Behind Closed Doors
by Jen

Sypnosis: This deals with a different aspect to Dr Freeride. It's been a given for a long time that he doesn't care at all about Donna, which is probably true. However, here, he sees her again and it sets out his obsession with her. I'm assuming to a great extent that theirs was an abusive relationship.

Disclaimers: The song "Behind Closed Doors" was written by Kenny O'Dell and performed by many people, including Charlie Rich, whose version is the one I was listening to. The West Wing doesn't belong to me either...

Author's Notes: The song "Behind Closed Doors" is used by HEBS (Health Education Board for Scotland) as a backing track for their household abuse awareness campaign advertisements.

******

The first time he saw her after she left again, it was in DC. He had come up there after Bartlet won; more than anything, he was interested to see her. It was in the February after they moved into the White House and she'd been too busy to see him. He'd been surprised when he phoned and hadn't been put straight through to her: apparently, he either had to be somebody they recognised the name of or on her list of contacts for him to talk to her directly. A young man on the other end of the phone had told him that he was sorry, but Ms Moss didn't have any spare time for a few months: when he protested he was a friend, the young man hung up.

But he'd seen her. Just in passing. It had taken him time to find her, but he was determined. He wanted to see her again. She had been so beautiful, so obedient and loyal. He wanted her again.

After he'd seen her, he had obsessed in the changes in her. The way she stood taller; the way she seemed to be always smiling; the way her eyes met the face of the man she was talking to instead of dejectedly looking at the ground; the new energy that made her glow and sparkle. She was a gorgeous woman, where once she was a lovely but fragile child. It struck him that she looked now as though she was alive, and he realised with some anger that he had only possessed the shadow of what she now was.

He fantasised about her, wanting to own her again, call her his. He began to take frequent trips to DC just to try and see her; he watched the news almost religiously in the hope of a glimpse. He read her biography on the White House website again and again, committing to memory the passage containing details he already knew. Columns in Sunday newspapers which he had ignored, weekly news magazines which he had condemned as a waste of money, an old college buddy who worked in the Senate - every scrap of information he found was cut out or written down and put into a folder. Clearing out his office, his secretary stumbled upon his old address book, and he called her older sister. The sister was delighted to hear from him, and gossiped for an hour, happily giving him the home phone number. When he called it, though, she didn't answer and when he gave his name, he was told that she had moved.

When someone told him they'd shot at the President, his first fear was that she had died. He ran to the television set in his office and stared as they flashed up pictures and forgotten video footage of the man he knew she worked for. Every picture seemed to include her, and he stared at the pictures, wondering if she'd been there. Then they showed the footage of the shooting itself, and he watched, frantically searching for her face as the bullets flew. He saw the man she worked for - the man, he now knew, called Joshua Lyman - walk out somewhat behind the others, and fall. She wasn't beside him. The newscaster reported the names of those who had been shot, and then the names of the senior staff who had been there. The newscaster paused before saying that they had been asked to tell the families that only Joshua Lyman, the President, a Secret Service agent and a woman in the crowd had been injured, and that the only assistant there had been Charlie Young, the President's aide.

He let out a breath. She was safe.

A correspondent talked quickly over a microphone outside a hospital. The President was inside, as were the senior staff who had entered the back way. The front of the hospital was barricaded off and guarded by secret service agents, who had taken a wing of the hospital for the President.

As he stared at the screen, he saw an old car pull up and a blonde woman, tears rushing down her cheeks, emerge. She didn't even bother to lock the car, but ran to the barricade. He saw her fish in her purse for something, before pulling out a card - her ID, presumably - before turning to the Secret Service agent. As she turned, he saw her face again, and he recognised her. She mumbled something through her tears and she was hoisted over the barricade by the agent, who raised a radio to his lips. Another agent came running to get her, and she followed him inside as the press watched.

The screen went back to the studio; the newscaster smiled at the screen. "That was probably one of the senior aides coming to the scene - wait, I'm being told that I have our White House correspondent on the line now." The line shifted into a split screen: on one side, the busty brunette anchorwoman, and on the other, a dark-haired man. "Toby," the newscaster asked, "can you tell us who that was? Do you have any other information?"

The man's eyes flickered at the screen before going back to the newscaster to answer her questions. "I think that was Donna Moss, Joshua Lyman's personal assistant. We know that the President's secretary, Delores Landingham, came to the hospital earlier, however we have been led to believe that most of the aides are staying at the White House. We have been told that a member of the Senior Staff will be doing interviews at some time in the next 24 hours, but we don't know who -"

He spent the next few days almost constantly watching the television: reruns of footage he had seen a thousand times, but never tired of. He was obsessed with her face. He wanted her back. He needed her back.

*

About a week after the shooting, they took him into a small room in the hospital and told him it wasn't working. He told them it was a really bad week, that someone he knew worked close to The Guy Who Got Shot - but they ignored him. He'd caused eight deaths in the ER that week through neglect: the hospital couldn't afford to keep him. Instead of being fired, he chose to resign, and he quietly waited out the time specified in his contract while he searched for a job in DC.

He denied it even to himself, but what he really wanted was a job in the hospital the White House used: somewhere where they would see him. Frantically, he applied for a more junior job than his qualifications merited, and he was awarded the post.

The apartment in DC was small compared to the one he'd had before, but it was in a relatively good area of the city, not too close to the center, but close enough for the hospital's demands. The next few weeks were spent working hard and going to as many parties as possible, trying to meet the players and find out as much as he could. He learnt by heart the structure of the White House and the people who filled each role.

The day of the midterms, he stayed up into the night after a sixteen hour shift, watching as the results dripped in. He was watching when Ainsley Hayes kicked Sam Seaborn's ass on television: his estimation of Josh Lyman went down several notches when he saw his best friend being beaten at his own game by a woman, of all things.

By December, he was well and truly settled into DC. The only problem was, he hadn't even caught a glimpse of her since he moved there. At a loss for what to do, he elected to take the Christmas shifts: they were, after all, quiet - and he had nowhere else to go.

He was just taking his shift on Christmas Eve when she walked through the door.

***

She tenderly guided him up the steps to the hospital, and for the first time in days he did not shirk her touch - rather, he welcomed it. Once he was safely up the stairs, he did not break the contact but placed his arm around her waist, holding her close. She smiled a little as they walked into the hospital, but then the smell hit her. Against her waist she felt him tense as they both reacted involuntarily to the antiseptic. Her head turned to face his, and they exchanged a look, each reminding themselves that the other was there, before they simultaneously relaxed.

An unspoken agreement dictated that she was the one to tell the receptionist the problem and give his details: once the receptionist heard the name, well-worn among the hospital staff, she ushered them into a private room and assured them that one of the on-duty doctors would be there immediately.

The doctor who was given the chart didn't even bother to look at the name: he had just come on duty, and he didn't yet need to rush. One of their best-qualified junior doctors, he had earned himself a reputation for reliability and dedication: he carried that reputation well, with a bearing that could only have come from self-respect and success. Confident, fast strides and tough pushes left doors swinging furiously in his wake. He glanced down at the chart as he went into the room, so he didn't see her at first.

She was looking away from the door, into the eyes of the man sitting on the bed in the small room, but she turned when she heard the steps coming down the hall. When the doctor came in, she recognised something, but it took her a moment to place it. She gasped. The doctor looked up, and a spark of recognition passed between them. In horror, the doctor glanced at his notes. Mumbling something about a mistake, he backed out of the door, leaving an electrifying silence in the background.

It was the man sitting on the bed who broke the silence. His voice was tentative as he asked the question. "Donna - what's wrong?"

When she just shook her head in reply, he got off the bed so he was in front of her, stretched out his uninjured hand and touched her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look at him. For once, they didn't need words - nothing could hide the fear in her eyes.

"It's him, isn't it?" The question was rhetorical: no answer or confirmation needed. Kneeling down, he kissed her forehead and put his arms around her waist, holding her tight, wondering how to put this right. If he could put this right.

"Mr Lyman?" They hadn't even noticed the other doctor come into the room: he nodded at the doctor, breaking free of her. "Do you want me to come back in five minutes?" Glancing reflexively at her, he looked up at the doctor.

"No, we'll just get this done."

*

Half an hour later, they were finally allowed out from the hospital. As they walked back down the steps, he put his arm around her and she fell into him a little. They had taken a taxi before and he hailed one without saying anything, climbing into it after her and giving the directions to his flat.

"Josh -"

"You have to say it sometime." She looked over at him: his expression mixed anger with guilt.

"You know, it's not your fault," she whispered. He was silent, and even though she hadn't been angry a minute ago, she began to get angry at Josh and his guilt complex.

They were both silent until they reached his apartment. He glanced at her as he left the taxi, silently assuring her that he would try to forgive himself, but first he had to help her. She followed him out of the taxi and inside.

As soon as the door was closed, he came towards her and hugged her tight as he had in the hospital, stroking her hair softly. They stood like that for several minutes before she began to cry: when he heard her sobs he guided her to his couch, his hand never leaving her back. He supported her as she sat, before sitting beside her and pulling her close into him.

Without knowing why or even allowing himself to contemplate reasons, he let her cry. He didn't stop her or shush her, just let it all pour out: if he had been asked, he wouldn't have been able to describe what made him understand her, but he had an instinct with her which he trusted.

Eventually her sobs began to subside, and he knew she would now sleep. Pulling a rug over them, he put his other arm around her as she fell into an exhausted sleep. At first he watched but soon he too was asleep.

*

They woke up together, in synch as always. His body encircled hers, pulling her as close as they could possibly be. Her face was buried in his neck, his in her hair. They stayed like that for a few minutes, each knowing the other was awake, revelling in the bliss of the warm morning sunlight on their entangled bodies. It was Josh who realised the date, and, smiling, moved his hand to her chin, which he lifted.

"Merry Christmas, Donnatella," he whispered, not wanting to break the magic of the moment. She smiled lazily back, stretching in the sunlight. Frost adorned the windows, and there was snow on the tree just outside the window. Slowly, the realisation that this was forbidden crept up on her, but she chose to ignore it, concentrating instead on the fact that it was Christmas morning, and she had woken up with Josh - she'd found that dreams always disappeared when she dwelt too long on practicalities.

She nuzzled Josh's neck, breathing in his scent. A wave of his smell hit her, and she realised she wasn't dreaming. Shocked, she sat up straight.

"Josh."

"Donnatella." He smiled at her, the memory of the evening before only just touching his mind.

It took her some moments to remember why she was there. "Josh," she began, looking at him.

"You're repeating yourself, Donnatella."

She looked away. "I saw him last night, didn't I?"

He sat up beside her. "Yes." She turned back towards him, making eye contact.

"Oh god."

"Donna." He knew instinctively what was needed, and opened his arms. She fell into them, and he held her tight, letting her draw strength from him. "You can tell me."

So she told him. About the eighteen year old girl she had been, a small town college freshman with absolutely no idea about how the world worked. About the twenty-one year old gorgeous heartbreaker who had shown interest in her, and the status that his interest had given her. About how, between them, he and her family had convinced her to drop out of college to support medical school and so provide a future for both of them. About his stress, growing detachment and increasing fondness for drink. About the first time he hit her.

It had been a dance of some kind. The dress she was wearing was the product of several months' savings: it flowed off her slender young body of which she was so proud. He had gone immediately to the bar, and she was left sitting alone: she initially turned down offers to dance, but soon her boredom prompted her to accept offers. She danced again and again, enjoying the freedom. Eventually, drunk, he grabbed her and dragged her out to the car. She drove them home, and helped him up the stairs. Once they got inside, he shoved her into the bedroom, his stinking face against hers. But then, instead of throwing her on the bed, he started screaming about her unfaithfulness. She tried to protest, and he hit her across the head.

He made her believe that she was worthless: an object, rather than a person. She stopped leaving the house, her self-confidence diminished. She stopped contacting her friends, stopped phoning her parents.

It took her some time to realise what she was missing. She didn't even think about it until an old friend called her to ask her why she hadn't come to a wedding. She hadn't even received an invitation; she'd been forgotten about, somebody who hadn't been spoken to in over a year. She realised that she hadn't been any further than the local supermarket in over eight weeks.

So she left, her first active decision in months. She took the money she had stored in a tin in the kitchen and left, taking her old beaten car with her. First she went to an old friend's, where she slept for a few days: it was there that she saw Governor Bartlet speaking and decided to join the campaign. She drove across the country, elated with the power she now had over herself.

"…and that's when I met you," she concluded softly.

He pulled back: she had been speaking into his shoulder, and he wanted to see her face. "You went back."

She took a breath. "Yes. To see my sister. It was my sister who arranged a meeting with him. He sat across a table and apologised, promised he could change. I said I had to think it over, and I decided to leave."

"Donnatella."

"Josh?"

"Never again."

"No."

He smiled at her and enfolded her once more in his arms. "I love you."

***

behind closed doors

my baby makes me proud
oh don't she make me proud
she never makes a scene
by hanging all over me
in a crowd

people like to talk
oh don't they love to talk
but when they turn out the lights
I know she'll be leaving with me

and when we get behind closed doors
when she lets her hair hang down
then she makes me glad that I'm a man
oh no one knows what goes on behind closed doors

my baby makes me smile
oh don't she make me smile
she's never far away
or too tired to say
"I want you"

always the lady
just like a lady should be
but when they turn out the lights
she's still a baby to me

and when we get behind closed doors
when she lets her hair hang down
then she makes me glad that I'm a man
oh no one knows what goes on behind closed doors
behind closed doors