A/N: One of my biggest complaints about Seasons 5-7 is that the writers barely addressed how Donna dealt with the psychological impact of Gaza. It's barely mentioned in an exchange with Kate Harper that she's not really OK, that she gets angry over the smallest things. Imagine how much more insufferable Josh must have been in that context.
Donna Moss can walk again, and on her way home she walks quickly, breakneck, almost jogging, breathing short, angry puffs of December air.
She doesn't live in a bad neighborhood, and hasn't for a long time, but she balls her hand into a fist and sticks her keys between her fingers like brass knuckles should an opportunity present itself. She can hear her mother's voice running through her head and she's fourteen again, standing in the kitchen, her eyes full of tears.
"Honey, if you're by yourself and somebody grabs you—like this—" Her mother's hand briefly grips her upper arm; she jumps. "—you scream as loud as you can and you hit as hard as you can. You say the word 'no.' Can you say it for me now? Say it loud. Louder. Good. See, when anybody comes at you like that, I don't care if they're a stranger, your boyfriend, your boss, your best friend—they've lost the right to their physical safety. You fight, and you fight dirty. You don't hold back, you understand me? You put them in the hospital. You don't tolerate that kind of treatment."
She had it all worked out in her head. She would sit Josh Lyman down. She would explain herself. It's nothing personal. I want more out of this job, and it's just not happening. She would buy him lunch. He would understand, wish her well. You can stop by anytime. I'll miss you. Then she would go home and pack for Wisconsin, and figure the rest out later.
Josh's attention—even five minutes of it—was evidently too much to ask for, and instead all Donna got was an empty, ten second exchange in the bullpen. She's not even sure he noticed that she quit. He probably thought she was making empty threats. Or joking. Donna's lips tighten in grim satisfaction at the thought of the temp who will be sitting at her desk tomorrow morning.
She reaches her building and runs up the stairs. She's out of breath by the time she reaches her apartment, panting hard, her throat tight, her chest burning.
Fuck you, she thinks, then says it, gasps it as she slides her key into the lock and slouches inside: "Fuck you. Fuck you. FUCK YOU."
She slams the door and suddenly her hand is sweeping across the table in the hall, knocking a lamp to the floor. It shatters. The sound is addictive, electrifying. Donna whips her purse against the doorjamb, over and over until the strap breaks. She darts forward and snatches a book off the coffee table—a fat paperback—and it makes a beautiful smack against the wall. She grabs plates in the kitchen, a tall glass she neglected to wash, and smashes them on the floor. With her brass knuckle keys she punches holes in the couch pillows, making them bleed feathers. When she's run out of things to throw and hit she slaps her fists against one of the open kitchen cabinets, hard enough for it to crack at the hinge, hard enough to spend spikes of pain shooting up her forearms. She cries out, then curls in on herself, cradling her arms to her chest. Her knees buckle; she leans back against the dishwasher and sinks to the floor, gasping, then whimpering, then sobbing. She shakes like she's fourteen again, like she's back in her mother's kitchen and the boys down the street have been pulling her hair.
After a long time, her chest stops heaving, and Donna looks up from her knees and out at the kitchen, the broken glass, the punctured pillows in the living room. She wipes snot and tears on her sleeve.
She takes a ragged breath, reaches into her pocket and dials her old desk on her cell phone. A few rings, then someone picks up. Carol.
"Josh Lyman's office."
Donna freezes.
"Hello?" Carol repeats.
"Sorry, wrong extension."
"Donna?"
Donna hangs up.
She takes a shower, lets the hot water pull the tension out of her shoulders and neck. Then she wraps her hair in a towel, cleans up the broken glass and throws out the punctured pillows. She's been meaning to redecorate anyways. She grimaces at the broken cabinet. Not much to be done about that now.
When she's done packing for home, she pours herself a glass of wine, settles on the couch, and turns on the TV, icing her arms on a bag of peas. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is playing. She watches mindlessly, laughing too loudly, crying—making herself cry—at the end, and when Butch and Etta bicycle around to "Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head." By the end of the film, she's finished most of the bottle. She wipes her eyes again, drained and sleepy, and goes to bed.
This is as far as she's planned.