Ice crackles in the glass. Toby flinches and sinks onto CJ's sofa.

Sharp-eyed CJ notices. Sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor makes her look impossibly young. "Josh looked good."

"Josh looked like death warmed over." Oh, God. "Bad analogy."

"We'd just taken him home after four weeks in the hospital, Toby. What'd you..."

The chilling heat of the alcohol marries the burning cold of the ice cubes. "Sam had to hold him up."

"He had to climb the stoop and he got winded. They hardly let him move in the hospital except for P.T." CJ clears her throat before continuing, softer. "He's pale, though. He should sit outside."

"Can't." Toby stirs the drink with his index finger to even out the temperature.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because he's prone to infection. Lungs." Toby taps his chest. "He has to stay inside for at least a month."

"Oh." CJ's flesh forms parentheses around her mouth. "I didn't think about that." She swallows a mouthful of scotch, breathes. "Donna's been amazing. Everyone always knew she had it in her. Well, everyone but you."

"Donna is extraordinary." As CJ snickers at him, Toby waves his free hand in the air. "What?"

"When she joined the campaign, you said she wouldn't last a month."

"I did no such thing. Except, yes, maybe I did." He grimaces as he recalls shouting that Josh was thinking with his small head by hiring...

"'A shiksa stick' was what you called her."

"I retain my right to revise history if my opinion warrants," Toby intones and he swirls his drink around until the ice clinks against the sweating glass. This afternoon's homecoming is still too vivid. He's using alcohol to drown out the mental pictures of Josh's pain-ravaged eyes and Donna's melancholy little mouth.

"Hey." CJ leans closer. "You still with me?"

"I'm sorry." He tips the empty glass up to his mouth, letting the ice bump against his lip. There's a little fissure in the skin from when he's nibbled on it, worrying it with his teeth as if the sting would be enough to distract him from the workings of his overtaxed mind.

CJ yawns and stretches. Her spine pops loudly. Through the sudden rush of blood in Toby's ears he hears CJ call his name.

"I'm sorry," he mutters into his palms. "It just...hits me sometimes."

"Me, too." CJ folds her arms across his lap. He peers between his fingers. She's looking up at him, her chin resting on her wrist. Her voice is dark and comforting, like the scotch once the ice meets the fire, like the alcohol sizzling against the cut on his lip. "But we got him back, Toby."

He wonders when he'll get himself back, when unexpected sounds won't make him recall hot blood on his fingers, when screams won't haunt his nights nor guilt haunt his days. When he can feel CJ's mouth on his and take comfort in her wordless blessing instead of the salty pain of her tears.