Title: These are the Thoughts
Author: Harper Robedeaux
Category: Josh/Donna
Rating: G
Summary: A short of Josh's feelings of Donna.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. If you sue me you'll get pocket change. Also, I don't own the title either, it's an Alanis Morisette song title. Or the last line, because it's a line to a Pink Floyd song.
She's goofing off. I mean, really goofing off. I should probably yell at her (and Ginger for that matter) to get back to work. But I don't.
They are sitting in the bullpen tossing a golf ball at each other and catching it in the way, from what I have gathered from the conversation that they were trained to in softball. I didn't know Donna played softball. There's so much I don't know about her, like I didn't know she played flute in high school, either.
It's not like she's an incredibly stoic person like CJ or Toby; she practically wears her heart on her sleeve. Which is exactly why I don't like her dating all these local gomers. Well, one of the reasons. The main reason is… I want to be her gomer.
Ok, so that's out in the open. Woopity doo.
Toby just stuck his head outside his office door to see the commotion. I know this because both of them pretended to be working. As soon as that door shut, I heard a bunch of girlish giggles and the continuing of the ball tossing
What are they talking about now? Ah yes, they're continuing to reminisce about high school. Donna was in Show Choir, Drama Club, Marching Band, and all these other artsy extracurricular things.
What's this? Donna was a wild child? Fun loving Donnatella Moss, a rebel? It just can't be. But yet it is. I'm hearing her talk about how she would sneak out and have sex in cars. Donna, a car whore? I must've practically fallen out of my chair when I heard this, because both Donna and Ginger look in my direction and laugh. I haven't seen Donna this happy in a long while, which is probably why I let this charade continue. It's been a slow day, and this is quite amusing.
A golf ball bounces its way into my office. Donna quickly follows it and picks it up. She does a quick "Sorry Josh," and then scampers back out. "Just don't break any windows," I call after her.
And now I just sit at my desk and smile. I'm not even eavesdropping this time. Just looking at her. She's so pretty. She's got a great smile. I don't think she smiled much as a kid, because of the frown I always see otherwise. That's too bad. She's got such a great smile to not show it off just a tad.
And those eyes she has. The eyes are the windows of the soul. A face is just a face until you see someone's eye. It's what makes them who they are. She's got pretty blue ones, with lines in them. They remind me of ice, almost.
Her hair is almost baby fine, and a striking shade of blonde. She disproves the whole notion that blondes are stupid or have a bunch of air in their heads. She's always on top of her game, delivering useless facts or sorting out my life. It's amazing how she knows my entire schedule and hers at the same time and can spout both of them out for the next 2 weeks effortlessly. Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I lost her. Professionally, and platonically. She's what keeps me going.
Her mother once remarked she should marry someone with thick curly hair, so that their children wouldn't have hair falling out of barrettes. Ginger makes the comment, "Like Josh's?" "Yeah, like Josh's," she replies looking kind of far away. I run my fingers through my own thick, curly hair. It makes me look eccentric as hell, but I like it. I smile quite smugly at the remark about her marrying someone with hair like mine. If that's the criteria for a husband, dear Donnatella, then open your heart, I'm coming home.
The End.
