilljoy