Don't Want To Miss You Tonight

And all I can taste is this moment

and all I can breathe s your life

'cause sooner or later it's over

I just don't want to miss you tonight

-Iris (from the Goo Goo Dolls)

Part One

Didn't Hear A Tone, Are You- Hello?

Didn't hear a tone, are you, hello

I never hear a tone, I guess you know

I can't remember what I called to say

I thought you might be home on Saturday

I really can't believe it's been a year

It took a little time without you here

I'm guessing you survived alone somehow

It's good that I can joke about it now

-People Change (Rockapella)

Donna Moss hurried up the stairs into her DC apartment, feeling the palpable air of, well, neglect, as she reached the top landing and her front door. She hadn't been home in what, six weeks, had learned to think of the predictably color schemes of Holiday Inn bathrooms as comforting and home. But two days to the Convention, there was really no need to stay in a hotel in DC. Not to mention she was in dire need of new clothes and a quiet night with the once-familiar hum of the old radiator pipes, after all that had happened in the past two days. As she bent over her bag to dig for her house keys, who were demonstrating how they felt about being neglected for weeks by hiding in the farthermost corner of the tote, she could hear the phone ringing inside, and, as she dug around between tissues, notebooks, chewing gum, the battered paperback copy of Tuesdays With Morrie she'd been trying to read for weeks and other assorted belongings, the tone of her answering machine going off. By the time she'd procured the keys and unlocked the door, whoever had called seemed mid-message. She pushed the old door open, and stepped inside her apartment. Her fingers had already reached out to find the light switch, when she heard his voice echoing from the machine and froze.

He didn't have much of a reason to do what he was doing other than instinct and a diffuse, strange longing, but six months into a national campaign and almost as many without a good night's sleep, Josh Lyman's defenses against things like instinct were running low. He'd come to DC for a few days, but had spent as much time as possible in the hotel with the Congressman, more time than he strictly need to, because his apartment was strange and too quiet and not home anymore- really, it had never been. Home had been the White House, and times when he wasn't there were vacations, or like being grounded, it depended. He'd called CJ and Toby, had wanted to see them, but then something came up, of course, and that left him sitting alone in his apartment, the feeling that he should have been there, with them, doing whatever it was they were doing, heightened by the silence and emptiness around him. He'd reached for the phone without meaning to, was halfway through dialing when he asked himself what he was doing, and when he realized he had no idea, he finished dialing anyway.

A simple, rhythmic beeping, once, twice, three times, and his heart pounded as he tried to figure out whether he wanted her to pick up or not. Five, six beeps, and then- "Hi, you've reached Donna Moss, I'm not home all that often these days, but call me on my cell, the number's 1225-48484720. Thanks for calling, bye." Her voice, crackling and tinny and achingly familiar, as friendly as ever, but somehow more mature, not as girlish, and so far away.

Beep. He froze, then his mouth started working, his mind catching up with the words he was saying only later, too late, maybe.

"Hey, it's me. Josh. Is this really still your number- I'm surprised you haven't sublet your apartment to some rabid grad students- or maybe you have? Hey if you're listening to this and you're not Donna- ignore whatever I'm about to say and vote for Santos in November, okay? Thanks. Anyway, Donna, I guess- I thought you might be at home, 'cause I am, so... but I guess you're not. You know what- forget that I called, I can't even remember what I called to say, I just... never mind. So, convention on Saturday, huh? Showdown. I gotta say I apologize in advance for the massive disappointment you're in for. I'm already sort of hoping you never get this message, so I can say- your guy still doesn't deserve to win, and he won't, and you know that, don't you- after Thursday, after you saw Matt Santos and the man he is, you know your Bingo VP's got no chance, right? But you know what? You do. I don't... I'm really proud of you, in a weird way, I just wish you weren't working for such a total piece of crap... Hey, can I ask you something? You don't really believe he's good, do you? You worked for the best president this country's had in ages for eight years, you don't really believe Bingo Bob is a worthy successor, do you? Whatever. Point is, I thought you did very well. Willie not so much, but you've... you've really made me proud. In a way. God, I hope a rock falls on this machine and you never hear any of this. But for what it's worth- if you hear this tonight- which I don't hope- call me, maybe. We can have a two-sided conversation. Or maybe this message has convinced you more than ever that I'm a egomaniac, twisted jackass who deserved to be left without so much as…never mind. That's Toby's line, and I wouldn't be giving it to you, except… what was up with that, anyway? Can I ask you something? If I had listened to you the first time, if I had said, 'Sit down Donna, have some coffee, with an inch of milk and two-and-a-half packages of Splenda and tell me what the problem is', could I have convinced you to stay? If I'd punched Billy Bailey in the face- would that have been enough for you? 'Cause I think you know I would have, except it probably wouldn't have been right anyway. Okay you know what? I'm gonna go now. This is ridiculous. I just wanted to say- you know what? I honestly have no idea what I wanted to say. Sorry you had to listen to all this. See you Saturday, right?" Josh hung up the phone, stared at it for a second and dropped backwards onto his bed, closing his eyes. What had he done?

"See you Saturday, right?" Click. Donna, still standing the darkness of her doorway, clutching her bag like a drowning person, completely frozen, hypnotized by the sound of his voice. His question still hung in the air, and suddenly, she noticed the other pieces of Josh that still hung in this room- the Schoolhouse Rock CD on the kitchen counter, a Christmas present from seven years ago, the old sweatshirt he'd lent her after an unfortunate affair with the printer had wrecked her blouse sometime during the second campaign, and she'd never given it back. Even the silence that filled the room, broken only by the hum of the radiators, which didn't sound comforting at all, but loud and bothersome, seemed to echo his question, seemed to be inhabited by, well, him. Her apartment seemed too dingy, too desolate, and she felt lanky, spoilt, and so tired. She had longed to come home to something comforting, and now all that she had found was the never-ending whirlwind of confused emotions that was Joshua Lyman. She rested her head against the frame of her door, taking in the dusty smell of chipped paint and waited for her brain to quiet itself. It didn't. All she could hear was his voice, and her heart, beating loudly and irregularly. A car backfired outside, and she lifted her head.

He hears the doorbell go off and opens his eyes in surprise. He can't remember whether he's ordered food or not, but he doesn't think he has, so this must be… he has no idea. Maybe it's CJ, with a bottle of Chardonnay and an armful of sage advice and her quirky jokes, yes, that would be nice. Or Toby, although they'd probably get into another fight, and even that sounds strangely appealing. He hoists himself up and walks towards the door, pulling it open. He gasps. It's not at all CJ, and not at all Toby, no… it's her. With that stylish new haircut that makes her look so much less like someone who's run away from their asshole boyfriend to get a no-name New Hampshire Governor elected, and so much more like a serious political mind working for the most well-endowed campaign in the history of Democratic politics. But she's wearing that achingly-familiar pink cardigan, relic from a time when he knew the three pieces of formal office wear his brand new assistant owned, and could still carelessly tease her about it. Christ, it's been a long time. They've traveled quite a road, and not of all of it together. But she's here now, carrying a bag of Chinese takeout and looking at him with a look in her eyes he's never seen there before, so powerful, but so vulnerable, too. They stare at each other, looking each other up and down, until the only place left to look is the other's eyes.

It had taken her two minutes, staring into the blurred darkness of her apartment, to make a decision. Two more to heave her suitcase into the doorway and pull the door shut, hurry down the stairs and catch a cab. Ten minutes to drive to CJ's favorite takeout place that makes the best General Tsao's in the country, and the crispiest fried shrimps she's ever eaten. Five minutes of standing around, getting food, catching another cab. Another eight to drive here. One minute to slowly but surely walk up the stairs, her heart beat fast and irregular, trying and failing to make up her mind if she wants him to be home or not, if she wants to punch him in the face or crawl into his arms, breathe in his rainwater-smell, and never think again. A trembling finger, ringing the doorbell, baited breath as she hears his footsteps on the other side, and then the door opens, and he's staring at her, and she's staring at him, and questions explode in her head. He looks older, so much more serious, has he lost his dimples? Shadows under his eyes, even his hair looks tired, even his shoulders, those strong and powerful shoulders holding up he weight of the world and all his angsty troubles, are sagging, spent. Their eyes meet, and his eyes, at least, are still the same, the same brown, the trees by Lake Mendota in Madison on a rainy day, but with flecks of a summer sun in them. They look at each other and, in the summer-day-specks of light in Josh's eyes, she finally finds what she's been looking for in her radiator's hum: home.