In The Wild, a west wing fanfic

There was a point in my life when I didn't work through meals. I don't clearly remember that point in time, but I know it's true. I'm sure that if I bothered going to any doctor, they'd waste no time in telling me how unhealthy it is, and that I really need to take a break once in a while, that I shouldn't wolf down my food in five minutes or less, that I should de-stress. Well, sure, just add another twelve hours to the day and I might be able to get things done.

I've taken to leaving the office during meals just so I can work uninterrupted. I'll leave at something resembling lunchtime, then again at dinner, and when I go back in after that, the office is usually all but abandoned so I have more time to myself.

Of course, finding somewhere to camp out while I work hasn't been easy. Any restaurant I go to I inevitably run into someone I know who wants nothing better than to bend my ear in my free time. I finally stumbled into a little diner one afternoon and found my home away from work—the food is greasy and inexpensive, the wait staff is friendly but not pushy, and no one I know would think to come here to be seen by others. No one cares if stay here for hours as long as when they're busy, I don't spread my work out all over the counter. Even better is that they're open twenty-four hours, so any time I get out of work and want to swing by for a few hours of quiet, I can.

"What can I get for you?" a voice asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Bacon cheeseburger," I answer, shuffling through my papers. "Extremely well done. French fries. Coffee, too, please."

"You know, that stuff'll put you in an early grave."

I blink a couple of times, finally realizing she's talking to me. I lift my head slowly in confusion.

"And why order a burger if you're gonna get it well done? Just order chicken. The burger turns into a hockey puck when you cook it that long."

I'm being berated suddenly? I open my mouth to respond, my breath catching in my throat when my eyes land on her face. The woman before me is literally the most stunning creature I've ever seen in person. Tall, blonde, and wide, blue-green eyes. "Who are you?" I whisper. I really wanted to ask who she thought she was with all the judging, but I couldn't manage it.

She cocks her head at me quizzically. "Your waitress?"

"Are you new?" I manage to ask, still gaping at her. She gives me a mildly disgusted look in response.

"I've worked here for a couple of years. I've waited on you more than once." I stare at her, dumbfounded, until she sighs, disappearing to put in my order. How the hell did I miss her?

I refuse to admit that I'm on the lookout for her now. I've been back twice a day for more than a week and have only caught glimpses of her. It's ridiculous. I don't even know her name. She'll smile at me as she walks by, but that's as far as it goes…and it seems she smiles at everyone. Damn it.

I don't think I earned any points by not having noticed her before. I would say that, in my defense, I couldn't say that I've actually noticed any of the staff, but that doesn't exactly paint me in the best light, either.

I think I've moved into pathetic. I'm stalking a woman I don't know—a waitress who I am certain spends more of her time fending off creepy customers than any person ought to. At least I already had the precedent of being here all the time so it doesn't come off as creepy as it could. Maybe. Except now I'm spending most of my time looking up instead of focusing on my work. I'm pretty sure if I could just run into her again, all of this would go away. I could have a conversation with her, find out she's an idiot, or a bigot, or anti-Semitic, or even a republican, and get her out of my system.

"Hi."

I look up, surprised to find her at my table. What are the odds? "Hi," I answer, my voice managing to crack. "How are you?"

She looks at me a little oddly, but I don't mind. "Fine. You ready to order?"

"I'm Josh," I tell her, feeling stupid as it falls out of my mouth. She doesn't care who I am.

The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Nice to meet you, Josh. Officially."

"We haven't done this before, have we? I didn't forget that?"

"No, you've never told me your name before. I don't know that you've told anyone your name, or done anything more than put in your order."

I wince apologetically. "Sorry about that."

She shrugs, smiling slightly. "You always say please and thank you. That's more than a lot of people do."

"People don't say please and thank you?"

"You'd be amazed at how people behave in a restaurant. Snapping fingers, pointing and grunting at the menu, grabbing arms…" She trails off, shrugging. "Anyway, you always seem like you're busy. You don't harass anyone, you don't leave a mess, and you don't seem to want to chat, so we leave you alone."

"Wow; I'm a bastard," I mumble and she snorts, her entire face lighting up as she grins.

"Well, I'll forgive you since you're now aware of the situation."

I feel myself freeze, gaping at her—she's even more appealing when she smiles. I'm just happy I'm sitting down because she's managed to make my knees weak.

"You okay?" she asks, her eyes growing wide with concern. "You look a little pale."

"Just…uh…hungry, I guess. What do you recommend?"

"You mean you don't want your usual scorched piece of meat that used to be a hamburger?"

"I only asked for a recommendation—I didn't say I'd listen to it."

She grins again. "Touché." She flips open my menu, sliding it in front of me. "Well, I'd recommend something that might slow down the artery-clogging process a little—you know, a salad or even a chicken sandwich—but you look like the sort who's interested in an early grave…"

Beautiful and a smart ass. The perfect woman does exist. "Hey, I only get to live once; why should I eat food I don't like?"

"I'd say so you can live longer, but I feel like we'll be caught in an endless loop. Can I least interest you in something other than French fries? Fruit? Yogurt? We have a nice vegetable medley. Even the mashed potatoes would be a step in the right direction." I must be making a face because she just sighs. "Fine," she says, reaching for the menu.

"Why do you care so much?" I ask, holding the menu away from her.

"Because I'm crazy and care about humans, especially ones who I see eat the same calorie-riddled thing day in and day out."

I probably take more out of that than she intended and all I can focus on is her saying she cares. "Well, when you put it that way…" I open the menu again, perusing the sides—there are only about a million of them. Still, for reasons I don't want to examine, her opinion of me matters. "Okay, so, tell me—are the corndogs in season?"

Her eyes grow wide a moment before laughter explodes out of her. "Thank you. I needed that."

"What'd I say?"

She doubles over, actually clutching her sides, and I still have no idea what I possibly could have said to make her laugh so hard. I'm trying to make healthy choices and she's laughing at me. I'd be offended if I wasn't so smitten.

"Are the corndogs in season?" she says, gasping. "Oh, you're a funny guy, Josh."

"Are the…what…" I can feel the gears in my head turning, desperately trying to catch up, when everything comes to a screeching halt. I'd been looking at the sides—true enough—and just underneath I'd noticed the kids menu. Apparently, the corndogs stuck out in my head, and as I was trying to ask if the zucchini was in season…oh my God. I'm an idiot. "No. I didn't mean…oh, God."

She catches her breath, blinking at me a few times, and I see understanding dawning on her face as she realizes I didn't mean to make a joke. I realize too late that I should have let her believe I'm funny instead of a moron. She's still smiling at me—this time in sympathy—and I can only imagine that she's wondering who let me out of my cage. I think I actually want to die. I've spent all this time trying to find her just so I could talk to her, and even though I knew it was a stupid, fruitless exercise, the fantasy is completely blown. I look back down at my paperwork, studiously avoiding eye contact.

"The usual?" she asks, her voice soft and not unkind.

"Yeah," I mumble, feeling relieved when she walks away. Might as well actively work toward that early grave.

I've done my best to avoid her for almost two weeks. It seems she mostly works the evening shift during the week, and I think she lives there on the weekends. I've sneaked in, found a spot as far from where she seems to be working, and kept my head buried in my work. The only thing I haven't done—the only thing I haven't even considered—is finding somewhere else to eat. I don't want to examine that too closely. I just tell myself that it's still the only place I can eat and work away from the office without running into a million people.

I ignore the fact that I could go home and work if I really wanted to.

Truthfully, she probably hasn't given me a second thought since the corndog incident. With all the customers she has and all of the undoubtedly rude and/or inappropriate comments she hears daily, I was probably barely a blip on her radar. Men probably fall all over her all of the time—what's one more idiot?

Ordinarily, I'm a fairly smart guy. I've had a good education at some of the best schools in the country. I'm considered one of the top minds in my field. I'm sometimes respected and often feared by my peers. How is it that I can't move past this woman who, for all intents and purposes, I don't know and is only a waitress?

I stop that train of thought before it can go any farther. The "only a waitress" thing sounds like something one of my coworkers would say. Before that very moment, her profession never occurred to me. All I've been aware of is that I find her captivating, and I don't want her to think I'm a moron.

And somehow, I still don't even know her name. She never told me what it was after I introduced myself, and if she ever mentioned it, it was before I started paying attention.

Almost reluctantly, I finally cross the street to the diner. I've been watching the place for close to thirty minutes—probably in a way that made anyone paying attention highly uncomfortable—trying to figure out if she's there. It looks pretty slow, only a couple of the regular wait staff wandering past the windows.

I slink into the place, looking around again to make sure, but I think the coast is clear. There are a couple of booths filled with small families, a few people sitting solo at the counter, and another table filled with books and paperwork—some college kid probably cramming for midterms that had the same idea as me. I breathe a sigh of relief and slide into a booth near the other person who also seems to have nothing better to do on a Sunday evening. I glance around the place again, but she really doesn't seem to be here—only a couple of waiters amble around, mostly chatting with each other behind the counter.

One of them notices me and smiles, moving to come over, but I just shake my head, holding up my hand. "The usual?" he asks, looking a little amused.

"Why change it now?" I counter, doing my best to drown out the voice in my head, that of another server who cares too much about her customers and if they eat too much fried food. I really shouldn't be this enamored with someone I don't know, especially someone who already thinks I'm a moron. "Also, coffee when you get a chance, please."

"Gonna be a long night?" he asks, putting in my order before filling up a mug for me.

"Probably. Let me know if you need the table, though."

He wanders over with the mug and a bowl full of creamers. "It's been quiet all day. You should be fine. I'll come by and check on your coffee, all right?"

I nod, grabbing the cup appreciatively. I've become enough of a regular that most of the staff have learned that they really don't need to hover much. As long as my food is dropped off and I get my coffee topped up on occasion, I don't have much need for interaction. I've tried to engage the people around me even less since that mortifying incident. I pull out a few notebooks and my laptop, spreading everything out, my mind already wandering away from the diner.

I'm surprised when my food shows up suddenly, fairly certain that it couldn't have been more than two or three minutes since I last saw the waiter, but the burger looks sufficiently charred and I shrug, figuring I'd been off in my own little world. I mumble my thanks as I take a large bite, happy with the consistency of my burger.

"I found something reminds me of you."

I grab my coffee and take a sip, trying not to spill it on my computer.

"Well, maybe it doesn't remind me of you, but I think you'll appreciate it."

I guess the place is filling up; it's starting to get loud. I flip open a notebook, trying to ignore the noises around me. Something hits my head and I blink in surprise. A French fry skitters across the table, coming to a stop right at the edge. "The hell…"

"Josh!"

I look up at the sound of my name, and there she is, grinning at me, halfway turned around in the booth in front of mine. The booth similarly covered in books and papers. I feel myself freeze. I'd seen someone bent over the table when I slunk in but paid absolutely no attention whatsoever to who it was or if it was anyone I would recognize. Not that I would have realized it was her—she's wearing jeans and a form-fitting sweater, and her blonde hair is out of its usual ponytail, falling over her shoulders in a way that makes me want to play with it.

"I…I—I didn't know you were talking to me." Wow—I'm stupid. Of course she has to realize that.

"You looked like you were pretty deep into it," she confirms. "Am I bothering you?"

I bite back my first instinct to blurt out an answer and sound like the pathetic, love-sick loser I've become around her, and take a deep breath, calming myself before answering. "No, you're fine. What's up?"

She grins again, slipping out of her booth to sit across from me before I can blink. She passes her phone over to me. "Here."

I hold the device in confusion. "What the hell am I looking at?"

"Corndogs growing in the wild!"

I groan, my head falling to the table. "Really?"

"Now, it doesn't say where the harvest is located but I thought you might like to see they're in season somewhere. Ours come to us frozen, though, so it's anyone's guess if they were ripe or not."

"You're a real riot," I mumble, keeping my eyes trained anywhere but at her.

"Well, it seemed like it was important to you and I wanted to share."

"What are those things?"

"They're called cattails. They do look a lot like corndogs, though, right? I bet we could convince a few people we'd found a crop on the side of the road and then tell them they're fine to eat off the plant and only have to be heated when you buy them in a store."

"You strike me as vaguely evil."

She giggles, finally taking back her phone. "I certainly can be." She pauses, and I look up just a little when her hand lands on my arm. "Hey—I didn't offend you, did I?"

I freeze for a moment at her touch. "No."

"Because sometimes I think I cross the line with customers. I get too familiar, you know? Like, I think that because I've taken your food order we're now friends for life."

"No, you're fine."

"I'm not making fun of you, I promise." My eyebrow quirks up in disbelief. "No, seriously. Teasing, yes, but not mocking."

"Okay," I answer, genuinely not sure what to do. She's very sweet, and even more stunning the longer she sits across from me, but I feel way outside of my wheelhouse. The way it usually goes is that if I'm terribly interested in a woman, I'm unable to convey it, at least not in a way that doesn't make me seem like a total creep, and then I'm only successful in pushing her away entirely. That, or it'll turn out that she's into whatever friend or acquaintance of mine happens to be near. I don't know how to play this. I want to know more about her, but I don't know how to do it without coming on too strong.

She makes a face, looking disappointed. "I'll stop bugging you now," she says, edging out of the booth, and my hand is on her arm before I realize what's happening.

"You're not bugging me."

She bites her lip, her eyes wide, and the corner of her mouth turns up just a little. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Because you always seem to have a lot of work—"

"It's nice to have company." As much as I come here to get away from people, I realize it's true. It's nice to have someone to talk to and not someone who wants something from me. She settles back into the booth, nibbling at her thumbnail. "I'm sorry—I don't know…what's your name?"

Her cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink. "I'm Donna."

"…You've told me that before, haven't you?"

She shrugs. "I used to introduce myself to you, but eventually I realized you either knew who we all were or that you wouldn't know any of us if you tripped over us, so I stopped with the formalities."

"Wow—I really am an ass."

"No, no, no, no. I didn't mean it that way. You really have always been very polite to all of us; you just seem preoccupied."

"I'm sorry I haven't been paying attention."

A slow smile spreads across her face. "It's okay," she says softly. "You are now."

I blink a few times, my breath catching in my throat for a few seconds. I know I'm imagining things, but I would swear she was flirting with me. I clear my throat and try to smile. "So, Donna, what are you working?" I ask, nodding my head toward the other booth.

She glances over her shoulder for a second and shudders. "Oh, that. Homework."

I swear I die in that moment. "You're still in school?" I choke out. "I mean, I knew you looked young but…"

"I'm not in high school or anything."

"College isn't much older," I protest.

"First of all, thank you. You've just made my day. I haven't been mistaken for a college kid in years."

"Grad school?"

"Not quite that, either. I'm in law school."

"No way!" I exclaim. "Really?"

She looks vaguely offended. "Is that so hard to believe? Just because I wait tables—"

"No, no—not that. I went to law school, too."

Her face lights up and she leans forward. "Oh, yeah? Where do you practice?"

"Well, truthfully, I don't. I considered it, but I really figured out in my last semester that my strongest suit is not to get up and argue reasonably in front of a group of people."

"Stage fright?"

"Not at all. I was told I'm too passionate."

She laughs softly, her cheeks turning pink again. "Is that a line?"

I don't even pause to consider why she asked that. "No, I wasn't good at clear, concise arguments that would make a jury see my point, so I decided not to take the bar."

"So, what do you do instead of yelling at juries?"

"I…well, I yell at people, actually," I answer, chuckling. "I'm a lobbyist. Well, lobbyist and political strategist."

"Well, I guess DC is the place for that. Does anyone listen when you yell?"

"Not enough," I answer ruefully, making her giggle. "But what about you? What year are you in law school?"

"Oh, about six or seven." I'm sure my shock registers on my face because hurries to clarify. "I can only really take a class or two a semester. I have to work at some point and I can't work full time and deal with a full class load. I tried it my first semester of undergrad and I almost failed out. Well, not really, but I think I was almost to the point of hospitalization for exhaustion and I was only eighteen then. There's no way I'd be able to manage it now. Anyway, I became a part-time student and kept working fulltime and this is a lot more information than you asked for. Sorry."

I smile, not minding in the slightest. "Have you applied for scholarships or grants or something?"

"That's the thing—I had a partial scholarship for undergrad, and I actually have a full academic scholarship now, but none of that covers things like books or living expenses and DC's not cheap. So, I work. I work here and I get to work part time at a legal firm not far from American during the week—mostly just answering phones and making copies, but it's work. I'm doing my best to avoid taking out any loans. I don't want that hanging over my head until I die." She pauses, biting her lip again and shrugs her shoulders, playing with her phone. "Sorry. I told you I tend to get too familiar with customers. Plus, I don't really get to sit down and talk with people a lot. No time. Really, I should be studying right now but I've already read that chapter four times. It's all starting to run together. So, to answer your question, I've been in law school for three years already; it'll probably be another three—not including this year—before I get to graduate. Then I get to take the bar—if I can afford it—and hope that I'll get an offer somewhere." She takes a deep breath, smiling at me. "So, politics, huh? That's gotta be exciting."

This woman is utterly charming. I don't know when I last met someone who talks as much as she does while also having something to say. Wildly inappropriate or not, all I want to do is offer to pay her rent or take her in just so she can focus on school. However, I'm sure that suggestion would get me a slap in the face and probably a harassment suit. Rightfully so.

"It can be, but I'm not making policy or anything. I mostly just try to bully other people into thinking the way my guy thinks and voting for what we want. The strategist part is a little different than that—more hours, a lot of schmoozing, and looking at the world like a chessboard. Actually, that's one of the reasons I started coming here. No one who knows me seems to know about this place, so I don't constantly run into people who want something from me. I can eat and work in peace."

"I hope you get paid overtime," she says, her voice sincere. "With the amount of work you do—I mean, do you even sleep?"

"Not much," I confess. "But I'm willing to bet that you're in the same boat. If I remember correctly, and I know that I do, classes and all the work that goes into each one is pretty all-consuming. And you're working two jobs on top of that. How do you function?"

"I try not to think about it, honestly. I just go from one obligation to the next."

"So…why waitressing? Wouldn't it make sense to work fulltime at the firm or something? Waiting tables isn't exactly steady money, right?"

She shrugs, grabbing one of my fries off my plate. "Hours are flexible here. I tried at a few of the higher end places, but most of them want you to work during the day before you 'earn' a night shift, and I need to be able to, you know, go to class during the day. Here, I'm never scheduled outside of my availability, it's easy to pick up shifts when I need to, and the money's better than you'd expect. It's not that different at the firm, as far as fulltime work goes—either you have to dedicate everything in your life to working at the bottom, fetching coffee and filing until you drop, or you have to know someone. Besides, jobs at that level in my firm pay next to nothing, at least not for the amount of work you put in. It's not so bad at part-time, though. I'm mostly just trying to get my foot in the door somewhere."

I watch her for a few moments, fascinated, as she picks at the Formica on the table. "So, you really want to practice law, huh?"

"Something wrong with that?"

I chuckle a little, shaking my head. "Not at all. You're made of tougher stuff than I am, that's for sure. Which field are you looking into?"

She shrugs, grabbing another fry, and grins when I try to bat her hand away. "Hard to say right now. Civil rights, maybe, or family and juvenile law. Or environmental. I don't know. I know I want to help people."

Yeah; I think I'm falling in love. "You're a democrat, aren't you?"

She bristles, looking tense suddenly. "Yeah, so?"

"No, no—I am, too. The whole helping people thing gave it away is all." Her body relaxes, her lips curving up again just a little. "Ever consider a career in politics? You happen to know a guy who knows people."

She shrugs, grabbing my glass of water and taking a sip—the look on her face not one of total disinterest. "Maybe once or twice. I think it's something about this town, though. They pump political toxins in the air and make everyone want to throw their hat in the ring."

"Well, keep an open mind about it. People who want to help people are what this country needs."

"I'd get eaten alive." She shifts a little, looking at me ruefully. "I should…stop bugging you."

"No, it's fine."

"You don't have to be polite," she tells me, gesturing to all of my work. "Say what you want, but I know you're busy."

"I really don't mind the company," I protest.

"Are you sure?"

"Hey, I could be doing this at home, you know? It's just too quiet there."

"You live alone, huh?"

"Yeah. Mostly it's great, but sometimes I need background noise."

"I used to live alone, but it's easier with roommates, moneywise, at least." She bites her lip, a habit I've already noticed she has, and bounces in her seat a little. "Josh…look, uh, I never do this, and it probably seems weird, given the circumstances and where we are right now…" She pauses, looking away for a moment before taking a deep breath, turning back to smile at me. "Do you maybe want to go out with me some time?" My jaw drops in shock. "It's okay if you don't. I know this is strange and you don't really know me other than as your waitress and maybe you're already seeing someone and I know you're really busy—hell, so am I—but I'd definitely make time for you and—"

"Yes."

She stops, blinking at me. "What?"

"Donna, I would love to go out with you."

Her face flushes; she smiles shyly. "Really?"

I have to be dreaming. This beautiful woman who I have not been able to stop thinking about for weeks, just asked me out on a date. I can't imagine why—she really may be the perfect woman, and all I am is the strange guy that's been stalking her for a month.

"Of course, really. But…are you sure you want to go out with me? I'm a bunch older than you—"

"Josh, I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't sure." She grabs my phone, her eyebrow lifting toward me when she has no trouble accessing it, and I watch as she punches in a number, smiling when her phone rings a second later. "So you have my number and know it's the real thing." She grabs her own phone—I'm assuming to save my number—smiling at me at me when she's done.

This is surreal. "So…"

"Yeah."

"You wanna…I don't know. You want to go do something now?"

Her eyes light up and I struggle not to pinch myself. She really wants to go out with me. "Like what? I mean, obviously not dinner because…" she gestures toward my mostly eaten burger and the fries she's been pilfering. "I'd suggest a movie, but then we couldn't talk. We could make out a lot, but that seems more like a second or third date sort of thing."

I clear my throat, struggling to contain myself. "I'm willing to jump ahead if you are," I tell her, cringing at how desperate that sounds. Still, she bites her lip a little, and I take that as a positive sign. "How about coffee or dessert or something?" She glances at my cup of coffee, long since gone cold. "Over-priced coffee, I mean. Somewhere not here. I think there's a bakery place a couple of blocks from here. Does that—"

"Yes!" Her cheeks turn full-on red and she looks down, sighing. "I'm sorry. Playing it cool isn't my strong suit."

"Don't apologize for that. It's kind of better than never knowing where you stand with someone. If it makes you feel better, I'm not exactly suave and sophisticated."

She smiles, looking relieved, and stands up, moving over to her booth. She hastily closes her books and notebooks, shoving them into her bag. All I can do is follow suit, gathering my stuff as quickly as possible before she has a chance to change her mind, remembering at the last second to toss money on the table for my food. "Wait, so, you're not suave and sophisticated?" she asks. "What a disappointment."

She's teasing me, but I would give anything to not feel like a complete doof around her. I shrug my backpack onto my shoulder and we walk toward the door, our steps oddly in tandem. "You mean my line about corndogs being in season didn't give me away?"

"Are you kidding?" she asks as I push open the door and we step out into the darkening evening. "That's what made me realize I could fall in love with you."

I stumble over my feet and nearly get whiplash as I turn my head toward her, but she studiously avoids my gaze, the only indication that she might not be entirely kidding. I shake my head in wonder and force myself to keep walking. A moment later, her hand touches mine tentatively just before she grabs it gently. My heart lurches as we thread our fingers together—I've never felt anything so right in my entire life as just holding her hand.

I squeeze her fingers a little and she shifts just a bit closer to me, our shoulders brushing together. If I'm lucky—luckier than even right now—she'll let me kiss her goodnight. If I'm extraordinarily lucky, she'll still be letting me kiss her goodnight ten years from now.

I realize this is mostly garbage, but it's all based off a line I read in a BuzzFeed article—"Are the corndogs in season?" It was something about being awkward or bad at dating, and I laughed hysterically. Then I thought I'd try to work it into a story. Unfortunately, this is the best I could do. Had no idea it'd be this long, though, because it only took up eleven pages (front and back) in my handy-dandy notebook. I can only imagine what the other one that I've yet to type up will look like. It's a good thirty or forty pages. I'll get to it eventually. Also, I've started writing a little holiday fic for anyone interested—I decided to start it more than two days ahead of time unlike at Thanksgiving. Anyway, I hope someone out there enjoyed this at least a little.