He is devastated.

She watches him as he goes through the day, bouncing from one thing to another, never stopping on any one subject for long. She's seen him do this before. In the moments when he is most helpless, he tends to want to fix everything and in the end, fixes nothing. He is doing that today.

Her main concern is the First Lady. She silently stands sentinel while Mrs. Bartlet grieves and offers comfort when she can. It is a losing battle. Her daughter has been taken and she does not know her fate. There is nothing that can be said to ease her pain.

At the end of the day, after the First Lady is escorted to the residence and sedated -- for she will always be the First Lady, even though her husband has stepped down -- she returns to the bullpen, to the heart of the building. She can feel the crackle of tension and hope and fear radiating from each and every person there.

She approaches his door cautiously, wanting to offer him comfort, too, but unsure of how he will respond. After a few moments, he notices her standing at the threshold and gets up from his chair. He does not say a word. Instead, he wraps his arms around her slight frame and gathers her to him in a tight embrace. Together, they share their pain.

Eventually, she registers the feel of his lips against her neck, the pressure of his hand against her breast. She doesn't know exactly what this means, but she knows that she wants him. She can already feel her nipples hardening, the pulse of arousal deep within her womb.

When he whispers into her ear that he wants her to come home with him tonight, she agrees. She's not sure this is the wisest decision, but for now, it is the right one.

On the drive to his apartment, she questions her choice yet again. Does he really want *her*? Is he interested in a relationship or is this merely a panacea for his pain? In the end, it doesn't matter. She thinks that if she can have this one night with him, she can convince him that she is what he needs. She can convince him that they belong together.

He's waiting on the front stoop when she arrives. He pulls her to him as she reaches the top of the steps. She aches to kiss him, but he buries his face deep in her neck instead, tickling her skin with his lips, laving it with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth in desperation. He will leave a mark, but she doesn't care; it just feels so good to have him touching her.

Finally, she finds the strength to pull away from him and leads him down the hall, up the elevator and to his apartment. He opens the door and drags her inside, not even bothering to turn on the lights. His hands start to pull at her clothes and she helps him as they stumble towards the bedroom. She does not need light to guide her; it's a route with which she is very familiar. By the time they reach the bed, she is naked.

She lays across it, her skin sharply contrasting with the darkness of the navy sheets, and watches him undress. He is only partially aroused and she is surprised. She has always assumed that his passion for her was unwavering and constant. It bothers her to note that it is not.

Kneeling at the edge of the bed, she takes him into her mouth, tastes his salty skin, inhales his masculine scent. Her tongues flicks against him, making him hard, solid, and he roughly pushes her back against the mattress. His mouth ravishes the skin on her neck and shoulders and breasts, licking and nipping at the exposed flesh. She arches into him, welcoming the feel of his rough tongue against her. It's harsh and brutal, but it only seems to add to her desire.

She spreads her legs and he takes her, his body plunging deep into her core. She cries out in both pain and pleasure but he doesn't seem to notice or care. He is too occupied with his own pleasure, his own release. He pounds into her again and again, relentless in his need for completion. With each stroke, she can feel her own climax building until finally, it explodes within her, surprising her with its intensity.

As she drifts back to this plane, she registers the feel of his hot, sweaty body atop her. He is panting, breathing heavily against her neck, and she recoils at the feel of each moist puff of air. She pushes at his chest, and he props himself up to look at her. The expression on his face is not what she expects. There is satisfaction there, but also sadness.

He rolls away from her and sits at the edge of the bed, his head cradled in his hands. Her hand hovers above his bare back. She wants to touch him, but isn't sure if her touch would be welcome. She wonders if the shaking of his shoulders is caused by the same despair she is beginning to feel in her own soul.

The ringing of the phone is harsh in the total stillness of the bedroom and they both jump at its sound. He reaches out to answer it. As he speaks to the person on the other end of the line -- so quietly that she can barely make out his words -- she can see some of the tension in his body relax, can hear the soft, soothing tone of his voice. In her mind, she pictures the gentle smile that must be forming on his face. She doesn't need to ask who he is speaking to. She knows. She has always known.

Rising from the bed, she finds her a handful of her clothes in a tangled mess on the floor. She sorts them out and dresses as best she can. When she is done, she goes to stand before him, to give him one last chance to ask her to stay. He is still grasping the phone, though she is fairly sure the caller has already hung up. But still, it gives him an excuse not to look at her or to turn and look at the rumpled bed where they just made love. Sex, she corrects herself. Where they had sex, not made love.

He refuses to look at her. She turns and quietly makes her way to the door. She was a fool to think she could win him back. This night was about need, the need for comfort and the need to forget, but it wasn't about her. It wasn't about them.

He's in love with another woman, always has been, and even when they're together, that comes between them. Always. Tonight is just proof that she will never be what he really needs. That one phone call did more to tame his guilt, ease his psyche, than all her lovemaking ever could. She's not what he needs.

She gets that now.

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