A/N: this came to be as a reached down onto my floor for a book and I thought... Donna's apartment! Must write.
I've had West Wing on the mind for quite awhile now but haven't had the... ability? to write it. But a bit ago, csinut214 mentioned that maybe I should write West Wing and maybe she'd enjoy it. So really this is for her.
Thanks to Karen, who always has my back with this genre, and who is basically brilliant.
---
There have been many times during which he's allowed his mind to wander. In those rare moments between meetings, while he's drying his hands in the men's room, in the seconds after he's made a decision between the mess and take out, he allows his mind to wander over various topics. He, of course, speculates about the Mets quite a bit and allows that to slide into the space between his ears when he's on the Hill far too often.
Even he, one of the most magnanimous political minds in the United States (and he knows because he's Josh Lyman and come on, he's Josh Lyman) is susceptible to flights of fancy, of daydreaming, of drifting off during a Senior Staff meeting about the upcoming Bipartisan Luncheon (because breakfasts are far too volatile). One might beg to differ, but his is indeed after all, only human.
He muses about his assistant often and in depth. Who she's dating (why on earth she's dating them) and if that's a new blouse. How her parents are doing, how she's getting home, what's that brand of yogurt she's constantly eating?
Sometimes, he muses on one thing for hours, or days, filling in the blanks of her life before she came to New Hampshire for himself. One of his earliest lengthy mind-wanders had been over what her apartment looked like. Josh hasn't thought specifically of her bedroom (but then again, that's where all men's minds went first, so he certainly didn't rule it out) but of the whole of her living space. How it might be laid out, what sort of objects she chose to furnish with.
Colors morphed from muse to muse, from light, airy colors to deep, passionate blues, reds, greens. There were warm oranges on the walls of her bedroom with an earthy theme one week, and the next her walls would be buttercup with a warm, cabin feel. In those early days, he'd never really gotten a gauge on who Donna was. Sure, he knew what she liked, who she knew, the music she listened to and what authors she found distasteful, but he didn't know her. Now he knew, and still, he wonders about her apartment and what it hides of her that he has yet to discover.
---
This first time he manages to find himself inside her apartment is during a chilly evening in November and as usual, he has forgotten just how quickly Jim Beam wraps its way around his brain. Bourbon has never been his drink and he finds this particularly reprehensible, as he's known since his early days at Harvard that it is America's official spirit. The fact he's never been able to stomach it has in no way deterred him from indulging in that particular beverage when out meeting Jimmy Glovin from the Georgia 8th.
He's made an ass of himself, he's sure of it, because he winds up on Donna's doorstep thirty-two minutes after having left the bar. This, Donna's apartment, is in fact not his apartment. He'd been aiming for Georgetown and ended up... so far off. That hadn't--Josh Lyman isn't easily deterred, for whatever reason--stopped him from pressing the flat of his palm against the raised button indicating her apartment number. "Donna, DONNA! This isn't, this is not my apartment!" he yells at the puckered grate of her intercom.
All he hears from the other end is a muted sigh quickly halted by the buzzing of the door coming unlocked. Like the gentleman he is, he tosses himself through the door and manages his graceful self all three flights until he's at her door. Donna is, of course, waiting for him, clad in oversized pajamas and an exasperated expression. "Maybe next time you'll listen to me," she grumbles and steps aside, allowing him to tumble in.
"Bathroom?" he asked and she points away from her, averting her eyes as though he's a fright. He probably is; Josh has never been a composed drunk and he knows this, wonders for a brief second if he should have burdened her with seeing him like this. Two seconds later he's emptying his bladder into her toilet. His head tilts towards the ceiling as he's sure he's finished as he's lowering his head, he sees it, a rubber ducky.
It's situated next to a bottle of body wash he knows is hers; it's melon, the gel on the other side being gardenia and he knows, knows what she smells like even if he doesn't want to. So, she has a rubber ducky. Josh laughs and turns to wash his hands, glancing at his reflection in her spotless mirror, speculating as to why he knows how she smells. Do all supervisors know how their subordinates smell? Are they charmed by the sight of a novelty item in a place where they wouldn't expect it?
As he makes his way back, down the dim hallway, his eyes catch the left side of the hallway; a woman he's never seen is featured in most of them and he takes it for her roommate, immediately abandoning the search of the wall. Turning right, he is met with the sigh of two flaxen haired infants plopped down on a picnic blanket amongst tall grass. He recognizes her immediately, smile having not changed in twenty years. It makes him smile, makes him take his time as he makes his way back, giving ample attention to each framed print.
Donna catches him at the second-to-last photo and she smiles, embarrassed at him. "You all set?" Her voice is soft and it's probably because he's three-sheets but it makes him grin goofily.
Taking two steps towards her, he nods. "Need a cab but, yeah, need to sit for a... minute." Together they shift back into the living room and she sees to it that he sits safely down on the couch. They are silent for a long time; Donna settles back and Josh remains alert, his eyes restless.
He glances around. There are papers everywhere, strewn about, a dozen highlighters adorning them like forgotten confetti. The television is on, droning around an episode of Designing Women and when Delta Burke begins on a rant about not messing with her, he notices that the walls are sage and realizes that he'd always figured her for a red person. In that moment, Josh first wonders about the motives of his assistant, if she'd been the one to choose the color in the first place. If she knows that he knows the colors of her eyes.
"Yes," Josh muses belatedly, "Maybe next time I'll listen."
He smiles back at her and she smiles back at him, but it's all lost when he asks, "Hey, doesn't your roommate have cats?! Here kit-tay, kit-tay, kit-ay..."
---
Her air conditioner doesn't work, but it's nothing new to her. She's a renter after all, and three months out of the year, her landlord is on his ranch in Montana. June happens to be one of those months and the number that he disseminated to the tenants keeps going to voicemail.
Not that she's home much; not that he allows her to be home much. She's there long enough to do the essentials: eat, sleep, eat a quick meal and then back out the door. Her laundry has to be sent out because she'd once started a load and been forced to leave it sitting in the machine for a day and a half before she'd been by to retrieve it. By then, most of her towels had been scavenged.
He knows that her a/c is on the fritz and he knows because she ranted about it this morning when they were both at the coffee maker. When she was not getting him coffee (she did, however, dare to pass the creamer) he'd heard all about it. About what a bitch it is to sleep in what she had called "The Amazon of the Beltway." And he-being the caring, doting boss he was-couldn't stand to listen to h er complain a minute more.
And like the caring, doting boss he is, he's made his way to a hardware store around 2nd Street and manages to pick her up a cheap oscillating fan. Not that he can't afford an air conditioning unit (and he can afford a spiffy one), he just doesn't feel like lugging it across town (in his car) and having to install it. What if he lost his grip and it falls the three stories, crushing some poor soul beneath it? He simply can't live with that.
At eleven forty-five on a Tuesday, just an hour after he'd allowed her to take off for the evening, he heads over towards her neck of the woods. A large cardboard box nearly blocks his view out the rear, but it's a small consolation if his assistant is to be well rested, and truth be told, less testy.
The drive over doesn't take him as long as he remembers it taking, and he manages to grab the box out with little cussing. He'll have this delivered and be off before midnight. The key she gave him last year is on her ring, so he uses it to bypass her front door, figuring the surprise will be much more surprising if he simply shows up. Three flights and he's sweating a bit, even for him, so he places the box at his feet, unbuttons the first two on his oxford tie long since gone) and rolls his sleeves to the hollow of his elbow.
Then he knocks.
A careful shuffling greets his ears and he grins, knowing that Donna is peering at him through the peephole. "Oh god, what..." she begins and throw the door open.
It's a little too much. Her hair is pulled back, graceful neck on display. Her legs are encased in short, short (really, too short) shorts that have racing stripes down the side. Bare shoulders greet him, as she's wearing a small tank top, straps impossibly thin. 'Well,' he thinks, 'At least she's cool.'
Josh presents the fan to her and she rolls her eyes. "Couldn't have sprung for a Panasonic or something?"
He blinks at her. "Panasonic makes fans?" It's deadpan; her cheeks flush just a bit.
"They make air conditioners, Josh." They take to opening the box and assembling the small unit. It takes them only a few short minutes, and would have probably taken them less if Josh had allowed them to follow the directions provided. As they stand back to glance at it, he sneaks an indulged look around the room. It is immaculately clean, floor to ceiling. There are fewer knick-knacks than he remembers, and the carpet is a lighter color. He glances down at it and peeks at her toes, bright red.
Josh swallows hard and notices the wind chimes hanging over the central window in the living room, and the strange, brass sculpture that occupies one of her end tables. A copy of "Love in the Time of Cholera" is open on the couch, surely abandoned when he had knocked; Josh makes a notes to ask her about Marquez.
It smells of lilacs and he notices the few candles dotted throughout the space, in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. One gives off the faint smoke of recently-snuffed and he finds it odd, that scent paralleled with such oppressing humidity. She burns candles even when it's sweltering, he finds it amusing, comforting. "This place was a sty the last time I came by, you clean?"
"Lucy moved out, that was her med school stuff," Donna claims and moves gracelessly (for her, which is still quite graceful) towards the refrigerator to retrieve a pitcher of lemonade. "You want some?" she asks but is already pouring two full glasses. "It's sugar free."
And though Josh cringes at this, he moves towards the breakfast bar and plunks down on a stool across from her. "Where is Lucy, anyway?" He's glancing around, taking it all in for only the second time.
Donna shrugs and brings the glass to her lips. "She moved out two weeks ago, I told you." Her throat works to move the liquid down her throat and he's curiously captivated for a moment. It's apparent when he shakes it off; he notices that she notices and they both blush, despite the oppressive heat.
"Oh," he replies and makes a mental note to help her place some ads for new roommates tomorrow.
---
The files he needs all of a sudden are sitting on the coffee table at her place; she makes this known the evening before she comes in, asking if he needs them. Josh steadfastly refuses; they won't need to work on that for at least another month. And she, well, she should have learned that when Josh makes this claim, he also has no sense of time. He doesn't keep the calendar, she does.
She should have been smart enough to check the schedule before today, so clearly, this is all her fault. That's how they end up in a cab back to her apartment at lunch. "I'll buy you... a salad on the way back or something," he promises when she complains about losing a whole hour just retrieving the documents and why can't they just begin on this tomorrow?
"I need to grab my dry cleaning on the way back anyway. And it'd be good to get out of the office, why are you complaining?" he asks as he gives the cabbie her address and they begin their trek. In the car, she has her book and they talk about the schedule for the upcoming two days, though she voices that she doesn't know why, he's going to forget anyway.
He replies with "Well then what are we going to chat about on the way to your place and jesus, Donna, you live far away!" She retorts that if she was better paid she could afford to live closer to downtown and therefore avail herself more fully to his beckoning. Even this doesn't deter him and they ride the rest of the way bickering about governmental pay scales and how she doesn't qualify and blah, blah, blah.
She notices that he doesn't tip the cabbie enough and mumbles something about of course he's cheap and digs in her bag for her keys. They ascend the steps together even though she's told him that he can wait for her down here, he doesn't have to climb the entire way up. Josh refuses, suggesting instead that they begin looking over the material at her place and order take out, as it would take forever to get something back at the office anyway.
Her huff is heavy when she drops her things on the couch and she nods, rushing off to the kitchen to retrieve menus. "Why are you always eating salads anyway?" he asks, as he sifts through the detritus on her table to come upon the things he needs.
"We're all not blessed with your girlish figure," she calls from the kitchen, coquettishly and he can hear her hands rummaging about for what she's looking for. And for a brief guilty moment, the first time he's been in her home since he's realized that no, she's not just anything to him, he imagines reclining here at night with her next to him, the two of them doing nothing but existing in a space together.
He fills in the silence easily with a response, "So you've noticed." His voice is thick with his own brand of ego and he can hear her scoff vocally.
"Yeah, okay," Donna tosses a few sheets of paper at him. "Sushi, pizza, Thai, Japanese, or a new Mexican place I don't exactly trust that's three blocks over."
For a moment, he pretends to consider it and then looks at her, half of his mouth lifting in an obvious gesture. "Is there even a choice there? Thai, come on." He says it like she should already know it and as he glances down at the materials in his lap, he catches her smile. She knew he would go for Thai too and was trying not to show her cards. And so she knows him and he knows her and they know each other and it creates a warmth in his chest that he can't explain, and so he tosses her his cell and wallet. "You order, put it on the AmEx."
Donna pops up from the chair where she'd perched a moment before and trails away again; it's an effort, not to watch her go. "Alright, but I'm not paying you back for this!" She is dialing as she adds, "Or the cab!"
"Didn't expect you to," he claims with forced aggravation. She is in the other room and he has the opportunity to sift through the collection of catalogues that rests on the shelf beneath the table. IKEA, Best Buy, Ann Taylor. The last one is the most tattered-Anthropologie-and, glancing behind him to assure himself that he won't be caught, he opens it, the pages slipping though his fingers until he finds a bright red circle around an item on the page. A simple, aquamarine dress, flowers embroidered along the sides and hem. Josh closes his eyes and for a stolen second imagines her in it, how lovely she would look but just as quickly shuts the magazine and replaces it.
He's never more wanted to see her closet, but will have to settle for knowing the contents of the one in her entryway.
"It'll be here in a half an hour, we need flash cards?" she asks as she walks back in, two bottle of water in hand.
Josh can't help but look at her, imagine how lovely she'd look in the dress and guess how the fabric would feel against his fingers as he slid it off onto the floor of a bedroom he was almost certain he would never see.
---
Three a.m. and they weren't going to take the party back to the White House; it had been a work night that had morphed into them rushing about to get things done. It hadn't put a damper on the night, as most of the calls were made, dates were set, meetings were organized in the span of three hours. After all, most of Washington's elite were out on the town to begin with.
Five out of eight balls and far more than eight drinks consumed amongst the ten of them and it had seemed like a good idea at the time, to take the part back to Donna's. After all, she was the one with the fully-stocked liquor cabinet, as she rarely touched the stuff and Lucy's replacement had left her more than enough to keep a full-fledged kegger inebriated. And so they'd managed to fit themselves into two taxis and make it back to her place before any of them realized that consuming any more alcohol was probably unwise at best.
Will had been the most reluctant to accompany them, but once Donna had managed to mix up makeshift mojitos, he'd unraveled easier enough. He and Toby had taken to discussing-more like yelling-tax credits and she had to warn the elder writer that smoking was strictly forbidden in her complex. Otherwise, everyone seemed to settle in easy enough; it always stunned Josh, how easily they all seemed to come together like this, that they'd all managed to form such bonds.
C.J. had assisted Donna in emptying the contents of her makeshift liquor cabinet. Scotch and vodka and bourbon and, and, and, lined up along her kitchen island. As having not anticipated having multiple guests, she had no ice and thus her guests took to skimming snow from the ledges along her windows to place in their glasses.
He's shocked, really, that so many people can fit so comfortably between these walls; when he'd been inside, he'd always felt he was being suffocated, as though he was too, too close to her, wherever he happened to be. It seemed to have expanded, the bookcases pressing back the walls to allow her apartment to accept all of their friends. And with so many inside, the light falls against every object differently; for a long while he is content to catalogue the way the shadows fall against her belongings.
Three-forty rolls around and Josh is perched on the arm of her couch, staring down at his scotch-slush. "Acid rain, acid snow more like it, you can really taste it, you know?" He glances up, having not meant the comment for anyone in particular, but she is there, in her gown still, cheeks flush and hair coming undone. It's something about the disheveled look that has his shoulders lowering, his lids dipping, his eyes skimming over the curves of her body.
"Get to cleaning up the environment then," she suggests and angles her hip away from him; sexy, she is ungodly sexy and she's no longer with Reese and that's an excellent, amazing, fortunate thing. Not that Josh is with her, not by a long-shot but at least she's not with Jack Reese, it makes it easier not to hate himself for admiring her.
Josh laughs and brings the glass to his lips, the edge clinking against the front of his teeth, betraying his tipsiness. But it's alright, because she laughs and settles herself on her sofa, along the dip where the cushions meet and glances up to him, asking him silently to join her. Charlie is on the other side, his gaze focused across the room on Zoe who tagged along sans Jean Paul and Josh takes a moment to gauge the admiration in the young man's eyes; it makes him wonder how he looks at Donna.
There is animation in her apartment and whereas he viewed it as quiet, her haven, her workplace before, Josh sees it as a gathering place of the people he cares about, that she cares about, that they care about. If he was upset earlier, he's positively full of mirth now, away from the office with the few people he cares to allow to know him.
And her. "You know," he begins, "What you did was entirely irresponsible."
Donna sighs, her right arm going slack in the space besides him as she allows her head to fall against the back of the couch in resignation. "I know, I wasn't thinking, I just, Jack-"
"You love him?" his eyes are angled away, at the group gathered by the window, his lips on his glass and he's doing his very best to feign a sort of disinterest she'll accept. It doesn't matter to him, or it shouldn't, but this question has weighed on him since Christmas when she chose to forego her family holiday activities to be with Reese.
Her answer is slow in coming, but he does feel her shift a bit closer. It's well within her right to tell him that it's absolutely none of his business, that it's inappropriate for him to ask at all, and where does he get off? But her knuckles slowly brush the leg of his trousers as she replies, simply, evenly. "No."
Beside her, he nods and for a moment they just breathe together. He'll remember the way they fit together on her sofa, the way the sounds of chatter resonate along with the clink of glass on glass, the liquid sound of libations being poured. Mostly he'll remember how white her knuckles are against the fabric of his trousers and how white her carpet remains, even after twenty shoes have paced across it.
---
It's after Gaza that he outdoes his quota, using his key to enter her home because she can't let him in; she can't. Then again, he has a feeling that if she was able, she would choose not to. Something had cracked in him, watching her wake up in that hospital bed and she had seen it.
All of that bullshit about red lights was just that, bullshit. On the flight to Germany-to her-he'd counted the red lights on the runway as they had taxied and taxied and he'd nearly gone out of his mind, almost raced to ask the pilot to fly the fucking thing already. He'd come undone but not in the way she had.
Though she assures him that her mother and father can take care of her perfectly well, he insists on seeing her. Penance perhaps, but it's so much more. That old cliché about losing and loving and he'd almost lost without having really loved at all.
When they are together, there are things he brings her and though she thanks him, talks with him, thanks him again, there's something missing from her voice. Josh can't put a finger on it, so he manages to focus on his own trepidation that he'll have to be the one to answer her phone when Colin calls, he'll have to answer the door, that he'll have to be the one to allow the journalist in.
Her mother arrives first and Josh fills her in on Donna's appointments, her medications, the complications of this and that; they shared evenings together, the three of them just watching television or playing Monopoly but she doesn't speak to him much, just watches on as he makes attempts at conversation. It's when her father arrives and he sees the terror and anger in the older man's eyes that he can see that he's no longer wanted. Josh leaves his number on a slip of paper and tacks it to the bulletin board in the kitchen, tells her mother that if she needs anything, anything, to call.
On the way out of her place, he stops by the wind chimes hanging in the living room. There's dust collected along the smooth curves of it and unthinkingly, he blows a breath over it, relieving the chime of the mites; she hasn't been home much, hasn't had the opportunity to open her windows to allow the spring breeze to cleanse out the ghosts that winter has left hanging about.
The metal clinks desperately against itself and he wonders briefly if she can hear it from the bedroom, the sweet sound of stillness interrupted.
Her clothing is still scattered about from where her mother had haphazardly pulled articles from her suitcase; papers litter every available service, papers that contain instructions for bathing, for physical therapy, who to call in the event of every possible occurrence. Her apartment doesn't look like hers anymore and perhaps that is suitable because she doesn't seem like herself anymore.
There is a guilt that consumes him; it burns down his spine as his eyes fall on a framed photographed on the mantle of her bricked-up fireplace. It is Donna, CJ and himself, all with their arms slung low around the other. She is wearing a charming smile and peering down at his hand, CJ is laughing and speaking to someone to the right of the camera and Josh is, well, he's outwardly admiring his assistant.
It has never, ever been so clear to him that he's changed, that she's changed, that they can never be those people again. Even as he knows this, he wishes for the days when she laughed like that, when she was that carefree. But never again, never, never again. They couldn't go back.
Josh is very aware that this is almost entirely his fault and as he leaves, he notices a smudge that his shoe has left, just to the right of the entrance to her hallway. It's muddy, the imprint of the ball of his foot on linoleum. He's left a piece of himself there; she'll surely wipe it away as soon as she's able.
---
It is a year and a half later and he's finally invited into her bedroom; it seems only fair, after all. She has been in his home, in his bedroom, in his bed more times than he can count because it is-as he'd pointed out to her once, years ago-so much closer to the office and there are times where they just can't wait that long to get the other out of their clothes.
But this is different, he is in her room as she readies herself for bed, the only sounds the running water from the bathroom and the rhythmic ticking of her kitchen clock echoing down the hallway. Josh lies back in the bed and searches around with his eyes.
Her dresser is rich cherry, the fixtures worn and dark; he wonders if it is an antique and speculates whom it might have come from. The walls are a burnt orange that reminds him instantly of New England in autumn and he… well, he loves her room already. There is a small iPod dock with a clock on the table by her bed, a water glass, empty. There are planter boxes outside of her windows with no plants in them and he speculates what had been growing in there before.
She has a large trunk at the foot of her bed, and he doesn't know what's inside, but he can only imagine an entire container full of her cardigans, neatly folded, side by side. The rug beneath her bed is tightly woven wool in a rich maroon and for a moment he toys with the idea of running his feet over it. But really, he's more content to lay back and listen to her go about her nightly routine and bask in the domesticity of it.
This is something he can get used to, and quickly, and when she pads back into the room in her pajamas, he smiles at her and says, "I like your room."
Donna tilts her head and gazes at him, a warm smile on her lips. "I like you in my room."
They share a moment, one of those moments in which they are the only two in the world, a moment during which it actually feels like it's just them. Donna moves and climbs up onto the bed and sits against him, her hip to his. They just recline for the longest time, she running her thumb over his knuckles and he just keeps thinking and thinking that this is perfect.
When she begins nodding off, he sheds his pants and shirt and maneuvers them both beneath the rich bedding; as his skin adapts to the new linen, Josh sighs and sinks into the mattress. He will sleep so, so well tonight.
"I was thinking, maybe we should… move in here instead." His arm is around her waist loosely, lips in her hair and this is perfect. There's nothing he's ever felt before that he's been so intensely sure about (save for, perhaps, Bartlet's campaign) and it's overwhelming and perfect.
She shifts over so that they are face to face, her brow wrinkled. "Your place is so much closer though." He's so close to her, so close and still he realizes that it'll never be enough; he will never get enough of her to satisfy his craving.
It all comes together now, how he needs to slow down, take his time with her, revel in everything that he hasn't been able to have over these past seven years. And he wants them here, he wants to find out what is in that trunk and place his suits in her closet (dear god, it's huge, too) and have a toothbrush in her bathroom and perhaps re-carpet the living room. "I like it here," he whispers to the crown of her head and she just nods and settles in to sleep.
He makes a note that they'll have to change their names on her mailbox and wonders how long it will be before it says only 'Lyman.'
That is a while off, he supposes, but he allows his mind to wander. Allows himself to muse about proposing to her, and the house they will buy and the family they will have and the future that is finally more than certain.
He is, after all, Josh Lyman and when he is certain about something, it's pretty much gospel.
---
&&end
&&comment and crit always welcome!